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“I’ll let Alana know you’re here,” Tawny says, before politely leaving us to attend to a small group of guests.
“Follow me,” Isaac says, leading us through the double doors into the business suites. He shows us to a spacious room looking out to the ocean. There’s a small, oval boardroom table which could seat maybe eight people. I don’t get to sit in many boardrooms—Chuck has always insisted I focus on the performing—but this isn’t my first. I walk to the window and imagine myself swimming out to sea, away from this life, towards something completely unknown. The feeling elicits not relief, as I would have expected, but sadness. Because I still love this life. I still love the singing, the dancing, the entertaining. I just dislike everything else that goes with it.
“Can I get you drinks? Snacks?” Isaac asks.
“I’d love some sparkling water,” Carla replies. Isaac disappears then returns with a server in tow. He brings two large bottles of iced water with glasses. A bowl of freshly sliced tropical fruit also appears on the table. I sit and turn my attention to Carla.
“How are you, Carla?” I try to be as pleasant to my publicist as possible, but there always seems to be something in the way that I can’t quite put my finger on. She reports to Chuck, really, and I know they will have had a briefing before she travelled down here. I reassure myself Carla is harmless and just doing her job.
“We’ve got an interview with Miami Beach Radio, in…” she checks her wristwatch—a brand new Rolex, I notice, “twenty minutes. They’re so excited you’re finally here on the Keys, rehearsing for your residency.”
“That’s great! Over the phone?”
“I spoke to Connor Johnson,” she nods towards Isaac. “He offered me the recording suite in this very building, and someone called Jax is going to help us with the levels.”
“Fantastic. What’s the key message?”
Carla flicks back her expensively blow-dried shoulder-length curls. “This one’s not a biggie. They just want to hear how much you love Florida and the Keys, and how it’s the perfect place for your first residency. The local fans you’ve met so far have been the best and you’re looking forward to meeting more of them. You know, that kind of thing.”
“Sure,” I say, making notes on my tablet.
“Oh, and maybe drop a hint about the compilation we’re releasing in eight weeks. It wouldn’t hurt to get some buzz going for that.”
“Compilation?” I look up, surprised. “What compilation?”
“Chuck updated us all at last week’s huddle. The record company is releasing a limited edition compilation of all your top ten hits.”
“R—really?” I sink back into my chair, feeling metaphorically slapped. “Why hasn’t anyone thought to tell me?”
I sense Isaac, who’s sitting by the door, watching and listening intently, and I half-wonder what he’s making of all this. I also feel embarrassed. It’s obvious my management and the teams around me don’t value my opinion, or even care that I have one. Maybe a couple years ago I would have happily let something like this slide, because performing really was all I was interested in. But now, as I’ve gotten a little older, I’ve started to question things, like, what is my money being spent on? Why aren’t we marketing this next single in the same way as the last? Why has the number of dancers in my shows halved?
“I, um, I don’t know,” Carla says. “I thought you knew. I’m sorry. It must have slipped someone’s mind, I’m sure it’s an innocent mistake.”
“Are there any plans to record new material for this record?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Carla’s face has warmed so much I could fry an egg on it.
“I don’t like the idea of putting out a new record with only old material,” I say. “My fans deserve better than that, surely.”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“I wasn’t asking,” I say, surprising myself with the firmness of my tone. I let the silence linger—another new feeling for me. Normally, I hate silence, especially of the uncomfortable kind, but I want Carla to realize how I feel. This is my career we’re talking about, my image and my fans.
“Is there anything else?” I ask, finally.
Clara looks relieved. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a folder. “No other interviews this week. That will all build up next week; I’ll send you a schedule. But here are some of the latest clippings we’ve had.” She opens the folder at a page marked with a pink post-it note. “Some positive ones,” she explains. “But mostly, they’re, um, I hate to say this… A little critical of your latest album. It seems your new style hasn’t gone as well as you—we—had hoped. I believe this might be another reason why a decision was made to release a compilation—to remind fans… um… why they like you.”
“That’s strange,” I say. “My sales don’t seem to have suffered.”
“The view of the record company is that fans bought the new album purely out of curiosity and loyalty, but if they don’t like the new material, they won’t continue to buy in future. They’re worried.”
“But critics received the album well,” I argue. I know this isn’t about the fans. It’s about Chuck’s fear that anything but a saintly, virginal, people-pleasing pop princess is going to crash and burn, effectively cutting off his financial supply.
Carla takes a deep breath and passes the folder across the table, pausing conversation. I leaf through all the pages, not just those marked out by pink post-its. It doesn’t take me long to see she isn’t giving me the whole story. “What about this one? Vanity Fair?” I say, pointing at a small opinion column. I read out some of the quote. “‘It’s a brave move from someone so young, but it seems to be paying off. The lyrics are intimate and insightful, the performances electric. Bird’s confidence is clear and the crowd is hanging on her every word.’ I wouldn’t necessarily call that ‘critical’, would you?”
“Well, um, there are a few positive ones, like I said,” she mumbles. “I’m referring to the majority. Anyway, we should probably go and get set up.” She stands and reaches out a hand for the folder.
I grip it firmly. “I’ll hold onto this, if that’s ok?”
“Oh, but, I…”
“Is this not for me?” I ask, innocently.
“Well, yes, I suppose it is.”
I stand and look to Isaac to show us the way to the recording suite. He turns to lead us out, but not before I catch his attempt to cover up a wry smile. That small gesture, however disproportionate to the size of my challenge, elicits a giant sense of relief. He gets it. That’s all I need for now. He gets it.
