The Gods of Music gave me breakup material, that’s all. Who am I to challenge the Gods of Music? To them I am eternally indebted for finally giving me inspiration last year, for turning my career around, for letting me make good music. They giveth and they taketh away and it is not up to me to defy the order of the universe.
I am nothing, nobody, just a little indie rock singer. But I can’t give up music. Because I am an adult. I have a mortgage, a child, a deadline, a career. I have responsibilities. I am between a rock and a very hard place.
If I ever want to write again, there’s only one surefire way I can do it.
Break up with Matthew.
I take a deep, painful breath as I watch Jeremy leave. I turn to Matthew. He quirks up his eyebrows, worry etched in his features. “Jane?”
It’s as if I’ve been caught red-handed. He heard.
“Are you going to break it off?” He looks as shaken as I feel. I swallow back the lump in my threat, the pit in my stomach.
“No,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. “I would never do that.”
At least, I won’t do that tonight. I’ll give myself the weekend. Besides, I need to spend the next few hours selecting the top-ten breakup songs of all time. That should really get me in the mood to slice a knife through my own stupid heart.
…
As I enter Flint’s studio on the fifth floor of a midtown building, I’m greeted by a Goth Girl.
“You must be Jane Black. I’m Savron Woods and I’m Paul’s assistant and I’m so excited you’re here!” She’s pumping my hand. She’s not letting go and I am shocked someone wearing so much black—black boots, jeans, T-shirt, blazer, headband, bangles, and those big onyx circular earrings that plug a big hole in the earlobe—could speak in exclamatory sentences, let alone use the word “excited” and mean it. But she’s gleaming with happiness, as if Kurt Cobain himself had stepped off the elevator, resurrected.
“Thanks, Savron. I really appreciate that,” I say, doing my best to feign happiness, though each step I take brings me closer to the inevitable.
She guides me to the show’s green room, pointing her two fingers to this curve in the hallway, then that one, like a stewardess. All the while she heaps praise on me that I barely deserve right now. “Your album is the bomb, Ms. Black. It really helped me through my breakup.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your relationship ending.”
She emits a pshaw. “It was really for the best; he was a dick and I am so over him. Thanks to you!” She looks up at me, flashing her pearly whites, every single one of them. She does have white in her wardrobe, permanent white. Her teeth are blinding.
“And I want you to know your breakup list rocks beyond words!”
I e-mailed my list to the show producer late last night. Savron continues, “It was my job to pull all the videos from our archives. I felt like I was communing with the patron saint of broken hearts.”
I stifle a wince when she says that. But yet, it’s the cold, hard truth. It’s who I am. It’s all I will ever be.
“That’s sweet,” I manage to say, holding back the tears of self-loathing that threaten me.
“You just have such a sixth sense for this, you know. Not only can you pick the best breakup songs of all time, you also deliver your own. I mean, this is your mark, Jane. This is what you do. After all, Crushed is the essential breakup album for the modern age.” She shrugs, then admits sheepishly, “I didn’t actually make that up. Matthew Harrigan said it in Beat. But it’s so true.”
I want to tell her I know that line. I keep it in my purse. But right now, for the first time ever, there’s a part of me that wants to rip that review in half.
“Here we are!” Like Vanna White presenting the letters on Wheel of Fortune, she waves to the green room. “You can just make yourself comfy on this couch. Makeup will be with you in a minute.”
I drape my coat, hat, and scarf on the couch. A minute later, Paul, one of the cohosts, pops into the green room. “So great to see you again, Jane.” He plants a kiss on my right cheek. “First of all, love your list. Thank you for doing this last minute. We’ll go right to the list and you’ll introduce all the videos, chat a little about each one. Then a short wrap-up, maybe spend thirty seconds on the outro talking about your new album. Jeremy said you’re releasing some singles in advance, a video on iTunes.”
Paul’s producer pokes his head into the green room. “You’re back on, Paul.”
