“A lot of rough.”
“A lotta, lotta rough,” he added with a hearty chuckle.
I finish my cake and head into Jeremy’s office with Owen close behind. He works with some of the other Glass Slipper acts, but he also seems to spend a fair amount of time in coffee shops with his laptop working on his novel. It’s a gritty, urban tale of a young woman who moves to New York determined to find a boy who worked at the Museum of Natural History when she visited it in high school, only to learn he’s now a ghost. Or so Owen tells me. He won’t show it to anyone besides his writer’s group.
“You know that’s the last cake we’re going to let you eat,” Jeremy says in an offhand way, settling into his creaky chair.
“Yeah,” Owen chimes in. “We talked about it earlier and you’re going to have to become a size zero now that you’re a star.”
I look at the two of them quizzically and hold my hands up in the air. “It’s not like I’m a chubster now,” I say, then pinch my flat belly for emphasis. “See, nothing there.”
“I don’t know, sis. Looks like there’s a little meat on your bones. You know there are expectations now,” Owen says.
Jeremy tries his best to hide a give-away smile.
“Oh, ha, ha. Very funny. Give me a complex why don’t you? I think size six, four on a good day, is just fine.”
“Of course it is. And speaking of”—Jeremy reaches for a packet of white envelopes on his desk—“I’d really rather fatten you up.”
He hands me the envelopes.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Open,” he says in his gruff voice. I do as directed and find gift certificates for Café Cluny in the West Village, Per Se in the Time Warner Center, Aureole where the tony Upper East Side begins and many, many more.
“Jeremy.” I’m touched and totally surprised.
“Look, it’s not like you’d want champagne or a party with all of us at some stupid place. Or any more goddamn records or iTunes gift certificates. I swear if I get another iTunes gift card I’m gonna scream. I have a million already.”
“You could start giving them to the homeless, Jeremy. Let them sell them at half price. Could be your charitable contribution for the year,” Owen says.
“Enjoy some nice meals out, maybe find a nice boy to take to dinner,” Jeremy says.
I snort at that idea.
“What?” Jeremy asks. “Is that such a crazy idea?”
I snort twice to prove my point.
“You can’t mourn him forever, sis,” Owen says.
“I’m not in mourning. Anyway, this is a lovely gift, Jeremy. And I will be delighted to eat at Manhattan’s finest.”
“Well, we can’t have our Grammy winner be seen dining at some dive, right?” he says in his teasing voice. Then shifts to a gruff one. “So what’s the story, Black? You made any progress on some new tunes?”
Gulp.
Jeremy doesn’t mince words. Not anymore at least. Before the Grammy Awards, he was lighthearted when he’d ask what I was working on. And the fact that he wants another album makes me giddy as all hell, because this is what I’ve wanted my whole life over—to make music. But what if my next album sucks? I love music like it’s air, and I desperately don’t want to be a one-hit wonder.
“Yeah,” I say, bluffing. “I’ve been toying with some possibilities.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? What sort of possibilities?”
“You know. Songs. Lyrics,” I say evasively. God, where the hell is my Muse? Maybe she’s under my bed hiding. Maybe she’s hanging out in Central Park feeding the ducks. I need to go hunt that bitch down.
With a sharp-eyed stare, Jeremy holds his hands out wide. “Well, can we hear some of these songs and lyrics? Because I’m kinda eager”—he stops to hold up his thumb and index finger to show a sliver of space—“for my first Grammy winner and most successful artist ever, who set an indie record, to make another album.”
“Soon,” I mutter, fidgeting with the zipper on my purse. I know I’m the luckiest person in the world to have a label that wants me to cut another album, but I’m terrified I won’t live up to all these new expectations. And I’m embarrassed that I’m not meeting them. Sure, I’ve been toying around with some tunes. I’ve written two or three so-so songs, but I’ve been so crazy busy the last few months with Crushed and its tour, not to mention being a mom, that I haven’t had a ton of free time to write. And truth be told, those three songs aren’t really wowing me. They just don’t pack the same punch as the songs on Crushed, and I’m not sure why.
Jeremy sighs heavily. “Black, you know I love you. But we need to strike while the iron is hot. You have momentum. Your name is out there. We want you to do another album soon.” He pauses to stare hard at me. “Very soon. So maybe now that all this excitement is behind you, you can just put on those songwriting blinders and focus, focus, focus.” He bangs his hand on his desk for emphasis.
My shoulders tighten. Jeremy has given me an amazing opportunity, and yet, I’m staring at a blank canvas with no idea what to paint. “I will absolutely focus. I mean, it’s not like we’re gonna do another breakup album,” I say, trying to sound jokey, but the truth is I don’t want to revisit those feelings again in song.