by Holly Rayner
“I know, but this is different. I thought the days of being internationally recognized were over, which is why I feel like this has to be a scam of some sort. Does this person pay much attention to western music? He must know that I’m yesterday’s news.”
“Maybe his daughter really loves you.” Ginger sat down on the arm of my chair and began tying my hair into a braid. “Kids don’t care whether an artist is in or out. Not as long as the song has a beat they can dance to.”
“Well, I’ll email him, anyway. What’s the harm? It’s not like he’s asking for my credit card.”
“And no one is forcing you to fly out there,” she pointed out. “Talk it over with your dad first and see what he thinks.”
“This is one of those times when I really wish my actual agent would return my calls,” I said sharply. “She’d know whether this was a scam or not before she’d even finished reading the email.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Tessmacher can help you here,” said Ginger, beginning to hum softly as she separated my ponytail.
Together, we drafted a response, taking care to keep the tone serious in the event that the offer ended up being legit:
Dear Mr. bin Maham al-Taleb,
Thank you for your kind words and for expressing interest in booking my client. As it happens, she’s taken an extended vacation to visit her family in Ohio and her schedule is largely free for the next couple weeks. I’ve spoken with Shannon over the phone and she said she would like to connect with you—I think it may have been your mention of your daughter that won her over.
Ginger suggested that last bit. After giving him my phone number, I added:
It means the world to Shannon that you would offer to cover her expenses. She truly appreciates your generosity and looks forward to potentially meeting you and Kalilah.
With fondest regards,
Mrs. Edith Tessmacher
“How does that sound?” I asked when we had finished. “Too desperate?”
“Nope, it’s perfect,” said Ginger, reading back over the email with a look of satisfaction. “Courteous and respectful without being cloying. If this is legit and not a scam, you’ll probably hear back from him within a day or two.”
I hoped she was right, but the offer seemed almost too good to be true. I kept thinking about the article I’d read in the paper that morning, and how many people in town knew that I hungered for fame and celebrity. Maybe this was a cruel hoax being perpetrated by someone who wanted to strike me at my weakest point. In a few days, I would get a nasty phone call from Katie Rees-Howells wanting to know how it felt being feted by a Middle Eastern royal, and then when the Beacon got hold of the story, the entire town would know how my vanity and greed had made me gullible.
Already, I could hear Katie’s voice in my head, and I knew exactly what she would say: “See, that’s the difference between a one-hit wonder and a real celebrity. Real celebrities know how the game is played, and they don’t fall victim to stupid pranks. Face it, Shannon: you weren’t made to be famous. You got lucky and you rode that wave for a year or so, but you need either grit or talent if you’re going to make it in the music business. Unfortunately, you have neither.”
And maybe, I thought with a groan of despair as I drove home that night, maybe Katie was right about that.
Chapter 3
Umar
It was Kalilah who had first introduced me to Shannon’s music.
She’d been sitting at the kitchen table watching the same music video on her tablet for what must have been the hundredth time. She had gotten the tablet as a gift for her last birthday and I had repeatedly warned her not to bring it to the table, but by that point I had accepted that this was a fight I was never going to win. I had been standing at the stove frying poached eggs and sausage links in the skillet, glad to have taken the day off work.
“Daddy, did you hear any noises last night while you were sleeping?” Kalilah asked.
“No, because I was asleep.” I poured her a tall glass of orange juice and set it down on the table. “Why, did you hear something?”
“I stayed up reading for a couple hours—”
I glared at her reprovingly. “I thought I said lights out.”
“The lights were out. I was using my book light. But then, just as I was falling asleep, I heard the floorboards creaking. It sounded like a ghost, or maybe a robber or a mouse.”
“Well, it couldn’t have been a ghost,” I said, sitting down in the chair opposite, “because ghosts don’t make noise. And anyway, there wouldn’t be ghosts in this house because it was just built.”
