More Than Anything (11 page)

“Okay, then. If you’re sure…”

“What time?”

“Eight forty-five?”

“Consider it done.” She pauses. “Have a nice night.”

“I’m just going for ice cream. With Sebastian.”

“Ah.” Nothing else. Just a single syllable, ripe for interpretation.

Sebastian lets go of my hand as we near the entrance, and he’s surrounded by famous musicians – a celeb’s celeb, it seems. We make it past the backslapping and fist pumping and handshaking, and then we’re outside, where a crowd of several hundred are still hanging around. He glances to our left and leads me back inside and then down along the front of the lobby until we reach an exit sign. “This way leads down to the garage. Normally nobody notices me, but you’re kind of famous, and I don’t want to be mobbed.”

The idea that nobody notices Sebastian is silly, and I steal a glance at his Nordic profile. He’s a ten in a town filled with tens. My thoughts return to the phone call I missed, and I feel terrible even though I’m not doing anything wrong. Ice cream with my producer. Strictly business.

I know exactly what Melody would say, and I don’t even need to wonder WWMD. But that’s Melody, not me.

We tromp down the stairwell and emerge into a cavernous parking area. He looks around and spots his vehicle. “Come on. Over here.”

I expect to see the Porsche, but am surprised when he approaches a baby blue enameled fifties-era Cadillac convertible the size of an aircraft carrier. I’ve never been in a car like it, and I stop by the overblown tail fins.

“You actually drive this?”

“Yeah. It’s easy to park and great on gas. Best of all, it doesn’t attract any attention. Nice and quiet.”

I see what he means when we get in and he starts the engine. He must have some kind of trick mufflers, because it sounds like a moon rocket on takeoff.

He backs carefully out of the slot and pulls up two levels to the attendant, pays, and then rolls onto the street. I swat at a pair of red fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, and he grins.

“So how did you like the show?”

“Kind of boring watching everyone pretend for the cameras, you know? The lip-synching thing’s so phony.”

“Yeah, but it’s a hoot when something goes wrong and the vocals suddenly go out. I’ve actually seen that happen a couple of times. Pretty embarrassing.”

“Really? At an awards show?”

He shakes his head. “Worse. A supposedly live performance at the Hollywood Bowl. This singer was doing her number and something glitched, and it was obvious that she was lip-synching. She got booed off the stage, and her career never recovered.”

“That sucks.”

“I understand the temptation. You can make anything sound good in the studio. I can bend pitch and get slightly off-key vocals to sound perfect, but I can’t fix it live, even though there are now black boxes that can do it, or claim to. But then they have their own set of problems.”

“It just seems like cheating.”

“Of course it does. But you can see how someone with a less-than-perfect voice would take the easy way out on night number fifty of their tour. The problem being that once you’re phoning it in, the temptation to do it night fifty-one, and then fifty-two, is overwhelming. Pretty soon you forget how to sing your own songs.”

“I can’t believe people do that.”

He glances over at me. “You won’t have that problem. But then again, your voice is one in a million. Most people don’t have that instrument to work with.”

“Then they shouldn’t be trying to sing for a living.”

“Hey, I don’t disagree. But these days, technology can trump talent in a lot of cases.”

“Do you ever do that with your projects?”

He shakes his head. “I try not to. But sometimes it’s hard when the label’s breathing down your neck, demanding results, and you’re working with singers who can’t hold a note.” He lowers his voice. “I’ll tell you a little secret if you swear not to tell anyone else.”

“I promise.”

He mentions a band that had one of the biggest records of the past year. “I wound up playing the majority of the guitars on that. The guitar player was so stoned most of the time he couldn’t get it together, and after a month of disastrous tracks, I stayed up one night and played them right.” Sebastian shakes his head. “He never even realized that it wasn’t him playing. But I brought the project in on time and on budget. Which is huge to a record company.”

“I had no idea you could run into problems like that with big names,” I say, enjoying the easy banter. This isn’t at all what I expected working with a producer to be like. This is more like…hanging out with someone really cool who knows a lot of great stories about interesting people.

“You’d be surprised. Just because somebody won the lottery and had a hit tune doesn’t mean they can actually deliver again and again. I’ve also cowritten a lot of songs for the same reason. We get into the studio, and during preproduction, it becomes obvious that the songs just aren’t there. So I’ll suggest a rearrangement, which is part of my job. But if I have to rewrite the song, all bets are off.”

“God, now you’re making me nervous. I don’t have any original songs.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody cares whether the song’s yours or not. You’re not that kind of artist. You’re more like Janis Joplin. Who wrote the material is secondary to the voice and delivery.”

“So I can just do covers?”

“You could, I suppose, but what I’d like to do is have you listen to some demo tapes from some of the best songwriters I know. If we can find one or two we think are hits, we’ll run them past the label, and if they agree, we’ll do them. If I had my way, I’d want fifty percent covers and fifty percent original material. But in the end it’s up to you and Saul.”

“More Saul than me, I bet.”

He grins and nods. “You’re a fast learner, obviously.”

I pull my phone out of my purse. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I got a call I need to return, and I’ve been waiting to do it for most of the show.”

“No problem. Fire away.”

I call the number, but there’s no answer. I stare at the phone and see there are two voice mail messages. The first one’s from Jeremy, who I texted my new number earlier.

“Hey, girlfriend. It is I. Saw you on the tube at the awards. You look fab. And that outfit – positively scandalous. Kidding. Just wanted to say hi. Call me back whenever. I’ll be out late tonight misbehaving, if I have any luck at all, but try me
mañana
. Ciao, darling.”

