This Bird Has Flown: A Novel
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Synopsis
A delightfully funny and steamy debut novel about music, fate, redemption, and love from beloved songwriter and Bangles co-founder Susanna Hoffs that is "part British romcom, part Jane Eyre, and one hundred percent enjoyable" (Tom Perrotta).
"A total knockout . . . The smart, ferocious rock-star redemption romance you didn’t know you needed." —New York Times Book Review
But when her longtime manager Pippa sends Jane to London to regroup, she’s seated next to an intriguing stranger on the flight—the other Tom Hardy, an elegantly handsome Oxford professor of literature. Jane is instantly smitten by Tom, and soon, truly inspired. But it’s not Jane’s past alone that haunts her second chance at stardom, and at love. Is Tom all that he seems? And can Jane emerge from the shadow of Jonesy's earlier hit, and into the light of her own?
In turns deeply sexy, riotously funny, and utterly joyful, This Bird Has Flown explores love, passion, and the ghosts of our past, and offers a glimpse inside the music business that could only come from beloved songwriter Susanna Hoffs.
"In this sexy, page-turning treat, Susanna Hoffs writes as engagingly as she sings.” —Helen Fielding, author of the bestselling sensation Bridget Jones’s Diary
“A little bit romance, a little bit rock-and-roll—this isn’t just a book, it’s a love song.”―Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
“Satisfied the part of me that loves a hot rock-and-roll romance as well as the part that loves a tender love story . . . such a fun read.” —Jasmine Guillory, New York Times bestselling author of Drunk on Love
Release date: April 4, 2023
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Print pages: 369
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This Bird Has Flown: A Novel
Susanna Hoffs
elevators are like life, when you think about it: You’re either going up or going down. I was dressed like a whore and descending fast, alone, for a “private” in Las Vegas I should never have agreed to. There’s always something a bit creepy about privates. But I was desperate. For so many reasons. If only my luck would change, and this would be the last dodgy gig I’d have to face for a while.
I was wearing a tiny scrap of fabric posing as a dress, half-hidden beneath my ex-boyfriend’s vintage cardigan, the one possession I’d pinched, for sentimental reasons, when he’d left me for a twenty-three-year-old lingerie model. Two months ago.
Don’t you dare cry. Not about him, not about this, not now.
I caught sight of myself reflected in the mirrored doors and flinched. Who the hell is that? Oh right. It’s her. She dances, she sings, she entertains.
“Hang in there,” I murmured, rallying. “You can do this. A gig is a gig is a gig. The show must go on!”
The doors slid open on Mezzanine, and Pippa appeared in silhouette, late-afternoon sun flooding in from an outlandish wall of glass, creating the impression of a shimmering halo above her tousled blond hair. Pippa, my angel, best friend, and manager, who’d winged all the way from London to rescue me from despair.
Our reunion was cut short by a commotion in the corridor. Pippa seemed to vaporize in a blast of white light, and I was knocked back by a warm body barreling blindly, and rather rudely, into the elevator, and me.
“Sorry! God, so sorry,” said a richly resonant, Australian-accented voice. Two clumsy hands on my shoulders steadied me, and the warmth of them, the weight, sent an unexpected ripple through me. I peered up, caught the flash of a smile (apologetic) and the sweep of long hair (dark and glossy), and was locking eyes with a pair of big blue sparkly ones when Pippa reached in and plucked me from the elevator.
Hello, goodbye, I thought, as the elevator doors slid shut and he vanished in some terrible sleight-of-hand trick. His eyes had been so encouraging, his smile so profoundly sunny, that I experienced something I hadn’t since Alex, my partner of four years, had confessed to cheating with Jessica: a faint stirring, something resembling optimism.
Pippa came back into focus. “That was All Love.” She grinned, grabbing the handle of my roller bag, click-clacking ahead down the long corridor in her strappy heels.
I raced to catch up, glimpsing a preposterous imitation Eiffel Tower rippling in the heat mirage beyond the windows.
“What do you mean, that was all love?”
“Pop duo, from Australia, in the elevator,” she said.
“Duo?” I’d only noticed the one.
“Brothers. Aren’t they gorgeous? Playing tomorrow night at the arena next door. You have been living under a rock.” Pippa shot me a look, brushing back perfect bangs. Her doll-like features lent her a striking resemblance to a
oung Marianne Faithfull.
Honestly, Pippa had pulled off a miracle getting me this gig. It’d been years since I’d done a show. She knew I needed the money. I was living with my parents again, which at thirty-three was a demoralizing last resort.
