An hour and a half later, the visual album was finished, and Quentin sat still on his couch, eyes wide and lips parted in a silent expression of surprise. He’d been glued to the TV for the entire visual album. Each song was incredible, and the spoken word was moving. The music videos were artistic and visually compelling, shot almost like they were short films. Joel starred in each video, playing a variety of different roles, from a 1970s rocker to a futuristic alien explorer to a Renaissance man’s muse. The album seemed to be a commentary on the nature of fame and how consumerism and commercialism were inherently at odds with artistic expression.
Quentin blinked in surprise.
Yes, that was one of the messages of the album, he realized, and the fact that Joel had managed to communicate it so artfully and so thoughtfully was impressive.
He had expected all of Joel’s music to be silly love music, but that wasn’t it at all. There had been a few love songs on the album, but they had been deep and meaningful, full of yearning and unrequited affection. No love interest was ever seen in the videos. Joel had sung to someone offscreen, or directly at the camera, longing for an impossible love.
Quentin had almost wept during one of the songs, which spoke poignantly to how Quentin had felt after losing Drew. Not that Drew had ever belonged to him. Drew had been the one to want something more, and Quentin had rejected him.
He wiped his cheeks, feeling silly for crying to Joel’s music. Maybe, he thought, the concert wouldn’t be all that bad.
Chapter 5
Joel
Joel spent a few weeks in Los Angeles in final rehearsals for theNorthern Suntour, running through the setlist and the choreography, sitting in meetings, and trying to settle his mind. Touring was hard on the body and on the mind. He had been training for the better part of a year, but it would still be taxing on him. He would be singing and dancing for two hours straight, three nights a week, every week, for months on end. He loved touring, but it was exhausting. Rewarding, but exhausting.
The first stop of the tour was New York City. He would perform three nights there in a stadium, with British R&B singer Sofia Chalotra opening for him. She was a good friend of his, and he was excited to perform with her. He was one of the biggest names in music, and he liked using his fame and visibility to lift up artists whose work he admired, and whom he didn’t think got the recognition they deserved.
The week before the tour was to start, he flew on a private plane from Los Angeles to New York. Shivonne went with him because she always went with him on tour, and so did Harlan. He wouldn’t survive the tour without the two of them.
Alexander Braun, the tour manager, joined them on the flight. Joel was growing to detest the man by now. He was eccentric and demanding and had very specific, capitalistic ideas about how the tour should go. They had clashed at almost every turn.
Braun wanted to talk business on the flight, but Joel was exhausted and didn’t have anything to say to Braun. After Braun’s fourth attempt at conversation, Shivonne fixed him with a glare that almost made Braun wither in his seat. Good.
They landed in New York in the midst of a beautiful sunset. Joel was glad to be back in the city under these circumstances. He loved New York more than he loved Los Angeles. They were such different cities, with very different personalities. He loved them both. Los Angeles held him there for his work, but his heart and soul were in New York. He would love to move to this city someday, and he was considering it. He had a house in Los Angeles, a midcentury-modern ranch in the Hills, but it didn’t feel like home the way that it used to. He also had an apartment in New York, a large space in an old Art Deco building in the Upper East Side, and it felt more like home. He liked how packed New York was, how even though he was one of the most recognizable faces in music, he could almost disappear into New York.
He liked the people in New York better, too. They were tough in a different way than the L.A. people.
Braun wanted to go to the record label’s New York offices to talk more business.
“Go for it,” Joel said. “I’m going home.”
Shivonne accepted the responsibility of chaperoning Braun. Joel and Harlan got in a private car, driven by hired security, and took to the streets of Manhattan.
Joel loved his apartment in Manhattan. He had purchased it two years ago, when he was twenty-three and the thought of moving to New York full-time had first crossed his mind. He’d lovingly furnished and decorated it himself, unlike the house in the Hollywood Hills, which he’d let a professional decorator handle. This Manhattan apartment reflected his tastes: artistic, eclectic, cozy, and comfortable. The art that hung on the wallsmeantsomething to him, and much of the furniture consisted of pieces he’d found at antique stores or in flea markets, often around the world.
Whenever he entered the Manhattan apartment, he felt his nervous system reset.
He let out a breath when the door closed behind him and Harlan. Harlan went with him almost everywhere and had a room in Joel’s apartment where he could sleep when they were in New York. Or, if either of them wanted privacy, Joel paid him a stipend for nice hotels.
“I’ll order dinner,” Harlan offered. “Do you care where it’s from?”
“I’m fine with anything,” Joel said, kicking off his shoes. He went straight for the record player and selected a vinyl—Low, David Bowie, a personal favorite of his. “I’m just glad to be home.”
“I’m getting Thai from that place you like,” Harlan said. “Your usual order.”
“You know me better than I know myself,” Joel said, throwing himself down on the mint-green couch in his living room. He had a great view from his apartment, and he let out a pleasant sigh as he stared out at the forest of skyscrapers.
Moments like this were nearly perfect. He was as alone as he could expect; it was peaceful, good music was playing, good food was on the way, and he didn’t need to deal with frustrating tour managers or annoying hockey players.
Heaven.
Joel and Harlan ate their pad thai and pad see ew sitting at the kitchen table, a genuine antique piece from Provençe. It had been one of Joel’s proudest finds at an antique market in the south of France when he had been there a year ago with some friends. He’d purchased it immediately, knowing he had to have it.
They ate mostly in silence. They were good friends and could handle companionable silences. When they had finished, Joel cleared their dishes and offered Harlan a drink.
“Coffee, actually,” Harlan said. “I’ve got to stay up and do some work.”
