I brace myself for this one. I love Jeremy like crazy, but he’s also been dropping anvil-sized hints that he’s ready for a new album. The trouble is I haven’t written many new songs, and I haven’t quite figured out how to tell him that my muse is taking an extended leave of absence for no good reason. I listen to his message.
I know I saw you just eight hours ago, but I’m so damn proud of you, and we all want you to pop into the office tomorrow to see you in person and celebrate.
Okay, I can do that. Then I hear the rest.
And, you know, talk about what we’re working on next. Because there’s this little thing known as momentum. Hey, that’d be a good name for a song. Maybe you could work on a song called “Momentum.”
I take a deep breath, reassuring myself that I can deliver what Jeremy needs. I want to write a new album, and hell, if there’s anything that can be inspiring, winning a Grammy has to be it. Maybe there’s a kernel of an idea in momentum, after all.
I listen to the others. Jonas again. (Delete.) Then a reporter from Star. I kind of like that magazine. Especially the fashion-police photos. Maybe I’ll call him back. Then In Touch Weekly. Then The Superficial. All these messages from reporters remind me that I need to hire a publicist. I’ve always handled press calls on my own or relied on Owen or Aidan to help. But things happened so quickly with Crushed and then the Grammy nomination. Natalie tracked down a few potential publicists for me last month, but no one panned out.
Then I hear the next message.
“Hi, Jane. It’s Aidan. I just wanted to say congratulations. I was pulling for you all night—we had a Grammy party.”
We. And here’s the other half of we now chiming into my voice mail. “Hi, Jane. It’s Tom. Oh my God, we’re soooo excited for you. We’re soooo happy you won.” Yes, Tom actually speaks in soooos. All his soooos have multiple o’s.
So this is my life. I get to climb the music industry’s biggest peak, but on the top of the mountain here’s what’s awaiting me: another night in an empty bed and a congratulatory message from my ex-husband and his lover, the man he left me for, the man who speaks in soooos.
I met Aidan seven years ago when I was twenty-two and he was twenty-one. I’d just released my first album for the indie label Glass Slipper, and Jeremy sent a couple of his favorite artists on a New England tour that summer where I played at Matt Murphy’s Pub in Boston one night in August. About thirty seconds into my first song, I noticed Aidan. He’s hard to miss. He was gorgeous—movie-star gorgeous. Pinch-me-I’m-dreaming gorgeous. He looked like Chris Pine, with chiseled features, see-inside-my-soul green eyes, and golden-blond hair, slightly wavy. I never thought for a second he’d be interested in me. But I had one advantage and I planned to use it. I was the one onstage, and that’s a time-honored trick that’s worked for male rock stars.
I played six songs and I sang them all to him. The club took a five-minute break in between acts, so I maneuvered my way to the bar where he was getting a refill, and chatted him up. We both had a few beers, and one thing led to another. In another time-honored rock-and-roll tradition, I took him back to my hotel room and pounced on him.
The next morning, I told him I’d call him when I was back in town, and he pulled my hand to his face and kissed my palm to say good-bye. In retrospect, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? He kissed my hand. He didn’t kiss my lips. He didn’t run his hands through my long, curly hair. He didn’t trail a tongue across my neck. Nope, he kissed my palm.
Even so, I planned to look him up again. Then I had to. Because there was one big difference between me and all those revered male singers and guitarists and drummers and bassists bedding groupies and fans and hot young things after a gig. I became pregnant that night.
He was a gentleman when I delivered the news, insisting we make it official and become a family. We tied the knot a few months later, and we went on like that, Mr. and Mrs. Aidan Stoker and Jane Black, a history teacher and struggling singer, him moonlighting as a sort-of manager for my career, until that night a year ago when both my husband and the truth of our marriage came out.
“And I’m proud of you. I knew you had it in you all along,” Aidan says as the phone message continues playing. “So listen, I’m calling because I wanted to see if you’d be willing to come to a meeting of Gay Men With Straight Wives, that group I still go to. To talk about your experiences when I came out and maybe help some of the other wives who are going through the same thing, because there are women who attend the meetings, too. And a lot of them are really looking for someone who understands their situation and could give them some honest and true support.”
I groan loudly, then delete the message. I don’t want to be the poster child for dumped straight wives. I don’t want the reminders of the ways I’d been fooled, the ways I was stupid. I’m not at all ashamed he’s g*y. I’d be just as ashamed if he left me because he was doing it with the nanny or banging his assistant. I’m ashamed for being so goddamn blind for so many years. I’m embarrassed that I was so stupid I missed all the signs, all the way to the first night when he kissed my hand. I’m annoyed that I’ve been unwanted for so long.
Untouched, unkissed, undesired for years.
There’s one more voice mail, and it’s from Matthew Harrigan. “Remember that interview I asked for? I hope it’s not too much to request a bit of time with you for a feature article. About your music. Call me on my mobile.”