And I was there…the sagging twin bed…dust motes dancing over four garbage bags I hadn’t the will to sift through…all that remained of my life with…
“How have you not heard of All Love?” Pippa quipped, amused, incredulous. “They’re massive.”
I had been living under a rock. She was right. That’s how I’d missed Alex philandering, for months. My stomach plunged. How could I have been so clueless? And he, so heartless.
“This is us, darling, just in time for a quick sound check.” We screeched to a halt before a pair of mysterious red leather doors. “God, I’ve missed you,” she said. “This will take your mind off Alex, surely. Doing what you do best, in front of an adoring audience.”
“Exactly.” I forced a smile. Lie. I had zero confidence that I’d be good, that the audience would even remember who I was, or that it could possibly take my mind off him.
Pippa beamed and hugged me again. Fake it till you make it. Over her shoulder, off in the sunlit distance, I glimpsed hotel security rounding up a gaggle of fluttery All Love fangirls still loitering by the elevator.
The deserted events room where I was to perform for the bachelor party was a womb of crushed red velvet throbbing in faux candlelight. The decor reached for old-fashioned speakeasy: tufted banquettes, laminate dance floor, quaint cabaret stage—strangely bereft of instruments or musicians.
“Bloody hell,” Pippa exhaled, joining me at the bar, back from a quick managerial tête-à-tête with one of the party planners. She pushed a Red Bull into my hand. “Turns out they didn’t secure the pickup band. I’m livid, had it out with them.”
I had to admit, this
was a relief; no slight on pickup bands, it’s just that I’d never played with one. When I was riding the momentum of my hit ten years ago, I’d toured properly. Back then, I could afford to pay musicians, and they were the best, my dear friends Alastair and James, who played bass and drums, respectively. If only I could beam them here from London. The thought of playing with complete strangers was unsettling. The equivalent of being set up on a blind date. And how often do those go well?
I glanced back at the empty stage. “Honestly, I’d prefer to play the set acoustic. But wait, there’s not even a guitar—”
“No,” she burst out, then plastered on a tense, conciliatory smile. “How do I put this? They suddenly prefer you ‘sing to track.’” She released the air quotes and let her arms fall slack to her sides.
“Wait—what? But I’ve never ever done that.”
“Because it’s rubbish and pathetic, yes I know,” she groaned.
I took a moment to process, tasting bile. Was it left over from the white-knuckle flight here, or some chemical response to relationship apocalypse? Or was it merely the thought of singing to track? I probably shouldn’t risk the Red Bull, given my nerves. Unless I could get some vodka to go with it, which I probably shouldn’t risk either. Fuck. How long had it been since I’d played a show? The fact that I couldn’t quite remember—my stomach lurched again. Two years? The (sparsely attended) little club run. Could it have been that long? Had I disappeared so entirely into Alex’s world since then?
“And there’s more,” Pippa said bleakly. “Per the party planner they really only need the one song, which of course translates to, they only want the one song…and after you prepared a proper set.” She grimaced.
“Okay,” I said, slowly, processing. “Sooo I rehearsed, slapped on a perverse amount of the old greasepaint, squeezed myself into this slutty dress, and nearly died on what I suspect was a decommissioned Aeroflot jet, to sing ‘the one song.’ To track. In Vegas.”
Pippa was well aware of my fear of flying. “In a word, yes. Sorry. Fuck.” She slumped, arms crossed, into a chair.
“Okay, yeah, right. No, it’s all good,” I assured her, surfing a fresh wave of nausea. “Really. I was just—confirming. A gig! Finally, at long last! I’m super grateful. And also, I love you.”
Pippa sighed. “I love you too. This is not how I wanted this to go. But I thought, it’s a job! The pay’s good, and honestly it was a chance to see you after so long. And after everything, with…that fuckwit whose name I re
fuse to utter going forward,” she added gently. “But on the bright side, this way, you’re in, you’re out! And rest assured, you are the only musical act!”
The red leather doors burst open, and a gorgeous statuesque woman in platform heels, wearing only a skimpy silk robe and glowing in backlight, surveyed the room.
“Well, that’s a consolation,” I said, taking her in. Pippa grimaced, mortified. Managers have the worst job. Whatever can go wrong will. But Pippa had had her share of triumphs, too—take Ol’ Leopard Pants. Over the past decade Pippa had rebuilt his career as a legendary guitarist and solo artist despite his 1970s band the Rebel Knaves calling it quits. I knew she’d gotten him back on his feet in more ways than one. This wasn’t merely a paycheck for her, she was all in. A true lover of music, and those of us who made it.
