She grows quiet and I say, “Better?”
She nods her head and says she’s fine.
“Come on,” I say, taking her by the hand. “I’ve got a surprise.”
We catch one of those big black London cabs back to my flat.
On our way up the elevator, Helena sniffs and looks up at me without raising her chin. I smile and wink. She smiles back and slaps my thigh.
The flat is decorated in antiques, velvet, rich-grained wood in dark hues, marble tops, and swirling gold gilt. The ceiling is a rococo sky with puffy white clouds and feathery angels. A strange collection of men and women are clustered about the furniture near the white marble fireplace. When we go in, they stop talking and turn to stare.
Several teacups clink as they’re put back onto their saucers. A tall thin man with a mustache clears his throat and fiddles with his ascot tie. A round little man in a dark suit with wispy hair and liver lips steps forward with a scowl and in a thick Manchester accent says, “What’s this all about?”
“Helena,” I say, turning to her, “meet Peter Darwin. He’s your manager.”
“Is this really serious?” Darwin says, snorting and choking at the same time.
“No,” I say. “When I said a million up front, I meant two.”
Darwin’s face relaxes and then blooms into a smile.
“Well, well,” he says, opening his arms. “You should have said so. Let me shake your hand.”
We both shake his hand and then I lead Helena into the midst of the others. The tall ascot tie is her lawyer. The chunky pink-haired woman with cat glasses is her clothes coordinator. The effeminate wisp of a man in black with the shaved head and tortoiseshell glasses is her hairstylist. The pretty green-eyed woman in the sweatsuit is her choreographer and trainer. The white-haired black man is her voice coach. And the little old lady with the straight back and the napkin laid out on her lap is for etiquette.
Helena shakes their hands and nods her head. The little old lady tells her to look people in the eye, dear, and Helena sticks out her tongue, then grins at me.
“Just money,” I say to her, then I turn to them. “Thank you all very much for coming. You’re here because you’re the best. Everyone’s getting the same thing. A three-year contract at ten times your normal fees. From what I know about your talents and hers, Helena will be the biggest star the music industry has seen since, who? J-Lo?”
“Honey,” says the hairstylist, “with those cheeks and a few highlights she’ll make J-Lo look like the tramp she is.”
The old lady sniffs.
“You’ve got three months,” I say. “We need an album and an act. I’ve already booked a studio at Warner Bros. to shoot the videos with Joe Pytka. I’ll make my G-V available, so going back and forth will be easier than getting to Scotland. We’ll release the first single in late December.”
Someone whistles and I hear the words “fast track.”
“That’s why you’re getting the big money. So, I had lunch brought in for everyone and then you can get right to work,” I say, leading them to the dining room, where a buffet in shiny silver service waits for us.
Helena leans into me as we fall into the back of the line and says, “This is a joke, right?”
“If you think working your ass off is funny,” I say, kissing her forehead.
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You’re right.”
She looks up into my eyes. Hers are burning.
“You’ll be on your own, you know,” I say. “I have work to do in New York.”
“Why not here?” she asks.
I don’t think she realizes it, but she’s gripping my forearm. I pat her hand and say, “I have a job to do. Besides, I don’t want to crowd you.”
“You couldn’t.”
“Maybe not,” I say, “but I won’t.”
“What if I need… or want you?”
“Tell you what,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze before taking it off my arm. “I’ll check in.”
“What are you?” she says. “My fairy fucking godmother?”
“A lot of things are going to change, you know,” I say, lowering my voice.
“That’s bullshit,” she says.
I touch the smooth skin on my face and turn to go.
“What the hell is all this? What about lunch?” she says.
“You need to do this,” I tell her. “Without me here every minute. Then you’ll decide what you want to do.
“No one owns you, Helena. Remember that.”
“You’re goddamned right,” she says, raising her voice and her chin at the same time. “I can do whatever the hell I want. And if I want to give it away I can do that too.”
I nod and step backward and say, “I’d like that very much, but we’ll see.”
36
I REALLY DON’T WANT to interfere with Helena’s progress. And I really am busy with my own plans. Still, we speak almost every day and she keeps me up to date. While her version of things and Darwin’s aren’t quite the same, in a little over two months her first single starts right off at number seven.
Since she’s filming a video in Los Angeles when I get the news, I grab my plane and head out there for a visit, promising her dinner at Chez Nous. We land in Burbank earlier than expected, and instead of going to Hotel Bel-Air, where Helena’s staying, I have the car take me directly to the studio on the Warner lot where they’re already shooting the video for her next single. During the ride, “Love to Hate You” comes on over the radio and the DJ makes the appropriate fuss over the hot new artist named Helena.
I tap my foot as I listen and drum my fingers on my leg. Buildings and the trunks of palm trees glowing orange in the late-day sun whiz by on North Hollywood Way. The lot is snuggled up next to the back side of the dusty green Hollywood Hills. The limo passes through the gates after only a brief stop. We go by French Street, where Bogart met Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca and come to a stop in front of a studio the size of an airplane hangar. The doors are open partway and they’re wheeling a helicopter inside on a massive dolly.
Darwin is waiting and opens the car door. His face is flushed and beads of sweat have broken out on his forehead even though the shadows are long and cool.
“She’s fucking lost it,” he says.
“Easy,” I say. “What happened?”
“Money is money, but this is too much,” he says, his face pinched. “Put a fucking gun in my ribs. You believe that?”
“What’d you do?”
“Me? She won’t fix her hair. Won’t wear the costumes put out. Won’t stop cursing like a sailor. She’s a mean bitch, I’ll tell you. Makes Ozzy Osbourne look like he came out of charm school.”
“What’d you do?” I ask.
“I just told her,” he says. “One top ten single isn’t shit. You know that. I told her if they can’t see her tits, they turn the channel.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have said that.”
“Tits are tits. This is the record business.”
I press my lips tight and look at him in his flowery silk shirt. He’s much more respectable in a tie.
“I’ll talk to her,” I say, pushing past him and walking into the dark cave of the studio.
“Not now,” he says, catching up. “They’re almost ready to shoot.”
An enormous man with long stringy blond hair and a face as big as a shovel is down on the floor in the middle of it all with a camera on his shoulder. Joe Pytka. He shouts directions, and every time he barks a ripple passes through the brightly lit set. There are fifty people milling around, some of them in tall canvas chairs clustered around a monitor, servers behind a catering table complete with a roast beef under a heat lamp, but most of the people are hurrying to and fro with lights and electric cords and power tools. The helicopter is suspended from a crane now and its rotors are twirling lazily.