Priceless : A Novel Part 23

"I'm trying very hard to be cool," Kat had said, "but the Hollywood sign is just cooler. There's no contest."

Now, as handsome young men took their luggage and led them into a smoked-gla.s.s and gray-slate lobby, it felt as if they were in a movie. Charlotte didn't pay much attention, but as Kat looked around, she thought she'd never seen so many good-looking and well-dressed people in her life. New Orleans was not a slouchy city, and the long history of intermarriage among diverse groups meant you saw some amazingly beautiful people, but as with any other city, there was rough alongside the smooth. Here everyone appeared to have been airbrushed, with the glossy setting on high. Long hair gleamed, skin glowed, muscles were toned, outfits were carefully casual. Everyone looked like a celebrity, or as if they might be a celebrity or about to become a celebrity. It was strange. Even she felt more glamorous, which was an enjoyable feeling. And the weather was outstanding.

The young man behind the desk looked as if he'd just stepped out of an Abercrombie catalog.

"h.e.l.lo, I am Justin. Welcome to the Hotel Rothko. Are you checking in?"

Kat gave him their names, and he smiled and handed over three thin wands of t.i.tanium.

"These are your room keys. Just wave them across the door panels."

"Of course." Kat smiled coolly as if people handed her sticks of ultralight metal every day, and they headed toward the elevator.

THEY HAD ROOMS next to each other, which was nice, even if each of them was smaller than Kat's closet back home-perfectly furnished, of course, but minute. The world's squashiest bed faced a flat-screen plasma mounted to the wall, and jeweled lights sparkled on the walls behind the upholstered headboard. You could jump off the bed into the tiny bathtub in the bathroom-something Kat ably demonstrated-but it gave you the feeling of being inside a yacht rather than an extremely small hotel room. next to each other, which was nice, even if each of them was smaller than Kat's closet back home-perfectly furnished, of course, but minute. The world's squashiest bed faced a flat-screen plasma mounted to the wall, and jeweled lights sparkled on the walls behind the upholstered headboard. You could jump off the bed into the tiny bathtub in the bathroom-something Kat ably demonstrated-but it gave you the feeling of being inside a yacht rather than an extremely small hotel room.

"I guess they had to choose between quality and quant.i.ty and went for the former." Kat smoothed her hand across the sheets, noting the fine thread count. For her and Charlotte, used to the very best of everything, this all seemed normal, but Jackson was truly amazed.

"Did you feel the towels? They're awesome!" He chuckled, taking photos with his cell phone to send to Millie. "This whole day has been amazing, and it's not even over yet."

Kat looked at her watch. "Nope, and in fact, we'd better get back down to the car and head over to the station, or we'll be late. I wouldn't want Tiffanii-with-two-i's to get p.i.s.sy-with-two-s's."

THE RADIO STATION was in Burbank, and traffic was terrible, as usual. By the time they got there, it was mid-afternoon, and Tiffanii looked a little bit ruffled. was in Burbank, and traffic was terrible, as usual. By the time they got there, it was mid-afternoon, and Tiffanii looked a little bit ruffled.

"We're running late, so it's straight into the studio, ok?"

Charlotte opened her mouth to ask a question, but Tiffanii was already on the move.

"Come, come," she called over her shoulder. "We've rescheduled the photographer for tomorrow, so don't worry about what you look like. Let's just get into the studio."

As no one had been worrying about their appearance at that exact moment, they were all a bit confused, but then Jackson shrugged and followed her. Tiffanii had turned out to be extremely small and slender, though just as gorgeous as every other girl they'd seen, and as he trailed after her, Jackson turned and whispered, "You know, maybe the reason the hotel rooms are so small is that everyone here is half the size of a regular person."

Charlotte giggled. "I know! I feel enormous."

Kat chided them both. "Don't be mean. Tiffanii might have been blessed with an extra vowel, but that doesn't mean she didn't have to work hard to get where she is."

She caught up with the scurrying young woman, who was confidently leading them through a maze of carpeted hallways lined with gold records and publicity shots. "So, Tiffanii, how did you get interested in radio?"

Tiffanii laughed. "Oh, my dad owns the station. I'm just helping out while I wait to get discovered by Hollywood." She pulled open a big double door. "Here we are."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

Peter Lakesh.o.r.e turned out to be two totally different people. When they first met him, he was serious and focused, saying very little as he pulled their song up from the station's impressive computer system. He sat with his eyes closed, listening as the song played.

