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  Trevor interrupted. “As a nonthreatening mainstream brand.”

  “Well, yes, to a certain extent. That healthy lifestyle is very appealing now. No one wants to see people falling out of clubs, under the influence. Even smoking. Very Lindsay Lohan. Gives the impression of failure. If he’s embracing the moment, then we can reposition him as a star for today.” Steven looked thoughtful for a moment. “Hey now, didn’t he have a big gay following? Would he be willing to do some charity work? Outreach? That would draw in a lot of people. Explain his outsider status. We could go the other way with clothes at awards shows, that kind of thing. Cleaning up elegantly for events. And we can get quotes from people saying how good he looks—fashion-icon kind of thing. Some best-dressed lists. Suits. Designers. Might be interesting to see if he could model for someone. Keep that demographic interested. Probably would work better in Europe.”

  I reminded myself to move the tea cup to my mouth from where it had frozen in midair at his words.

  Trevor’s mouth was a tight line. “I’m sure he would be willing to help with any charity, as he has in the past, but I doubt he would want it publicized or tied into the album.”

  Steven seemed surprised. “He has? But he hasn’t publicized it? That’s a waste. Even a small name drop makes a big difference. Usually spike in donations too. Win-win on both sides.” He smiled broadly. “Symbiotic.”

  “Can I just make a point here? You do know he isn’t a pop star?”

  “He wasn’t a pop star. Before. Now, it’s a zero sum game. And pop is where the money is. So if he wants to position himself, he is going to need to do it that way. Look at Coldplay. Alternative to mainstream. Though Chris Martin’s arms, crazy, am I right? Someone’s been to the gym.” He laughed. “Incorporating the hip-hop and rap style. Electronics. Who saw that coming? But he’s following the trends.”

  “And the money,” Trevor responded drily. “Though Chris is a very nice boy, really. Talented. And yes, a lot more savvy than people give him credit for.”

  Steven was momentarily thrown, but he regrouped quickly. “Can we get Hunter to go to some more parties? Charity events? Photos with established names. No one is crazy about the Daily Mail or Just Jared, but they do get the hits.” Steven had a thoughtful expression. “A duet. What does he think of Katy Perry?”

  Trevor was silent. “I’m not certain that he ever has. Let me just ask you. Do you actually know anything about him? As an artist?”

  “To a certain extent, but I don’t always think that’s the best way to go into a client situation. I like to see the problem fresh. As a marketing challenge. New ideas first, then we see what we keep from what went before.”

  “What happened to actual reality? Authenticity.” Trevor laid a hand on the cigar box. “Charting a course by what he wants to be.”

  “Limited by the outdated image. He is a brand, and the word is that the brand needs a reboot, ASAP. Have you thought of some giveaways? Meet the band? VIP tickets are very popular, although he wouldn’t be playing venues big enough to make it worthwhile. Maybe if this takes off. Autographed merch?”

  “Yes, we have.” Trevor had made his mind up, and opened the box, taking out one of the cigars and rolling it between his fingers. His nostrils were slightly flared. He glanced over in my direction, his face expressionless. I knew that didn’t come without effort. He turned back to Steven. “And for the merchandising?” The flame shot up as he finished his words. Small puffs of smoke emerged, and Trevor leaned back, taking the cigar out of his mouth, and contemplating it. He waved it at Steven, before returning to producing another few small smoke clouds. With his attention focused on the cigar, he no longer appeared quite as formidable.

  Steven looked alarmed, but managed to stop himself just in time from fanning a hand in front of his face to keep away the smoke. He crossed his leg over his knee, and pulled up a neatly creased trouser leg, just short enough to show a slice of his colorful, expensive socks. “I did go to a TTT concert a few years ago, and they had no product. It was such a wasted merchandising opportunity. There were people waiting to buy. They finally came out with some t-shirts, but for such a big concert, it was lackluster. Everyone had those shirts already. They were expecting commemorative items to celebrate that concert. We can’t miss out on those opportunities.”

