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

by Heather Wardell

  He'd worked endlessly on that. "Oh, geez. I'm so sorry. When?"

  "Thursday night."

  He said it quietly but the accusation was loud and clear. "I know, I haven't been here. It's just been so crazy. But it should calm down soon."

  "You think so? I doubt it."

  I dropped my head against the back of the couch and sighed. "What do you want from me, Jason? I'm doing the best I can." Realizing something, I sat up again. "And you're not perfect either. Never asked me how the release went on Friday. What people thought."

  "Your stupid news is splashed across the Internet. I don't have to ask."

  "Well, then make a blog for yours and I won't have to ask either. And it isn't stupid."

  "Dancing around in a miniskirt? Carla says—"

  My frustration and anger had been simmering below my fatigue, but this brought them to an instant boil. "I don't care. I know she's your sister, blah blah blah, but we both know she hates me so why bother telling me what she says? I couldn't do anything right in her eyes even if I did spend all day washing your clothes and kissing your feet like she thinks I should."

  Since we both knew this was true, he changed direction. "It's not just her. Everyone thinks you're neglecting me."

  "Like you're a poor little puppy shivering in the snow? And you've never neglected me? You think I don't get lonely when you're off on your business trips? But I suck it up because you need to do those trips. And I need to do this so you need to suck it up."

  Jason's eyes flashed, then he shut them and shook his head. "This is all wrong. I don't want us fighting."

  My anger left, taking my energy with it. "Me either. And I'm sorry about the schedule. But there's truly nothing I can do. Not yet anyhow. Maybe some day I'll get some control."

  I knew the odds were against that, and he probably did too but he smiled and said, "Yeah, maybe. I know there's nothing you can do. I just get so tired of people saying, 'Oh, your pop princess girlfriend's in the news again'."

  I sighed. "Well, she gets tired of being in the news. What was it this time?"

  "A rumor you're dating Evan Mansfield."

  "Really? I bought his CD last year but that's the extent of our relationship. He's one of Jo's singers but I haven't met him yet since he's touring. What's the story about him?"

  Jason clutched at his heart. "Oh, it's ever so dreamy. He came to congratulate you on your video and he brought you a coffee. Isn't that adorable?"

  I laughed at his ridiculous pre-teen girl imitation. "Precious. Well, if I ever meet him, I hope he knows I like milk and sugar. Even though Marcus won't let me have them."

  "I know you like them." He leaned in and nuzzled my neck. "Anything else you might like?"

  I knew what he wanted, and it had been a while so I probably should have let him, but I just couldn't. People had been taking pieces of me all day, all weekend, and I had nothing left to give. "I've probably got terrible breath since I've been eating honey all day."

  "It's fine."

  I drew away as he tried to pull me closer. "Jason, I really can't. I'm exhausted."

  He let me go, and I scurried off into the bathroom before he could say anything. I didn't want him to. I brushed the mint Mac had given me off my teeth then dropped into bed and fell asleep with my arms wrapped around myself, deliberately not thinking about why I'd lied about my breath and refused to kiss my boyfriend.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cindy and I sat looking at online pictures of Sunday's open rehearsal, wondering why people felt so free to speculate on whether I'd had a boob job.

  "In the last two weeks, while you worked and did interviews every day?"

  "I know! It's just a push-up bra." I shook my head. "They're arguing over a total stranger's rack. Such as it is. Bizarre, eh?"

  "Definitely."

  Jo opened the door and said, "First interview's in fifteen minutes."

  I almost rolled my eyes but stopped just in time. She wouldn't like it. But I didn't like the idea of spending my day talking to, and no doubt being misquoted by, all those reporters.

  "Oh, and when you're done, Tim wants to see you. He's got a song to run past you." She handed me an envelope. "He's working with Angel this afternoon. If she's still there, give this to her. If not, tell Tim to do it next time he sees her."

  I annoyed myself by feeling starstruck. I didn't think much of Angel's singing, or her acting, but still, she was famous. She always seemed perfectly sweet, and perfectly groomed, and I wondered whether she'd be the same when I met her.