A woman after my own heart. I was lucky she was still with me.
“I’m joking,” I reassured her as the woman swept past us, her miles of bare leg oiled with bronzer. I pictured her hours from now, scrubbing it off—another white washcloth bites the dust. The lengths we go to look “alluring.” I gave the hem of my skimpy dress a reflexive down-tug and darted the woman a clenched smile of solidarity; she winked gaily back and parked her roller bag beside mine as one of the party planners set gift bags labeled What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas across the gleaming bartop. My sentiments exactly. But I was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this gig.
“You do look a bit green about the gills,” Pippa murmured, leaning close, her features
distorted, like I was seeing her through a wide-angle lens. “Oh dear. Let me see if I can’t rustle up a sandwich or some crisps for you.” She snatched a menu off the bar, and the color drained from her face.
I plucked it from her. A “menu” for the evening’s “Entertainments.” Beneath “Appetizer” was my name, alongside a screen capture from my old video for the hit song, in which I’m wearing a burlesque outfit and pink wig, perched at the edge of a chair with my legs, regrettably, spread. Not again. The embarrassing default photo. But it was meant to be an homage to Bob Fosse’s choreography in Cabaret, mashed up with Sharon Stone’s controversial “moment” in Basic Instinct! And the wig had seemed the appropriate iconography for the video’s quasi-feminist statement about sexuality in post-1960s American cinema. I’d written a paper about it at Columbia! It was intended to be empowering.
In retrospect, it was delusional of me to think the video would ever come off as anything other than a chance for another scantily clad musician to shake her ass. Not that there was anything wrong with that. I was body positive! I was for shaking one’s ass where and when one chose to shake it! And, I supposed it was better to have been reduced to the .gif of that moment than to have had no moment at all.
“This has been an utter cock-up. My fault entirely. You ought to fire me,” Pippa said, miserably, as we hovered in the wings backstage.
She was being facetious. The truth was, I was her charity case. The only reason I could fathom that Pippa had kept me on as a management client was that she actually believed in me as an artist. This thought made my throat tighten.
“But if you do fire me?” she said, her brow sweetly furrowed. “Promise me we’ll go on as friends?”
My darling Pippa. Her face killed me. It did. I was somewhere between nervously laughing and crying. Closer to crying.
“Don’t be silly,” I said, waving her off.
“Okay, good,” she exhaled, resetting.
And even bona fide rock stars do privates, I rationalized, it’s just not spoken of publicly when a superstar plays a billionaire’s birthday party on some exclusive island for an astronomical fee. This was definitely at the other end of the spectrum, but I desperately needed the dough. The pay tonight would mean a deposit on an apartment, and a couple months’ rent, a chance to make another artsy record, even if no one bothered to listen to it. It would matter to me. If I could ever write another song again, that is.
How had I ended up here? I stole a glance through a break in the curtains. There was no turning back. The party had indeed started. Rowdy frat-bro types crowded onto the dance floor awaiting my performance. Hopefully they were already intoxicated and the memory of this would be one of the things that stayed in Vegas. Also, the slapdash sandwich and vodka Red Bull were starting to take effect nicely.
“This is so bleak it’s a
ctually funny, right?”
“Hilarious,” Pippa said.
“Will make for a charming party anecdote someday,” I said.
“Exactly,” she said. “And once you’re done, I whisk you away to Nobu, where we will fill up on delights and drink ourselves silly. On me.”
We let a moment pass, absorbing the cacophony.
“So, I look like a whore, and also officially am one,” I said wryly, rallying.
“Pretty much.” Pippa’s deadpan gave way to a familiar mischievous grin.
I thought, Just hang in there. This will be over quick. Like when you’ve got your legs spread in the gynecologist’s stirrups and the doctor says, mere inches from your crotch: Relax. Just a little pressure and we’re done.
A frenzied-looking stage manager rushed over. He gave me a reproving look and ushered Pippa into the shadows. Almost instantly she was getting in his face. I could just make out “Outrageous. Jane Start is an artist. What do you take me for? A pimp?”
Pippa returned dangling a Party City bag between thumb and index fingers like it was toxic. She bit her lip and sheepishly withdrew—
No. Way. A hot pink wig.