"You know," he mused, "it reminds me a little of that Sheryl Crow song, 'All I Wanna Do,' but it's s.e.xier than that, and your voice is totally different, much more Sade, but younger."

Suddenly, he sat up and opened his eyes wide, focusing on Charlotte and Jackson. "Are you guys ready to be huge? This single is going to sell a million." Then, just as suddenly, he dropped his voice again. "With a little help, of course. You need to rerecord in an actual studio." He jumped to his feet and shook Charlotte's hand. "You're the singer, right? Not you?" He looked at Kat.

"No, I'm the studio technician," she deadpanned. "I'm a manager-stylist-studio technician."

"Nice," he said, not blinking. "Charlotte, right?" Charlotte nodded. "I want to do a short interview with you guys, so I can put it on air. OK?"

They nodded enthusiastically.

"We can just do it here in the studio now, and then I'll break it on the morning show. You're meeting with the label tomorrow, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he pulled on some headphones and started pressing b.u.t.tons. He was reportedly in his mid-thirties, but he looked as young as they did and was handsomer in real life than he appeared on TV. He moved quickly, intensely, but also had the ability to slow down suddenly, as if he could switch into relaxed mode whenever he wanted to.

"Where's the mic?" Jackson looked around.

"Above you, we'll hear you just fine."

Lakesh.o.r.e sat behind his desk, nearly hidden by a huge array of screens and control panels. He had an old-fashioned microphone, which he leaned into. As he spoke, his voice was suddenly the voice millions of people listened to every day, the familiar tones syndicated across the country.

"Well, here's a story. We started playing a track a day or so ago, 'Fire and Ice,' you know it by heart now. Turned out it was made by a duo no one had heard of, Jack and Charlie, two kids from New Orleans. Well, anyway, we have them here right now." He winked at Charlotte and spoke to her first. "So, Charlie, you're the girl half, right?"

Charlotte laughed. "So they tell me." She looked around for somewhere to sit and perched on a stool.

"And are you two old friends or what?"

"No, actually, we only met recently, although I've known his mom forever."

"Your mom brought you two together?"

Now Jackson laughed. "Well, not exactly. She just knew Charlotte before I did. Charlotte grew up in New York, by the way, not New Orleans."

Tiffanii suddenly appeared and handed Peter Lakesh.o.r.e a note. He read it quickly and raised his eyebrows, all while Jackson was talking.

"So, just to make this already hot story more interesting, it turns out that Charlie is Charlotte Williams, the daughter of Jacob Williams, who just, if I remember rightly, went to jail for embezzling millions of dollars."

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face. Holy c.r.a.p. Holy c.r.a.p.

"That is totally true, Peter." Jackson's voice was smooth and unfl.u.s.tered. "Proving yet again that every cloud has a silver lining. She came to stay with my mom to get away from the press, and we met and started making music together."

Peter watched her face and suddenly smiled. "Lucky for you, huh, Charlotte?"

"You can call me Charlie, it's OK. And yes, it was lucky."

"And now that you're here in L.A., you're going to lay down some more tracks, right? And make a video for 'Fire and Ice'?"

"That's the plan, Peter."

"Great. OK, here's this summer's big hit, 'Fire and Ice,' by Jack and Charlie."

And just as quickly as it all seemed about to blow up, it was done, and no bloodshed.

Peter Lakesh.o.r.e shook their hands and paused for a moment, holding Charlotte's. "People are going to find out anyway. You know that, right?"

She nodded, trying not to start crying in front of one of the most powerful men in media.

"If you want some advice, just take a leaf out of your friend's playbook here." He looked at Jackson and grinned. "Acknowledge it, and move on. You didn't go to jail, and if you knew how many celebrities have shadows in their past, you'd be amazed. Unless you read the trash rags, in which case you wouldn't be surprised at all. Take this chance and go with it. The press will mention it a lot at first, but then they'll move on. Focus on the work, and you'll be fine."

A beaming smile all around, and then he was gone, calling over his shoulder, "I can't do dinner tonight after all, but have fun out there, kids!"

Tiffanii appeared and led them out, and as the door nearly hit them on their a.s.ses on the way out, they realized they were free.