  “Interesting,” said Trevor. “But basic.”

  Steven carried on. “So I think it’s a clear sell. Attract the female pop listening audience, who have the most reach on social media. Tumblr blogs, got to love them. Get the fans to share the transformation. A new haircut, color, mentions of clothes, tweet after the morning run, that sort of thing. Link to fashion blog. Make him harmless. Picture of him walking with a tray—two juices—easier to spot in the photograph. Holding just one in your hand hides it. Could be anything. Juicing is so popular now. A story on his new morning rituals.” He stopped for a minute. “I wonder if we could get him on Ellen.”

  “And Tristan’s exercise regime will sell records? Fill seats at concerts?”

  “If it’s energetic, yes, it’s great. These are the present day concerns. Body image for women. Youth and strength for men. It’s projection and identification. Something that shows he looks after himself. We better not mention age though, what is he, 35? 37? Let’s not remind them. Thank god for Photoshop. Comeback can be a dangerous word.”

  Trevor removed the cigar from his mouth and examined it closely. It appeared as though his greatest concern was whether to relight it. Then he placed it carefully in the ashtray, and stood up. His sudden movement startled me, and he shot me a look, before walking to the window, staring out at the street, and turning back to face Steven. “So, let’s recap to make certain I am understanding you correctly. In order to ‘reboot the brand,’ as you put it, my client needs to share the aspirational fashion and beauty concerns of a new generation of fans, to make them feel that he is one of them. He does this while presumably creating music that he and his listeners have a stake in. Or, would you suggest that the songs reflect these preoccupations of the demographic you have so neatly descrambled?”

  “In fact, that’s a brilliant idea, Trevor.” I winced. “Brilliant. He could write a couple of love songs? Folk-influenced sound is so in these days. Maybe a cover? If he could find a female artist to duet with, that would be ideal. Has he ever thought of doing a dance record? Nod to the 70s, to disco. This way he could show he’s still in touch. With that kind of willingness to really experiment, I could salvage his career.”

  Trevor smiled. “Excellent. Just what we need.” He walked over, and extended his hand. “I’m sure you could. Fascinating summing up. Where are you staying again? Make sure Alina has all the details. We’ll be in touch.” His smile was more of a grimace than friendly, but Steven was shaking his hand, while handing him a small flash drive with the record company name etched into it. “This is a slideshow of some of the people I’ve worked with. Just to keep you in the loop. I’ll let the office know what we’ve decided.”

  Trevor pocketed the drive. “Thank you, but I’ll call them when and if we make any decision. You know the way out, of course.” Steven was staring at him. Then he went over to where he had been sitting and began rearranging files in his bag. I had the impression he thought there was more coming. I knew there wasn’t. Trevor sat back down, and began the process of relighting the cigar, finally blowing out a large cloud of smoke. When he saw that Steven was still there, organizing his bag, his voice was crisp. “Have you lost something? Let me have Alina help you.” He buzzed down and gave an order.

  The man zipped up his computer bag. “I think you’re making a mistake. The money you are wasting while you wait. Those lost sales, sales that may not come back. What you want to do…”

  Trevor spoke over him. “Ah, Alina, excellent. Mr. Hill was just leaving. Could you escort him out? Thank you so much.” He nodded to both of them, then turned his
chair so that all they could see was the back of the leather seat, and the very top of his head. Another puff of smoke rose, as they finally left and started making their way down the stairs.

  “Fucking hell,” Trevor said to himself. “Authenticity. Sartre. Camus. Poor bastards.” He turned back towards me. “Cigar, Lily? I’ve just had a shipment of the smaller ones.”

  I found my voice. “Thank you Trevor. I think I could use one. Very kind.” He inspected my unpracticed attempts to light it, and once I’d managed to fire it up, he turned back to the window. We sat there, smoking, watching the twilight sky darken over the London streets.

