“A ten-page feature! One, two, three … eight outfit changes! What the fuck!?”
Jon finally admits defeat and finds some Y-fronts that look clean-ish. Once they’re on, he slumps down to sit on the bed. “You’re a real fucking buzzkill, you know that?”
“How does this turn you on?” I turn the magazine around to reveal a full-page photo of Cassie Everard emerging from a cornfield dressed in a white smock, her honey-blonde hair floating behind her, the sun’s dusk glow giving her a golden aura. “You can’t even see her tits.”
Jon turns his head enough to give me a dry look. “You don’t need to see her tits to be turned on by her. Look at her.” He points to the magazine, and his East-London accent really comes to life. “She’s all butter-wouldn’t-melt, ready to be corrupted, sweet and innocent, girl next door. Who wouldn’t want to fuck her?”
“Fine,” I concede, throwing the magazine on the bed, closed. I’ve had enough of her big blue eyes and toothache-inducing sweet smiles. “She’s hot. Very fuckable. But she’s also the bitch who sold out a tour in record time.”
Jon sighs as he moves so he can sit against the headboard, long legs stretching out in front of him. He’s topless, and the eagle tattoo across his hairless, brawny chest stares at me with its one beady eye. “Of course, they sold out. And they sort of deserve it. They’ve had two number one albums in a row. Five more number one singles than us. Let’s be honest, our Grammy win was a fluke. Pass me my guitar.”
I do as he says, mostly because I’m too busy arguing with him to realise. “Oh, wow, two number ones for middle-of-the-road, hippie heartbreak albums of mediocre melodies and lacking lyrics? Please. We all know the American public has terrible taste in most things – pop music somewhere near the top of the list. It’s the tours that really matter. You know I want the European fans more than I want the American ones.”
Jon says something in response, but he’s started strumming and I don’t catch it. I realise I’m standing with my bad ear towards him, so I climb up on the bed and twist my body so my better ear can hear him.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing worth repeating,” he says again, but his eyes are closed. He’s playing around with a chord sequence that is new and doesn’t sound that terrible. But it’s too … soft.
“Up the tempo.” I nod at him as he opens his eyes. “Play it quicker, sharper.”
He stops strumming. “I like it how it is.”
“No, it needs to be … punkier.”
“You and your fucking punk.” He rolls his eyes.
“I thought we were a punk-rock band?”
“We were, but that’s clearly not what the people want. That’s why our album hasn’t cracked the top five.”
“There’s still time. It was widely acclaimed in most trade reviews.”
“But shunned by the major radio networks. And frankly, reviews aren’t going to pay my mortgage.”
I snort at him. “Well, you shouldn’t have splashed out on that seafront Malibu property.”
“And you should listen to me when I say we need to go where the market is. Slow it down. Soft rock. Electronic synths. Swap the anarchist anthems for ballads. Love songs. That’s where the money is.”
“Over my dead body,” I say firmly.
“Anyway, what are you doing here, interrupting my wank?”
I open my mouth to tell him the truth but close it again. His ego doesn’t deserve that kind of massaging. Besides, all this talk of Cassie Everard has made me feel less like having a quick fuck. “I was curious about what you were playing.”
“And you want me to ruin it by letting you shout over it?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.
“I don’t shout. I sing. Loudly.”
“Not if Martin or I have anything to do with it,” Jon says and goes back to strumming, slowly. I wrinkle my nose at the mention ofMartin Dowde, our manager, who I clash with as regularly as I change my underwear (when I can be bothered to wear it). He’s not a bad man–he’s picked us all up and out of trouble more times than I can count – but he’s motivated by money, just like Silver Waters, our record label, and so, he mostly does their bidding.
“You’re boring me now,” I say, getting up. I walk to the door between our rooms.
“Pia!” Jon’s voice is raised.
“What?” I turn back to him.
“You didn’t hear me, did you? I was just talking to you, and you didn’t hear a word I said. You really need to get your ears checked out.”
