Priceless (30 page)

SHE WAS ALSO
a little nervous because of a conversation she’d had with Jackson on the flight. Although he was clearly very excited, as that initial buzz wore off, she could see him pondering something.

Eventually, she just asked him. “What’s up, Jackson? You seem preoccupied.”

He turned to her, his face grave, but then he smiled. “You know me pretty well for someone who doesn’t know me very well.”

She grinned back. “Well, you’re not doing a very good job of hiding your feelings.”

“I’m not even sure what I’m feeling, to be honest. Here’s the
problem.” He turned in his seat to face her, taking her hands in his. “I think it’s fantastic that ‘Fire and Ice’ is doing well and that people like it. But my first love is jazz, followed closely by the city of New Orleans. I don’t want to move to L.A. and become a pop singer, do you know what I mean?”

“Well, that hasn’t happened yet. They’re just excited about this one song.” Charlotte felt her heart sinking, although she was doing her best to keep it hidden.

He nodded. “I know. That’s why I think it’s slightly silly for me even to be worried about it. But nonetheless, I just needed to tell you how confused I am about this. I know you could have an amazing career as a singer. You’re truly brilliant. And for now, at least, I am behind you one hundred percent. But this might not be my thing, longer term.” He smiled a small smile at her. “You, now, you might well be my thing, longer term.” He bent forward and kissed her sweetly.

Charlotte felt a glimmer of her old self-control coming back.
Hello, shiny shell.
“Well, let’s just take it one thing at a time and see what happens. It could all just blow over.”

Jackson nodded and squeezed her hand. “You’re right, babe. Hollywood is a fickle place, I hear.”

Charlotte turned and looked out the window so he couldn’t see how anxious she was.
Hollywood … here we come.

THE HOTEL WAS
up on Sunset Boulevard, just down the street from the famous Chateau Marmont. As they’d driven up La Cienega, they’d seen the Hollywood sign, and Jackson and Kat had giggled.

“I’m trying very hard to be cool,” Kat had said, “but the Hollywood
sign is just cooler. There’s no contest.”

Now, as handsome young men took their luggage and led them into a smoked-glass and gray-slate lobby, it felt as if they were in a movie. Charlotte didn’t pay much attention, but as Kat looked around, she thought she’d never seen so many good-looking and well-dressed people in her life. New Orleans was not a slouchy city, and the long history of intermarriage among diverse groups meant you saw some amazingly beautiful people, but as with any other city, there was rough alongside the smooth. Here everyone appeared to have been airbrushed, with the glossy setting on high. Long hair gleamed, skin glowed, muscles were toned, outfits were carefully casual. Everyone looked like a celebrity, or as if they might be a celebrity or about to become a celebrity. It was strange. Even she felt more glamorous, which was an enjoyable feeling. And the weather was outstanding.

The young man behind the desk looked as if he’d just stepped out of an Abercrombie catalog.

“Hello, I am Justin. Welcome to the Hotel Rothko. Are you checking in?”

Kat gave him their names, and he smiled and handed over three thin wands of titanium.

“These are your room keys. Just wave them across the door panels.”

“Of course.” Kat smiled coolly as if people handed her sticks of ultralight metal every day, and they headed toward the elevator.

THEY HAD ROOMS
next to each other, which was nice, even if each of them was smaller than Kat’s closet back home—perfectly
furnished, of course, but minute. The world’s squashiest bed faced a flat-screen plasma mounted to the wall, and jeweled lights sparkled on the walls behind the upholstered headboard. You could jump off the bed into the tiny bathtub in the bathroom—something Kat ably demonstrated—but it gave you the feeling of being inside a yacht rather than an extremely small hotel room.

“I guess they had to choose between quality and quantity and went for the former.” Kat smoothed her hand across the sheets, noting the fine thread count. For her and Charlotte, used to the very best of everything, this all seemed normal, but Jackson was truly amazed.

“Did you feel the towels? They’re awesome!” He chuckled, taking photos with his cell phone to send to Millie. “This whole day has been amazing, and it’s not even over yet.”

Kat looked at her watch. “Nope, and in fact, we’d better get back down to the car and head over to the station, or we’ll be late. I wouldn’t want Tiffanii-with-two-i’s to get pissy-with-two-s’s.”

THE RADIO STATION
was in Burbank, and traffic was terrible, as usual. By the time they got there, it was mid-afternoon, and Tiffanii looked a little bit ruffled.

“We’re running late, so it’s straight into the studio, ok?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to ask a question, but Tiffanii was already on the move.

“Come, come,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve rescheduled the photographer for tomorrow, so don’t worry about what you look like. Let’s just get into the studio.”