  The smoke was calming my nerves. A strange little encounter. One which left me with a lot of questions, not the smallest of which was why the record company had sent over someone with that point of view. Someone with almost no knowledge of Tristan’s output or career, aside from the lurid details. Maybe it was to remind us that there were a lot of people out there for whom Tristan was a footnote in rock history from a few years ago, and times had moved on. Or could. Or did. Without their support.

  I shivered. It was a brutal business, no joke.

  * * *

  The phone beeped. I tried to ignore it, but I found myself squinting through half-closed eyes at the dark room. What the hell time was it? It felt middle of the night late, too far away from the night to be part of it, not yet feeling the distant change of light and wind that would mean dawn. It beeped again. Two were harder to dismiss. I flung out an arm from the sheets and knocked the phone to the floor. Fuck. Eyes shut, I moved over and did a tired sweep of the floor next to the bed. There it was. I grabbed it, and rolled over on my back. I blearily looked at the bright white of the numbers. 3:37. Who was texting me? I pressed the little green square with the 2 in the corner, like an angry exponent.

  The message window opened and I froze. Watch me, said the first text.

  Then I tapped at the picture to make it fill the whole screen, and it still wasn’t big enough. Tristan. Taking a selfie. I wondered for a minute if the phone was wet, as wet as he was. He was leaning against the tiles in the shower, the water splashing on to his torso, which was sleek and shining, rivulets flowing down the muscled core of his body, to land and hover in the neatly trimmed tight curls that partially hid his balls from view. Nothing else was hidden though, and the blood-flushed tip was coated lightly with water, and something else, something that showed his excitement in posing like this. Pressing send. Knowing the effect it would have. On anyone.

  The phone beeped again, and the next picture scrolled into view, his hand firmly grasped around the hard flesh. His eyes were less amused now, dark circles, slightly unfocused. A minute passed. The phone beeped. This time the photo was blurred, his eyes closed tight, his hand another blur within the photo, movement. I felt my face grow warm, the familiar sinking heat spreading down. He was a statue, the muscles taut and flexed in his shoulders and arms, the dip of the lines by his hips a rigid indent. Another minute, a beep and the new photo appeared. His eyes were wide open now, and his lips were wet and full, slightly open, as though he had been taken by surprise. His hand was still tight around himself, pulling out the last tremors of furious pleasure. The evidence was captured as it struck him, adding to the sticky wet sheen that covered his heated skin.

  I shut my eyes for a moment. It was almost too much. Then the phone beeped again. It was a text this time.

  Your turn.

  chapter two

  New York

  The tour bus was both smaller and larger than I had expected. Parked on a rancid street of warehouses near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, the remnants of cobblestones stuck out from the badly smoothed-on patches of tar. The warehouses that lined the street looked deserted and desolate, the multi-paned windows gazing down blankly on the empty street. It hardly seemed believable that a place could be this empty, only a few hours after the rush hour blitz heading west through the tunnels, past the boundary of the Hudson River, separating the city from the rest of the country. Like in that old New York magazine poster, New York City seemed as big as the rest of the country, with only the Hudson, that narrow strip of water in between it and all the rest. And even that had been shrunk down, another obstacle to get across until you reached California. Everything outside of the concrete and steel of the city seemed slightly unreal. But we were about to head out, and see just how real it all was. Adventure. The thrill of starting a trip at night, heading into the unknown.

  Tristan and I got out of the car, and the driver turned off the engine. He quickly came around to open the trunk, and pull out my suitcase. Tristan’s gear was already on the bus. He had a messenger bag with him, slung over his shoulder. He shook his head when the driver went to take it from him, and he left my suitcase by my side. Tristan nodded. We stood there. There was something strange about it, after everything that had happened, to be on this dirty street as a starting point, looking at our rolling home for the immediate future. And we were sleeping on the bus tonight, then waking up in Montreal, where the tour would begin for real.

