Читать книгу Falling Into Grace - Michelle Stimpson - Страница 11

CHAPTER 5

Sleep eluded Camille most of the night. The excitement of starting over, grabbing what should have been hers all along, pumped a steady stream of adrenaline through her system, causing her to toss and turn. Somewhere in the previous hours, her body had managed to snatch a few moments of peace. Her lively dreams, however, still poked at her ambitions.

In one scenario, she met and fell in love with Kanye West at a barbecue for New York City public schools. The next dream involved a concert with an artist she didn’t recognize. She and the artist danced to the edge of the stage, and then, seemingly in slow motion, Camille fell off the edge into a sea of fans who all started kissing her. At first, it was an adorable scene. But then Camille began to feel afraid because some of the fans were groping her. The mob grew increasingly aggressive and, finally, someone in the crowd drew back a hand to slap her.

Camille’s eyes popped open, bringing her back to the real world just before impact. The dream was over, but an unrealistic fear lingered as she took deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. She swiped heavy beads of sweat off her nose. Not since her wild days with Sweet Treats had she experienced such a physical reaction to an imaginary circumstance.

Back then, she had at least been able to blame it on the pills Kyra snuck onto their bus. “Here, try this,” Kyra had offered one evening after Camille complained of exhaustion.

“What is it?” Camille asked.

“That new boy who plays drums gave it to me. It gives you energy,” she claimed.

“Did you ask Priscilla if it was okay to take them?”

Kyra snarled her nose. “Priscilla ain’t my momma. Plus, even if she was, I’m nineteen years old. I do whatever I want, and the law can’t stop me, either.”

The way Kyra reasoned through things scared Camille enough to stay away from the pills for a while. Four concerts, two days, and seven hundred miles later, Camille changed her mind. “Let me try one.”

Giddy, probably from an overload of uppers, Kyra had led Camille down the bus’s aisle to her bunk, just beneath Alexis’s empty spot. Kyra drew back the curtain and they both ducked to take a seat on the bed. Kyra pulled a black pouch from inside her pillowcase and poured a few of the pills into Camille’s hand.

“Just drink it with water. Don’t ever mix it with beer or alcohol,” she warned.

“You know I don’t drink,” from Camille.

A smile slithered across Kyra’s face. “Not yet.”

Whatever mess was in those pills kept Camille on point during the next week’s performances, but the side effects—crazy nightmares, sleeplessness, constant itching—convinced Camille to quit. Then, she slept for almost two days straight after the drug’s effect wore off.

She was back in a similar position now (minus the itching) since she’d gotten herself high on life’s possibilities. This was a good thing, of course. Problem was, there was no way she could make it through the workday without conking out on her desk. Furthermore, she had more important things to do today than set up meetings between sales guys and office managers. She needed to get a few meetings of her own arranged.

Camille grabbed a towel, practiced her cough a few times, and called her boss. “Sheryl, I’m not coming in today.” Cough, cough. “I think I’ve got some kind of bug. Hopefully, it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing.” Of course Camille already knew the fake bug virus would only last twenty-four hours because the next day was payday. Even if she were sick on a payday, she’d never miss.

“We really need you to come in today. Your team’s quota is down this month. They need your numbers,” Sheryl admonished.

The whole team concept had never really caught on at Aquapoint Systems, least of all with Camille. The prize for winning the thirty-day challenge was always something silly anyway, like a free lunch coupon or a movie ticket. Nothing anyone would actually work hard to earn.

Cough, cough. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I just can’t make it in today.”

Sheryl suggested, “You think maybe you could come in early tomorrow? I could set your terminal to East Coast mode and let you work that territory.”

Camille coughed again, this time for real. Is she crazy? “I . . . I don’t think so. I have to take my . . . cat to . . . my cousin’s house so she can take him to . . . dialysis three mornings a week.” She had to give it to herself—she could make up a good lie at the drop of a hat.

“Oh, no,” Sheryl gasped. “Is she going to make it through?”

“Prognosis is pretty good.” What about my prognosis?

“Whew! I got goose bumps when you said that! What’s your cat’s name?”

“Her name is . . . Fluffy.”

“Awww,” Sheryl sang, “what kind of cat?”

Cats have kinds? “Huh?”

“Is she pedigree or just domestic?”

“She’s . . . it’s a mutt,” Camille said.

Sheryl laughed heartily. “You crack me up. Well, I certainly understand your situation with Fluffy. My little Yorkie, Valectra, had to do chemotherapy for a while, but it didn’t do the trick. We had to put him down last summer.”

