Tiffany Myles. Pop Star. Her fame based more on clever marketing of her saccharine image than on her actual talent. I had been assigned to write her autobiography. She was twenty-three. I had contemplated telling my publisher to jam it but after my latest Vegas adventure, I needed the money. Twenty-three. For fuck’s sake. At thirty-four I had minimal tolerance for pop tarts or their insipid music.
Our first meeting took place with a full entourage; lawyers, manager, publicist, record label pimps, I think there was even a trained monkey present. For two miserable hours they informed me that Tiffany, actually meaning them, would have full control over content. But I knew I had one ace up my sleeve. I had a reputation for writing the raw truth, no matter what. I also knew that she had specifically demanded me, Jack Boyd, bad boy writer with just the right amount of disreputable cachet. Finally, the pop tart herself walked in.
She was a beauty. A cascade of honey-coloured hair, perfect cheekbones and the lithe body of a dancer. She shook my hand with surprising firmness, her dark eyes searching mine. After she had gushed on for several minutes about how much she admired my work I turned over my ace.
“I’ll do this on one condition. Full creative control, no interference. Or I walk,” I stated ominously.
There was an immediate outburst from everyone in the room. They sounded like squawking crows, a thought that briefly amused me as I had been contemplating murdering the lot of them for the past two hours. I would have spared the monkey.
“Stop it!” Every head swung toward her. “That’s fine. Mr. Boyd can have full control of the manuscript.”
Another eruption followed, voices rising as they competed to be heard, battling to be the prime defender of her virtue. I got up as if to leave, bluffing my ass off.
“Please," she said, stopping me with a light touch on my arm. “I want you to write my story. Your way.”
“Do it,” she calmly announced, “or you’re all fired,” fixing the surrounding crows with a steely glare. The dollar signs flashing in their eyes changed to panic at the thought of losing their meal ticket. They caved abruptly. She smiled sweetly and turned to me.
“Tomorrow. One PM. Don’t be late,” she exclaimed, rhyming off the expected cliché of a Laurel Canyon address. She was gone before I could utter a word of protest. The fact she expected me with zero consideration of my own schedule just irritated the fuck out of me. I was already dreading every moment.
Twenty-four hours later I stood on her doorstep, somewhat disheveled from a late night of absinthe and superb indica. Reluctantly I rang the doorbell, hating myself for my own greed and debauchery that had landed me this abysmal assignment. To my surprise she opened the door herself, wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse that cost more than my car. Deliberately dressed in old jeans and a black Ramones t-shirt I immediately had one more reason to despise her.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Come on in. I thought we would work in the library, it’s my favourite room.”
I smiled malevolently, imagining her actually reading a book. She led me through the house to a pair of oak doors. She drew them open, exposing a huge room lined floor to ceiling with shelves, absolutely stuffed with books. A small writing desk sat on one side of the room. There were two comfortable leather chairs and a matching lounge area with natural light pouring into the room through gigantic windows. She even had a ladder for access to the highest bookshelves. It looked like it had never been used.
As a writer, I had to concede the library was quite impressive. There were thousands of books, all perfectly arranged by subject and author. I loved books but could ill afford anything like this. A pang of cheap jealousy stabbed through me, as caustic as my scorn. I knew it was petty but everything about this girl just aggravated me.
She led me over to the silk brocade sofa where a simple glass jug sat on a low coffee table, filled with iced tea, condensation covering the sides. I rudely poured myself a tall glass, observing her over the brim as I gulped the tea, attempting to mitigate my hangover. Her frosty pink lips pursed briefly at my boorish behaviour. I felt a brief moment of childish glee at her reaction.
I sank into one corner of the sofa, lifting my boots to her small table and opened my notebook. She sat opposite me on the sofa, folding her delicious legs beneath her, a view I might have enjoyed had I not so studiously ignored her.
“So Jack,” she asked familiarly, “where do we start?”
“From the beginning” I replied. “You’re twenty-three; this might be a short book as it is.” A brief look of irritation flashed across her face.
“Listen, I know the book is ridiculous. I know all too well I can disappear tomorrow so it’s just marketing all right? So what do you say we make the best of it? And maybe you can stop being such a superior asshole.”
Despite her accurate appraisal of my attitude this instantly got under my skin. “So tell me, have you actually read any of these books?” I asked derisively, sweeping my arm about the room.
“As a matter of fact yes. I’ve always loved books, they let me escape. I realize you think I’m some vacuous airhead but I’m actually very well read. Pick a book, any book and randomly read a passage to me.” She spouted the words like a challenge.
I stood up, wandering over to the shelves, perusing each section. To my vast entertainment, I found an impressive selection of erotica and maliciously pulled Pauline Beange’s “The Story of O” from the shelf. Randomly I opened the book and began to read aloud. I was about half way through the paragraph when Tiffany interrupted and finished the final few sentences herself, her clear voice reflecting her smirk of satisfaction.
My irritation grew as I stood there, stunned. I was astonished at what she had just done. I wanted to dismiss it as a cheap parlour trick but I knew it wasn’t. I bowed mockingly in her direction. “I apologize, “ I remarked sardonically, “perhaps I underestimated you.”
“Oh my, a fragment of respect. Now can we get to work?” she retorted.
“Why not”, I replied disdainfully, “I’m just the paid whore here.” I could tell I had wounded her and she understood quite well the inference in my using the word whore. Livid, she dragged a book from her shelves and threw it violently at my head.
“Asshole,” she hissed, even more furious that the book had missed.
“That’s going in the book,” I smirked. I thought she was going to fire me on the spot but demonstrating remarkable control she took a deep breath and visibly calmed herself. I barely noticed how the breath had caused her chest to swell out, nipples straining against her silk blouse.
The next few weeks were a blur of tumbling words. She had grown up dirt poor but with a burning desire to succeed. At times she showed herself as a petulant child but at others displayed a warm generosity and quiet dignity towards others. To my surprise she seemed completely honest, relating events that were obviously very painful for her but often quite poignant. One particular anecdote left her with tears quietly running down her cheeks. Heartlessly I just watched, taking notes. Despite her huge success, there were frequent embarrassing failures and all too human mistakes. And to my absolute horror and dismay, I was actually starting to like her.
Our sessions often went for hours. Every day she wore a new outfit and while they were never overtly sexual her sensuality sparked one lurid fantasy after another. Tiffany never gave even the slightest hint she was attracted to me, she was the consummate professional. Yet I was examining her every move for even the slightest nuance that might signal her interest. Eventually, her tiniest adjustments in posture left me imagining outrageous scenes of seduction.
One afternoon a photographer arrived, taking a series of candid shots as we talked. These were to form the colour photo centerpiece of the book. As the shoot ended Tiffany stood up and asked for one more, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet.
“I want one for the inside cover, me and the hot shot writer.” I mumbled excuses but she was insistent. “Please, just do this for me.” Reluctantly I struck an awkward pose, glowering at the camera.
She grabbed my hand and pulled it around her waist, then leaned her head against my shoulder.