“He found the clause. Moral turpitude, public image. His lawyers were very sorry about it, in eleven-point font.” I keep my voice flat. “So as of this morning we have no manager, no producer, half a record, a deadline the label just moved up, and a guitarist four million views deep in the worst week of her life.”
“So here’s what we do.” Because somebody has to, and it’s always me. “We get out of the city. Two weeks somewhere quiet—a cottage, no cameras, no comment sections. We make the label their Christmas record, we let the internet forget Sandy’s face for a fortnight, and she comes back a musician instead of a meme.”
“And a producer?” Jeremy asks.
Jo already has her laptop open. She spins it toward us—Erica Thomas, caught mid-session in some press shot.
I know the face before Jo says the name. And then Sandy makes a small, strangled sound.
"That's my neighbour," she says. "That's her. She was there—the night with Olivia, in the hallway."
The room swings toward Sandy all at once.
The plan has just built its own door: the best producer I know, already tangled in this mess, living next to from the guitarist I need her to save. I pull out my phone, the statement half-drafting itself before my thumbs catch up, and head out to go make it real.
There’s one producer I’d trust to walk into a mess like this and not run. Erica Thomas. A few years back their regular bassist broke his hand two days before a session and I filled in, and I spent five days watching her turn songs into something that put the hair up on my arms.
She’s the best there is, which is exactly the problem. Johnny Sugar’s Nerve Endings, Cherry Hall’s acoustic record, Melanie Court’s whole album—three of the biggest indie records of last year came out of her room. She’s expensive, and if we land her the label will stop talking about dropping us.
I take the phone out and I call her.
“Hi Rhonda Mars. It’s been a while.”
“It has. I’ll get straight to it, our producer just dropped us. We need someone for a holiday album, you’ll have full creative control, and a very nice budget, and just need two weeks of your time.”
“I’m flattered. I’m also booked solid.”
“Your reputation precedes you—which is how I know you were the one in that hallway. Sandy’s neighbour, front-row seat to the whole mess.” Her silence changes shape, goes careful, and Idon’t push it. “—so, name your price,” I say, letting her off the hook.
“It’s not the money. It’s capacity. I’m producing three albums.”
“I know. I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. But you’re already tangled in this whether you like it or not—might as well get paid for it, and get out of the city while you’re at it.”
“That is not a compelling pitch, Rhonda.”
I tell her about the retreat—two weeks somewhere quiet, a real budget, nobody watching—and let it sound like what it could actually be for a woman running on fumes: a chance to slow down and make one good thing with her hands.
“—It might be exactly what you need,” I cross my fingers.
She goes quiet and I know that I’ve got her. She lets me know she’ll think about it, and I hang up feeling a lot better about the day.
I try not to think too hard about the fact that I’m about to shut a houseful of volatile people in together and call it healing. Because that’s the thing I do. I move the people I love around and tell myself it’s for their own good.
All of the Belladonnas come with me to the industry event—damage control is a group sport now. It’s a rooftop bar downtown: label people, managers, artists.
A woman approaches me at the bar. Tall, long black hair, confident smile. She's a booking agent—I recognize her from a festival panel.
“Rhonda Mars.” She says it like she’s tasting it. “Do you remember me? It’s Suzanna.” She holds my arms a beat too long. “I adore your bass work. That part on ‘Nightwork’ you were amazing. Do you use a pick or you use your fingers?”
“Fingers.” I scoff. “Picks are for people who don’t trust their hands.”
“Mm.” She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “I’d have guessed you had the delicate fingers for a pick.”
“I go for feel.”
“I can hear that.” Her hand lands light on my forearm and stays. “I like a woman who trusts her hands. Maybe you could show me your process sometime. Over something that isn’t warm gin in a plastic cup.”
"Sure."
