Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9)

by Heather Wardell

  Only Jason hadn't chimed in, because he didn't know. He had a hectic schedule in Dubai and had asked me before he left not to phone or even email unless it was an emergency so he wouldn't be distracted. I had nearly sent an email anyhow but had restrained myself, since by the time he replied I would already have met with Jo and would have more to tell him. Things were moving so fast.

  Everyone was right, it was a great opportunity. But did I want it? And did Jo really want me? She'd only heard 'Out Loud', by far my lightest song. The lyrics were deep, of course; a song dedicated to Giselle and her tragically short life couldn't have been anything but rich and meaningful. But the music was upbeat and poppy because that was what Giselle had loved most about my songs. I'd also written some songs with richer harmonies and less perky melodies because they'd felt right to me, so the CD was a mix of everything I could do. What if Jo heard my other songs and—

  "If I said, 'Where's your pink wig?', what would you say?"

  Startled, I turned to see a tall sleek woman in her late forties, wearing black jeans and a vibrant blue leather jacket that matched the streaks in her long dark hair. Energy seemed to fly from her, and I felt more alive just being nearby. "I'd say it didn't match my outfit."

  I'd worn the simple red cardigan and black dress to accompany Jason to Carla's university graduation a few months ago. Though her raised eyebrow at the time had told me I yet again didn't meet her standards for her brother's girlfriend, my frantic search through my closet that afternoon hadn't found anything more dinner-with-potential-boss appropriate. I had considered trying to look like a rock star instead but there hadn't been time for shopping and my concert outfit was too cheesy for a restaurant as classy as Steel.

  The woman laughed and handed me a business card. "You'd be right too. I'm Jo."

  I tucked the card into my sweater's pocket. "Amy. Nice to meet you."

  "The pleasure's all mine, Amy, but I thought your name was Amethyst."

  I nodded. "I go by Amy, though. Most people can't spell Amethyst and some can't even pronounce it." I had used Amethyst as my name on the CD, though, because Giselle had always used my full name because she thought it sounded fancier.

  Jo held open the restaurant door for me. As I walked inside, she said, "True. So that won't work for your stage name. And Amy's a bit too 'girl next door'. What's your last name?"

  She wanted uncommon? I had it in spades. "Szczesniak."

  I heard a choked gasp from behind me, but before I could turn around a hostess met us in the foyer, greeted Jo by name and smiled at me, then led us to a quiet table near the back of the gorgeous teal-painted restaurant.

  Once we were settled, I sat reading and re-reading my menu, not sure what to say. Jo clearly didn't like my last name, which wasn't a huge surprise since the few people who could handle 'Amethyst' didn't even bother trying 'Szczesniak'. Marrying Jason would make me Amy Lyon, but as we'd never discussed marriage I couldn't exactly count on that as a solution.

  Jo set down her menu and I did the same.

  She shook her head. "What are we going to call you?"

  "I have a name."

  "No, you have alphabet soup. I can't put that on a t-shirt. How many z's are there?"

  "Two. And two s's."

  She shook her head again. "We need something else. Even Amethyst is too much." She drummed her fingers on the table and studied me. "How about Mistress Cashmere?"

  My mouth fell open. "Why, exactly?"

  "You're tough but soft at the same time."

  I shook my head. I was a singer, not a toilet paper logo.

  She sighed. "Well, we'll worry about your name later. Let me tell you how I see this going."

  She did, in great detail, not finishing until we sat toying with coffee. Our waitress had tried to convince us to have caramel cheesecake for dessert, but Jo had recoiled in horror, run her eyes over me, and said, "At a million calories a bite, no doubt," and after that I hadn't been able to let myself have any. Too bad. It looked delicious.

  "Okay, let me make sure I get this." I took a deep breath, trying to straighten out everything she'd said in my mind. "I'd release a new song every few weeks, all electronically. No physical CD. You want to contract me for ten songs and then we'll reassess. Right?"