As no one had been worrying about their appearance at
that exact moment, they were all a bit confused, but then Jackson shrugged and followed her. Tiffanii had turned out to be extremely small and slender, though just as gorgeous as every other girl they’d seen, and as he trailed after her, Jackson turned and whispered, “You know, maybe the reason the hotel rooms are so small is that everyone here is half the size of a regular person.”

Charlotte giggled. “I know! I feel enormous.”

Kat chided them both. “Don’t be mean. Tiffanii might have been blessed with an extra vowel, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have to work hard to get where she is.”

She caught up with the scurrying young woman, who was confidently leading them through a maze of carpeted hallways lined with gold records and publicity shots. “So, Tiffanii, how did you get interested in radio?”

Tiffanii laughed. “Oh, my dad owns the station. I’m just helping out while I wait to get discovered by Hollywood.” She pulled open a big double door. “Here we are.”

Peter Lakeshore turned out to be two totally different people. When they first met him, he was serious and focused, saying very little as he pulled their song up from the station’s impressive computer system. He sat with his eyes closed, listening as the song played.

“You know,” he mused, “it reminds me a little of that Sheryl Crow song, ‘All I Wanna Do,’ but it’s sexier than that, and your voice is totally different, much more Sade, but younger.”

Suddenly, he sat up and opened his eyes wide, focusing on Charlotte and Jackson. “Are you guys ready to be huge? This single is going to sell a million.” Then, just as suddenly, he dropped his voice again. “With a little help, of course. You need to rerecord in an actual studio.” He jumped to his feet and shook Charlotte’s hand. “You’re the singer, right? Not you?” He looked at Kat.

“No, I’m the studio technician,” she deadpanned. “I’m a manager-stylist-studio technician.”

“Nice,” he said, not blinking. “Charlotte, right?” Charlotte nodded. “I want to do a short interview with you guys, so I can put it on air. OK?”

They nodded enthusiastically.

“We can just do it here in the studio now, and then I’ll break
it on the morning show. You’re meeting with the label tomorrow, right?” Not waiting for an answer, he pulled on some headphones and started pressing buttons. He was reportedly in his mid-thirties, but he looked as young as they did and was handsomer in real life than he appeared on TV. He moved quickly, intensely, but also had the ability to slow down suddenly, as if he could switch into relaxed mode whenever he wanted to.

“Where’s the mic?” Jackson looked around.

“Above you, we’ll hear you just fine.”

Lakeshore sat behind his desk, nearly hidden by a huge array of screens and control panels. He had an old-fashioned microphone, which he leaned into. As he spoke, his voice was suddenly the voice millions of people listened to every day, the familiar tones syndicated across the country.

“Well, here’s a story. We started playing a track a day or so ago, ‘Fire and Ice,’ you know it by heart now. Turned out it was made by a duo no one had heard of, Jack and Charlie, two kids from New Orleans. Well, anyway, we have them here right now.” He winked at Charlotte and spoke to her first. “So, Charlie, you’re the girl half, right?”

Charlotte laughed. “So they tell me.” She looked around for somewhere to sit and perched on a stool.

“And are you two old friends or what?”

“No, actually, we only met recently, although I’ve known his mom forever.”

“Your mom brought you two together?”

Now Jackson laughed. “Well, not exactly. She just knew Charlotte before I did. Charlotte grew up in New York, by the way, not New Orleans.”

Tiffanii suddenly appeared and handed Peter Lakeshore a
note. He read it quickly and raised his eyebrows, all while Jackson was talking.

“So, just to make this already hot story more interesting, it turns out that Charlie is Charlotte Williams, the daughter of Jacob Williams, who just, if I remember rightly, went to jail for embezzling millions of dollars.”

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face.
Holy crap.

“That is totally true, Peter.” Jackson’s voice was smooth and unflustered. “Proving yet again that every cloud has a silver lining. She came to stay with my mom to get away from the press, and we met and started making music together.”

Peter watched her face and suddenly smiled. “Lucky for you, huh, Charlotte?”

“You can call me Charlie, it’s OK. And yes, it was lucky.”

“And now that you’re here in L.A., you’re going to lay down some more tracks, right? And make a video for ‘Fire and Ice’?”

“That’s the plan, Peter.”

“Great. OK, here’s this summer’s big hit, ‘Fire and Ice,’ by Jack and Charlie.”

And just as quickly as it all seemed about to blow up, it was done, and no bloodshed.

Peter Lakeshore shook their hands and paused for a moment, holding Charlotte’s. “People are going to find out anyway. You know that, right?”