“Requested most emphatically by the bachelor. Feel free to reject this final degradation.” She was genuinely forlorn; I couldn’t bear it.
“The perfect button for my party anecdote.” I faked a smile and whisked it from her.
“Drinks. Nobu. Very soon,” she said, scrambling to tuck my hair into the wig.
And with great solemnity, she placed a wireless microphone into my hand. I winced down at it. I wasn’t a talk show host, for Christ’s sake—or giving a Ted Talk, although then it would be one of those Silicon Valley headset things, even worse. If only I’d had my guitar, and a mic on a proper mic stand.
I locked eyes with Pippa and a shiver tore through me, alongside a thought I’d been suppressing all night. This is what happens when you cover a song by Jonesy. Nothing else you ever do will ever compare. It was patently true; my success was inextricably tied to his brilliant song. It began
and ended there. Everything I’d written and recorded since had flopped. And there had been that moment, ten years ago, when Jonesy had wanted to sign me to his label, and produce my next record. I’d felt relieved when it had fallen through—a desire for autonomy, creatively, and a sneaking suspicion that nothing with Jonesy was ever simple—but now, here I was.
Had I been my own worst enemy? Had I chosen the wrong path? Why did I still believe that I could write songs? That I had something meaningful to say?
It was official: This was a moment of reckoning. At the ripe old age of thirty-three, I was an over-the-hill one-hit wonder—and now, it seemed, a “Vegas entertainer” who “did” bachelor parties.
Pippa was reading my mind—I knew she was, I saw it reflected in her eyes as clear as the glint of a murderer’s knife in a Hitchcock film. A wave of panic rose up in me, steep and sharp, a funereal thud, drumming in my ears—and I clawed for a rescue song. Wayne Newton’s “Danke Schoen” began to oompah calmingly, ironically, inside my head.
Danke schoen, darling, Danke schoen, thank you for…all the joy and pain…
And just then, the opening strains of my hit began to swell through the sound system. Showtime! I would earn my money and rally! Nothing in this world could destroy my love for Jonesy’s song. But my heart leapt to my throat—it wasn’t my track pealing from the speakers. It was a horrible, cheesy karaoke version…
Pippa gaped at me,
mortified, but I had only enough time to gag back the rest of my vodka Red Bull before a hot white spotlight snapped on, center stage.
I tumbled out into blinding brightness, stark and unforgiving, catching blurred glimpses of the sweaty faces of the audience as they slam-danced, crashing into one another like football players in slow-motion playback. They’d come here to have fun and I would give them that, even singing to a shitty karaoke track, even without a guitar to clutch for dear life.
I closed my eyes. I thought only of singing. I would stay in the unfolding present tense, in the meditation of singing. I would leave no room for stage fright or humiliation, no room for imposter syndrome or for Alex’s rejection—I would think only of this melody, which felt grand in my throat, slipping silkily from my lips. What a thrill it had been, to reinvent this song, to sing it all these years! Thank you, Jonesy, for writing this song. And how did a person not dance to this groove, not move their hips, not give ’em the old rock ’n’ roll hair flip, even while holding a Party City wig in place?
The high note was coming—it was coming coming coming and I would not fear it. I would conjure the old driving analogy and prepare myself…I would keep my hands steady but relaxed on the wheel…I would travel the road map of the song’s melody to its final steep ascent and liberate the note from its shelter deep within me. And when it sailed out, clear and bright and free, it was as if it didn’t belong to me at all, but to everyone else, and I thought, My work here is done.
Fifteen minutes later, Pippa and I hovered in a dark corner of the bar. She slid a glass of champagne to me and tossed back an agitated gulp of her own.
“Jane, seriously, you sounded brilliant. Despite the circumstances.” She gave an apologetic sigh and studied my face. I knew she meant beyond me having to karaoke the song. She meant Alex. Living with my parents again. My intractable writer’s block.
“Honestly, I forget how good you are, but then you’re singing, and your voice is clear, bright as a bell, and all at once, you sound husky and soulful—”
“Stop,” I insisted, embarrassed.
“You did. Trust me. I told them they could sod off about the meet and greet,” she said, giving her hair a defiant shake. “The bachelor requested photos with you, in the wig. What would he ask for next? A lap dance?”
I should never have done that video.
Pippa straightened, reading my thoughts. “I’ll get the money now, shall I?” she said, batting her eyes.
Oh, how I’d missed her.