  She nodded. "Physical CDs are dinosaurs, but the big guys are too clueless to see it. You'll make quick money, I'd say at least a hundred thousand per song given how popular you already are, and we won't have to worry about the public losing interest while we take months to produce a CD since you'll constantly have new songs for them. Yes, you've got it."

  A million dollars over the life of the contract, and more if I became really popular. I had to go for it. The center would be possible in a matter of months instead of the years I'd expected. Delight flooded me at the thought although I also felt sick about Jo's clear belief that I couldn't hold audience attention. I didn't want people to lose interest in me.

  I took a deep breath and tried to relax my knotted stomach. What did it matter if they did lose interest? I'd have the money and be off doing the center. I'd never planned a music career anyhow, so I'd have fun being famous and then focus on what I really wanted to do with my life. "And people who want a CD could buy my current one."

  "About that. We need to pull it."

  I was shaking my head before her words fully sank in. "I can't. It's too important to me."

  She ran a hand through her hair, making the blue chunks shift and dance. Such immature highlights on a woman her age should have looked bizarre, but they suited her like she'd been born with them. "Amy. Look."

  "No. I won't do it." More to the point, I couldn't do it. That CD was the first thing I'd actually planned for and achieved. I'd been a 'do whatever shows up next' girl since childhood, not a planner or an introspective type like Giselle. Making those detailed plans and following them had been exhausting, had felt like I was wearing someone else's shoes and on the wrong feet to boot. But I'd done it, and in hindsight I knew I'd loved every moment of making and releasing my music. Letting her take the CD away would ruin that.

  "I can't promote you as Amethyst sez-whatever-that-was, or even just Amethyst, especially when there's already a CD, most of which is very different from 'Out Loud', available under that name."

  I blinked. "You've listened to my CD? All of it?"

  She nodded. "At least three times today. You're good."

  I could tell 'good' from her was like 'the most brilliant on the face of the earth' from someone else, and it made me feel warm inside. "Thank you."

  "But only 'Out Loud' is commercially viable. So we'll pull the CD and rerecord 'Out Loud' to be your first single while Tim helps you write lots more just like it."

  That speech contained far more than I could analyze at once, so I picked the simplest thing. "Who's Tim?"

  "Your lyricist."

  "I don't need a lyricist. I write my own songs."

  "And you do it well. But we'll need them faster than one person can write them. Assuming we manage to make a deal, of course."

  I felt a flash of fear at her suddenly cold tone. I did want this. I needed that money for the center. "I want to make a deal."

  She smiled. "Then we'll pull the CD, rerecord 'Out Loud' starting in the next few days, and get you working with Tim early next week."

  I knew I was supposed to smile and give in, but I couldn't. "I really don't want to pull it."

  She leaned back in her chair. "I won't sign you while that's out there."

  I thought frantically. "What if I change my name?"

  "You didn't want to."

  "I'd prefer it to pulling the CD." I took a deep breath and told her about the negative reviews it had been receiving because people expected more songs exactly like "Out Loud", finishing with, "So a new name would be good for the CD too."

  A slow nod. "Okay. We will rename you, and have that blogger rename the video too and point people in the right direction."

  "Sounds good." It didn't, entir
ely, but it sounded better than not making a deal at all. "What will we call me?"

  We tossed around names for a few minutes, not getting very far since I didn't like most of the weird ones she suggested and the few I did like were shot down after she did a quick Internet search on her fancy phone and realized I wouldn't be an original.

  "Amethyst," she mused. "I do like the 'ist' sound. Bist, Cist, Dist..."

  Afraid she'd decide to call me 'Cashmere Fist' or something, I said, "Misty?"

  She shut her eyes and her lips moved for a moment. Then her eyes popped open, flashing with excitement. "Yes. Misty will."

  "Misty will what?"

  "Exactly." She rolled her eyes at my continued confusion. "That's the point. We're calling you 'Misty Will', and people can end that sentence however they want. 'Misty' sounds soft and sweet but 'Will' has power behind it. And then they'll say, 'Misty Will make it big' or 'Misty Will make you dance'. It's perfect."