The second message is from Derek.

“Hey. Just wanted to say I was thinking about you all day. I’ll get a phone tomorrow and call. Sorry I’m such a loser with stuff like that. Priorities.” He hesitates, and I can hear him breathing heavily. I wonder if he’s been drinking, then banish the thought. Why do I always do that to myself? “Anyway, it was good to hear your voice. I guess that’s all I called to say. Be good, and nighty-night.”

My chest tightens as I imagine him holding me and saying the same words, softly, just like he did then. I try to figure out how to replay the message, but delete it by mistake instead.

“Crap,” I say, and Sebastian looks over at me.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just missed the call I was waiting all day for. Just that.”

He doesn’t say anything, and we sit listening to the rumble of the massive V8. I drop the phone in my purse and sigh.

“How important is it that I’m here for the entire record?” I ask.

“You mean, how important is it that you, whose career is riding on it, and whose name is going to be on the cover, are there to approve every bit of the thing that’s going to make you a legend? Oh, I don’t know. Probably pretty damn important.”

I don’t like the sarcasm, but I have it coming. This is a self-made man whose time is worth more than ten of me, and he’s waived his upfront fee to work with me. I feel like a complete ingrate.

“Why?” he asks. “June told me your mom’s sick, but that’s just what she read online.”

Damn Melody. I’d bet money she put something up on Facebook about hanging out with me at the hospital. She’s a good friend, but the worst secret keeper in the universe. Which I know, of course, but am constantly relearning.

“No, it’s not that. I mean, it could be. It’s just that I really thought I was going to be back in New York. This is all so sudden…it’s taking a little getting used to.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t understand, and I don’t want to explain, so I change the subject. “Let’s talk about you. You’re pretty young to be such a famous producer. How did that happen?”

He’s taken aback by the blunt honesty of my question and gives me a reappraising glance as we roll to a stop at a red light.

“Being in the right place at the right time helped a lot.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

He laughs. “It’s a little true. I got some good breaks, and I did the work to make the most of them. And I enjoy what I’m doing, so I spend a lot of time at it. For me it’s like therapy, going to church, and a career, all in one.”

“June says you spend most of your time in the studio.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got to muzzle her. She makes it sound way worse than it is. Yeah, I spend a lot of time there, but I’m making a name for myself. You don’t succeed in this business by doing things part time.”

“I’d say you’ve already got a name.”

“Which I didn’t get by slacking.”

“Is that what you view not working as doing?”

He gives me an annoyed stare, and the light changes. “What are you, my shrink?”

I try to lighten the mood with a chuckle. “Do you have one?”

“Why, you angling for the job?”

“Not really. What does your girlfriend think about you being married to the studio?”

He laughs. It’s not a funny laugh. “I’m kind of between exes right now.”

I’m sorry it’s gone down this road so fast, and try to figure out how to reel it back in. “Well, that’s never easy, is it?”

“June told me all about the reports on you and what’s his name – the other singer? That must have sucked. But frankly, it’s better for your career that you went the distance solo.”

“That had nothing to do with why we split up. He hurt his hand. Playing together was a big part of the act. He’s a great singer on his own…”

“I know. I saw his stuff. He is. But you’re something really unique, really special.”

He doesn’t have to say that Derek isn’t. I know he’s thinking it. I want to defend Derek, but arguing with one of the biggest producers in the world about music probably isn’t a good idea for a teenage chick from the park. So I keep my big fat mouth shut, for once, even as I blush from the compliment, but I still feel a twinge of disloyalty. Then again, if he were here, he’d recommend that I do exactly what I’m doing, which is not pissing off the guy who has my career in his hands.

We arrive at the ice cream shop, which is a retro fifties place, and each order double scoops of black death chocolate – a new flavor, apparently, that’s even more chocolaty than double chocolate. I get mine in a cone, and when I take my first lick, it’s like all my tastebuds go ballistic, it’s so rich. Like putting a stick of butter in my mouth. Chocolate-flavored butter.

“Oh, my God. This is insane,” I manage as he pays.

“I know. It’s shocking, isn’t it? I have to only allow myself some after one of these shows, or I’d have to get my stomach pumped.”

“I’ve never had anything like it.”

We move to one of the cheesy plastic tables and take seats. “You know what’s even better?”

What could possibly be better than this? Besides Derek being here, I mean. “What?”

“When you’re famous and on tour, when you get to Buenos Aires, Argentina, you have to try the
Super
Dulce de Leche
– super caramel. It makes this taste like water. I’ve never had it anywhere else that was even close.”

“That’s kind of the other side of the world, isn’t it?”

“It’s all the same when you’re on tour. Just another plane ride. This one longer. They’ll usually take you through Buenos Aires, then to Chile, then up to Peru, then Colombia, maybe Panama, and you’ll finish up in Mexico, depending on the tour.”

That all seems impossible. He’s talking about these exotic places like they’re nothing – like he’s done it all a million times.

“You go there often?”

“I wish. Hardly ever, actually. But one of my acts insisted I spend a week on his South American tour, and it coincided with a break in my schedule, so I went for it. I’m glad I did.”

“You really must like that ice cream.”

“It’s my best memory from the tour.”

We slurp away, and then an idea strikes me. Melody would kill me if I didn’t ask.

“Hey, let’s get a picture. You and me, eating ice cream. My girlfriend will freak. She’s pretty impressed by you.” I pull my phone out and lean closer to him, noting that he smells really good.

“Sure.” He holds up his cup of half-eaten black death and smiles, and I take a selfie and then another, just in case. I look at the two shots and show him the second. He nods.