We hang up and I poke around on my phone some more. I have a missed call from my sister, and I almost call her back. Iris is a personal trainer, so it’s basically her job to motivate people. She honestly gives the best pep talks. The problem is, I can’t lie to her, and she’s getting married in a couple weeks. And I have a feeling telling her I drunkenly married some guy I can’t stand fourteen days before her own wedding might not evoke the sort of sisterly support I’m accustomed to receiving from her.
Especially since she’s still pissed at me for bailing on her engagement party. In my defense, I was there for the first hour. But she scheduled it on the same night as an important album launch party, and I don’t possess the ability to be in two places at once.
Instead of calling Iris, I pull up my photos again. I spend a solid minute staring at the selfie in front of the chapel, trying to remember taking it. Eventually, I give up and scan the half-dozen other photos I took last night, noting that the time stamps start around one in the morning, which seems to be after Adam and I split from the group. It looks like we went from the chapel to some bar, but the rest of the photoswere taken outside, the lights from the Strip blurry in the background.
As I swipe through the photo app, I notice my phone automatically created one of those custom slideshows with all the pictures I’ve taken in Vegas, set to sappy instrumental music. I cover my face with one hand and watch it through my fingers. In every single picture of Adam and me together, I’m wearing my biggest smile. One that crinkles my nose and does nothing to hide the fact that my two front teeth are a bit crooked because I never wore my retainer. It almost looks like I was enjoying Adam’s company last night.
No. That can’t be right. Drunk people grin all the time for no good reason. I once took a picture of my college roommate beaming at a broken cross-country ski she found on our walk home from a party.
I stare down at my phone until the slideshow ends and the screen locks again. I have to bite the bullet and call Fiona. I’ll go crazy otherwise, not knowing where things stand.
She answers on the first ring. “Eleanor, how’s it going?”
“Great,” I say, rubbing my throat when my voice comes out raspy. “I wanted to touch base and see if Sher and the guys had any other questions for me.”
“Yeah, I’m glad you called. I actually just got off the phone with Freddie. I know we originally told you we’d have a decision by tonight, but it’s possible they’re going to need some more time.”
My grip tightens on my phone. I imagine my fingers are wrapped around Adam’s neck instead. “Oh?”
“He says they want to think it over a bit after last night,” she says, sounding almost apologetic.
Anxiety sets in as I rack my brain, trying to think of anymoment that might have tipped the scales. Swear to god, if I spouted off about being on my last leg with Josie, or gave them any sense of my own desperation, I will straight-up perish.
Of course, there’s also the distinct possibility it wasn’t anythingIdid. I tried my best to run interference, but it was loud and chaotic, and I couldn’t catch every word Adam said. And there is so much he could’ve said.
Aside from his ability to pitch artists, which is absolutely one of his strengths, Adam also had a front-row seat to the start of everything with Griffin. I know the kind of gossip that was going on behind my back, especially among the interns. I can only imagine how much worse it got when I left, and Griffin was still at Exeter to control the narrative.
Another woman we interned with reached out to me last year, when Griffin was finally fired.
Sorry we were such assholes. Glad to see you’re doing so well.
It meant a lot—the first indication I’d gotten that at least some people had come to see the situation in a different light.
Adam hasn’t shown any signs of being in that camp.
My free hand clutches the front of my blouse, even though it’s buttoned almost all the way up, because talking to Fiona while braless and on my back foot is excruciating. I want to be wearing a crisp Hillary Clinton pantsuit. I want to be as polished as Kate Middleton with weights sewn into the hem of her dress, skirt prevented from even shivering in the wind. I don’t care that it’s a high of ninety degrees today inNevada—I want to be suffocating in layers of fabric with modest Victorian necklines.
“Is Freddie free today? I’d love to help clear things up—”
“You’re still coming to the show tonight, right? We’ll talk then.”
I nod and press my free hand to my forehead. “Yeah, sounds good. Can’t wait. Thanks, Fiona.”
I realize I’m shaking when I hang up and tuck my phone in my back pocket. Nausea comes in a hot-cold crawl up my spine, and with it a spike of anxiety. I glance at my windows to confirm they don’t actually open. I need fresh air. I need a gallon of coffee. I need Pedialyte—my sister’s hangover remedy of choice from her college days—and some dry toast to nibble on.
I had them. Ihadthem. I promised Josie this trip would be worth it.
It hits me that we ordered bottle service last night, and I can only hope I didn’t put it on the company card. Dinner I can justify expensing, even as exorbitantly pricey as the steak house was. It’s not like Josie expects me to take prospective artists to Applebee’s. But dinnerandbottle serviceandtravel expenses to Vegas is… a bit excessive.
Unless I sign them. Then everything will be forgiven. Everything will be fine, and the money spent on this trip will be well worth it, and Josie will remember why she can’t run her company without me.
So I just have to ensure that still happens.
I can’t do anything to change Freddie’s mind until tonight. In the meantime, I have to focus on containing the collateral damage. No one can find out about Adam and me. When Josie hired me, she knew the circumstances that led tome leaving Exeter. At least, she knew the vague details that everyone seemed to know: that I’d gotten involved with an executive at Exeter, and subsequently gotten promoted, and soon after I was looking for a new place to work. She didn’t hold it against me, or even ask many questions, which is something I remain grateful for to this day. She did, however, make it clear that she would be watching me. That I had better not step a toe out of line.
That was four years ago. And in that time, I have signed so many amazing artists, and I’ve made Josie so much goddamn money.
It’s just that the last nine months or so have been a struggle. First it was a debut album tanking. Which happens sometimes—the market can be unpredictable, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault, per se. But it was also the most expensive album we released that quarter, so the numbers looked especially bad. Right after that, Maya—the highest-earning artist on my roster—signed with Adam instead of re-upping. Add in another group having artistic differences with their producer and subsequently going way over budget, and then me overspending while courting new talent… I can’t exactly blame Josie for giving me until the end of this fiscal year to straighten out my profits versus losses.