  All I could think was, "Misty Will probably end up pissing me off." But being called Misty for a few months was a small price to pay for what I'd be getting. "Okay. So my new songs are by Misty Will and the CD stays under Amethyst."

  "And you will never mention the CD when you're interviewed. Got it? You are Misty Will now."

  No 'probably' about it, Misty Will drive me insane. "Got it."

  She smiled. "Good girl." As she bent toward her briefcase on the floor, she said, "Nothing weird in your background, right?"

  "Like what?"

  She straightened, holding a few papers in her hand. "Not the answer I wanted."

  I pushed the memory of cold brown eyes and hideous shame from my mind. I'd been pushing it away for years so it disappeared into the back of my head without a fuss. "I just wasn't sure what you meant."

  "Kleptomaniac, drug problem, naked pictures online. That sort of thing."

  "Nope, nothing like that."

  There hadn't been any pictures. Nobody knew but me. And him, of course.

  Chapter Three

  "Are you nearly done?"

  The two of them had been inspecting me like I was some weird insect for nearly ten minutes, and I was sick of it. Besides, I needed to go sort out my temporary apartment.

  Jo hadn't wanted me staying in my no-security low-rise apartment building so she'd set me up with a six-month lease on a furnished apartment in a secured building, for which I'd pay her back once I started making money. Her efficiency was terrifying: in just a few phone calls she'd had her various assistants book the place, arrange a moving van, and hire people to pack all my things and unpack in my new home while I learned to be Misty.

  After much thought, I'd decided to take Jason's things too. I'd sent him an email, and a text message though I knew his phone was off while he was away, telling him what had happened and giving him the new unlisted cell phone number Jo insisted I get and letting him know I'd leave his access cards for the new building in the old one. I didn't want him thinking I didn't want to live with him any more, and moving my stuff out while leaving his behind didn't seem right.

  "No, darling, we're not even close to done. You're quite the project."

  "Gee, thanks."

  Roberto raised his perfectly groomed eyebrows, bleached the same platinum as his hair. "It wasn't a compliment, darling. You're a mess."

  I stepped off the stool they'd put me on, which Roberto had called "the pedestal you deserve" with heavy irony in his voice, and said, "I'm not, actually. I look fine."

  "Oh, fine." Jacques waved his hand through the air as if to sweep away a terrible odor. "The kiss of death in the industry. You cannot look fine. You can never again look fine. You must look amazing."

  Roberto and Jacques. According to Jo, the best image consultants on the planet, at least the best who happened to live in Toronto and happened to be available to see me the day after my dinner with Jo. They'd no doubt grown up as good old Bob and Jack but were now so glossy and sleek that a male model would feel scruffy next to them. They were certainly having that effect on me, much as I didn't want them to.

  After I'd signed Jo's contract for ten songs and at least one concert tour with the option to extend both if she felt so inclined, I'd looked through the schedule she'd given me for the next three weeks and found mostly fashion consultations and makeup and hair design and fitness sessions. "Can't I work more on songs this week? I've only got a few blocks here for that."

  "Nope. We need to get Roberto and Jacques going right away on your costumes, and everyone else working on the rest of your look, since I want you on tour in June."

  "June? Next month?"

  "Good girl, you know the months. Yes, June. We need to move fast. The thing with careers that flash into existence is that they can flash into nothing just as quickly. I don't think you want that."

  Of course I didn't.

  "So we'll get the image stuff going and then you can work more with Tim. He's got one song for you to learn already, and you'll need to learn fast because I want it out in less than two weeks. And besides, you'll be busy rehearsing and rerecording 'Out Loud' starting on Friday."

  I didn't want to learn someone else's song, but I knew I didn't have a choice. At least 'Out Loud' would be mine, although not the way I'd originally recorded it. I'd wanted to bring back my original band for the new version but she'd asked for the names of the musicians I'd hired and nixed them at once.

  "They don't look right. They're great players, yes, and we could certainly have them work on a future recording, but with our time frame I want to see you get used to the musicians who'll be on tour with you. Your guys don't cut it."

