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  Book 3 of The Access Series

  ALICE SEVERIN

  Own Room Publishing

  New York

  Copyright © Alice Severin 2014

  Cover photo copyright © Alice Severin

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9882520-4-2

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the ­author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Also by Alice Severin

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  To those who remember the future

  And to J, who teaches me.

  chapter one

  London

  Airplanes flying over the Atlantic at 36,000 feet are great places to reflect on life. Or you can hit the champagne, and try not to think too much about what was waiting a very long way down. I was meditating on the rock musician whose path had so memorably crossed mine, not once, but twice. Tristan Hunter. Tristan was famous for having started Devised, and guiding them to success, before a very public split with his wife and the band he had formed. Some said it had been brought on by his own love of excess, of extremes. Others claimed it was his trusting nature that led him to be swallowed up in the nest of vipers that defined the music business and L.A. in particular. Now he was starting over. A solo album doing well, getting some buzz. And he had reunited for the tour with his fellow Devised member and guitarist, AC Clark.

  Then there was me. Lily Taylor. The diehard music fan who became a music journalist. The woman who once literally fell at Tristan’s feet trying to get an interview. The one who had the opportunity to meet him again, five years later. An interview, another chance encounter—and now I found myself covering the tour.

  One small catch—Tristan and I were also lovers. In love, maybe. Love. Whatever that meant for two slightly damaged, very wary people. He risked showing me his scars. I was willing to fight for him. Both of us definitely unwilling to be apart. And ironically, we were better together because I had been willing to walk away at one point. I didn’t like being told what to do. And neither did Tristan.

  Then there was Trevor Sears, the man who discovered Devised, who apparently approved of me as well. And seeing as he had been responsible for keeping Tristan alive, his opinion meant a great deal. Especially to Tristan. Trevor had been there during the darkest times of the breakdown, when the people Tristan had trusted most betrayed him, when his body was struggling with the ravages of the drugs he had turned to hoping for help. There was no doubt in my mind that Tristan wouldn’t be here right now if not for Trevor.

  Trevor was also one of the groundbreakers in the music industry. He had set up his independent label in London, and spent his time and money trying to find what real artists were still out there in the auto-tuned world of shock tactics and skimpy clothing the music business had become. He followed his passion, but played the game with finesse. His forbidding stare had unraveled a lot of plans constructed by people who thought they knew better.

  At this moment, a week before the tour, Tristan was rehearsing with the band. So with his blessing, and that of my boss, Dave Fanning of The Core magazine, I’d flown out to confer with Trevor, and do a couple of last minute interviews with other individuals linked to Devised for a possible documentary. I mostly wanted to see Trevor, though. I knew he was going to be in the States soon enough, but with Tristan otherwise occupied, I wanted to take the opportunity to find out what I should really be focusing on. As opposed to what they were expecting me to write about. I figured he would know, if anyone would, where the minefields were located and how to avoid them, if I could. And Trevor was the coordinator on the European side, and was now in charge of sales, touring, and anything else that might come up. In the States, it all went through the subsidiary of the larger record company. But I knew that interesting ideas in Europe frequently were shot down altogether in the chase after the American dollar.

  Unfortunately, the stateside execs were not always right, though they’d never admit it. A path of poorly chosen singles, publicity images, release dates, and television appearances could be found in their wake. Good at business, bad at art. It was a bit of an American problem. The execs in the States thought Trevor was a loose cannon, which he could be, but where Tristan’s future was concerned, there was no one who would fight harder. If Trevor knew something was a good idea, he didn’t listen to no. He simply found another way to get what he wanted.

  This tendency worried the suits, who wanted the American leg of the tour to run very, very smoothly. Weighing up the odds, they did have a reason to be concerned, considering Tristan’s lurid tabloid past of drugs, sex, and eventual nervous breakdown. Their risky investment was going to be under very public scrutiny. If any of these problems were going to surface, they wanted advance notice. A lot of advance notice. They were bankrolling it all, of course. They could pull the plug at any moment, blame it on illness, or vocal problems, or any of the other excuses that were put out in the press to explain a variety of real reasons that were kept hidden. I was sure that was some of the logic behind letting me tag along on tour and write up articles and the regular blog. But according to Trevor, now they wanted a business rep for their interests inside his office. One of their own. In Trevor’s domain. I wished I could have seen his face when they presented the idea to him.

  He told me all about it when he took me out to dinner the evening I arrived. As he was recounting the story, I realized that his curt manner had been replaced by a somewhat distant but basically trusting stance. I’d obviously moved up in his estimation. It made me feel a little closer to Tristan too, like we were all on the same side. Trevor began describing what we were up against. Apparently, the record company had chosen who they wanted in the London office and had flown him out to meet Trevor. Trevor had agreed to the whole plan, but insisted on reserving the right to interview and approve the final candidate. On the surface, it was all very reasonable.