Paul jumps up and disappears behind the door to the studio, leaving me alone for about a nanosecond. Then he pushes the door back open, whispering and pointing to his producer who’s tucked inside. “He loved Crushed. Said it helped him get over his wife leaving him. And Savron, the receptionist, loved it too!”
He’s gone again, taking his manic energy with him. And I’m alone in the green room, Queen of the Dumped. Yep, that’s me. Patron Saint for the Unhappy. Guardian of Broken Hearts. Defender of the loveless.
…
“And that’s it for today, all you rockers,” Mike says as the closing music floats through the chilly studio.
“We’ll see you again tomorrow and we’ll rock on some more,” Paul adds. “Give a big hand for our guest host and Guardian of Broken Hearts, Jane Black.”
The teleprompter operator silently counts three, two, one with his fingers and then points to the exit.
“And that’s a wrap,” Paul declares to me.
“Awesome list,” Mike adds.
I say good-bye to Mike, to Paul, to the wounded producer, to Savron, and leave, like a prisoner walking heavily toward her dire fate.
Paul and Mike are right. It was an awesome list. Not because I compiled it, but because music borne of pain has a way of working you over. We started with “Something I Can Never Have” from Nine Inch Nails, then dipped into the angriest breakup song I know, L7’s “Shitlist,” the song you need when you feel like slashing your ex’s tires. I went with “You Broke My Heart” next from the London punk rock band The Vibrators, then turned to The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.”
“You almost think it’s a love song, most people do, some even use it as their wedding song,” I said during the show. “But listen to the lyrics again and you’ll know why it should be your divorce anthem instead.”
The king of gloom, Morrissey, came next. I went for “I Know It’s Over” by The Smiths because nothing beats this song when it comes to the resignation that you’ve reached the end. We bumped over to U2’s “One,” the band’s unequivocally greatest song, an ambiguous tale about two people who want to connect but can’t. Then we jumped on to Sinead O’Connor’s big hit, “Nothing Compares 2 U.” We went to Dionne Warwick’s “Walk On By,” my nod to soul.
“Just let me grieve, the woman begs. Who hasn’t felt that?” I said when we cued up the R&B tune. I switched gears next, going for Bonnie Tyler’s monster hit “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” I argued passionately for this song with Paul and Mike, who called it a “mullet tune.” I extolled its virtues, saying, “I defy anyone, anyone, who has ever been dumped to look me in the eyes and tell me they have not played this song and belted out these lyrics.”
Finally, to round out Jane’s Black’s breakup songs, I easily picked the one that left me powerless to notice a dirty, soapy sponge on my face—Pearl Jam’s “Black.”
I feel like I’ve just been through hours of intensive therapy. I feel spent, drained, exhausted. I’ve been through the ringer, my emotions churned up again by the power of music. Matthew was right in his review. The best songs do come from broken hearts.
The best songs I’ve written came from my broken heart.
Now I’ll have to break it again.
I call Matthew and invite him over tonight. I want one last night with him.
…
The light is low in my room, the music soft, and my heart feels heavy. I loop my arms around Matthew’s neck and pull him close to me, wrapping my legs around him. I let go of that hurt for a few mom
ents, and it’s a reprieve, a terribly temporary one. But I will take it, this one last time with him, as he makes love to me. I try to memorize everything. The way the closeness with him touches me, deep in my bones. The way the sensations flood every corner of my body. How he kisses me tenderly. How he breathes and sighs, how he whispers my name, and most of all, how I feel with him. As if this never has to end.
He moves in me, in the dark, under the covers, sending me soaring as I clasp his shoulders, never wanting to let go.
But knowing I’ll have to.
Wishing this didn’t have to be the last time.
When it’s over, he wraps his arms around me, holds me tight, brushes my hair from my neck with his fingers.
“You okay? You haven’t seemed like yourself since the club.”
Like yourself.
I don’t seem like myself. Because this isn’t me. This isn’t something I’d ever do.