  My makeup artist Leah walked in, carrying a teal wig. "I notice you forgot this."

  I laughed. I still didn't like wigs, although Leah's were far better quality and therefore less itchy than my original cheap one, and she was constantly hounding me to wear them. "Of course. Forgot. Hand it over."

  Jo shook her head. "I'll have to dye your hair permanently if you keep this up."

  "But then I wouldn't be able to change costumes." I smiled innocently. "All that work Jacques and Roberto did would be pointless."

  She laughed. "You're nearly as big a nightmare as Jez."

  "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

  Jo rolled her eyes and left.

  I twisted and pinned my real hair into its low bun and Leah passed me the mass of teal hair. After my wig fell off during a video shoot and we had to stop filming until poor Leah came back from a bathroom break because nobody else could get it looking quite right I'd asked her to show me how to do it and let me practice when we could spare the time. My first few attempts had taken me forever but it was rapidly becoming second nature.

  Once I'd finished settling the wig on my head, Leah studied my handiwork and pronounced it acceptable, the first time she hadn't felt the need to make adjustments, then covered my teal top with a cloth and set about making me Misty. I'd been watching how she did my makeup too so I could touch myself up if needed, but she didn't trust me to do it myself and frankly I wouldn't try when she was around: she was so good at it there'd be no point in me taking over.

  After she'd attached the last false eyelash, she scrutinized my face, made a few last tweaks, then said, "Go get 'em, Misty."

  I did. And did and did and did. The same topics over and over. How was I handling my sudden rise to fame? (Trying to keep a level head, and so on.) What did I think of Jo? (She was amazing. Couldn't have a better boss.) Was I in fact dating Evan Mansfield? (No. We hadn't actually met, and I had a wonderful boyfriend named Jason. No, not famous, but still wonderful.) A few, for variety, asked about my costumes and about my upcoming songs and the tour plans, but mostly they just rehashed what the public already knew.

  I'd slipped into a comfortable routine with these interviews; the terror I'd felt when Evelyn interviewed me now seemed ridiculous. Nobody really cared what I said anyhow. I had an image to fulfil, they had a few column inches to fill, and the same old answers met both criteria.

  The only thing that changed for each interview was my costume. So tedious, the constant undressing and redressing, but if I wore the same thing twice I'd get criticized on the gossip sites. Angel Dove had been smarter, as depressing as that was to admit: since she always wore a white dress, the photographers weren't so hungry for new and different pictures and people couldn't see the similarities as easily. By now, though, everyone expected my bright-color-with-matching-wig outfits to be different every time so I had to keep changing them up. Well, Roberto and Jacques did, rotating pieces and adding new ones so I'd always have something unique to wear. I just wore what they gave me. Such a waste of time and energy, not to mention fabric. But the public demanded it, the same way they demanded the endless stories about me.

  Finally, Cindy said, "That's the last one," as an interviewer and photographer left.

  I waited until they were well gone so they wouldn't hear then said, "Good. Now I get to go home."

  She shook her head. "Tim."

  "Urgh. I forgot. I don't suppose you'd take the envelope?"


  She smiled but shook her head again. "Jo said you had to."

  "But you're my assistant, not hers."

  She laughed. "She's way more frightening than you, I'm afraid. So no."

  I pointed a threatening finger. "I am going to work on my intimidating."

  She patted my bewigged head, vibrant purple now to go with my last outfit. "You do that."

  I briefly considered changing before going to see Angel and Tim, but I thought it might be easier to meet a star if I looked like one myself.

  When Tim stepped out of the conference room at my knock, he closed the door behind him and his eyes went wide. "Wow. I haven't seen the whole shebang up close. Misty Will, in the flesh. Should I bow?"

  I rolled my eyes, trying to hold back a smile at his over-the-top tone while also feeling unexpectedly disappointed he couldn't see past Misty to Amy. "No. And Misty Will clobber you if you mock her."

  "No mocking, just... um... okay, fine. I'll behave."

  We laughed, and I held out the envelope. "Jo gave me this for Angel. Is she still here?"

  He looked into my eyes, nearly level with his since my purple heels were so high, and grimaced then nodded.