  Trevor laughed when he described it to me. “Lily, they thought I’d just neatly stepped into line, cowed by their money, and lured in by temptation. Can you imagine, they offered me a job in L.A.? A job? Working for them, writing up reports, endless meetings? And in L.A.? One of those all by itself would be a deal breaker, but both? Imagine.” He poured me another glass of Retsina. We were sitting at a small table in a
private corner at one of my favorite restaurants in London, Lemonia. Tristan must have told him I liked it, and it thrilled me a little, not just to be there, but that both of them had conspired to do something to please me. I took a sip of wine and listened as Trevor continued with his story.

  “I’m not one of those individuals who has always wanted to live in America. It has its fascinations, certainly. Like most places. But some of these company people seem to think all they have to do is dangle a big city on the coast in front of you, and you’re hooked, like a starving fish in winter.” He laughed, and stabbed one of the stuffed grape leaves with his fork. “Hook, line, and sinker. At any rate, their man is coming tomorrow to discuss his place in the organization, and his brilliant marketing ideas.” He placed the entire morsel in his mouth and chewed slowly. Finally he spoke. “You should be there too. We don’t have to reveal your identity. We’ll make you a PR person over here. Wear a bright color, that’s it. Lipstick. Smile incessantly. Might as well assist with the deception.” He washed down his words with a sip of wine. “Retsina. It’s pleasant. Will always remind me of holidays. Not a bad thing.”

  “I’ve always liked it. A strange taste. Something different.” I smiled at him. “Reminds me of happier times as well.”

  Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Indeed. Well.” He looked directly at me. “I think you’ll find tomorrow useful. One never knows what Tristan is planning, but knowing what they expect should help you navigate the waters when he starts to push back.” I started to speak, but Trevor raised a large hand to stop me, and I did. “I know he says he’s a changed man, and he is. But I also know he has secrets and plans, and that he hates being given instructions. With AC there as well, this could turn into a regular rock and roll circus.” He folded a piece of pita bread delicately, and dipped it into the taramasalata on his plate. “Eat. You need to eat.” With his other hand, he held out the basket of pita breads to me. I caught his eye, and he smiled, his expression caught halfway between paternal and threatening.

  I took a piece of bread, and dipped it into the tzatziki on my plate. “How much influence do I really have though? Suppose he starts using again? Or quits the tour? Or gets into trouble on the road?”

  Trevor’s expression was extraordinarily calm. “All reasonable possibilities, I’m afraid. But I’ll be a phone call away, and then I’ll be there. As backup. Honestly, Lily, and please take this as a compliment, you seem to be managing him very well.”

  “But I’m not doing anything,” I blurted out.

  “Then it seems to be working wonderfully through intuition. An excellent strategy.”

  “I don’t plot and plan.”

  “Then you’re the only one. But you don’t need to, my dear. You’re clever, you don’t take his shit, and most importantly—you seem to actually care for the difficult bastard.”

  I blinked at him, a little shocked. “Tristan? A bastard? He’s the last person I’d tag with that description. Difficult, yes. Even perhaps a little diva-esque, at times, but…”

  Trevor interrupted me. “He can be fairly demanding, at times. You’ve noticed that, certainly. Luckily it’s a short tour. Preliminaries. Everybody getting back in the saddle.” He took another sip of wine. “Lily. That’s just it. You’ll defend him. God help you, you’ll even disagree with me.” He stopped to put a grape leaf and some calamari on my plate. “You’ve got considerable power, Lily. Especially where he is concerned. I’m grateful that you use it for good.” He gestured with his fork at the array of small plates in front of us. “Now eat. You’re going to hate yourself when you’re at the truck stop looking at the microwave meat sandwiches. Then your saddest memory will be of all the nice dishes you didn’t touch.”

  I laughed and raised my glass. “To touring.”

  Trevor clinked our glasses together. “To touring. You poor thing. You have no idea what you’re in for. Now eat.”

  * * *

  The next day, I arrived early at the townhouse where Trevor had his offices, and settled in with a cup of tea in one of the corner chairs in his large office. I had done my best to look like a PR person, statement necklace and handbag, flashes of bright color. Sarah, my oldest friend in London, had helped. I was staying with her, and she seemed grateful for the diversion. She was marrying my old boyfriend, now very much hers, later in the summer, and I had the impression even she was sick of the planning. It wasn’t a huge wedding, but she was nothing if not precise. Her house was covered in fabric swatches and seating plans. She was very good at putting things together, including me. Despite our differences, I did love her dearly, even if she kept teasing me about whether Tristan was coming to the wedding or not. I didn’t really want to admit I had no way of guaranteeing what the future would bring.