I nod against his chest. “I’m fine,” I manage to say, and I’ll have to find a way to be fine.
I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I can’t let this man go. I don’t want to be the chronicler of broken hearts. I’d rather be mediocre again than be without love.
…
I wake up in the middle of the night with a start, Matthew’s words from Friday night at the club hovering on the fringes of my waking mind.
Objectify me all you want.
I press my hands over my eyes, trying to pull the idea, the words back out of my dreaming mind. They were there, the start of a song. Maybe even two songs. My words from the dressing room. Then his words too. I can’t remember now. They were circling each other in a dream, in that twilight state of sleep. I kept telling myself I’d remember them, reassuring my sleepy mind not to worry. But I don’t keep a Moleskin notebook in my brain and now the song is escaping me, a faint, shimmering outline fading away.
But I can’t let it go. I need to chase that evasive little bastard with everything I have. I jump out of bed and race into the living room, grabbing an envelope on my coffee table. A pen. Now I need a pen. Where the hell is a pen? I hunt around for one in the dark, until I find a pencil that tumbled onto the floor beneath the table.
I kneel and write.
Objectify me. Objectify you. I’ll objectify you.
I start humming, a low, moody sexy beat, to those words.
“I’ll objectify you, I’ll objectify you,” I sing to myself, then something bursts inside of me, and tears fall. Holy fuck. It’s the start of a song. A real song. It’s only the chorus, it’s only a line, but it’s there, it exists, it has sound, and rhythm, and a beat. I fall to the floor, drop my head in my hands, and say a silent thank-you to the Gods of Music.
Yes!
This is the start of something, and it came from happiness; it was inspired from a moment with Matthew.
I sit up again, and jot down more words. Desire, falling, floating, racing, heat, sun, diving. I grip the paper tightly, as if it’s a precious jewel I uncovered deep within Aladdin’s cave. Somehow, some way, I will make music of this. I will be in love, and I will sing. I won’t have to choose. I won’t have to make an untenable choice.
I rush back to my room, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Matthew is snoozing peacefully, lying on his stomach, the covers down to his waist, his smooth back exposed. The faintest bit of light streams across his back. I follow the ray of light to the window, and look out to see snow drifting down. I touch his back briefly; he stirs slightly, but stays asleep. I tap Matthew on the shoulder, the strong outline of his deltoid.
“Mmm…”
“Hey there…”
His eyes flutter open for a moment. I tap him again. This time he rolls over and rubs his eyes. “Hi.”
“It’s snowing.”
He pushes onto his elbows, half sitting up in bed. I reach for his hand and bring him to the window. You can hear the quiet, feel the stillness of the white flakes drifting down. They calm the city, they soothe the night, they turn all of New York into a hamlet of peace.
“It is snowing, indeed,” he says, gazing out the window, mesmerized by the same siren song—falling snow, falling hearts.
I place a hand on his cheek and gently turn his face to me. “I started to write.”
His eyes light. His face breaks into a grin. “You did?” He can’t mask his enthusiasm.
“It’s a little something, but it’s something,” I tell him, and I can’t hide my happiness either.
He cups my cheeks, and kisses me. “Nothing could make me happier than you writing music again.”
“Me, too,” I whisper.
Then we turn and look out the window. We stay like that for a while, tangled up in each other, watching the sidewalks, the streets, and the spaces in between fill in with white.
Chapter Twenty-three
The city inevitably turns to slush, to sludge, to dirty, filthy, brown, muddy, mucky water. The pristine drifts become puddles and pools that threaten to ensnare you, soak your feet all the way through to the skin, leaving a cloggy, wet sock clinging to you.
Snow in New York is just an illusion. It’s heaven-sent while it’s falling; it’s the devil and his minions the next day, and the next.