“Yes, but why does it look so old?”
“Because it was based on another home in England.”
Kalilah and I lived in a stately home known as Chiswick House, in central Londontown, Sabah. It was the exact replica of a centuries-old home in London that was famed for its elegance. A double flight of marble steps led to the front entrance, which was made of solid oak and contained a brass knocker of the kind you see in old movies. Toward the back of the house stood an octagonal drawing room where Kalilah liked to sit and read in the evenings, and a classical garden containing ponds, topiary hedges, an arched gateway and a statue of a goat.
“I like living here,” said Kalilah, “but I wish it wasn’t so spooky.”
“It’s only spooky because it’s big, and because your imagination is big. Ghosts only haunt places where they’ve died, and no one has died here.”
“Then what were those noises I heard last night?”
I fumbled for an explanation that would make sense to a seven-year-old. “Sometimes, when a house has just been built, it needs time to get situated. What you heard was the sound of the joints and floorboards adjusting to their new home. Do you remember when we first moved in, how you used to toss and turn in your bed at night?”
“Yeah?” said Kalilah skeptically.
“Well, a house has to do that, too. And because a house is a lot bigger than a little girl, it needs more time to adjust.”
“How much time is it going to need? I want it to be quieter.”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. “Give it another year or so and the house will calm down. If it really bothers you, you can listen to music on your headphones while you’re sleeping.”
“Sometimes I do that anyway,” said Kalilah with perfect matter-of-factness. “It helps me to not be scared at night.”
“What do you like to listen to?”
She turned over her tablet so that the screen was facing me. “I really love Halsey. And Shannon O’Neill.”
“Who?”
“Shannon O’Neill, Dad! She’s a country-pop singer and I’ve been playing her song non-stop.”
“Ah, that one. Yes, I am aware.” Earlier, I had found myself humming all the words to that song without knowing how I had learned them.
Kalilah pressed “replay”.
The video showed the singer, a slender woman in her mid-twenties with shoulder-length dirty-blond hair, standing onstage at a county fair, strumming an acoustic guitar. She was wearing a pair of high-waisted jeans and a plaid shirt that unbuttoned near the top to reveal a red blouse. Toward the beginning of the first chorus, she stepped down and began walking around, past ghost trains and carousels and prize rabbits, while the crowd danced and sang at a distance with all the enthusiasm of extras in a musical. A girl of about Kalilah’s age sang soulfully and extended her arms toward Shannon with a gesture of longing, tears filling her eyes.
“How famous is this woman?” I asked, surprised by the intensity of her fans.
“She’s huge in America,” said Kalilah, keeping her eyes on the screen. “‘Small-Town Girl’ was one of the biggest hits of the past year, and there are rumors that she might get invited to play for the Queen.”
“Wow. And how am I only just now hearing about her?”
“Well, you don’t live in America,” said Kalilah, setting the tablet aside. “And you’re a little out of touch.”
/> “Fair enough. Though I’ll have you know that when I lived in America, I went to a concert every week.” Before returning to Sabah, I had spent a few years attending a liberal arts college in Manhattan, and had developed an abiding love for the country and its popular culture.
“And how long ago was that? A hundred years?”
“Only twelve, thank you. I don’t know if you’d be interested in any of the bands I used to love in college. I don’t know if you’ve even heard of them.”
“Probably not.” Kalilah pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Most of my favorite bands were still kids when you were in school.”
“And how old is this woman? Shannon—what did you say her name was?”
“Shannon O’Neill.” My daughter glared at me over the rim of her orange juice, as if I should have remembered this important fact.
“Right, how old is she?”
“Twenty-four, I think. Last year on her birthday, she posted a picture of herself in a fancy apartment, eating a little cake by herself.”
“Does she have any friends?”
“I’m sure she does. Her and Amy-Lou Robinson toured together.”
“Who’s Amy-Lou Robinson?”