We clinked, knocked back our drinks, and she slipped off in search of the party planner. I was left to watch the drunken musclemen horsing around, to convince myself this had all been an edifying anthropological study. They didn’t notice me, sans wig, tarty dress concealed beneath my ex’s frumpy cardigan—small and obscure, no longer elev
ated by a stage. So, I’d humiliated myself while they leered through their cell phones, filming. Definitely a first world problem, I thought, and I suppose everything is relative, even reaching one’s personal nadir, with video proof. But Pippa was on her way back, waving the check triumphantly over her head, and I thought, I will get creative again. I’ll prove to Pippa, to myself, I have more in me—future songs waiting to be written, to be sung.
After my sophomore record had been a commercial flop, seven years ago, the record label unceremoniously dropped me; it felt like a death, but more shameful. I’d hardly released new music since, apart from a couple of songs for Alex’s early, low-budget films, during our first few years together. Rather than write my way out of my slump, I’d lost faith, and distracted myself with Alex, helping him restore his first home, a midcentury modern at the top of Mulholland, courtesy of his mother’s trust fund. Soon, I’d disappeared into his close-knit coterie of friends, believing they were mine too. There were Scrabble nights, pub crawls, weekends in Joshua Tree. Double features at the New Beverly Cinema. But all that had vanished after Alex had cast Jessica in his upcoming production. The loss of the life we’d built together was bewildering. Crushing. The truth was, I missed him, desperately, and all the years I’d thought we were headed toward something more—
Deafening EDM music swelled through the sound system and Pippa sidled back up. The cabaret stage flooded with light as an enormous layer cake was wheeled out. The audience stilled for only a moment before a dancer burst forth. Something glittery sailed over the heads of the men and crash-landed onto the bar.
“I hope that wasn’t her—” I was shouting into Pippa’s ear when the next undergarment smacked me right in the face, and it was warm. We gaped down at the beer-sticky floor, where a sequined thong glimmered. Pippa grabbed my arm, in solidarity, but then her eyes widened at something behind me.
Not something. Somebody. Sparkly Eyes, from the elevator, was inches away. Alongside him was the other half of the duo, his brother. They both resembled Disney princes, with oversized features, Bambi eyelashes, dark flowing hair. No wonder teenage girls stalked them in hotels.
“Let’s get outta here
,” he said, his lips grazing my earlobe, his voice unpredictably deep and plush.
I flashed on Alex, how our legs had tangled, propped on his white Corian coffee table late into the night. The jeweled lights of the San Fernando Valley scintillating beyond seamless right angles of glass. Home.
Not anymore. My throat tightened.
“I’m Alfie,” the Pop Star beamed.
Of course you are. And I thought: Why not? He sparkled. He asked. And his name was Alfie. What’s it all about, Alfie? I kind of wanted to know.
Besides, I’d just been smacked in the face with a G-string, which, when I thought about it, only perfected my future party anecdote. One could argue, things were looking up.
I slugged back the rest of my drink, surveying his face. It was a very nice face indeed. When the younger Disney prince moseyed up to Pippa, she blushed and darted me a look.
“Sure. What’s stopping us?” I said to Alfie, over the din.
He smiled, extended an elbow, and I slung my arm through.
it began with a cozy dinner at Nobu, in which the Lloyd brothers, Nick (the younger) and Alfie (the senior by a year), proved to be compelling company. They were both warm conversationalists, cheeky and clever and worldly beyond their years, and surprisingly persuasive.
Now outside, at the curb, Nick Lloyd was taking backwards steps toward an open limo door, gently towing Pippa with him, the rainbow neon of the Strip softly throbbing, receding in the vanishing distance.
They were insisting we take a drive with them, out into the desert; the night, according to them, was “still young,” and I thought, What a hopeful statement. Still young. And hope…was precisely what I needed. Not to mention, they’d organized champagne. I was beginning to feel human again. I could think of no reason why two young men and two women, of a certain age, shouldn’t have an adventure. Viva Las Vegas.
Pippa wasn’t exactly resisting. I cast a sideways glance at Alfie. He smiled, gorgeously.
I reminded myself I should be sensible. Head back to the room. Raid the minibar. Shove chocolate mindlessly into my mouth while doing normal, prosaic things like stalking my ex-partner’s Instagram and dissolving into tears at the sight of hot Jessica, my replacement. It was only a matter of time before Alex realized his mistake. I’d never been surer of anything.
Nick whistled from inside the limo, Pippa snuggled up close. She shot me a crazy-eyed, indecipherable grin through the door. She’d flown all the way to Sin City for me. I couldn’t exactly ditch her now, could I?
