CHAPTER 45 – La Vie en Rose

Frederick Curon’s heart slid from his throat when the girl on stage went down on her knees and howled.

She howled like a wounded animal, sans vocal training, sans control, sans decorum, crossing the thin red line that was performance into the realm of pain.

As the best Producer in the music business, he felt unnerved that so much pain could pour from such a petite body. Eppie had committed herself to something terrible, something that only a select few people in the crowd would ever know.

And the victim of her aural assault was…
He looked around. Curon had very sharp eyes for detail.

There—that must be our man. The fabled Mr Chen, heir to a local construction company with a pipe dream of breaking into the film business. It was a fantastic idea, Curon had to admit. Creative accounting and Hollywood set-building went hand in hand, and nary a day went by without a movie “flopping” so that the studio could recoup its operating costs on its blockbusters.

What impressed Curon was that Zara didn’t miss the opportunity to swing her guitar forward and perform a final, lingering solo so low and powerful that Eppie’s scream seemed forethought, rather than spontaneous.
The Spaniard had spunk. Curon liked that.

“Sir!” Maddy Filmore arrived at his side, sweat streaming from her face. She had been running cameras and socials for three days without sleep, and now her ward was hugging the stage like a vomiting cat. “Should we intervene? I can get up there! I can—”

“Hold your horses,” Curon shook his head. “Let her finish.”

“What if Eppie falls—”

“Then she will get back up,” Curon cut off Eppie’s Media Manager.

“SIR—”

“MADDY, she’s fine,” Curon grunted a little more audibly to overpower the applause. The trouble with these corporate guns was that they were too responsible for art. Eppie wasn’t just a precious investment. Eppie was a performer. He did feel for Filmore. As a result of Eppie rarely reading her e-mails, Madeline had developed a neuroticism that was starting to show as lines on her face. And to think the poor lass was only 20-something. “Look, Zara’s not even helping. She’s closing the song instead. It’s all a show, Maddy, even if the feeling’s real.”

Indeed. The show must go on. That was the cardinal rule of the performing world. A performer must take responsibility for art. If they couldn’t, they should go home and raise kids instead. No one was forcing them to be on stage, certainly not in the 21st century.

Like a resurrected monster, Eppie rose on wobbling knees, hair draped over her face, smothering a pair of seething blue eyes.

“That’s a great shot,” Curon reminded his daughter’s Media Manager.

Maddy gestured wildly with her hands, but there was no need. Sony’s PR team was already snapping away.

He waited for the applause to die down.

The girls were panting on stage. If the auditorium were any colder, the audience would see puffs of steam issue from their mouths and rolling streams of heat falling from their shoulders.

Instead of ushering the girls offstage right, the MC joined them, as if waiting for some fortuitous event.

His daughter looked confused.
She was still in that daze artists enter when they dive too deep into their performances. Very few performance artists could pierce that veil naturally, and it warmed Curon’s heart to know that his daughter possessed such prodigious, if dangerous, potential.

From the upper section of the auditorium, entering from a subtle side section, someone was approaching the stage.

Maddy turned to her employer with confusion and consternation. “Sir, you said that Kellie Noah had gone back to Culver.”

“I did say that.” Curon shrugged. “But we paid for the slot anyway, and you know what they say, waste not, want not…”

“Sir,” Maddy’s voice trembled. “Is that… is that Lucia Lancet? You told me it wasn’t her at Antigone! You said it was just a look-alike! ”

“Well, aren’t you lucky, then?” Curon kept his answer curt and casual. “She was shooting a commercial in the area, so I got her to duck in…”

Before leaving the Media Manager to lose her mind on her own, Curon made sure to pat his pockets.

The provisionals were all there, pre-filled, and every detail entered.

He hoped his plan would work out. Unlike Davis, he had a flair for doing things through vibes. Kellie giving Eppie flowers would have made a nice family photo. The stepchild gave the true daughter a floral wreath to say welcome to the family. It was a good narrative, if a little boring.

Now Lucia… What did a rival’s favour portend?
Lucia was a different stepchild altogether.
No one would know the story of why Lucia Lancet was here until the tabloids hit tomorrow. LAPA would make the back pages for a week. Interviewers would fill gossip columns, and feature articles would flood the US from coast to coast. Somewhere in London, a tabloid would feast. That was the vibe the Creative Director sought.

Curon sank into his fourth-row aisle seat, gifted, of course, by Principal Burton. Did Burton know that Eppie had a plan, and that her plan would turn his school upside down and inside out? He probably didn’t, and Curon was all for it.

His songbird may fit in the palm of a hand, but she also had a mean streak like no other.