The word “chemotherapy” stabbed Camille’s heart. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He’s in a better place now,” Sheryl conjectured. “You know what they say—all dogs go to heaven.”

A weak laugh escaped Camille.

Sheryl continued, “Why didn’t you tell me your morning schedule was so busy?”

“I guess I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me,” Camille said.

“Well, I’ve walked in your shoes. If you need to come in late and make up for it at lunch, that’s fine with me. We have to do what we have to do in order to care for our helpless friends. I’m willing to work with you,” Sheryl empathized.

“Thank you.”

“Take care. Hope to see you tomorrow.”

For the record, she did feel a little guilty about lying. Sheryl’s heartfelt offer to be flexible with scheduling, however, opened up yet another door for the lifestyle Camille wanted. Freedom, freedom, freedom. Who knew this sick-cat invention could buy a piece of the pie?

I’m a genius.

After dozing off once more, Camille got to the business at hand. She originally thought cold calling music agents would be a piece of cake compared to pestering people who were more interested in making a little profit from a Coke machine than the water-purification systems her employer tried to sell.

Time to make her own cold calls. She had her elevator speech ready to rip: Hi, my name is Camille Robertson. I sang with the R&B group Sweet Treats and I’m looking for an agent who can take my solo career to the top.

The first two agents’ secretaries did nothing more than take her name and number and say the agent would get back with her if he was interested. Yeah, right.

One assistant advised Camille to send in a demo. “Once you make the investment in presenting yourself well, we’re ready to make an investment in you.”

Almost sounded like a reprimand. Camille double crossed them off the list.

She refined her approach. “Hi, this is Camille. I just missed Stanley’s call. Could you put me through?” The old he-called-me-first trick, a staple in her current profession.

At least she’d gotten past the screen for the next agency and actually spoken to a real live artist representative. But when Stanley figured out that he didn’t actually know Camille, he transferred her back to the secretary, who again took her contact information and put her name in file thirteen with the rest of the losers trying to get a break.

Three hours later, she was still at square one. No leads. Nothing. Worse, there was only one agent left to call. Why weren’t people listening to her? She had experience. She was still sexy enough to sell at least twenty thousand CDs with just her face alone. And once people heard her voice, the rest would be history.

That’s it! This agent needed to sample her singing.

After squeaking past the administrative assistant with another lie, Camille found herself on hold for an agent named John David McKinney. His biggest client to date had been featured in USA Today and appeared on one cable television show to speak of. He obviously had some connections but not enough to put him in the top tier. If he had any sense, he would realize that he needed Camille as much as she needed him.

Her stomach twisted with anticipation. What should she sing? What if he hung up on her? What if he had some kind of hearing problem and she messed up his hearing aid?

“John David here.”

Camille took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and belted out the same chorus she’d sung to the kids at the recreation center. She added a twist at the end—one of those Mariah Carey high notes, straight from her gut.

Then she waited. Three seconds had never been stretched so wide.

“Quite a range you’ve got there,” John David remarked.

“Thank you.” Camille could feel the blood rush to her face. “I need an agent to help me share my voice with the world.”

“You got a demo?”

“No.”

She heard a sigh on his end and figured she had better say something before she lost this live one. “But I can get one.”

“Have you worked in this industry at all? Seriously, a demo is your calling card.”

Camille explained her background, exaggerating the group’s fifteen minutes of fame into a half hour. She fabricated the CD sales figure, and ended with, “We parted due to artistic differences.” She’d read that somewhere online.

“So, basically, you had one hit song, some residual success on a second CD, and then the group split up because its members couldn’t get along,” John David surmised.

No sense in playing around with this man. “Right.”

“Then just say so. I’m a busy man, I don’t have time for games, but I do appreciate your boldness and I can’t deny your talent. Can you meet tomorrow? One o’clock?”

She smothered a squeal. “Yes.”

“Bring some headshots and a copy of your previous CD.”

“Okay.”

“And another thing,” John David added, “don’t ever lie to me or anyone on my team again.”

“Gotcha.”

Camille jumped on her bed like her momma hadn’t taught her any better. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she screamed.

Then, just like in her dream, she slipped off the corner. She landed straight on her butt and yowled in laughter. That hurt. In a good, funny way. Camille cracked up even more now as she rubbed her backside. “Shoot!”

Bang, bang, bang. Her downstairs neighbor communicated his dismay. Camille knocked on the floor and yelled, “Sorry.”

She couldn’t wait to move out of this apartment complex someday. Someday soon.