Pippa, Nick, Alfie, me, in that order in the back seat of the limo. We were somewhere on the outskirts of Vegas, and some amount of time had passed. Empty champagne bottles clinked at our feet. Out the windows were lunar landscapes, jaundiced moonlight, and sand sweeping over the pavement like surf. Crazy gusts of wind made the car weave a little, or maybe that was just me.
“My brother was crushing on you big time—when he was like thir-deen or something,” Nick was saying. Turns out Nick and Alfie had slipped into the bachelor party and witnessed my entire karaoke performance from the back of the room.
And what was with the incongruously deep voice? Both boys had it. Must be an Aussie thing.
Nick swung his arm smoothly around Pippa, and she didn’t ruffle. If she’s thirty-nine and he’s twenty-two…Technically she was old enough to be his “mum.” Ooh la la.
Now Alfie was wrapping his arm around me. Thirty-three minus twenty-three was not as bad, but still, the smart thing to do was to politely wiggle free. But he was so nice and toasty, so nice and firm, and so nice generally. He offered me a sip from a fresh bottle. I shouldn’t. Really.
“Very kind of you.” I took a swig, simply to be polite. He smiled sweetly back…People who
need people…are the luckiest people…I stole a quick glance past him to Nick, resting his free hand on Pippa’s thigh, her head lolling onto his shoulder. I wasn’t used to seeing Pippa like this, sort of unfurled.
“You sound exactly the same, brilliant,” Alfie murmured. “And you still wear the wig when you sing. Like in the video.”
Not if I can help it. I wanted to explain but his face had suddenly found its way to my neck, and before I managed to extract myself, his lips parted into a smile on my skin and just stayed there—ping, a sizzle of sensation darted like an arrow down the length of my body. But not painful. Definitely not painful.
I snuck a manic glance in Pippa’s direction. She was now somehow sloppily entwined with Nick, who appeared very much in lust with her and her voluptuous curves. Could you blame him?
“I’ll have you know,” she said over the top of his head, “I’ve been looking after Jane Start since the very beginning. You could even say I discovered her, fresh out of uni and singing in a wee coffeehouse. And I think, Jane, you’ll back me up on this, but I was the one to insist you release the video, when you had your doubts—mmm,” she trailed off, distracted.
“And I’ll never live it down,” I said, but no one was really listening. Oh, never mind. I felt myself dissolving into the sensation of Alfie grazing my neck… which was so very wrong, for so very many reasons. Exactly. I would not entertain the notion of letting this, whatever this was, mmm, go on, mmm, one, second, longer.
Ding!
“Sorry,” I said, disengaging to dig out my phone. Saved by the bell. I waved the screen in his face for clarity, but it only illuminated his adorableness in the dark. “Just need to quickly check.”
Alex Altman: Hey Jane. I know I’m not supposed to be contacting you. Sorry, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. I don’t know how else to say it. Jessica and I are getting married. Really sorry, Jane. I truly am.
Alfie’s hotel room resembled mine, simple and modern, lots of white laminate surfaces, t
he odd pop of the old Eames color palette in a pillow here and a throw blanket there—but his was the size of an apartment, with a snazzy open floor plan and wraparound views. So this was where they put the high rollers—the current chart-topping pop stars. It was, frankly, extravagant beyond anything I’d experienced during my fifteen minutes.
I fixed my gaze on an acoustic guitar leaned quietly at the foot of the bed, mostly to distract myself from the other thoughts I was suddenly having. What good is sitting alone in your room?
“Teach me your song?” Alfie said.
I craned back, thrown. Our eyes met. “O-kay,” I conceded.
He smiled, adorably.
Shit. Now look what you’ve gotten yourself into. Alfie was a fellow musician, a world-famous pop star no less. The fact is, it’s more nerve-racking to sing for one person you kind of know than a sea of people you don’t.
Thus came the insistent time-step of my infuriating heart as I perched at the foot of his bed with his guitar, and with a reticent flip of an internal switch, I toggled from me, human, to me, human who sings, and started in playing “Can’t You See I Want You,” grateful the champagne had softened the edges.
“That’s so good.” Alfie beamed, once the final chord had rung out. “I’ve always loved your song.”
Here we go. “It’s not actually my song. I mean, I didn’t write it. It’s a cover, of a Jonesy song.”
“You’re joking.” He cinched his brow, in earnest.
“Nope. ...
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