by Jessica Ashe
“Daddy can play guitar,” Emma says excitedly. “He could be the guitarist.”
“You play guitar?” Naomi asks me.
“A bit,” I reply.
“He plays a lot, and he writes songs.”
“I could use the help,” Naomi says softly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
Oh yes I do. If I say no, I’ll have to contend with a moody daughter for days—no, weeks. The music I play and write is a little different to Naomi’s pop stuff, but I can read music and probably won’t embarrass myself.
“Are you sure?” I ask Naomi. I look at her intently trying to communicate ‘you don’t have to do this just for Emma.’ I have no idea if it works but she insists that we come along.
Emma practically bounces off the ceiling the entire way to the studio. She asks Naomi all sorts of questions about her life and her music. Then she drops the big one.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Um….”
“I was going out with Charles from school, but I decided I don’t like him anymore because he’s nasty to Neil and Neil is always nice to me. I don’t like boys who are nasty to other boys.”
“That’s very good advice,” Naomi says.
“Interesting,” I murmur. “So does that mean you’re only going to go out with nice boys, Naomi?”
“Yes,” she says pointedly. “Definitely.”
I sit and stare at Naomi and Emma as they talk and pose for more photos. According to Emma, I’m a mean daddy for not buying her a phone. If she had a phone, then she could take her own pictures and send them to her friends on Snapchat. I nearly break out with a ‘when I was your age’ but Emma always sighs loudly when I do that and Naomi would probably just laugh.
When the limo stops, I open the door without waiting for anyone to do it for me. I don’t want Emma getting used to people opening doors for her. Lance looks around to check out the area, but the coast appears to be clear. There’s no crowd, and to be honest you’d never know there was a music studio here. The area looks residential, albeit bloody expensive, even by London standards.
There is one tourist taking photos, but she doesn’t seem to be much of a threat. Probably an American judging by the way she’s taking an interest in the more mundane parts of London.
Naomi and Emma step out of the car together and we walk up to the studio. The tourist spots the limo and takes a few pictures of us. I suppose I can’t blame her. If I saw a limo pull-up and three people got out I’d be curious too. Still, I don’t like the idea of Emma being photographed with Naomi. I don’t want Emma appearing on any of those trashy websites.
I’m not an overprotective father. Okay, I guess I am a bit, but with good reason. I don’t care what Emma does with her life, but I want her to stay away from showbiz. For every celebrity like Naomi, there are hundreds of people underneath her just trying to make ends meet. Things don’t always go well for them; it’s a story I know well.
Emma is obsessed with everything in the studio. She’s never shown any interest in my music or my guitar, but the second we get inside, she starts pressing buttons, turning dials, and flicking knobs.
“Fancy yourself as a music producer?” Naomi asks.
“What’s a music producer?” Emma asks back.
“Well, when I’m making a song, I sing all the words and sometimes play guitar too, but there’s a lot of other things to add to the song. You have to add more instruments, and make sure all the sounds are at the right levels.” Naomi looks over to me. “I’m not doing a very good job of explaining this, am I?”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Emma, what Naomi’s trying to say is that a music producer covers up all Naomi’s mistakes and makes her sound good.”
“That’s actually quite close to the truth.”
“I think I’d rather sing,” Emma says.
“Darling, we discussed this. I love you to pieces, but you can’t sing. We’ve had complaints from the neighbors.”
“I know, Daddy, but I don’t need to be able to sing. I just need a good music producer.”
Naomi laughs and I can’t help a smile too. She’s probably right. I swear more songs than not use Auto-Tune these days, and by the time Emma is older it probably won’t matter whether you can sing or not.
“Why don’t you go in the booth and practice singing?” Naomi suggests.
“Let’s do a duet,” Emma says.
“What do you want to sing?”
“‘Let It Go’ from Frozen.”
“Of course you do,” I mutter. “That’s a soundproof booth right?”
Naomi sticks her tongue out at me, and then Emma quickly follows suit. The two of them walk into the booth and start singing. Fortunately, Naomi has a loud voice and largely drowns out Emma. As seems to be the case with everything today, I have to round out the occasion by taking photos of the two of them.
Emma grins ear to ear, while Naomi adopts the glorious, but casual look that it must’ve taken years to perfect. She looks beautiful, but I wish she would just smile normally. She is smiling, but there’s something not right about it. It’s not a smile that matches her personality. It’s like whenever a camera is put in front of her face she becomes a different person.
Naomi takes a few pictures of herself in the studio and I know she intends to upload them to Instagram and Twitter. They say nobody’s perfect, and that’s Naomi’s flaw right there. Why does she need to make every aspect of her life public?
I wander around the studio while the two of them are messing around and find a couple of guitars on a rack. Not that I’m surprised, but the guitars are incredibly expensive. I grab the one that looks most similar to mine, and make sure it’s properly tuned up.
“Okay, let’s get to work,” Naomi says as she comes out of the booth with Emma. Emma takes a seat and looks like she’s actually going to behave herself today. That’s always a relief.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask.