  Surprised at his reaction since I'd thought Angel was supposed to be sweet and friendly, I blinked at him, but he just opened the door and said, "Come on in."

  There she sat, Angel Dove. Frighteningly skinny except for her clearly fake boobs, all exposed skin displaying a suspiciously orange-toned tan. Baby-blond hair, huge blue eyes that seemed brighter than those of mere mortals, sporting her trademark spotless white dress and a thoroughly pissed-off expression. "Tim, I don't have time for—" She cut herself off. "Oh. Misty. Freaky eyes. Nice to meet you."

  Though she clearly didn't mean it, and I didn't like the crack about my eyes, I still found myself unreasonably excited. "Nice to meet you too. I, um, I loved your last song." Her songs made "Prom Night Promise" sound like a Shakespearean sonnet set to music by Mozart, but I hadn't hated the last one quite as much as the others so I didn't feel too bad lying.

  "Thanks."

  Silence fell, during which she said nothing about me or my songs.

  "Um, this is from Jo."

  She stuffed the envelope unopened into her Prada purse. "Tax stuff. I don't care."

  You're welcome, I thought but didn't have the guts to say. Tim's grimace was beginning to make sense, since Angel's 'sweet girl' image and my purple hair were about as realistic.

  "Amy, I know we've got an appointment in ten minutes," Tim said, turning his back to her and fixing me with an imploring stare, "so why don't you just wait here until Angel and I are done?"

  His sad eyes could not be ignored. We had no such appointment, but after how hard he'd worked to make "Prom Night Promise" tolerable for me, and to make my next songs even better, I couldn't leave him to suffer. "Sure. If Angel doesn't mind."

  "Angel doesn't care," she said.

  I took a chair at the opposite end of the table from them, and listened as Angel insisted a particular line had to be changed. I quite liked the way Tim had written it, but I didn't think I should jump in and say so. I did jump, though, when he said, "What's wrong with it?" and she said, "It's the way it makes my mouth look."

  "It's what?" Tim said, exactly as I wanted to.

  She sang the line at him, exaggerating her facial movements. "See? When I go 'You move through' it's too many 'oo' sounds and I look all weird and pouty. Fix it."

  I sat watching them trying to keep my face neutral. I couldn't believe she cared about such a thing, and her tone on the 'fix it' command grated on me. Tim was an amazing songwriter and didn't deserve such treatment.

  Carefully not looking at me, Tim said, "What about 'you dance through'?"

  She pulled out a mirror adorned with crystal stones I suspected were actual diamonds and tested the line over and over, studying her mouth. After a good five tries, she said, "I think it's a bit better. Is that the best you've got?"

  "I'll think about it and let you know if I find something better."

  She didn't thank him or acknowledge this. Instead, she went on to two other lines that didn't show her mouth to its best advantage. To change the last one, Tim would have to rewrite the entire verse, but she clearly didn't care.

  "Anything else?"

  She shook her head. "But I'll let you know if I think of anything."

  "Please do."

  We both looked at him, surprised, but he seemed sincere.

  "You did a good job fixing those," she said grudgingly. "But next time, think about how I'll look, okay?"

  "Got it."

  She gave me a 'queen acknowledging her servant' nod and left, and Tim and I sat in silence for a long moment before he said, "Isn't she just a treasure?" in a voice laden with all the sarcasm and frustration he'd held back before.

  "Oh, definitely."

  He chuckled. "Too bad we can't bury her. That was three awful hours I'll never get back. All right, Amy, let's get going. Are you worried about how your mouth looks while you sing?"

  "Well, now that you mention it..."

  He took a mock swing at me, then we laughed and set to work on the song he had for me, not even considering its effects on my mouth's appearance.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the Monday after "Out Loud" released to even better ratings than "Prom Night Promise" had received, I sat in Cindy's office with two web sites open on her monitor, shocked and furious. Two huge headlines, one hot pink and one screaming yellow, captioned pictures of me from interviews and photo shoots the week before.

