"I might have," Jack said quietly. "There are lots of people like her in NYC, one for every coffee shop on every night. Maybe two or three for every coffee shop." It was a little more snide than I had expected from him.
"What do you think of her? I think she's great." Despite Jack's disinterest, I couldn't believe that I was hearing original music of this caliber so randomly. These people with acoustic guitars were a dime a dozen, just like he had said. I had been to so many gigs—everyone had a friend who started a band that wasn't any good; you just had to go so you didn't hurt their feelings—with the most boring, bland music ever, and this was the total opposite. It wasn't just the alcohol either.
Maybe that's why people were lined up outside...
"I'm not going to make a judgment prematurely, especially when we're talking about careers that need to last a lifetime. Just because someone can write one good song doesn't mean they can actually make it. This industry is brutal."
I didn't really like how stiff and boring he was being about her. He was supposed to be the expert, and yet, here I was, gushing over this person whom I was convinced would soon become a superstar while he acted like she was no big deal. Why wouldn't he take my opinion seriously? I felt very strongly about it, something unusual for me in regards to music.
The girl played through a full set, gorgeous song after gorgeous song, the lyrics as captivating as her incredible voice. I was convinced that I was witnessing perhaps the next Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morissette, or Adele. These songs were so well put together that I could already hear full arrangements in my head, lush productions with drums and guitars and keyboards—and it was actually kind of weird.
Jack continued to sit there, so stone-faced and bored-looking. I was suddenly having doubts about him, finding it was so weird that he couldn't connect with this incredibly emotional performance taking place in front of him.
Was he even human? Why was he acting so disinterested?
I could feel every word she sang, the topics ranging from misery to sheer joy, the sort of visceral word play that any listener could relate to. I started to lose myself in thought, analyzing Jack's behavior when I heard the performer speak.
"I would especially like to thank my producer, agent, and co-writer, Jack Teller. I wouldn't be anywhere without his help." The crowd clapped politely as Jack burst out laughing, accidentally spitting water on himself. A few people from the crowd looked over to him, probably because of the water spitting and not because they recognized him.
He had been playing me the whole time!
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I wanted to get your honest opinion without influencing you. If I told you that she was my artist, you would have just been nice whether you really liked her or not."
"You're so full of shit!" I was offended that he felt that way—I also realized that he was totally right. I wasn't going to admit it, though. The whole performance felt very different now, tinged with a brand new hue.
"I'm a shitty actor on top of that. I have to pretend I'm angry if I'm trying to hide a smile."
"I noticed." I sipped my drink defensively, if that was even possible.
Jack took my hand and lightly stroked it. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I won't do that again, okay? I just wanted to make sure I was doing a good job with Lexy."
Actually, it made me feel warm inside to hear that he valued my opinion, even though I didn't know shit about the music industry—well, other than crunching sales and expense figures. I had begged for him to take me seriously and gotten upset when he hadn't. This was great, actually. "What's her full name?"
"Lexy Brown. I actually moved here to work with her. I was in L.A. before."
"She's... pretty," I said distantly.
Jack gave me a cold smile and paused. "Pretty what? No, Effie. I've never slept with her, nor will I ever. It's just business, okay?"
"I didn't go there!" I said slightly louder than I had intended.
"She is pretty, Effie, but she's nothing compared to you." The words rolled out so smoothly, so warmly. He looked deep into my eyes and I fought him until I couldn't anymore. Jack spoke with such authenticity, such care. "Sex appeal does help in this business, no doubt."
I wanted to dwell on his compliment as much as I wanted to proceed with the conversation. It felt good; it just fit. I could have told him how gorgeous I thought he was, but lightening up the situation seemed like a better choice than flattery or contributing to narcissism. "I just can't see her in those Lady Gaga outfits though. She seems far too classy for that."
Jack finished his drink and slammed the glass down on the table. "You guys just don't get Gaga," he said. "She's brilliant, even if you think she's a little crazy."
We both started laughing uncontrollably, the former tension shattered into a million pieces. I was really glad he was joking with me again. By that time, Lexy had finished her last song and was putting her guitar away.
Jack turned around and stood up. "Lexy! C'mere and say hi!"
Lexy immediately smiled after noticing Jack and headed over to our table. "Hey, Jack! I didn't know you were here tonight." Lexy was even prettier up close. I swallowed a lump in my throat as she got to us.
"I had to hear how the new song was working out. It was fabulous."
I instinctively watched their body language, assuming the worst. They were close, no doubt—but I couldn't see anything beyond a working relationship no matter how hard I tried. "Lexy, this is Effie. Effie, this is Lexy."
I stood up and shook her hand.
