Page 36 of Your Rhythm
“That,” she tells me, “is the kind of article I want you to write.”
I balk. “It was in a tabloid.”
“That’s not the part I’m talking about,” she explains. “I want the style to be more sophisticated of course, but I want that same kind of controversy. I want something people will talk about. Take this band down if you have to. Find their flaws.”
What she’s saying makes sense. Anyone else reporting on Sherbrooke Station will be following the trend this article has set. People will want to know more. Painting Sherbrooke Station in a compromising light would be the most obvious way to go, and from what I’ve seen and heard so far, I know I could easily do it.
I think about watching Matt go crazy on stage, about the way he looked at me during the interview when he said how much music means to him, and I realize that what I’ve seen and heard has also made me unsure if undermining this band is what Iwantto do.
Not that any of that matters if I won’t be able to finish the story in the first place.
“Marie-France, I might have a problem,” I admit. “You know about my...history with Atlas Records. I don’t think they’d be too thrilled to know I’m doing a front page feature on their band. I’ve gone unnoticed so far, but the Atlas PR team is cracking down and now the only way to get to Sherbrooke Station is through them. I can’t see that going over well.”
“So don’t go through them.”
I stare, waiting for her to elaborate. She just stares back for a moment and then sighs, getting up to clap a hand down on my shoulder.
“You’re a smart girl. You’ll find another way. We need this story Kay, and we need it to be the best it can be.Quelque chose d’exclusif.”
She opens the office door.
“Vraiement, Marie-France?” I can’t help complaining. “That’s all you’ve got for me?”
“That’s all I’ve got,Mademoiselle Fischer. Now show me whatyou’vegot.”
Reluctantly, I get up from my chair and make my way back over to my desk. At a loss for what to do, I read Matt’s text over one more time. I was so busy freaking out about Atlas I hardly even took in the fact that he asked me to drinks.
The beginnings of an idea start to form. I need to get closer to Sherbrooke Station, and I have one of their band members literally asking if he can get closer to me. Suddenly I can see a light at the end of this dark tunnel, albeit a very morally dubious one.
No, Fischer,I warn myself.Do not go down that path.You have rules about that.
An image of me showing up at a shady bar to seduce Matt in heels and a trench coat with nothing underneath pops into my head. The fact that that’s my brain’s default definition of seduction should be proof enough it’s a bad idea.
I pack the thought away, my hand still hovering over the message. Strategic seduction might be off the table, but Matt and I have a connection. I can’t deny that anymore. The thought of being dependent on anyone—especially him—makes my skin crawl, but maybe if I suck it up and tell him I need help, there’s a chance he’ll be willing to give it.
* * *
I findMatt waiting outside the cafe on St. Laurent he mentioned. He’s leaning against the wall, wearing a deep green jacket over a pair of tight jeans, and straightens up when he sees me approaching.
“Look,” he says, pointing to my army jacket and dark blue skinnies, “we’re twins.”
“Right.” I bite my lip to hold back a grin.
Inside, the cafe is long and narrow, with dusky red walls and a musty, old bachelor kind of vibe. A few pairs of grey-haired men are sitting at tables with chess boards painted on them, eyes fixed to their games. Other than that we’re the only ones here.
“Hey, Roxanne,” Matt calls to the woman behind the counter.
Somehow she seems both strikingly out of place and like she fits in here perfectly all the same. She’s tall and graceful, her narrow waist hugged by a wrap top, dark strands of straight brown hair falling into her eyes. She looks like she could have stepped out of an old European film.
“Hey, Matt,” she replies. Her voice is tinged with a Quebecois accent. “?a va?”
“?a va. This is my friend, Kay.”
She dips her head at me and then asks what we’d like to drink. Matt orders a coffee spiked with Bailey’s and smirks at me when I get a large French vanilla with whipped cream on top.
“There’s that sweet tooth again,” he teases, as we take a seat at a table by the front windows. The chairs are basically antiques, and I can feel the hard wooden frame through the threadbare padding.
“Oh, shut up.” I set my drink down, running a finger up the side of the mug to catch some stray whipped cream before bringing it up to my mouth. I don’t miss the fact that Matt watches my lips from the corner of his eyes. “So you come here often? She knows your name and everything.”
