had been destroyed. She’d tried to contact her father – he’d moved back to Sweden and she hadn’t heard from him in years – but when she told him what had happened he showed little interest, and made it clear he had no intention of flying over for the funeral. It was left to Gerry to step into the breach, and he’d stayed by Jenna’s side 24/7 during the darkest times, knowing she had no one else. By his own admission he’d neglected his other artists, and at times he worried he’d totally overstepped his professional boundaries.
But they’d got through it. The tour had been cancelled and Jenna dropped out of the public eye for a while – some days she couldn’t even get it together enough to climb out of bed. But slowly, gradually, the old fire returned. When Jenna finally made her much-heralded comeback almost a year later, she was bigger and better than ever before. She’d cleaned up at the MTV Europe Awards, and now she wanted to record with Phoenix …
‘Look, there simply isn’t time,’ Gerry explained, his tone matter-of-fact. ‘Your entire schedule is manic for at least the next twelve months. We have magazine and TV interviews, promo appearances, photo shoots and live radio shows all booked. Then there’s the next tour to think about, a new album to record, maybe even a possible movie deal or fashion line to put your name to …’ Gerry looked at her pleadingly. ‘Can’t you see it’s just not possible for you to go swanning off to LA, not even for a few days? The schedule would kill you.’
Jenna smiled innocently, curling up in her chair like a cat. ‘What if it wasn’t in LA? What if I could get them to record in London? That way I could still—’
‘You won’t,’ Gerry cut her off.
‘But if—’
‘No, Jenna.’
Jenna simply nodded her head, keeping her gaze downcast as she distractedly pushed back her cuticles. ‘Okay,’ she shrugged easily. ‘Whatever you say.’
Gerry eyed her suspiciously, wondering where the temper tantrum was. The Jenna Jonsson he knew didn’t just back down like that – she would fight him every inch of the way. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her face, but Jenna just smiled sweetly back at him. Gerry scowled. He had a bad feeling about this.
On the other side of the Atlantic, in downtown Los Angeles, a similar argument was raging in Clive Goldman’s state-of-the-art office. Clive was the manager of Phoenix and, like Gerry King’s, his day wasn’t exactly going the way he’d planned it.
‘You told her what?’ he exploded, causing his already ruddy face to turn a veritable shade of purple. Nick ran his hands through his hair, messing up the artfully dishevelled look it had taken him forever to perfect that morning, and raised his hands in defence.
‘I just thought it could be good,’ he offered languidly, as he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on Clive’s $10,000 desk. ‘We were talking and the idea kind of … came up, y’know?’
‘No, Nick, I don’t know. And get your fucking dirty feet off my fucking Parnian desk!’ Clive’s voice got louder with every word.
‘Keep the noise down, would ya?’ Nick winced behind his sunglasses. ‘It was kind of a late one last night.’ His voice was rough, and he had the hangover from hell. He’d been welcomed back to LA by Courtney, some pretty little actress-model wannabe with a great rack and a very willing disposition.
‘Christ Nick, don’t you ever take anything seriously?’
‘You should chill out, Clive; everything’s good – you know what I’m saying? The sun is shining and the women are sweet …’
Clive inhaled sharply, trying to control his temper as he turned away from the band and crossed the sumptuous deep-pile carpet to the window. From the cluster of skyscrapers in Century City, the sprawling mass of LA spread out far below and the view extended as far as the mountains to the east. The sun was blazing, but it was early still and the smog hadn’t yet lifted, wreathing the city in its choking grasp. Clive saw none of this. Letting out a deep breath, he turned back to where the hottest band on the planet were lounging on his office sofas as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
‘Guys, I’m running a business here, not a fucking crèche,’ Clive pleaded. ‘Everything here is carefully planned – that is why it works. Phoenix are a business, a brand. Do you understand that?’
‘I guess,’ Nick shrugged, unconcerned.
‘What do you guys think?’ Clive turned to the rest of the band. He was well aware that Nick saw himself as God’s gift, and seemed to have got his dick in a twist about this hot little British chick, but he was pretty sure the others would see sense.
Zac and Ryan remained silent. Clive clenched his fists in triumph. Divide and conquer.
‘Come on guys, this could be amazing,’ Nick implored. ‘Jenna Jonsson is so hot right now, and we’ve gotta keep things fresh. Imagine, our first comeback song after Josh with Jenna on lead. No one would be expecting it.’
‘I guess it could be pretty awesome,’ Ryan suggested hesitantly. The bass player of the group, he was easily the quietest and enjoyed a much lower public profile than the rest of the band – which was exactly the way he wanted it. Fiercely private when it came to his home life, he’d married his childhood sweetheart three years ago, and already they’d produced two children. With his cropped brown hair, cute face and casual dress sense, he looked like the ultimate boy next door.
‘Zac? What about you?’ Clive asked in exasperation.
Zac said nothing, pressing his lips together in stony silence. It seemed clear he wasn’t in favour.
Clive looked smugly at Nick. ‘I can tell you one thing for nothing: this will never happen. I know Gerry King, and I know how he works. He’s setting up this girl as a serious solo artist – a major player, in it for the long haul. He doesn’t have time for her to be dabbling in some side project, and there’s no way in hell he’ll agree to this.’
Jenna’s gaze flicked quickly round the room as she peeped out from under her perfectly mascara-ed, impossibly long lashes. Her smile was unfaltering and effortlessly dazzling, expertly hiding her nerves as she took in the swathe of journalists packed into a function room at the Sanderson Hotel in central London. There must have been about 200 easily, Jenna thought with a pang of trepidation, taking a sip of water to clear her throat as Clive Goldman expertly fielded questions from the assembled press pack.
Performing for the cameras was Jenna’s natural arena, and she loved it, but she had to admit to feeling an uncomfortable squirming in her stomach. She was anxious for this collaboration to get off to the best possible start and knew that positive press coverage was vital. She just hoped she didn’t do anything to mess it up before they’d even got started.
Intent on charming the reporters, Jenna shifted slightly in her seat to what she felt must be a more flattering angle. She looked immaculate as always; her white Dolce & Gabbana jeans clung to the curved lines of her perfect rear, her long legs tapering down into dazzling jade-green heels. A brightly coloured Marc Jacobs halterneck completed the look, and showed off her toned, tanned arms and back. It was a young, fresh and funky image. Large gold hoops jangled at her ears as she shook her head slightly, throwing out her hair behind her and relaxing into the seat she had chosen between Nick Taylor and Zac Knight at the press conference table.
‘Philip White, BBC. Are there any plans for you all to tour together?’