Naomi turns on one of the computers and pulls up a sheet of music. “The tune is quite simple. And it’s repetitive, so you can probably learn it quite quickly. There’s also going to be a piano, but I’ve already recorded that part of the music.”
“You can play the piano as well?”
“A bit. Not as well as I can play the guitar though, so I never play on stage.”
“If you can play the guitar, then why do you need me now? Not that I’m complaining.”
“I prefer to focus on just my voice when I’m recording, but I also find it weird singing a cappella and then recording the guitar track separately. I can’t play and sing at the same time because it reminds me of concerts and live performances. I tend to get a little carried away.”
I examine the music, and play it a few times until the chords are stuck in my head. Naomi is right; the music is simple, but effective. Haunting is probably the best description. This definitely isn’t going to be one of her hit pop songs. Maybe it’s a ballad for new album.
We go into the booth and I take a seat, although Naomi prefers to stand. I begin strumming away on the guitar, but it’s a good minute or two before Naomi starts singing. It’s like she has to psyche herself up for the performance.
Until I got the job working for the crew at Wembley Stadium, I’d never heard Naomi sing live. I’d assumed she was one of those pampered superstars who lip syncs her way through live performances and only sounds good after hours of digital manipulation of her voice. That couldn’t be further from the truth. While working one night, I got close enough to the concert to hear her belting out some of her hits. She’s phenomenal. Her voice is strong, has range, and is infectious even if you don’t like the music.
That’s why I’m surprised when her voice comes out weak and shaky in the studio. I keep playing the guitar, but she has to start from scratch three times before she’s able to hit even the most basic of notes. I’m not exaggerating when I say I could have probably done better and that is really saying something.
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sp; Eventually, she settles into a rhythm and makes it to the chorus. This is where I start to feel a little awkward. She’s clearly singing a love song. The lyrics are about a man she misses. A man she loves and who used to love her.
Most pop songs are about love one way or another. I never really pay much attention to it, but this one is really hitting her hard. She stops three more times before making it to the end of the song. When she’s finished she looks exhausted, like she never wants to sing again.
“Guess I need to practice that one,” she says. She forces a laugh, but then has to quickly hold back tears.
I stick my head out the door and tell Emma to go down the hall and grab something from the vending machine I’d seen on the way in. She’s safe with Lance and his team around.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “I thought you were dealing with the breakup quite well.”
She dabs the corners of her eyes and shakes her head as if to clear away all the negativity. Suddenly she’s happy-go-lucky Naomi Price again. She’s the same person I see in the pictures; the fake image she puts out there, not the real person I just saw almost break down into tears.
“That song wasn’t about Kenneth.”
“Another ex?”
“Oh yes, I forgot, I go through a different guy every week, don’t I?”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s obviously about someone who used to mean a lot to you. We all have people like that in our past.”
“Emma’s Mum?” Naomi asks.
I nod. “She meant a lot to me, although, tell you the truth, I wouldn’t write a song like that about her. Mine would be a little more… angry.”
“That song wasn’t about an ex. It was about my father.”
“Oh.” I quickly ran back through the lyrics in my head. She’d been singing about someone who was no longer a part of her life. That means he either abandoned her or he’s dead. You do hear stories sometimes about celebrities becoming estranged from their parents, but I can tell from the look in her eyes that’s not it.
“He died a few years ago,” she says. Her voice is strong and determined this time.
“Sorry.”
“I’ve never been able to write a song about him until now.”
“It’s a great song.”
“Yeah, but now I’ve written it, I don’t seem to be able to sing it.” She laughs at the irony and taps the corners of her eyes again. “I did tell you my life’s not quite as perfect as it seems.”
I nod. I know all about people putting on a false impression of happiness and contentment. I’m no good at hiding my emotions, but my ex had been. She’d been good at hiding a lot of things from me.
“Maybe you should keep this song to yourself,” I suggest. “You don’t need to write a song for your father to show him that you loved him.”
“I know, but it’s been eating me up inside for years now. Maybe this isn’t the right song. I know there’s a song about him inside me; I just need to find a way to write it.”
I look back to the studio where I see Emma still sitting there quietly watching us. She can’t hear anything now that the mics are turned off, and she looks a little confused. I don’t think this is what she had in mind when she pictured Naomi recording a song. She’s only six; she probably thought recording a song is the bit where you dance and sing on camera for the music videos.
“Want to try again?” I ask.
Naomi shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I’ve kept you for long enough today, and I think Emma is getting a little bored.”
I put the guitar back on the rack and lift Emma up into my arms. “Do you always record new songs while on tour?”
“No, that’s why I don’t have my producer or any of my backup group here. It was a spur of the moment thing. Speaking of which, I should pay you for today.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say defiantly. “My daughter has pictures with the infamous Naomi Price. I reckon that’s payment enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. She’s going to be telling this story for weeks.”
