Page 11 of Fa-La La-La Land
“I wrote a song with the same title,” he says, his voice low and bitter. “Label rewrote the lyrics—turned it into a cheesy pop hit I’d be happy never to sing again. Don’t think anyone expected it to become the earworm it did, even with VibeHouse’s massive marketing push.” The tension in his shoulders is tight enough to hum. No wonder he snapped on stage.
“I didn’t know that,” I say softly.
“Nobody does.” He takes another sip of coffee, the bitterness in his tone now replaced by something quieter. Regret, maybe.
“Why not?”
“I’m contractually obligated to keep that story to myself.” His eyes wrinkle above his devastating smirk, and for a second, the Rhys James across from me looks like the actor and singer I crushed on for most of my teens. “If you tell anyone, I’ll have to deny everything.”
“Hmm. Too bad. That would add a personal element to this,”—I gesture toward him—“persona you’re committed to.”
“Tell that to the label,” he teases back. “Actually, don’t. I’ll owe them my firstborn if they think I’ve said a word about thereal‘Fa-La La-La Land.’” He uses air quotes, his grin turning wry.
“Got it.” Usually sarcasm turns me off, but on him it’s somehow charming. Like a glimpse beneath the armor.
“But this brings us back to the story youdowant to tell,” I remind him.
Rhys tugs on the brim of his ridiculous bucket hat. “The label wants the same story we’ve always told. The one that’s always worked. I’m the easygoing guy who sings happy songs that make people smile and shell out money to hear more of them.”
“Really?” I arch an eyebrow. I might suspend reality for Santa Claus, but now that I know Rhys, he’s anything but easygoing.
“Danny and VibeHouse built that version of me,” he says with a quiet scoff. “It sells tickets. Doesn’t mean it’s true. But truth doesn’t matter much in this business, so I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“You always have a choice, Rhys.”
He exhales, a dry laugh catching on the way out. “Says the girl from a blip on the map called Paradise. This is LA, Stella. The industry’s a machine, and I’m just another cog.”
The front door opens, and a line of people pours in. Rhys glances over his shoulder, then pulls his hat lower and slides on his sunglasses. “I’ve gotta run. Let me know how it goes today with VibeHouse, yeah?”
He keeps his head down as he moves toward the counter, squeezing between customers to slip out the back door. Acouple of girls dressed head to toe in Lulu crane their necks to watch him go.
“Was that Rhys James?” one of them says to the other, who’s already pulling her toward the door, their identical high, tight ponytails swinging behind them.
I smile, knowing I would have done the same thing when I was their age if I’d seen Rhys James in public.
But as they run out the door, one of the girls holds up her phone and presses record. “It’s Maddie and Lola live! We just spotted Rhys James in Frothed looking completely unhinged!”
I miss the rest as the door closes behind them. I pick up my coffee, then set it back down, my heart tugging in a way I didn’t expect. For the first time since meeting him, I think I understand why Rhys isn’t the happy guy off stage that he seems to be when he’s performing. I’ve always seen his smile, but now, I see what it’s cost him not to keep it plastered on at all times.
No wonder he’s tired and perpetually in a bad mood. He must be exhausted, playing a part night and day to keep fans happy.
I have no idea who the real Rhys James is, and I’m not sure he does either, but he’s going to have to find that truth before I can tell his story. I won’t sell a lie. Not about him. And not about the fantasy version of him I wish was real.
Chapter Five
Rhys
Ibarely make it to my car before a couple of girls bolt out of the coffee shop, phones up, ready to snap photos. I gun it out of the back car park, keeping my head low and hidden behind the sun visor as I pull onto the main road. I’m in such a mad rush, I cut off the car behind me. I’d give a quick wave to say sorry, but I’m too worried the driver’ll recognize me and want a photo too.
This has to stop. Not only the constant hassling from people who seem desperate to catch me out, but the fear that anyone I make eye contact with could be a former fan-turned online troll. Or worse—someone hoping to go viral with a dodgy candid of me looking wrecked. I don’t even know what the endgame is there. Do they want the same fame they reckon has turned me into a massive arse?
If they do, good luck to them. They’ll find out soon enough that fame’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Still, I’ve got more respect for them than for the vultures flogging photos of me for cash.
My blowup at Lumen Field was so out of character thathalf the online mags are running “Find the Real Rhys” campaigns. They reckon they’re going to expose who I truly am. Not sure how they think they’ll manage that when I haven’t even figured it out myself.
Maybe Iamthe bloke who skips around on stage, smiling like life’s perfect while I sing songs about sunshine and happy endings. Maybe I’m just in a slump, like Danny keeps telling me. I don’t know.
What Idoknow is that I’m not the guy who lost it and refused to sing the song that made him famous. That’s not me. I don’t lose my temper like that. I don’t even know what came over me that night. Everything suddenly hit at once: the pressure, the pretending, the worry about who I’ll be if it all disappears.
