“What did she want?”
“Nothing, really. Well, she did want to get the group back together, but Kyra already put an end to that,” Alexis said.
“Wow,” Tonya remarked. “Did she say why?”
“No,” Alexis confided, “but sounds like she might not be doing so well. No friends, a job she hates. And apparently she’s broke. We need to pray for her.”
“I’ll add her to my prayer list,” Tonya agreed. Then she asked, “Did you tell her?”
“No. I couldn’t.”
“Mmm,” Tonya moaned with concern. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Bye.”
CHAPTER 5
Sleep eluded Camille most of the night. The excitement of starting over, grabbing what should have been hers all along, pumped a steady stream of adrenaline through her system, causing her to toss and turn. Somewhere in the previous hours, her body had managed to snatch a few moments of peace. Her lively dreams, however, still poked at her ambitions.
In one scenario, she met and fell in love with Kanye West at a barbecue for New York City public schools. The next dream involved a concert with an artist she didn’t recognize. She and the artist danced to the edge of the stage, and then, seemingly in slow motion, Camille fell off the edge into a sea of fans who all started kissing her. At first, it was an adorable scene. But then Camille began to feel afraid because some of the fans were groping her. The mob grew increasingly aggressive and, finally, someone in the crowd drew back a hand to slap her.
Camille’s eyes popped open, bringing her back to the real world just before impact. The dream was over, but an unrealistic fear lingered as she took deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. She swiped heavy beads of sweat off her nose. Not since her wild days with Sweet Treats had she experienced such a physical reaction to an imaginary circumstance.
Back then, she had at least been able to blame it on the pills Kyra snuck onto their bus. “Here, try this,” Kyra had offered one evening after Camille complained of exhaustion.
“What is it?” Camille asked.
“That new boy who plays drums gave it to me. It gives you energy,” she claimed.
“Did you ask Priscilla if it was okay to take them?”
Kyra snarled her nose. “Priscilla ain’t my momma. Plus, even if she was, I’m nineteen years old. I do whatever I want, and the law can’t stop me, either.”
The way Kyra reasoned through things scared Camille enough to stay away from the pills for a while. Four concerts, two days, and seven hundred miles later, Camille changed her mind. “Let me try one.”
Giddy, probably from an overload of uppers, Kyra had led Camille down the bus’s aisle to her bunk, just beneath Alexis’s empty spot. Kyra drew back the curtain and they both ducked to take a seat on the bed. Kyra pulled a black pouch from inside her pillowcase and poured a few of the pills into Camille’s hand.
“Just drink it with water. Don’t ever mix it with beer or alcohol,” she warned.
“You know I don’t drink,” from Camille.
A smile slithered across Kyra’s face. “Not yet.”
Whatever mess was in those pills kept Camille on point during the next week’s performances, but the side effects—crazy nightmares, sleeplessness, constant itching—convinced Camille to quit. Then, she slept for almost two days straight after the drug’s effect wore off.
She was back in a similar position now (minus the itching) since she’d gotten herself high on life’s possibilities. This was a good thing, of course. Problem was, there was no way she could make it through the workday without conking out on her desk. Furthermore, she had more important things to do today than set up meetings between sales guys and office managers. She needed to get a few meetings of her own arranged.
Camille grabbed a towel, practiced her cough a few times, and called her boss. “Sheryl, I’m not coming in today.” Cough, cough. “I think I’ve got some kind of bug. Hopefully, it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing.” Of course Camille already knew the fake bug virus would only last twenty-four hours because the next day was payday. Even if she were sick on a payday, she’d never miss.
“We really need you to come in today. Your team’s quota is down this month. They need your numbers,” Sheryl admonished.
The whole team concept had never really caught on at Aquapoint Systems, least of all with Camille. The prize for winning the thirty-day challenge was always something silly anyway, like a free lunch coupon or a movie ticket. Nothing anyone would actually work hard to earn.
Cough, cough. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I just can’t make it in today.”
Sheryl suggested, “You think maybe you could come in early tomorrow? I could set your terminal to East Coast mode and let you work that territory.”
Camille coughed again, this time for real. Is she crazy? “I ... I don’t think so. I have to take my ... cat to ... my cousin’s house so she can take him to ... dialysis three mornings a week.” She had to give it to herself—she could make up a good lie at the drop of a hat.
“Oh, no,” Sheryl gasped. “Is she going to make it through?”
“Prognosis is pretty good.” What about my prognosis?
“Whew! I got goose bumps when you said that! What’s your cat’s name?”
“Her name is ... Fluffy.”
“Awww,” Sheryl sang, “what kind of cat?”
Cats have kinds? “Huh?”
“Is she pedigree or just domestic?”
“She’s ... it’s a mutt,” Camille said.
Sheryl laughed heartily. “You crack me up. Well, I certainly understand your situation with Fluffy. My little Yorkie, Valectra, had to do chemotherapy for a while, but it didn’t do the trick. We had to put him down last summer.”
The word “chemotherapy” stabbed Camille’s heart. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s in a better place now,” Sheryl conjectured. “You know what they say—all dogs go to heaven.”
