by Jessica Ashe
“You’re sure? I always find the best way to get over a guy is to find a new one.”
“Funnily enough, Damon said something similar.”
“Maybe he’s wiser than I give him credit for.”
I grab my phone and decide to see what the internet thinks about this mystery man photographed with me at the weekend. I expect to see more alerts and notifications than usual, but even so the sheer number of emails, tweets, tags, and everything else is bewildering. This is the level of activity I usually only see when I have a new album out.
A lot of the tweets have links to an article published in a British tabloid. I don’t usually click on those links because I hate giving tabloids the page views, however it pops up enough times that I’m interested. When I read the headline I almost drop my phone.
Naomi Price: Passionate on Stage, Boring in Bed.
I’ve dealt with a lot of shit since I became famous, but this is a first. One of my ex boyfriends has sold a story alleging that I’m a wet firecracker in bed. According to the first few paragraphs of the article, I rarely get intimate, and when I do I expect to lay there and have the guy do all the work.
“What’s wrong?” Katrina asks. I hand her my phone. I can’t read anymore. “What a fucking bastard. I can’t believe he’s done this.”
I can. He was a C-list celebrity at best when we dated which was fine because at the time so was I. I wasn’t always this famous. Since splitting up, our careers have taken completely different paths. He’s now on reality TV shows—bad ones—while I’m raking in millions. I should have seen this coming. Maybe I could’ve spoken to him, offered him money to keep quiet.
“What do we do?” I ask. The usual approach when someone lies about me is to release a statement where I calmly and authoritatively deny the rumor. Usually I just do it via a tweet or two. That way it reaches my fans first before the story can spread.
That approach doesn’t seem like a good one here. What am I going to do? Write a tweet about how I’m actually really good in bed? Or maybe I should throw shade back at him and say that he didn’t know what he was doing?
“We have to just ignore it,” Katrina says. “I know this is horrible to read, but the story will quickly die down.”
“It’s not true by the way.”
“It’s none of my business, but if you’re sure perhaps I could nudge some of your exes and they could ‘accidentally on purpose’ talk about how incredible you are.”
“Go for it.”
I’ve never cared much about what people think I’m like in bed, but all of a sudden I’m worried stories like that could put people off. Not people—one person in particular. Damon’s not the type to be lazy in bed, and he wouldn’t want me to be either.
While Katrina starts making phone calls, I stare into a small mirror attached to the side of one of the cupboards. My appearance hasn’t changed much since I became famous. I’ve always been fairly skinny, so I never felt the need to lose weight to fit in with the cookie-cutter female singer look.
Something has changed though. The face staring back at me isn’t the one I recognize from my childhood. It could just be natural aging, but I’m too young to look this tired and worn out. I look like someone who hasn’t slept for days. Five years ago, I had a permanent youthful look about me. Now, I look tired even if I’ve had a great night’s sleep.
I hate feeling sorry for myself like this. I have things so much better than everyone else, and that’s not to mention the sacrifices my parents made to get me here. All those long trips so I could audition and perform at any venue that would take me. Mom and Dad had never been the stereotypical pushy parents. They never forced me into this lifestyle, but they sure as hell supported me when I decided it was what I wanted.
This is what my parents sacrificed for. This is what Dad gave his life for.
I force a smile and pull out my phone. A minute later, a picture of me smiling at the back of my tour bus is winging its way around social media. I look at the photo again after sending it. I still see the darkness there. Does anyone else see that? Maybe I’m just being paranoid. I need a good night’s sleep. Or maybe the opposite. Maybe I need to be kept up all night by a man. A man like Damon.
* * *
Damon doesn’t come by to wish me luck before the concert, but I know that’s because he’s busy. After I’m done singing, he has to clear the stage and pack everything away. That takes at least an hour.
But it’s been an hour. My performance finished nearly two hours ago in fact. Why hasn’t he come by?
Lance is under strict instructions to let Damon through. That didn’t go down well, but ultimately I’m the boss. I do get to make some decisions and who comes into my dressing room after a performance is definitely one of them.
Maybe the news story scared him off. He’s been completely upfront with me about his intentions. He wants to fuck me, or at least he did. If he read that article, he might not want to bother anymore. Damon insists he’s not into celebrity gossip, but he’s bound to pay a bit more attention to it now, at least where I’m concerned. The story about my sex life is still on the first page of a Google search for my name. Katrina insists it won’t be there for long, but by now the damage is done. Mom’s even heard about it. Worst of all, she seems to think it might be true. She gave me advice about loosening up and trying to have fun. Let me tell you, that was not a fun discussion.
Finally, there’s a knock on the door of my dressing room. I quickly look in the mirror to make sure I’m presentable. Even after the shower, my skin is still hot and flush from my earlier exertions, but Damon doesn’t seem like the type of guy to be overly concerned about a bit of sweat.