  I didn't cut it either, clearly. Roberto and Jacques were still studying me and if possible looking even more despairing.

  "What if fine is all she can do, Jacques?" Roberto whispered as if afraid saying it out loud would make it true.

  Jacques snapped his head up and glared at him. "You will never think that again. We will make this work." He ran his eyes over me again. "It's the biggest challenge we've ever faced but we must have faith."

  Apparently I was the Mount Everest of makeovers.

  "Take off your clothes."

  I blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  Jacques frowned. "Honey, we've seen it all before, and neither of us wants anything to do with it. Now strip. We need to figure out how to dress you."

  By undressing me?

  "Now. Or do I have to call Jo?"

  Since Jo had told me to do whatever the two boy geniuses commanded and would therefore not be on my side, I sighed and pulled off my sweatshirt and jeans then stood in my fortunately clean bra and underwear.

  "She'll need to see Marcus, of course. Immediately."

  Jo had mentioned him too. My new personal trainer. I was a couple pounds overweight, sure, but I thought I looked fine. But since I knew 'fine' was no longer acceptable, I said, "I start working with him this afternoon."

  "Good," Roberto said, then added to Jacques, "That should help. A bit. Pity he can't do anything about her bra size."

  I closed my hands into fists, fighting the urge to kick their skinny butts.

  Jacques must have recognized it because he said, "Listen, honey, I know this sucks. But trust me, if you think we're mean wait until the bloggers and gossip columns start in on you. Everything we can do now to make your image work will make your life easier, or at least more comfortable, later."

  I'd read enough tabloid magazine covers at the grocery store to know he was right. I sighed again. "Okay. Make me beautiful."

  Roberto and Jacques exchanged a look that said, "Good luck."

  Our definitions of 'beautiful' were clearly not the same. In short order I'd been stuffed into six different outfits, each some combination of short and skimpy and skin-tight, while they barked comments at a nervous-looking assistant with a clipboard.

  The last outfit, even tighter than the others, came down over my head and crushed me like sausage stuffed into a casing. "I can't really breathe," I said, looking at
my purple-spandex-dress-clad self in the mirror.

  "Well, no, that's why you need Marcus. So you can breathe without popping the seams."

  I managed to catch enough air to suggest, "Or the dress could be a bit bigger?"

  Jacques rolled his eyes, and Roberto said, "You're already a size ten, darling. Any bigger and they'll have to enlarge the stage for you."

  "That's right, I'm the beast who ate Toronto. Whatever. So this—" I gestured to the stack of outfits. "—is what you call beautiful?"

  Jacques helped me roll up the purple number and pull it off over my head. "Don't blame us. You started a trend for yourself, with that hot pink outfit—"

  "Nightmare," Roberto put in.

  "Indeed," Jacques agreed. "But that gave people a certain image. Bright colors, a little on the exposed side, and a matching wig. We can only work with what we've got."

  I looked back at the outfits, each a different screamingly bright color. "But that was a joke. I wore jeans for the rest of my show."

  "That's not what people saw. They saw the pink and the wig and that's what they expect. So that's what they'll get."

  "I'll be wearing a wig for all my shows?" It had been hot and itchy under the stage lights and I'd vowed never to wear it again.

  Jacques tugged at a strand of my hair, hopelessly tangled by the constant on-and-off of my potential new outfits. "Brown is not the new black, darling. Brown is dead boring. So yes. Any time you're in public, you'll be—"

  I held up my hands to stop him, like I'd have held them to stop him hitting me. "Any time? You mean, whenever I go outside I'm wearing one of these outfits? Not just for shows?"

  They exchanged another look. Roberto took over. "Definitely. Plus the matching wig. You're a pop star now. You need to stand out."

  I'd stand out like a peacock in a penguin colony. "But this stuff is all too tight on me."

  "Marcus," they said in unison.

  I sighed. "All right. Fine. No, wait, not fine. Amazing. Can I at least wear my sweatshirt and jeans home?"