"I don't know about you two," said Kat, looking around the early evening of downtown Burbank, "but I'm starving. It's hard holding down three jobs, you know."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

If Peter Lakesh.o.r.e had seemed a little crazy, the people at the record label made him look like the sanest guy around.

The day started badly.

To begin with, the label coordinator, Jessika, met them in the lobby of the hotel wearing skin-tight leather from head to toe. She was tall, strong, and gorgeous, with wild black hair that snaked down her back. She looked like a superhero or someone from a video game. Kat's eyes had bugged out a little, but she'd stayed calm.

"No limo today, I'm afraid," Jessika said as she led them to a long, low, gleaming Mercedes. "I'm driving you myself. It's not far, anyway." She pointed her clicker and beeped the doors open. Jackson started to head for the pa.s.senger door, but Kat shouldered him out of the way, sliding in beside Jessika smoothly. She herself was wearing a black Givenchy sheath a la Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's and stood out in the tanned L.A. crowd like a racehorse in a field of sheep. and stood out in the tanned L.A. crowd like a racehorse in a field of sheep.

Without warning, a flash went off, and Charlotte turned at the sound of her name.

"Charlotte! Over here!"

Suddenly, there was a wall of lights and microphones and people's faces. Peter Lakesh.o.r.e's show reached a lot of people, it would seem.

"You b.i.t.c.h!" A middle-aged man, who otherwise looked totally reasonable, yelled from behind the photographers. "You steal our money, and now you're going to get famous off it! Wh.o.r.e!"

Jessika was out of the car and next to Charlotte in a matter of seconds. "No comment, f.u.c.k off, thanks very much!" She yelled as she turned Charlotte around and pushed her down into the car. Checking that Jackson was in, she slammed the door and jumped in herself, squealing out of the hotel driveway at an illegal pace.

"What was that all about?" she asked, looking at Charlotte in the rearview.

"You don't know?"

Jessika shrugged. "I was out last night, I can barely remember when I got in. I haven't had time to read any backstory on you guys at all."

Charlotte sighed and looked out the window. She was getting tired of explaining it.

Kat stepped in. "Charlotte's dad is Jacob Williams, who just went to jail."

"Oh, yeah? Did he kill someone?" Jessika seemed only mildly interested.

"No. He stole a load of money."

"Oh? From that guy?"

"No idea. From lots of guys, so maybe that one, too."

"Oh, well, never mind. It'll all blow over." Charlotte was surprised, but Jessika elaborated. "Look, I've worked with rock stars and musicians and actors and whatever, and they all get in trouble in one way or another. Drugs, girls, money, s.e.x, gambling, fighting, you name it, they do it, and the press loves to make copy out of it. It's much easier than actually reporting something, you know, like investigating something or whatever. And seeing as these people tend to photograph well, it's more attractive news than if Joe Blow punches his girlfriend, because who cares about that?" She leaned back, resting one leather-clad arm on the car window's edge. "If I might quote Emily d.i.c.kinson, the great American poetess, 'Fame is a bee. It has a song-it has a sting-Ah, too, it has a wing.'"

There was silence in the car as they all digested this.

"Oh, f.u.c.k sticks," said their philosopher-driver-coordinator. "They're here, too."

The Mercedes swept into the driveway of the record label, which looked like any other office building apart from the giant billboards of extremely famous bands, nearly scattering the crowd of reporters and paparazzi standing there.

"Mind you," she added, activating the gate to an underground parking garage, "that lot of shifty characters more or less camps there anyway, just in case Britney or Lindsay shows up."