  The prospect from the record company in the States had just been shown in. I was introduced quickly, and dismissed quickly, which was fine with me. It gave more time to study him. He was terribly shiny. Broad features. He looked like he should be selling oil wells, or machinery. The copy of his CV showed a suitable range of internships, the right college, high-ranked business school. But Trevor got him talking, and within minutes, he had managed to get him to reveal what was behind his resume. The real story was that his uncle was a well-known A and R guy from the 70s who had first gotten him interested in the business. Eased his way in, more like. But everyone had connections. He admired Justin Timberlake. And he seemed pleasant enough, sitting there, getting ready to impress Trevor. I wasn’t keen on the double breasted suit. And I had the impression that somebody stateside had told him this was a done deal, which made me feel almost sorry for him. Underestimating Trevor was never a good plan. I had another sip of tea, and pulled out my notebook. Time to decipher the meaning from the words and watch the show. Trevor was already in full flow.

  “I would say that we have passed postmodern. Now we are in to what I like to think of as post-honest.” Trevor hesitated. “Clearly, we expect honesty from our icons. That’s why we follow them slavishly on Twitter, take their battles as our own, and insist that they share each and every portion of their lives with us. We say we want the truth. But that’s not it. We want the simulacrum of truth. We want it to look real, and as Camus demonstrated so ably, reality, and the appearance of such, are two totally different things.” He paused in the midst of his explanation to drink some tea, and studied the person in front of him, as though he were really considering hiring him.

  “I disagree,” said the young man, whose name was Steven, and who clearly didn’t realize his time was ticking away. “When a musician tweets something, it shows a piece of his day to day concerns. He shows that this is his life. His soul. That translates into a better connection with the broader-based fan demographic. The key is to find the toleration level, and keep the energy high. Dropping moments of day-to-day life is the best way to do that. Impromptu pictures, quotes, favorite foods.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Trevor interrupted. “Impromptu? When you and I both know you set it up in advance to drop the message at a certain time? Favorite foods? Likes and dislikes? It sounds like a teenage girl’s diary. I do recognize that this is supposedly the age of complete narcissism, so the fan base likes to see itself replicated on a grand scale. But…,” here he paused to drink more tea, and look over with longing at his box of cigars, “there has to be some consideration of authenticity. Something that sets the artist apart from everyone else.”

  The young man nodded vigorously, apparently in complete agreement. “I just read a fantastic article on authenticity.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Not Camus, but Sartre. It’s a perfect example of how our actions must be in line with the image. But image is a starting point. What we are trying to do is not only get the conversation rolling, but make the moments that inspire that conversation. For a fan, watching a video, or knowing a celebrity or musician actually said something, means that they have something to bring to the water coo
ler.”

  “Using Sartre to sell? Isn’t that a little like using a chain saw to clean out a wound?” He finally opened the lid of the box. Trevor was clearly trying not to smoke, but he was finding it difficult to stop himself from at least rolling one of the Cubans between his fingers. He was feeling the weight of it, the calm and pleasure it would bring. He dropped it back in and shut the box abruptly. I jumped at the sound.

  Trevor began again, slowly. “Look, Steven, this is all extremely interesting. Certainly on point. But tell me what your suggestions would mean if we were to promote someone say, like…” Trevor looked out the window, appearing almost distracted, then turned back suddenly, his eyes fixed on his target. “Tristan Hunter? You’re familiar with him, of course?” Steven nodded again. “Good. What would you do?”

  Steven had the appearance of someone who was about to tuck into a good meal. “Great. Just great. I love a challenge. Some people really dislike him. Fantastic. And he doesn’t have a good solid media presence. After all that bad press. Weren’t there rumors going around that he was heavily into kinky sex, S and M?”

  Trevor looked at him, his gaze level and steady. “We are trying to sell music here, not sex toys.”

  “But that’s just it. His demographic has limited itself to older fans of the first band, and people who are drawn to the rumors. Very limited. If you want the younger teenage demographic, he’s going to have to tone down the image somewhat. A lot.”

  “And what would you suggest?” Trevor asked blandly.

  “It wouldn’t be too hard. First, clean up the public image. Get some ‘candids’ of him exercising,” here Steven made the air-quote gesture, as if to underline the obvious staging of these scenes, “running, shopping, walking the dog. Normal things. Getting a coffee. Then mix that up with some close-ups from the studio. Playing instruments. Looking intent on the music. Clothes—always important. Nothing too fashionable. Everyday. A little less black and tight. And maybe some pics of him out at restaurants, going to juice bars, meeting other celebrity musicians. Does he have a new girlfriend? We can find a companion for him. Shared interest in getting publicity. I can put in a call to a friend. Always some new actresses happy for the exchange. Controllable situation. Establishing him as…”