A weak laugh escaped Camille.
Sheryl continued, “Why didn’t you tell me your morning schedule was so busy?”
“I guess I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me,” Camille said.
“Well, I’ve walked in your shoes. If you need to come in late and make up for it at lunch, that’s fine with me. We have to do what we have to do in order to care for our helpless friends. I’m willing to work with you,” Sheryl empathized.
“Thank you.”
“Take care. Hope to see you tomorrow.”
For the record, she did feel a little guilty about lying. Sheryl’s heartfelt offer to be flexible with scheduling, however, opened up yet another door for the lifestyle Camille wanted. Freedom, freedom, freedom. Who knew this sick-cat invention could buy a piece of the pie?
I’m a genius.
After dozing off once more, Camille got to the business at hand. She originally thought cold calling music agents would be a piece of cake compared to pestering people who were more interested in making a little profit from a Coke machine than the water-purification systems her employer tried to sell.
Time to make her own cold calls. She had her elevator speech ready to rip: Hi, my name is Camille Robertson. I sang with the R&B group Sweet Treats and I’m looking for an agent who can take my solo career to the top.
The first two agents’ secretaries did nothing more than take her name and number and say the agent would get back with her if he was interested. Yeah, right.
One assistant advised Camille to send in a demo. “Once you make the investment in presenting yourself well, we’re ready to make an investment in you.”
Almost sounded like a reprimand. Camille double crossed them off the list.
She refined her approach. “Hi, this is Camille. I just missed Stanley’s call. Could you put me through?” The old he-called-me-first trick, a staple in her current profession.
At least she’d gotten past the screen for the next agency and actually spoken to a real live artist representative. But whe
n Stanley figured out that he didn’t actually know Camille, he transferred her back to the secretary, who again took her contact information and put her name in file thirteen with the rest of the losers trying to get a break.
Three hours later, she was still at square one. No leads. Nothing. Worse, there was only one agent left to call. Why weren’t people listening to her? She had experience. She was still sexy enough to sell at least twenty thousand CDs with just her face alone. And once people heard her voice, the rest would be history.
That’s it! This agent needed to sample her singing.
After squeaking past the administrative assistant with another lie, Camille found herself on hold for an agent named John David McKinney. His biggest client to date had been featured in USA Today and appeared on one cable television show to speak of. He obviously had some connections but not enough to put him in the top tier. If he had any sense, he would realize that he needed Camille as much as she needed him.
Her stomach twisted with anticipation. What should she sing? What if he hung up on her? What if he had some kind of hearing problem and she messed up his hearing aid?
“John David here.”
Camille took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and belted out the same chorus she’d sung to the kids at the recreation center. She added a twist at the end—one of those Mariah Carey high notes, straight from her gut.
Then she waited. Three seconds had never been stretched so wide.
“Quite a range you’ve got there,” John David remarked.
“Thank you.” Camille could feel the blood rush to her face. “I need an agent to help me share my voice with the world.”
“You got a demo?”
“No.”
She heard a sigh on his end and figured she had better say something before she lost this live one. “But I can get one.”
“Have you worked in this industry at all? Seriously, a demo is your calling card.”
Camille explained her background, exaggerating the group’s fifteen minutes of fame into a half hour. She fabricated the CD sales figure, and ended with, “We parted due to artistic differences.” She’d read that somewhere online.
“So, basically, you had one hit song, some residual success on a second CD, and then the group split up because its members couldn’t get along,” John David surmised.
No sense in playing around with this man. “Right.”
“Then just say so. I’m a busy man, I don’t have time for games, but I do appreciate your boldness and I can’t deny your talent. Can you meet tomorrow? One o’clock?”
She smothered a squeal. “Yes.”
“Bring some headshots and a copy of your previous CD.”
“Okay.”
“And another thing,” John David added, “don’t ever lie to me or anyone on my team again.”
“Gotcha.”
Camille jumped on her bed like her momma hadn’t taught her any better. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she screamed.
Then, just like in her dream, she slipped off the corner. She landed straight on her butt and yowled in laughter. That hurt. In a good, funny way. Camille cracked up even more now as she rubbed her backside. “Shoot!”
Bang, bang, bang. Her downstairs neighbor communicated his dismay. Camille knocked on the floor and yelled, “Sorry.”
She couldn’t wait to move out of this apartment complex someday. Someday soon.
CHAPTER 6
No makeup. No brush. No jewelry. Camille’s crusty lips threatened to pass along whatever “virus” she’d contracted. When she got to work, her first objective was to saunter by Sheryl’s door with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Kleenex in hand.
“Hey, Sheryl,” she eeked.
“Oh my goodness, you look awful,” Sheryl cried. “I mean, in a sick person kind of way.”
“I know, I know.” Camille sniffed, careful to guard her expression after the near insult. “I just didn’t want to let the team down.”
Sheryl shook her head. “No. If the office catches what you’ve got, we’ll all be down. Take a vacation day. Go home.”
The academy award nominee put a hand on her forehead. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Okay. If you insist.”