Kalilah smirked and rolled her eyes. “You really are out of touch, Dad.”
As I sat thinking back to that conversation, a thought struck me: Kalilah’s birthday was coming up in two and a half weeks and I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to get her. Her mother, Delilah, had always been the gift-giver in our family, and in the three years since the divorce was finalized, I still hadn’t fully adjusted to fulfilling that role as well.
It was an odd situation to be in, being in possession of a vast fortune and having no idea what to get my own daughter for her eighth birthday. At first, I had thought she might enjoy touring Paristown or one of our other model cities, but when I had floated this suggestion at breakfast it was abruptly shot down. “If you’re going to take me to Paris,” Kalilah had said, “take me to actual Paris.”
Just like her father, my daughter wasn’t one to mince words. But watching the video had given me another idea: what if instead of going somewhere for her birthday, we brought someone here? If money wasn’t an obstacle and she didn’t have any prior engagements, why couldn’t I pay to have Ms. O’Neill flown out here for a private concert?
My heart swelled as I imagined the look of pure joy on Kalilah’s face when I told her her favorite pop star would be coming to Sabah just to see her. Last year, at the grand opening of the central bank, we had thrown a concert in Piccadilly Square where some of America’s best-known country musicians had performed. Kalilah hadn’t enjoyed that very much; at the time she had been too young, and she wasn’t acquainted with most of the acts. But she would be thrilled at the thought of getting to spend the day with Shannon.
But was it logistically feasible? Certainly, it would be a tricky feat to pull off, given that her birthday was coming up in a few weeks. After we had finished breakfast, I went into my office and called my friend and advisor, Hakim.
“Hey, are you busy?” I asked him.
In the background, I could hear the murmur of a midday crowd. “Yeah, I’m over at Earl’s Court. I’m just settling down for lunch. What’s up?”
“I just had an idea and I wanted to run it by you. If we could make it work, I would be dad of the year.”
“There’s no higher honor,” Hakim said blithely. “So?”
“So, I was thinking I could hire an American pop star to fly out here for Kalilah’s birthday.” I told him about the video she had shown me and Shannon O’Neill’s popularity in America. “Have you heard of this woman?” I asked.
“No, but I don’t really keep up with the music coming out of America. Pop music, I should say. I still love indie.” I could hear the noise of the crowd fading; presumably he was moving to a quieter area. “Anyway, so you want to fly this woman out here?”
“I want an estimate of costs and to know whether it would be logistically doable.”
“I don’t know, Umar. If this woman is as popular as you say she is…”
“But supposing, theoretically, that she were available: how much would it cost to fly her down for two or three days and host her at one of our hotels? I want to give her the star treatment, of course. In this country, American pop stars are practically royalty.”
“You’re not wrong about that.” Hakim sounded ambivalent. “Tell you what, as soon as I let you go I’ll do some number-crunching and give you an estimate. It shouldn’t be exorbitant, but she might charge extra because she’s flying out here at such late notice.”
Idiot that I was, it hadn’t even occurred to me that Ms. O’Neill would want to be paid for her services. Somehow, I doubted there was a sheikh discount. “Well, let me know what you find and call me back.”
“Will do.” Hakim hung up.
I sat back in the chair and ran my hands through my hair, feeling frazzled. Growing up I had thought having money would mean I could have whatever I wanted with a snap of my fingers. If I wanted to fly to Rome, I could get on a plane and be there within a few hours. The reality wasn’t so simple, but of course Kalilah didn’t know that yet. If I could pull this off, she’d never know about the days of sweat and panic that had gone into it. In her eyes, I would be a real magician.
Somehow the thought made it all worth it.
Within a few minutes, Hakim had texted me back: I think we could swing this without too much fuss. Why don’t you go ahead and get in touch with her agent, find out whether or not she’s even available? A lot’s going to depend on her own schedule. And he sent me a link to her website.
