This outfit certainly said that. She wished Willow had seen her in it, but he’d made good on his promise and headed for the hotel pool as soon as they got back. She pictured him sitting shirtless by the water, his chest as ripped and his stomach as tight as when he’d played football. A lot of the late-night swimmers would enjoy the view. At forty, he was hotter than ever, the lines around his eyes and forehead lending him a sternness that was as sexy as his body. Jealousy wormed its way through Eden’s middle as she imagined the women who might be swimming alongside her husband. There was never a good place to have body image issues, but LA had to be the worst. It seemed like every woman in the city was ten out of ten stunning. Actual models.
And maybe one of those models was at The Beverly Hills Hotel tonight. And maybe she liked redheaded, Australian Vikings. And maybe she never wanted to have kinky sex and was better suited to Willow 2.0 than Eden was?—
Stop it, she told herself.Producing. Quinley Wu. Focus-pocus.
But she couldn’t focus-pocus. Instead, she thought of something her best mate, Cheryl, had said ages ago, back before Willow and kids and professional music and everything that was Eden’s life now.
“Watching people change—like, reallyactuallychange—fucks me up,” Cheryl had told her. “It’s the only thing about getting older that blows my mind. How so many people go from being cool and open-minded to fucking weirdos.”
Eden had agreed automatically because Cheryl was amazing and right about everything, but she hadn’t really understood. Now, she did. With every passing year, she’d run into formerly hilarious school friends who could now only talk real estate. Ex-hippies who thought 5G was poisoning their reproductive organs. DJs who’d once double-racked DMT off their decks moaning‘TheKids These Days Are So Irresponsible.’
If she squinted, she could still sometimes make out the humans she used to know, but mostly, it was like they were fossilising in real time. Stiffening within resin that might soon harden forever. But that couldn’t be Willow. It was impossible.
It was also something she couldn’t think about while trapped in a luxury car on her way to the most important meeting of her life.
“I love you,” Willow had said before he’d left for the pool.
“I love you, too,” she’d told him. And she did love Sloan Williams. There was no one in the world she loved more. But their problems could, and would, have to wait.
Unsurprisingly,Quinley’s management had gotten a private room at Bar Carmalita. The popstar was tiny and full of beans,rushing forward and hugging Eden as though they’d known each other for years. “Oh my god! You’re so gorgeous!”
Eden had been worried the girly-girly thing was a stunt, but as they sat down and talked, she realised Quinley justwasone of those people; cute and bubbly, the kind of girl who could make friends with a barstool. She was also clearly comfortable being in charge. After Quinley’s entourage, who seemed to own nothing but black and beige power suits, had given Eden a bunch of half-assed head-nods, Quinley had called them out.
“Guys, this is probably my next producer,” she’d said, her dazzling smile dimming several watts as she stared down her monochrome staff. “Let’s see some effort, maybe?”
Handshakes and offers of drinks abounded, and Eden mentally added another check to Quinley’s pro-column. Artists without a strong sense of themselves were nightmares in the studio; crying one minute, raging the next. Handholding had never been Eden’s specialty, but she didn’t sense Quinley needed that. In fact, as they started talking about concepts for the new album, Eden grew increasingly excited. She and Quinley both liked the same aspects of her old musical style—the harmonies that showcased her fantastic vocal range and the occasional bursts of hyperpop. They both hated the syrupy melodies and repetitive choruses. They both thought grimy trance beats with lashings of 90s Eurodance would be both interesting and suited to where Quinley wanted to push her aesthetic.
“Slutty Judy Garland meets the girl who hides in her van at Burning Man but secretly wants to be in the orgy tent,” she said, waving her old fashioned through the air. “What do you think?”
“Holy fuck,” Eden said, beyond impressed at the analogy. “That’s so you!”
Cocktails were barely sipped, and appetisers went uneaten as the scheduled two-hour meeting flowed into three, the album plotting itself out like a novel. There were lyrics typed into thenotes app and old songs played through iPhone speakers for reference to beats and melodies they might use. At 1am, Quinley tucked a knee into her chest and shyly admitted she’d listened to all of Eden’s old tracks and loved them. And as one of her matrix-style managers looked at the other and started typing frantically into his phone, Eden knew, without a doubt, she had the gig. Not only that, but she was actuallylooking forwardto working with Quinley Wu, former fake cheerleader on a Disney show so naff she wouldn’t let her kids watch it.
Oh my God, she thought.I’ve done it.
And then,I wish Willow was here.
It was almost two when Quinley’s management convinced her to head home. Apparently, she had some photoshoot she needed to rest up for. Eden accepted another hug and a plan to meet in two days to sign an official contract with Sony. Andy, her lifelong manager, had already read through the prospective Quinley’s management had sent them and in his words,“almost slapped the cat when I saw how much cash they’re throwing at this thing.”
Smiling to herself, Eden headed for the door. One of the monochrome cronies grabbed her arm.
“Hi,” he said, flashing her a truly terrifying smile. “Since this seems like this is actually gonna happen, you need to rent a place in LA for at least three months. You know that, right? Everyone on Quinn’s team expects full commitment.”
Eden had enough industry douchebag experience to shake the asshole’s grip and blast him her own‘don’t fuck with me’ smile. “I expectI’ll cut an amazing record, and everyone on ‘Quinn’s team’ will get paid to hell and back. That’s what you’re really saying, yeah?”
The man laughed as genuinely as if she’d told a joke. “Exactly. Maybe bringing you on board isn’t a guaranteed fuck up of an idea, after all?”
“It’s a great idea,” Eden snapped. “Quinn can see it, even if you can’t. But that’s why suits and artists are always bad bedfellows.”
The guy laughed again. He was young, with hazel eyes and a sharp jaw. “Who knows, honey, maybe we’ll make good bedfellows?”
There was a beat, an instant, in which Eden wondered if this guy was into the kind of fucked-up sex shit she was sorely missing. Then she thought of Willow, his face drawn in anger, fucking her ass in the driveway of her parents’ house. This man—whoever the fuck he was—was a shadow of her husband. A pale imitation of someone who could wield sexual power without genuine grossness getting in the way.
“I doubt it,” she told the guy. “But the music’s still gonna destroy. See ya, mate.”
She exited the bar on shaking legs, unsure whether anger, shock or delight was responsible for her physical response. All she wanted was Willow. Her strength, his confidence, and the fact that a man would never have talked to her like that if he had been there.
And most of all, she wanted him in maniac mode, making her come until the stress in her body melted back into hell, where it belonged. The way he had when she used to go on tour, before Jupiter and Mercury and the accident and everything else.
