SOTD: Sleep To Dream by Fiona Apple
"The fuck is this?"
Michael Augbiny's willowy little assistant sat up straighter, clearly not expecting confrontation. "It would sell. You know it would." She took a bite of her sparse dinner, looking about the restaurant to avoid the eyes of those around the table.
Sylvie highly doubted that.
"If Sylvie says no, then no. End of story," said Meg, crossing her arms. Her hands were shaking — for all the flack she gave her friends, you'd think she'd have no problem speaking up to superiors.
"We make concessions for your sake, Sylvie. Lots of them. I just don't get why you have a problem with this. You're young, you've got assets-" said Augbiny, enunciating the 'ass', "-so why not take advantage of them?"
"Don't make comments like that about her," said Meg, under her breath. Augbiny rolled his eyes.
The new head producer, Heath Grant-Metin, raised his hand. "Let Sylvie speak for herself." Metin had previously worked with popular new acts, such as Avril Lavigne and Green Day. His hiring was the label's decision, based on the meteoric success of Evanescence's Fallen a year ago, which he personally had a hand in mixing.
The concept art for a cover was in Sylvie's hands. There were a few preliminary sketches, some rough, others polished. Among them, there was one thing in common — they all featured her in a state of semi-nudity. Some had her erotically caressing or pressing her mouth to the barrel of a shotgun. The label clearly thought the image of Sylvie's breasts, barely concealed, was a necessary element to ensure success. If that wasn't insulting enough, each design incorporated some way of hiding her stomach, arms and legs, knowing they didn't fit the conventionally attractive bill.
It wasn't that she had a problem with the idea itself. She wasn't her parents, she believed in a woman's right to express her own sexuality. But her sexuality and Wildwood didn't mix; Wildwood was her baby, her art, her greatest achievement. It was a way of purging tender feelings by sending them out into the world.
Perhaps it was fate, or divine punishment. Wildwood would never have succeeded if not for the careless — no, downright improper — use of her body.
Like any artist, Sylvie knew she would trade anything for the sake of her art. She just didn't want it to be like this, to be reduced (again) to a walking sex object. Wildwood was more — she was more. It wounded her already fragile pride. And yet, simultaneously, it felt well deserved.
"She can't be talked into it. Trust me," said Farrah, taking a sip from her wine glass. Yosef nodded in agreement. A moment ago, he had been proudly showing pictures of his daughter to anyone who would listen; he had a whole roll of them in his wallet.
If Julian were here, he would be making demands like an autocrat. Sylvie could imagine him now, leaning back in his chair with a cigarette between his lips and a beer in his hand, doing everything in his power to get his way. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
And then a new wave of irritation surfaced. Julian was, as usual, in another city. The Strokes were booked up for the next few months, while Wildwood was stuck in New York, bickering with management like children.
Sylvie beckoned over a waiter, ordering herself another glass of wine, which earned her two stern looks. One was from Meg, who thought public drunkenness was uncouth. The other was from Farrah, who disapproved of the way alcohol would affect Sylvie's figure. Sylvie ignored them both. She picked off her last flecks of nail polish and listened to the clinking of piano keys across the restaurant, where an elderly man sat playing a gentle rhythm. If Julian were here, he'd be able to recognize the pianist's fugue. He had a weirdly good ear for those things.
Sylvie didn't like how frustrated Julian's absence made her. She knew that it would almost constantly be the case — they both had busy careers and lives that would seldom be able to mix in the foreseeable future; Julian especially.
He didn't have time for her, and clearly didn't care to make it.
The thought hit her suddenly; try as she might, things between them would likely never go very far. She took a long gulp, nearly emptying her wine glass. A slight, comfortable dizziness made its way to the top of her head. Farrah and Augbiny were leaning into each other, whispering conspiratorially.
When nobody was looking, Brian offered to swap his own full glass for Sylvie's, patting her on the shoulder. She refused. From the looks of things, he'd be needing it. Rowan had been yammering on and on about moving in with Vera after only three months of dating. Brian had pretended not to care. Sylvie and Meg had seen right through it; he was a terrible actor. The way he'd stabbed his steak, you'd think it owed him money. Sylvie did not ask after Ocean.
"Right," announced Farrah, "We've come to an agreement." Her grin was wide, her shoulders held high. Whatever she and Augbiny had come up with was clearly the best idea in all of human history. "It won't be you on the cover, Sylvie. We'll just hire a model. That way we have more freedom in regards to how we pose her."
"So tasteless," Meg sniffed.
Augbiny took a bite, savoring his words as much as the food he was eating. "Well, Ms. MacDougal, we at Avian don't think so. And we do get final say — it's written in your contract." His tone brokered no room for argument.
Sylvie remembered what she had done to get them that contract. She was glad she'd already finished her own meal, or else she'd have lost her appetite.
The elderly pianist had stopped playing, sorting through the bills he'd collected in his hat. His wrinkled face sagged in disappointment. Whatever he'd earned was obviously not as much as he'd hoped for.
Standing up, Sylvie set her napkin on the table, taking her small clutch purse with her. She strode up to the old man. "Do you accept requests?" she inquired timidly, clasping a stray lock of hair.
"Certainly. What would the young lady like to hear?"
She remembered Julian telling her about his favorite classical pieces and asked for one of them. While the old man was busy rifling through sheet music, she took a $100 bill from her clutch and slipped it into the hat, making sure he wouldn't see. Julian was right; the song was lovely.
Feeling a bit less cross, she slipped back into her chair, ready to get the check and take off. There was a bit of spinach stuck in Augbiny's teeth. She almost pointed it out, but decided it was funnier to leave it be.