We both smile at each other awkwardly, until I turn and head out the door with Emma half asleep in my arms. She has an uncanny ability to nap during the day and not wake up grumpy and miserable. She certainly didn’t get that from me.
“I’ll tell Lance to go easy on you,” Naomi shouts after me. “You know, in case you get lost and accidentally end up in my dressing room again.”
I smile again as she closes the door and heads back into the studio. My sense of direction is truly awful, and I have a funny feeling I’m going to end up back in that dressing room.
This time, I need to change up my approach. I’m not leaving empty-handed next time.
Chapter Nine
Naomi
A convoy of tour buses takes the tour up to Birmingham where I will be performing at the NEC Arena for one night. I usually travel by either flying first class, or chartering a jet, but there’s something relaxing about traveling in the bus. When you fly first class you still have to deal with the hassle of security and the general stress of crowded airports. Even in a private jet, it’s still hard to properly relax due to the engine noise and being ten thousand feet in the air. The bus trip lasts a couple of hours, but at least I’m able to take a nap.
It helps that the bus is huge, outfitted with luxuries that most people don’t have in their own apartments, and there’s only me, Katrina, Lance, and the driver.
“It feels rather wasteful having this big bus with only us in it,” I say to Katrina.
“You’re right,” she replies. “You know what, we should ask one of the equipment crew to travel with us. I don’t know, just plucking a name out of thin air, how about that Damon guy?”
“Very funny, Katrina.” We’ve both been dancing around the subject of me spending time with Damon. I’ve been holding on to the hope that she was oblivious to the whole thing, but apparently not.
“You guys look cute together. And his kid is adorable.”
“You’ve seen pictures of us together?”
I took plenty of photos with Emma yesterday, and posted a few to social media, but I didn’t take any with Damon. I’m not completely naïve. I can share photos of me with a young fan, but I can’t share a photo of me with a hulking hunk of a man. That will start the rumor mill churning, and I’m not ready for that. It’s hard enough running through all the questions and possibilities in my own head. I don’t need to see them written down in my notifications feed.
“Lots of people have seen pictures of you and Damon together,” Katrina replies. “Fortunately most of them don’t know who he is. There’s speculation though.”
“What photos?”
It’s rare to find photos of me out there that I don’t know about. The vast majority of them I have either taken myself or Katrina has released as publicity images. The rest are snapped by paparazzi, but the paps aren’t exactly subtle. I know when I’m in someone’s lens, and I usually get the chance to give them one of my dazzling smiles.
“There are pictures of you with Damon and his daughter going into the studio at the weekend. There’s not that many, and it looks innocent enough to the public.”
“Damn, I don’t remember seeing a photographer. I must be off my game.”
“Like I said, you don’t need to worry about it. It’s not like the two of you were holding hands or anything. Mind you, having his daughter around didn’t help.”
“The daughter is the reason we were together. I kind of owed him one, so I took his daughter along to the studio.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. If there were more to it than that you could tell me. In fact, you should tell me. I know how to deal with celebrity relationships, but you’ve never dated a normal before.”
“There’s nothing normal about Damon.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Interesting,” Katrina says. She draws the word out
for two or three seconds, a knowing smile spreading across her lips.
“No, not interesting at all. I probably won’t see him again and that’s all there is to it.”
“So do you want me to set you up with anyone else? Every time you’re back on the market, I get more and more offers from guys who want to date you. I’m thinking of hiring someone just to deal with the interviews.”
“You interview them?”
Katrina’s been introducing me to guys for years, but she always made it feel like a spur of the moment thing. I know that’s part of the charade, but I appreciate her making the effort. Sometimes you don’t want to know how the sausage is made.
“Don’t think of them as interviews. Think of them as casual conversations, like how a friend would get to know someone before setting you up on a blind date. With the added security of a background check.”
“And with all this there are still guys who want to date me?”
“Oh please, don’t be so modest. You’re stunningly beautiful, ridiculously talented, and wealthy beyond most people’s dreams. Frankly any guy who is single and doesn’t want to date you is crazy.”
That’s what it boils down to: looks; fame; and money. I don’t need any of that. I just want a man I connect with. Damon doesn’t have fame or money and I don’t care. Mind you, his looks more than compensate for the lack of those two.
What does Damon see in me? In our first two meetings, I acted like a complete bitch to him. If a woman spoke to him like that in a pub he’d run for miles, so why hadn’t he with me? The obvious answer is that he’s after the same thing as everyone else: looks, fame, and money. The magic threesome.
Where does sex come in? To give Damon credit, he made his ambitions perfectly clear from the get-go. He doesn’t want to date me. He doesn’t want to hang out in celebrity circles and spend my money. He wants to fuck me. It says something about my life that I consider that borderline romantic.
“I’m not ready to date right now,” I say defiantly. “It’s nothing to do with Kenneth. I’m busy with this residency for the next couple of months. After that, I’ll think about meeting guys again.”