“Come in,” I yell.
Damon walks in looking less sure of himself than usual. This is the man who usually barges in completely unannounced and offered to fuck me the first time we met. Now he looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hi.”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“That’s never bothered you before. Besides, I’ve told everyone to let you through now. You have as much right to be here as anyone else.”
“No, I mean I shouldn’t be here with you. I shouldn’t be anywhere with you.”
He’s read the article and now he wants to run a mile and never look back. Where’s the fun in screwing a pop star if she’s just going to lay on her back and be boring?
“You saw the article,” I say.
Damon nods. “I should have known something like that would get out, but seeing it in print was surreal. I can’t get involved in something like that.”
For a brief moment I wonder whether this is a trap. Damon could just be playing around. I’m supposed to protest that the article is false, and then he would tell me to prove it. This could be a joke; his way of getting me into bed.
But it’s not.
Just like I can see the truth about myself in my own eyes, I can see the truth in his. He’s not lying. In fact, he looks angry. That seems a little extreme. I’m the one who should be angry, not him.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” I say. “But whatever, if you want to walk away because of some stupid story, then so be it. I don’t care.”
“It’s not about believing what I read. I saw the pictures; they didn’t leave much room for debate.”
“There are pictures?”
I never read all of the article, but I don’t remember there being pictures. I also don’t remember letting my ex take intimate pictures of me. I feel queasy and lightheaded just thinking about it. Why didn’t Katrina tell me there were pictures?
“Only a couple,” Damon says casually. “But that’s more than enough. I don’t want my daughter appearing in all your publicity shots.”
“Your daughter? Wait, what are you talking about?”
“Those pictures of the three of us together. Actually, I’m not so bothered about those ones. It’s the ones of just you and E
mma.”
“Ones I took in the studio?”
“Yes. You shared them all over your bloody twitters and things.”
“So? I share lots of photos.”
“I know. But you shouldn’t have shared the photo with Emma. Now her face has been seen by millions of people.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
When I was Emma’s age, there was nothing I wanted more than to be famous. I’m sure she’s just the same.
“No,” Damon replies firmly. “She’s six years old; I don’t want her picture all over the internet. I just want her to grow up like any normal kid.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“Of course you didn’t. To you, it’s perfectly normal to share every part of your life with the world. That’s the way you are, but I’m not like that.”
“You think I want to live like that?” My voice gets high-pitched at the end as I try to control my emotions. Damon doesn’t seem to notice.
“Clearly you do. And that’s fine; you do you. But I’m not like that, and I don’t want Emma to be. At least not while she’s a child.”
“I don’t want to share my life with the world. I have to. It’s part of the game now and if I don’t do it then I won’t be a success.”
“You already are a success, or hadn’t you noticed?” Damon gestures around the lavishly decorated dressing room as if to prove his point.
“Okay then, but I have to keep being a success. Nowadays that involves making my life public.”
“No, it doesn’t. Look, I don’t mind if that’s the way you want to do things, but don’t pretend it’s the only way. You have a choice in this. The fact is, you want your photos out there in front of millions of people. I don’t blame you, you look great in them.”
“You’re being a dick. And a naïve one at that. Did you see the photo of the three of us walking into the studio?”
Damon nods. “I don’t mind that one so much, it wasn’t your fault.”
“How long were we out of the car before getting into the studio? Ten seconds? Twenty maybe?”
“About that I guess.”
“And in that short space of time, despite no one else being around, a photo of us got sold to the press. How exactly am I supposed to avoid that?”
Damon looks distracted. “Must’ve been that tourist,” he mutters. “I guess you couldn’t help that one.”
“Photos of me are going to get out there anyway. If I don’t release my own photos then I let the media control the message. This is the only way I can think to take control of my life.”
“I’m sure you can still do normal stuff. Can’t you wear a disguise or something?”
“You want me to walk around with glasses and a plastic nose and mustache?”
Damon laughs. “It would suit you.”
“I’m being serious. The media catches everything I do.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not.” I’m almost yelling now, but Damon seems completely oblivious to my anger. Either that or he just doesn’t care. “Sometimes the press tells me things about my own life before I find out. I found out that Kenneth dumped me over Twitter. Can you imagine what that’s like?”
“Are you being serious?” Now he’s picked up on my mood. Finally. He takes a step closer and softly strokes the top of my arm with his large hand.
“Yes, I’m being serious. Deadly serious.”
“Okay then.”
“‘Okay then’ what?” I ask.
“Okay then, let’s play a game.”
“A game?”
“Let’s play a game with the media.”
“What kind of game?” I ask. Katrina and I play games with the media all the time, but I have a feeling Damon has something more devious in mind.
“Do you have contacts in the press who will leak information for you?”
“Katrina does. Why?”