Slowly, Camille shuffled down the hallway a few steps. Then she stopped, just like she’d planned, and made a U-turn back to Sheryl’s office. “Sheryl, I almost forgot. Can I get my check?”
“Well, you know we’re not supposed to give them out before eleven. But in this case, I’ll make an exception.” Sheryl turned the tiny key and opened the door to the upper-right drawer containing the precious paychecks. “Here you go.”
Almost too quickly, Camille grabbed the check. She reduced her speed by a notch as she placed the envelope in her purse.
“How’s Fluffy?”
Fluffy? “Who?”
“Your cat.”
My cat? My cat! “Oh, she’s fine. Dialysis makes her weak, you know.”
“How long have you had her?”
Camille shook her head. “Not long. Not long at all.”
“Let me know if you need any help with her,” Sheryl volunteered. “I’ll be glad to cat-sit if you need to get out over the weekend.”
Sheryl was taking this too far. “We’ll be fine, thank you.”
First, she stopped at the check-cashing venue nearest her job. A seedy operation at best. If she ever paid back the money she owed JPMorgan Chase for insufficient fund fees, she wouldn’t have to fork over seven dollars every time she got paid. Money orders took up another four bucks. That extra thirty-something dollars a month could have paid for her cell phone. Ridiculous how much she had to pay to participate in the good ole American way. Not to mention the fact that her credit was shot after a defaulted student loan a few years earlier.
Maybe if she’d been a car manufacturer, someone might bail her out?
“One, two, three hundred. Twelve, and seventy-five,” the cashier counted the money behind reinforced glass.
Camille scooped the cash from the silver dish between them. “I need three money orders.” She’d already figured out whose turn it was to get paid this month. Electricity and cell phone. The others would have to wait until their envelopes turned pink.
Sporting a stone-cold face, Camille finished her business at the window while the line behind her grew. She kept every patron in her peripheral vision. Though Camille had spent several years riding high, she had come of age in the Singing Oaks community of Dallas. Not the roughest neighborhood in the city, but by the same token, not the kind of area to leave your car door unlocked. She knew better than to give the impression she was preoccupied, creating the perfect opportunity for someone to catch her slipping.
The cashier placed the notes in the tray. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
The woman looked past Camille. “Next in line, please.”
Money orders printed, Camille stuffed everything deep inside her purse, pulled her strap onto her shoulder, and clamped her arm down on the bag. She marched back to her car and sped out of the parking lot, wise enough to realize it’s not a good idea to hang around strangers when they know you’ve got hundreds of dollars in cash on you—poor neighborhood or not.
Next stop, the post office. Camille mailed her payments to respective creditors. Not exactly on time, but well within the thirty-day window before being reported to credit bureaus.
Final stop, the beauty-supply house for a front lace wig that screamed superstar. She bought her stocking cap and, with an assistant’s help, selected an eighteen-inch bone-straight honey blond style that took at least five years off her face.
“Very pretty. I like long for you,” the woman, whose own black hair touched her behind, remarked.
“I’ll take this one.”
Camille returned to her apartment to engage in the most important makeover of her life. Starting with her hair, ending at her feet, she curled and painted, filed and blended until the wom
an standing in front of the full-length mirror looked almost as good as the girl sitting next to Beyoncé online. Except Camille weighed more. And she was older; one could always tell by the eyes. Still, she looked way better than that Susan lady. Sounded better, too. She had this.
John David’s office boasted more credits than Camille had been able to dig up on the Web. Replicas of gold albums lined the walls, and pictures of John David with some of top leaders in music gave him credence that might have excluded him from her list if she’d known better. He was more like an A-minus agent. Sitting in the waiting area, Camille suddenly felt lucky to have landed an appointment with him.
“Miss Robertson, John David will see you now,” his assistant, a Hollywood-thin woman with long, old-Cher-like hair, rose to escort Camille through the uptown suite. Even more accolades covered the corridor leading to John David’s office.
The secretary rapped on the door, opening the way for Camille to lay her eyes on the man who could change her life forever. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, surveying Camille’s overall appearance.
She did the same, taking note of the cowlicks and a long, sloping nose that hinted at Jewish heritage. Slick brown hair and an ample midsection gave him that used-car-salesman feel. Under any other circumstances, Camille might have steered clear of his type, but he was exactly what she needed now because, as far as the music world went, she was a used car.
“Timber, this is Camille. She’s the one who lied to you.”
Camille’s mouth dropped.
Timber tilted her head to one side, her eyes scraping up and down Camille. “Humph. Nice move.”
“Sorry about that,” was all Camille could say.
Timber left without accepting the apology.
Camille returned her attention to John David, wondering why he’d ratted her out like that.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Wanted to clear the air. Timber doesn’t like being lied to.”
Timber better get over it. “I understand.”
John David motioned, and Camille sat in the guest’s chair. “Oh, here’s the material you asked for.” She gave him the CD and an envelope containing one of the photos she’d taken five years earlier when Bobby Junior said he could get her booked at a few nightclubs.
Falling Into Grace Page 4