I scanned the site, impressed by what I learned: apparently, she was up for an award at this year’s Village Music Folk Festival, and had already released three critically acclaimed albums. On the contacts page, there was a form for emailing her agent, Mrs. Edith Tessmacher. I wrote her a short message, explaining a little about myself, and Kalilah’s love for her music.
When I went downstairs at around dinnertime, I found Kalilah watching footage of a concert in Des Moines on the widescreen TV. Shannon was introducing one of her songs, a song she had written in her bedroom at the age of fifteen. She had a folksy and unaffected way of speaking that made her seem instantly likable.
“Of course, I’ve worked on it since then,” she was saying, “and I’ve polished the verses. But I’ll tell you, when I was sitting at my window writing these lyrics, I never dreamed I’d be able to sing them one day in front of all you guys. It’s just—it’s the dream of my heart. And I’m glad you’re a part of it.” The crowd roared its approval.
I came over and stood behind Kalilah, marveling at the joy on the faces of her fans and how it was mirrored on my daughter’s face. “Be great to meet her one day, wouldn’t it?” I asked.
“Meet her?” said Kalilah, not looking up from the TV. “I want to be her.”
My phone buzzed; an email from Mrs. Tessmacher. Surprised by the speed of her reply, I covered the phone with both hands as I read it, fearing Kalilah might somehow read it over my shoulder. The agent said Shannon would be delighted to talk to me and left the star’s personal phone number. With a thrill of anticipation, I ran back upstairs into my office, locking the door behind me.
Shannon answered on the first ring. “Hello?” Her voice sounded oddly unsteady and nervous compared to the confident young woman I had just seen on TV.
“Shannon?”
“This is she.”
“This is Umar bin Maham al-Taleb. I just got an email from your agent and she said I could call you. I don’t know what time it is over there, but I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, not at all,” said Shannon. She had a warm, twangy Midwestern accent that was even more pronounced over the phone than it was on the TV. “She mentioned that you would like to hire me for a gig in your country.”
“Right, let’s talk about that. Kalilah’s birthday is in two and a half weeks and if yo
u’re willing to fly out here—it would be a long flight but I’m sure you’ve done your fair share of flying in your career, you probably even have your own private jet.”
“Working on it!” Shannon said with a laugh. Her good humor and modesty immediately put me at ease.
“But of course you wouldn’t have to take your own plane, I would arrange for your travel.” I had often made business arrangements with strangers over the phone, but I didn’t usually feel as flustered and tongue-tied as I did now. Then again, I hadn’t often spoken with celebrities of Shannon’s caliber. “And while you were here, you would be treated like royalty. I’d be glad to show you around some of our model cities, Moscowtown and Miamitown and the rest.”
“That all sounds great,” said Shannon with all the practiced calm of a woman who was used to arranging gigs with high-profile clients. “I did a little research before calling you and I liked what I saw. Apparently, you’re a big deal in your home country.”
I grinned bashfully, feeling oddly flattered. “Well, I’m not a celebrity like you. Even here when I go out in public, I don’t get the reception you’ll probably get when your plane lands. I’m just a businessman who has made some sound investments, and I think it would be worth investing the money in flying you out here.”
As much as we both seemed to be enjoying the conversation, there was a certain tension to the negotiations. I wanted her to visit, but I didn’t want to sound desperate. She wanted the money, but she didn’t want to sound greedy. If one of us fumbled, the entire arrangement could collapse and I would be left scrambling to find some other celebrity who was willing to make the flight out here. But I didn’t want that; I wanted her.
“So tell me a little more about yourself,” said Shannon. “How did Kalilah—am I saying that right?—how did Kalilah find out about me?”
“Who knows with kids these days?” I scoffed. “I get most of my new music from listening to her.”
“She seems really bright for her age.”
“Precocious, I think, is the right word for it. Sometimes her comebacks are so sharp, I’d swear I’m talking to a girl of fourteen or fifteen.”
