“Stop it!” Keesha cuts her off. "Let Beatrix be."
"That's another thing," I say. "I'm not Beatrix anymore."
"What?" says Zaza. "That music producer guy renamed you? That name's part of your new persona too?"
"No," I say, thinking of Sam at the noodle bar. "Yes. Well, either way, Bix is my name now. So please call me that."
"I like it," says Keesha. "Beatrix always made me think of someone's spinster aunt."
"Yeah? It always made me think of a dominatrix with a whip and black corset," cracks Zaza.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Milo, asking for my decision.
For better or worse, Saint-Tropez here I come.
CHAPTER 20
BIX
“Well, now,” says Milo, meeting me at the front door of Sterling Records. “So glad you’ve returned.” He steps back, regarding me like a painter assessing his canvas.
“Follow me to my atelier and let the maestro have his way with you.”
A stab of fear shoots through my gut. “Maestro? Atelier?”What am I getting myself into?
Milo laughs, his hands fluttering dramatically.
“Relax, darling. The atelier is simply my office, and I am the maestro who will turn you from a strident warbler to an uptown sophisticate worthy of Slayer’s attention.”
“Warbler? Strident?”I echo, offended.
Milo crosses his arms and jerks up his chin. “The wordwarblecomes from an Old French word meaning ‘to sing with trills and quavers’. And that’s exactly what you sounded like when I heard you.”
“Is that an insult wrapped in etymology?”
“It was a diagnosis wrapped in truth, cupcake. Now come along.”
I follow Milo to his office, which adjoins Sterling’s.
Unlike Sterling’s dark power den, Milo’s space is bright white. Framed Broadway posters line the walls.
In the corner, a gold easel holds a large corkboard with images of a blonde girl who looks just like me.
“What’s all this?”
“Just some early work related to the media campaign,” he says. “Before we honed in on the exact type we wanted to use as Slayer’s girlfriend.”
“I didn’t know I was a type.”
“Of course you are. Clare—that’s our PR director—had your type pegged from the start to act as a foil to Slayer’s vibe. She wanted someone like Meg Ryan from the eighties romcoms. Or Kate Hudson inAlmost Famous. The first girl rocked that look, but you’re a close second. And frankly, I think you’ll do much better.”
He gestures for me to sit on a white leather sofa. “Now, let’s begin your transformation.” He plops down beside me, tablet in hand. “First, your social media. We’ve created accounts for you.”
“I already have accounts,” I protest.
“Not these you don’t. @BBismarkMusic has three hundred forty-seven followers. Your last post was a blurry video of you singing in Central Park with a homeless man playing harmonica.”
I flush. “Mr. Jenkins is not homeless. He’s a retired jazz musician.”