“Have Katrina book us a restaurant and then deliberately leak the information to one of the papers. Let me know the name of the restaurant and I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“We’re going to have dinner together and then go back to your hotel for sex, all-the-while tricking the media into thinking we were actually writing a new song for your next album.”
“How about we actually write a song for my next album, and trick the media into thinking we were having dinner together and then going back to the hotel for sex?”
“I prefer my way.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“See you in thirty minutes.”
“Wait,” I yell, but it’s too late. Damon is already out the door.
I am really hungry, so dinner would be a good idea.
I’m also really horny, so sex would be cool too.
One thing at time.
Chapter Ten
Naomi
Katrina must have pulled out all the stops, because she’s booked out the entire restaurant just for us. When I arrive, Damon is sitting at a corner table by the window looking over the menu. Next to him is a guitar which looks distinctly like the ones my band uses.
When did I last go for a romantic meal? Over the last few years, I’ve been for more meals with ‘dates’ than I can remember, but none of them were romantic. We were both just pretending. During this dinner, we’re going to pretend that it’s not a date—basically the complete opposite of what I usually do.
Compared to Damon I’m overdressed in just my jeans and light strappy top. He’s still in scruffy jeans and a T-shirt. I can’t imagine him in anything else to be honest.
“How is this going to work then?” I ask, as I take a seat opposite Damon.
“Easy. Every now and again I’ll pull out my guitar and strum a few notes, while you pretend to sing. I even have sheet music and lyrics here.” Damon reaches into the guitar case and pulls out some paper which he puts in front of me.
“It’s blank.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know that. Every now and again, we can scribble on it as if we’re making changes. Trust me, this is going to work. Where do you think the photographers will position themselves?”
I look around the outside of the restaurant. The walls are all glass, so the photographers won’t be short of vantage points. Just outside the glass wall opposite me is a bench that would offer a great view of me if it weren’t for Damon’s head being in the way.
“They’ll try and get a side-on view,” I explain, “so I imagine we’ll see someone casually leaning against that tree in about three minutes.” I motion to a large oak tree just outside the restaurant on my right. “Katrina only tipped off one organization, so hopefully it only sends one photographer. You never know though, once news gets out there it has a habit of spreading.”
“Doesn’t matter. This is going to work. Now, how about we choose some wine?”
Over the last few years, I must have tried over fifty different types of wine. Probably many more. Waiters or the party host often go to great efforts to explain the vintage and why the wine is suitable to accompany the meal. Despite all this, I can still barely distinguish between red and white. I know I have a vague preference for dry white wine as opposed to sweet, but with red wine the descriptions are largely meaningless. Do I want to taste chocolate or bitter berries? Coffee or a hint of orange? It all tastes the same anyway.
In the end, I let the waiter choose for us based on our food selection. It’s not like he’s got much else to do tonight with us taking over the restaurant. I’m asking to be ripped off with the most expensive bottle in the house, but let’s be honest, I can afford it. We’ve made the owner close the entire restaurant; the least I can do is buy a decent bottle of wine from him.
“I see the photographer,” Damon says. He flicks his eyes towards the tree I’d pointed out earlier, and sure enough, a man in a jacket is leaning against the tree and looking directly into the restaurant.
“Time to put on a show, I guess.”
Damon pulls out the guitar and pretends to play. He’s so convincing, I almost think I’ve gone deaf when I don’t hear any music.
“Sing-along then,” Damon encourages.
I pretend to sing, and bob my head and drum my fingers on the table for added effect. “Do I look convincing?” I say while moving my lips aimlessly.
“Yes, but I guess you’ve had a lot of practice lip-syncing.”
“If we weren’t pretending to write a song, I’d slap you across the face right now.” The words might have sounded almost vaguely threatening had I not been smiling and pretending to sing the whole time. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never lip-synced once in my life.”
“Oh come on, you must have done a few times. What about the songs that require a lot of dancing?”
“My songs don’t usually require much dancing. I prefer to concentrate on singing and sometimes playing the guitar.”
“In other words you’ve got two left feet?”
“I wish. I think I’ve got three bouncing around down there.”
Damon puts the guitar away and I stop pretending to sing. He pretends to make some notes on the paper and then shoves it all to one side when our starters arrive.
“We can talk normally over dinner,” Damon says. He grabs the plate of king prawns in the middle of the table and doles them out equally between us. “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have blamed you for sharing the photos of Emma online.”
“You’re right to be angry. I never give that stuff a second thought, but I should. It’s not right to share pictures of people’s children without permission from the parent. I hope Emma isn’t mad with me.”
“Are you kidding? She’s delighted. She’s telling all her friends that the two of you are on first name terms. I think she’s annoyed to be moving schools now that she’s finally got one up on her classmates.”
“Why is she moving schools?”
“Bullying,” Damon says, the word heavy on his lips. “The thing no parent wants to deal with.”
