The popular story goes that Tommy left the party to get in his limo, where he could immediately listen to the demo. I didn’t know what was the reason he left the party so abruptly. But after he did, I was ready to leave too. So I did.
Eventually Tommy came back looking for me, apparently not believing what he had just heard had come from that same girl on the stairs, the innocent-looking kid in Vans and slouchy socks. All those dressed-up girls in high heels were working so hard to get the attention of W, T, or G—and T came back looking for me.
Tommy was already the president of Sony Music, so getting my phone number was nothing. He called me and left a message on my answering machine.
Josefin and I made performance art out of goofing around and doing silly voices on that answering machine. I’d come in from the studio at five in the morning, and we’d make these crazy messages. In the one Tommy heard, I was mimicking her Swedish accent: “If this is the super, we need some help here! We have flies in our cats’ tails. There’s no hot water”—followed by hysterical laughter. It was funny to us, but it was also the truth. The conditions in our apartment were pretty gross. We had sticky flypaper hanging from the ceiling and on the walls, which our cats would brush up against. We really didn’t have hot water either; it was a mess. But we were young, giddy girls, and we made a joke out of our circumstances.
The first time Tommy called, he hung up. But he didn’t give up. He called back and this time left a curt and serious-sounding message: “Tommy Mottola. CBS. Sony Records.” He left a number. “Call me back.”
I couldn’t believe it. I immediately called Brenda, who confirmed that indeed, Tommy’s office had called her manager, and he wanted to sign me. This was the first of what would be a strange and fantastical series of Cinderella stories in my life. But I was not swept off my feet, and trust and believe me, Tommy Mottola was no Prince Charming.
PRINCESS. PRISONER.
Once, I was a prisoner
Lost inside myself
With the world surrounding me
—“I Am Free”
Once upon a time, I lived in a very big house named Storybook Manor. And in it were big diamonds and big closets full of the most spectacular gowns and bejeweled slippers. But also within its walls was an inescapable emptiness, bigger than everything else inside, that almost swallowed me whole. This was no place for Cinderella.
If there were a fairy tale that could come close to describing my life, it would be “The Three Little Pigs.” My childhood was a series of fragile, unstable houses, one after the other, where inevitably the Big Bad Wolf, my troubled brother, would huff and puff and blow it all down. I never felt safe. I never was safe. His rage was unpredictable; I never knew when it would come, or who or what it would devour. What I did know was that I was truly on my own, out there in the wild woods of the world. I knew that if I was ever going to find a safe place, I would have to make it myself.
I remember the very first time I ever felt I was in something like a safe place. I was living on my own in New York City, in a one-room studio apartment on the tenth floor with a spectacular view. The building was called Chelsea Court. I loved the name of that building: it had such a regal ring to it. I could see the Empire State Building from my apartment window. My little apartment—the first that was all mine.
I had just gotten my very first artist advance. It was five thousand dollars, which is a number I’ll never forget. Five thousand dollars was more money than I’d ever seen at once, let alone had to call my own and spend as I wished. As soon as I got that advance, I got my own apartment. I could finally pay my own rent! No more living in nooks and crannies, no more sleeping on floors or sharing cramped bathrooms with four or five other girls.
The first thing I did was buy my own new little couch with four stable legs. Sometimes I would just stroke the fabric on the arm of my new little couch as if it were a baby. It was that major for me. I upgraded from a mattress on the floor to my own bed. I had a little kitchen. I had the two cats, Thompkins and Ninja. I had a little peace. I was having a moment, and I felt like I could toss my raspberry beret in the air and do a twirl in the street with my laundry bag—because I had survived. I survived the danger. I survived the hunger. I survived the uncertainty and instability, and now here I was, every day coming closer and closer to my destiny. I was independent in New York City, in my own apartment filled with my own furniture, working on my own album, filled with all of my own songs. I could have my own friends over. It was my first taste of autonomy, and it was divine. But it would not last long.
In the beginning, Tommy protected me. Even though I was breathing a bit easier, with some early breaks and a clear path to success, the traumas and insecurities of my childhood—and pressure from my brother and other people trying to take advantage of me—were still right at my back, haunting my every move. I never stopped looking over my shoulder. Tommy shielded me from all the people who thought I owed them something or who wanted to use me. That meant Tommy also protected me from my own family.
I was nineteen years old and had already lived