F. ASPEN, THE hot producer du jour, was born Francis Aspenweiser and changed his name in high school. He'd known for years at that point that he was destined for greatness, and so did everyone around him. Francis, as his family still called him, had formed his first band in elementary school (the Recess) and persuaded his dad to trick him out with a MacBook Pro and GarageBand (with all of the jam packs) instead of a bar mitzvah. He played piano, guitar, sax, drums, ba.s.s, cello, and trumpet and couldn't sing worth spit. Which was fine-there were always singers around, and what he really wanted to do was produce, anyway. He worshipped at the shrine of Dre, with side deities Guy Sigsworth and Bloodshy and Avant. And yet, for all his hipness and fabulosity, he was at heart another twenty-something music geek who loved nothing more than hearing a song that made him want to dance or cry or get laid. He'd heard "Fire and Ice" two days before, thanks to the Internet and an a.s.sistant whose only job it was to trawl for new music, and he'd had it on replay ever since. hot producer du jour, was born Francis Aspenweiser and changed his name in high school. He'd known for years at that point that he was destined for greatness, and so did everyone around him. Francis, as his family still called him, had formed his first band in elementary school (the Recess) and persuaded his dad to trick him out with a MacBook Pro and GarageBand (with all of the jam packs) instead of a bar mitzvah. He played piano, guitar, sax, drums, ba.s.s, cello, and trumpet and couldn't sing worth spit. Which was fine-there were always singers around, and what he really wanted to do was produce, anyway. He worshipped at the shrine of Dre, with side deities Guy Sigsworth and Bloodshy and Avant. And yet, for all his hipness and fabulosity, he was at heart another twenty-something music geek who loved nothing more than hearing a song that made him want to dance or cry or get laid. He'd heard "Fire and Ice" two days before, thanks to the Internet and an a.s.sistant whose only job it was to trawl for new music, and he'd had it on replay ever since.

"Charlie and Jack! Nice to meet you, dudes. Come on in, come on in." He stood up, which still made him only five feet four inches tall, and hugged Jessika. "h.e.l.lo, gorgeous, how are you?" He was dark-haired and normal-looking, and could just as easily have been a barista or a student, rather than a multiplatinum, multinational record producer with the world at his Chuck Taylorwearing feet.

"I'm good, F., pretty good, thanks." Jessika peeled off her jacket, s.e.xily revealing a simple white V-neck T-shirt with plenty of cleavage. Kat made a small noise but bit her tongue. "These kids are all yours now, OK? I'm supposed to take them back to the hotel when you're done working, so give me a tinkle, yeah?"

"Sure, Jessika, sure. Can you ask Sandy to send in some snacks and drinks? I'm parched. Is it lunchtime?"

Jessika laughed. "When did you get here? It's not even brunch, bro."

"I got here last night, babe, and you know how it is when I'm in the zone."

The young woman shook her head. "Breakfast's the most important meal of the day, dude. Get yourself some granola and s.h.i.t." She sighed and looked at Kat. "Honestly, these creative types." She left the room, her perfume lingering long after she was gone.

Charlotte looked at Kat. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. That was one smitten kitten. That was one smitten kitten.

"SO, LET'S HEAR what else you've got." what else you've got."

F. perched on the mixing desk as Jackson headed into the studio just beyond a smoked-gla.s.s window. Inside was a baby grand, and he sat down and just started playing. Charlotte stood next to F and watched, feeling enormously proud. Song after song poured out of Jackson, from bluesy love songs to fast, syncopated dance tracks. Somehow, just with his voice and the piano, he was able to convey arrangements and instrumentation, and Charlotte and Kat could tell from his body language that F. Aspen was dying to get started.

He turned to Charlotte. "OK, in you go. Do you know these songs?" She shook her head. "Go learn them, then. I'll be back in half an hour. Have two of them ready to go, OK?" With that, he left the room, and they could hear him shouting for Sandy, whoever he or she was.

ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH the afternoon, a strange thing happened. Charlotte and Jackson sort of missed it, because they were bickering over which of them should take a harmony part, but Kat had an excellent ringside seat. F. Aspen had been leaning back in his mixing chair, feet up on the console, waiting for Charlotte and Jackson to agree on the harmony. Charlotte started singing the harmony and then switched to the main melody to demonstrate her point, and for whatever reason, she looked and sounded so exquisite in that moment that even Kat caught her breath. F. Aspen suddenly leaped to his feet and essentially ran out of the room. the afternoon, a strange thing happened. Charlotte and Jackson sort of missed it, because they were bickering over which of them should take a harmony part, but Kat had an excellent ringside seat. F. Aspen had been leaning back in his mixing chair, feet up on the console, waiting for Charlotte and Jackson to agree on the harmony. Charlotte started singing the harmony and then switched to the main melody to demonstrate her point, and for whatever reason, she looked and sounded so exquisite in that moment that even Kat caught her breath. F. Aspen suddenly leaped to his feet and essentially ran out of the room.