“The rehearsal!” I slam my fists on the table in anger.
Connie jumps in her seat, and Paul’s water spills down his navy jumper.
“You don’t need to concern yourself with that.” Paul wipes the water off with his hand. “We’ll get the footage first thing tomorrow for you to review. That way you can record the songtonight, familiarize yourself with the shoot in the morning, then film tomorrow night.”
I debate slapping the righteous look off his face before thinking better of it.
“What did Christopher say when you saw him?” Paul can’t avoid my question now that we’re face-to-face.
Paul shifts his weight in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left.
Connie looks back up from her laptop toward Paul.
My heart sinks when Paul clasps his hands together, and I prepare myself for the inevitable disappointment.
“We didn’t get much chance to talk other than logistics, but he seemed happy to be reconnected.” Paul smiles at me, his brows raised.
I look at Connie. Bewilderment is written across her face.
Both wait for me to respond.
“Reconnected?” My tone is flat and steady.
“You’ll see him soon enough. Don’t let tomorrow’s problems rob you of today’s peace.” Eagerness underlies Paul’s words as he grabs the iPad.
Easy for him to say.
“And I can’t write my own Christmas song for this advert?”
I’ve been adamantly against recording a Christmas song. I didn’t want to be stuck with one of those cheesy Christmas records that’ll follow me round for the rest of my career. But if I’m going to be forced to sing one, I’d rather it be something I’ve had input on.
“There won’t be enough time. Freddy’s jumped out of band rehearsals to work on the production along with an engineer Nathan pulled in to work on the track.”
Clearly, this is all a lie. A ruse. Paul intentionally waits to have conversations with me until the last minute, knowing it will be too late to say no, to pull out.
“Fine.”
I slump back into the seat, resigned to the decision.
“Here’s your Coke Zero, ma’am.” The steward passes the drink to Connie. The ice clinks and bubbles fizz as she takes a sip.
“Have you had a chance to listen through the medley for Tuesday’s performance at the VMAs?’ Paul changes the subject, loading the mix on the iPad.
“I had a quick listen on the drive here. The segue intoStolen MomentsfromMy Anchorneeds work. It’s too abrupt a transition. Plus, it’s only three minutes forty-two seconds. I thought we’d been allocated four and a half minutes for the performance?”
Paul picks at the label on the water bottle.
“They cut the timing of all performances, to allow more performers on the lineup.”
Great.I wonder what else Paul isn’t telling me.
Disappointment, that old familiar friend, comes back as quickly as it had disappeared.
Now I’m tired and annoyed.
“But I’ve got the number one song in the country for the tenth week in a row. Why must I be the one making compromises here?”
“I know.” Paul shakes his head. “We pushed back, but MTV won’t budge.”