I hop across a puddle on the corner of Seventh Avenue on the way to the studio, my nascent song ideas tucked safely inside my purse, eager to hash them out with Owen. I scamper across the last stretch of puddle-infested sidewalk like a character in Frogger, then hop into a slice of the revolving door and upstairs to the studio. I pull my knit hat off, fluffing my hair a bit, and unwrap a scarf from my neck.
We work through the morning, coaxing out a whole chorus for “I’ll Objectify You.”
“Now write the rest of the lyrics,” Owen commands. “You’re leaving for Maine tomorrow, and your boyfriend is going to be here soon,” he adds, since Matthew is due shortly for another session for the story.
The story that will finally happen.
I hide out in an empty office at Glass Slipper for the next hour, then join them in the studio. Owen is talking again about Taryn, how they’re ticking along now, writing feverishly, both nearing the ends of their novels.
“I’m one chapter from being done,” Owen says and I’m jolted back to the moment.
“Did you just say what I thought you said?”
“You heard it here first, JB.”
“You’re gonna finish that sucker, really finish it, after three years?” I hold up my hand to high-five my brother. He smacks back.
“You know it. Hey, Jane, you’re almost famous. Could you introduce me to a literary agent?”
I laugh. “I don’t know any literary agents.”
“But you have to. You’re supposed to be connected.”
“You’re in the same industry as me!”
“But you’re the one everyone wants to suck up to. Don’t you know any book agents?”
“Let me get this straight,” I say, with a silly grin on my face because I’m happy for him even though he’s crazy. “You want me to introduce you to a literary agent I don’t even know for a book you won’t even let me see that you haven’t even finished writing?”
He nods.
“You’re nuts.”
Then Matthew chimes in. “I’ll introduce you to my agent, mate.”
“That’d be great,” Owen beams.
I shoot Matthew a curious stare. “You have a book agent?”
“Well, sort of.”
“I didn’t know you had an agent,” I say coolly. “I didn’t know you were writing a book either.”
“I wasn’t looking for one. But I had a call three weeks ago from a literary agent who’d been reading my columns.”
“That’s kind of a big deal to have an agent,” I say, mostly to myself it seems. Then Owen slaps the soundboard in excitement. “You have agents soliciting you, man. That’s a writer’s wet dream.”
“When were you going to tell me? I mean, us?” I quickly correct myself, waving vaguely at Owen and me.
But I really mean “we” as Matthew and me. I’ve told him everything. I’ve opened my heart to him about all my struggles, all my challenges to write. But yet, I know so little about his job beyond the glimpses he lets me see into this article.
“Well, nothing has happened yet,” Matthew says, fidgeting with the edge of his notebook, barely able to meet my gaze. I’ve never seen him flustered before. “We’re merely tossing ideas around and discussing a possible book proposal for publishers.”
“What’s your book about?” I ask again in a firmer voice.
“Jane, there’s no book yet,” he says, in the distinctive tone of someone forced to backpedal.
“Well, what would this hypothetical book be about?”
He sighs heavily. “It would be about the music industry,” he says, as if it’s a confession.
“Anything in particular? Maybe indie music?” I offer, as if I am just throwing the idea out there, when I am praying that I’m wrong. Hoping that he’ll say the book is about something else. Because suddenly his interest in Sex, Drugs, and Updating Your Facebook Page makes a lot more sense. He wasn’t buying it for education. He was checking out the competition. He never said anything that night. He never mentioned why he was buying that book. Instead, he took me to his apartment and spanked me.
Holy shit. I’m such a fucking fool.
“Probably something on the demise of the big label, Internet marketing of music, the rise of indie bands and singers, how music gets made,” he says, casting his eyes down, looking away from me, anything and everything to deflect this conversation. He knows he’s been caught. He knows he violated my trust. He knows he should have told me.
“How music gets made,” I repeat slowly, shaking my head. “Anyone’s music in particular?”
“Jane,” he says, reaching out to place a hand on my leg. I react instinctively, pulling my body away. “Jane, it’s not what you think.”
Far Too Tempting Page 20