  I watched as Tristan shook his driver’s hand. “Keep in touch with Trevor. Let me know the situation.” I frowned at the pair of them, but when Tristan turned back to me, his face was calm.

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Just keeping an eye on things. Cat’s away,” he waved a hand though the air. “That kind of thing.” He fixed me with a stare. “Not to write about, in any way, Lily. Not even as a metaphor. Understood?”

  I nodded, again filled with a strange kind of fear before this man who did indeed control his entire empire—yet never spoke of it, never mentioned the hours of work that went into all of it. Again it struck me that no one really did get anywhere without the secret effort, control, energy that had to be hidden, precious and guarded. “Understood,” was all I said. No time for explanations.

  We walked up to the bus, and he knocked on the door. He stepped back as it swung open, and we could hear music and the sounds of people talking. Tristan shook hands with this driver as well, and I gave a wave as we walked into the living room of the bus. It was like an extended motor home, a trailer, a gypsy caravan with a flat screen, a rolling picnic basket filled with beer and wine. The windows were large, but tinted, and the world was sucked away as the door hissed shut. Despite the size, it was a little claustrophobic. I took a deep breath. I’d get used to it. I had to. The sofa was already filled with the three people in the band. There was Jack, the bassist, who I’d met and spoken to in London. He raised a hand in greeting, as Tristan said hello, and introduced me. “You all remember Lily, right?” At the end, legs extended and covered in worn jeans, the skin visible through the slits in the thigh, one stretched over the end of the sofa on top of the built in table, the other ending in a laced up black boot firmly planted on the floor, was the drummer, Pete. His head was leaning against Jack’s shoulder. And there, at the edge, was AC. He extracted himself from under Jack, causing him to fall over and knock over the drummer. They all laughed.

  AC launched himself at Tristan and wrapped him in a big hug. Tristan squeezed him back, and ruffled his hair. I stood there, and AC looked up at me, a question in his eyes. I wasn’t sure what he meant. Tristan clearly was relieved to have him there. That much was obvious. I waved at AC, smiling. He flashed a big grin back and opened his arm, leaving space for me to join in. He nodded his head up and down, a small gesture of encouragement, and as I stepped in to the hug, Tristan moved and squeezed us altogether. It felt quiet suddenly, then Tristan kissed the top of AC’s head, then the top of mine, and moved away. “Structure and harmony,” was all he said, as he stepped back, opening up our trio, my arm still around Tristan, AC’s arm still around him on the other side, and stood like that, watching Jack and Pete who had started fake punching each other. They stopped when they saw us watching.

  “Yo! Tristan!” Pete called out. “Fucking come sit down and h
ave a beer. Grab me one too while you’re at it.” Tristan laughed, and went over to him and gave him a big hug as well. “Get your own you lazy fuck,” he said, smiling, and I watched as AC pulled out a six pack of Heineken from the cooler, and open them one by one and hand them around.

  “Dude, you’re here. Excellent! Let the show begin,” said Jack. Tristan began to speak and he interrupted him. “Yeah, I remember Lily from London. Lily from London!” He reached out and clinked beer bottles with me. “Nice to see you. Maybe you’ll be a stabilizing force on this bunch. It can’t just be me all the time.” The drummer and AC snorted with laughter. “Shut up you two. I’m extremely stable.”

  “Yeah, and we won’t tell Lily you were just watching porn with us,” Pete murmured, then shouted, “Whoops! What have I said?” And they all started laughing again.

  “You two are assholes.” AC looked at me. “Night one on tour Lily. Where anticipation still fuels the party.”

  “Instead of being tired,” Jack said.

  “Or wasted,” added the drummer.

  “Or bored.”

  “Or sick.”

  “Yo, shut up you lot. It’s a bus, not a resort. And the last time I checked, you all liked depositing the checks from life in music. I’m sure the call center misses you fuckers. ‘How can I service you today?’” Pete punched Tristan on the arm.

  Tristan laughed, and drank some of his beer. “Keeping them in check. Thankless task.”