As if by the magic of stage lighting, Eppie’s cheeks regained their rosy complexion.

Her crash-out hadn’t been the most elegant, and she was thankful that Zara was there to pick up the slack. From the reaction of the crowd, though, there was zero chance that Zara would receive anything other than the highest accolades for her showcase.

It took the [System] about 3-4 seconds to fully inflate her rag-doll body to its usual vigour. The sensation was palpable, like lukewarm gel moving through her belly into her chest, then her legs, arms, and even the tired muscles of her jaw and throat. There was healing happening as well, because the soreness in her jaws disappeared, and the metallic taste of her own breath was gone.

She stood and bowed.

Zara shifted her guitar and came to her side in case she had another near-anaemic collapse.

“I am alright,” she said to her partner.

It took her a few more seconds until her eyes adjusted to the new lights that had replaced the ambience. The very first thing she did was scan for William Chen to see if the man had fled or was still stuck to his seat.

Except she couldn’t see him.
Half the auditorium was standing for some reason, and she wasn’t the reason.

The MC lady was next to her, announcing something, but it wasn’t about herself or Eppie; it was about the commotion to the upper left of the theatre.

Someone was descending, step by step, and the audience was shifting like a living ripple, their gasps of awe and delight filling the rest of the space, stirring those who had yet to realise what was happening.

“PLEASE TAKE YOUR SEATS!” The grey static in her head finally cleared enough for her to hear what the MC was shouting into her mike. “PLEASE DO NOT STAND!”

Thankfully, enough of the crowd listened to persuade the reluctant half to feel too self-conscious to disobey. After all, it was 2007, and phones took such trash low-light videos that the audience may as well enjoy the spectacle with their eyes. Likewise, without the malaise of Social Media clout, there wasn’t nearly enough rabid obsession to break decorum just so an attendee could post, “I saw Lucia Lancet.”

For indeed, that was who was descending the stairs.

Which made no sense, because Eppie could swear that her [Memorisation] was insistent that Kellie Noah had promised her a happy surprise.

Lucia Lancet. Sony BMG’s headlining starlet had not reached the stratum of mega-stars in Eppie’s former world, such as Taylor Swift or Lady Gaga. Still, Lancet was comparable to Alicia Keys, a child genius who was multi-instrumental and had graduated from Juilliards for Columbia at fifteen.

If this was Daddy’s plan, and if this was an olive branch to engender a song for Lucia… perhaps “New York?”
The problem with New York was the incredible popularity of the song, its complexity, and the fact that, at least in her experience, Lucia isn’t that good a singer. Could Lucia even match the incredible “biblical” vocals of Alicia Keys? Eppie somehow doubted it.

Just how much of the rivalry was planned out based on the girls’ personas? Pop vs Musicality? Street vs Guilliams?

Eppie shook both her mind and her body from the reverie, putting a hand on the small of Zara’s back to assure her friend that she was now fine.

Lucia Lancet was moving at a pace that was measured for cameras, descending slowly but making steady progress. In her hands, she carried two bouquets, both roses, both slung against her forearms to rest at her shoulders. She wore casuals, which was a surprise, because winter-top skivvies and jeans did not exactly flatter Lucia’s modelling-worthy figure.

She followed the path of a large man who was her bodyguard, and was otherwise flanked by Seniors who had been summoned for this special occasion. Together, they formed a moving barricade that, in the 2030s, would have collapsed in the first five meters as rabid fans mugged Lucia for their personal TikToks.

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The former No.1 of the Top 100 reached the stage bearing flowers.
The MC left their side to arrive at Lucia’s.
Somewhere, there had to be a Candid Camera crew filming their reactions.

Eppie and Zara stood awkwardly, unsure if they should descend to greet Lucia, or if Lucia would join them in the light. To their relief, their MC guided the Pop Princess onto the stage via a side ramp, finally bringing the crowd’s anticipation to an end.

“Hello LAPA!” Lucia waved to the crowd, soliciting a solid minute of cheers and waves, cementing the evidence of her popularity.

Is she establishing her dominance? Eppie ground her teeth a little.

Then Lucia turned to them, the MC’s microphone held an arm’s length from her lips, and told them, “You guys were amazing, that was an absolutely incredible performance. These…”

Lucia delivered her floral gifts. One for Eppie. One for Zara. Eppie was about to snarkily remark on how performative Lucia seemed when the bouquet arrived in her arms, dazzling her with the overwhelming scent of fresh roses in carmine.

“…are for you, from your family at Sony.”

The auditorium answered with roars and whistles.

The room went off, their sound overwhelming her [Perfect Pitch], turning all sensation into CRT static.