  The pink headline blared, "Misty Will die of anorexia!" and the picture had arrows pointing to my protruding collarbone and jutting hip. The photographer had made me lie on my side and clearly my flesh had given in to gravity and left those bones a little more exposed, but his picture made it look like I hadn't eaten in a week.

  According to the yellow headline, "Misty Will have to lose thirty pounds" from the places marked with yellow circles. Upper arms, stomach, neck, and my butt, a shot they must have taken when on the way out the interviewer dropped her pen and I bent over to retrieve it for her without thinking of my back view. My tiny pink skirt, Giselle's skirt which I'd insisted Roberto and Jacques use in their outfits, hid my pink underwear but only just, and the circle encompassed my rear end and my thighs almost to my knees.

  How could I be both overweight and dangerously skinny on the same day?

  I skimmed the comments on both articles, but nobody else seemed to be wondering that. Instead, all the commenters said the same things.

  Doesn't she realize how awful she looks?

  Eat a sandwich, bitch.

  Just another skanky pop princess, too dumb to do anything but lip sync.

  None of the commenters used their real names. PopGirl96, RockGod69, AngelDoveRocks. There were a few variants on 'Misty Will', most positive, but 'MistyWillSuck' annoyed me. I would do no such thing.

  Cindy came in, and I pushed myself away from her desk and got to my feet. "Sorry. Just looking at some articles."

  "Don't worry about it." She reclaimed her chair and I settled into the guest one. Her office was only big enough for the two chairs and a small desk, but she'd made it cozy with shawls on the backs of the chairs and a huge vase of pussy willows in the corner. She ran her eyes across the screen. "Yikes."

  "Yeah. Apparently I'm both a whale and a bonerack at once."

  "I knew you were talented."

  I laughed and she smiled at me and slipped off her suit jacket.

  "Oops. You've got something on your blouse."

  She looked down at the greasy stain on her white cotton shirt. Her cheeks flushed and she scrambled to get back into her jacket.

  "No worries. Just wash it tonight. You poor thing, and you spilled on yourself last..." I trailed off as I realized I'd seen that stain before. She'd come back from lunch with it last week, and confessed she'd slopped a bit of salad dressing down her front.

  Her flush d
eepened to a brick red and she pulled the jacket tight across her chest.

  "Cindy? Is there a reason you can't wash that blouse?" I didn't know what Jo paid her but it might not be much. I was searching for words to offer to pay for drycleaning for her when she sighed and said, "My washing machine doesn't work, and I don't have time to go to the laundromat."

  "No, you don't." She didn't quite work as long each day as I did, but it was awfully close. "Can't you get the machine fixed? Or get a new one?"

  She pulled back, and I felt I'd gone too far. "Never mind, it's none of my—"

  "It's up to my landlord and he won't do it." The words tumbled from her, as if a dam had broken and she couldn't control them any more. "I've been asking for weeks and he keeps putting me off and I don't know what to do." She cleared her throat. "Any ideas?"

  Cindy had been unfailingly sweet since we'd started working together, but she wasn't very assertive with the other staff. No doubt she was even less so with her landlord. "Well, you shouldn't have to pay rent if he doesn't fix it. It's part of the facilities so it should work. Tell him he fixes it by tomorrow or you won't pay for June."

  "Tomorrow? That's not enough notice for him."

  "Then make it Wednesday, or even Friday," I said patiently. "The point is, hold him to it. Don't let him push you around."

  She looked doubtful but after a moment raised her chin. "I won't."

  "Good stuff. Now, anything interesting in my mail?"

  She'd been filtering everything I received via my new web site as well as any letters sent to me care of Jo's office. "Not a lot. Oh, there was this fax."

  I raised my eyebrows. The fax machine on which I'd received that threatening note turned out to have a private number. Jo's business cards carried it, and her staff of course knew it, but it wasn't well known. Out of curiosity I'd searched for it on the Internet and hadn't found it. So the person who'd sent that letter had some sort of connection to the office or had at least seen one of Jo's cards. Had he or she sent this next one?

  I read it three times and still wasn't sure.

  You're brilliant, you know. You shine like a star. Please don't forget it, forget who you are.