“Listen, Rob. I’m the Editor-in-fucking-Chief of Rolling Stone, thinking that I don’t have the chops to do this job is ludacris. So why don’t you just come out and say what the real problem is, which is that you don’t want the host of what I’m sure will become your network’s biggest show to be someone who has tits.” Odette St. Denis leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. Across the glossy conference table sat Robert MacMahon, flanked by a team of lawyers and producers. No one sat beside Odette.
At this point, she was fed up. She’d spent the better part of the past year interviewing for Robert MacMahon’s soon-to-be-produced music-centered late-night show. She’d been the only woman among a pool of music critics, journalists, and former rockstars who’d been roped into the process. Unlike the other applicants, though, she’d taken a large role in shaping what the program would become. When Robert’s team first presented the idea it was a one-line pitch: weekend music show. Odette had taken that broad idea and whittled it into something concrete. She was the one who suggested the host do an opening monologue. She told the producers how the Q&A with the guest artists should flow, what types of questions they should ask, the focus on craft, storytelling, form. She was the one who insisted gossip and rumors take a backseat to true artistry, convincing the vulturous producers that real musicians would only come on the show if they felt like they were being taken seriously.
And over these past months, Odette had watched as her competition slowly faded away. She felt herself earning the trust of the producers and the network execs. And as she gave and gave to the formation of the show—though she was reluctant to admit it to anyone besides her agent and her mom—she wanted it now. She craved it. She had poured herself into this program, and if they gave it to someone else now she didn’t think she could cope. So why the hell wasn’t Robert MacMahon on board? Across the table, he cleared his throat.
“Odette, honey,” he began, and she felt her spine stiffen. “There’s no need to be crude. What I want, what we all want, is for this show to be successful. You want that too, don’t you?”
She nodded but refused to soften her icy stare.
“Okay, so in that case, we need a host who’s going to break through. Someone who can reach audiences across the country. Someone who can be taken seriously.”
Someone who can be taken seriously. Those words cut deep. Odette had started sneaking into clubs as a teenager, telling her parents she’d gotten a babysitting job and then taking the bus downtown to see a local band. She’d spent weekdays after school lying on her bedroom floor, listening to every album she could get her hands on, fingers fiddling with the tufts of the shag carpet beneath her, eyes closed in concentration. Each week she’d trek to the nearby library, backpack full of last week’s vinyls, and later CD loans. The librarians would smile and greet her by name, passing over a stack of their newest albums, already bundled and tagged with a Post-It labeled: Odette Denison.
In college she’d studied journalism, writing for the town’s weekly magazine about all things music. She’d earned her own column—and changed her name to the more refined Odette St. Denis—by her junior year. After graduating, she badgered tour managers until they couldn’t say no, following bands on tour around the country, freelancing for indie music zines and eventually national newspapers. At age 26 she became the Editor-in-Chief of Rolling Stone, a magazine with a notoriously frat-like workplace. The only other woman she was likely to see around the office was Annie Leibovitz, and they often shared glances as they passed each other in the hallway or sat through meetings where yet another male editor suggested a topless photoshoot of the latest upcoming popstar. If Odette was sure of one thing, it was that she’d paid her dues. She’d put in the time. She’d logged the hours, but more than that she’d logged the bruises, physical and psychological, of being a woman in a male-dominated space. And it was moments like this, in meetings with rich old men like Robert MacMahon who cared more about getting richer than they’d ever care about making something worthwhile, that she felt the chip on her shoulder grow heavy.
“I’m as serious as it gets,” Odette said, forcing a smile, the only currency a man like Robert understood.
“That might be true,” he replied. “But our research shows that middle-America only tunes in regularly if a man is hosting.”
Odette tried not to roll her eyes.
“Respectfully,” she said, “middle-America can kiss my ass.”
Robert chuckled.
“If viewers can’t get past the fact that I’m a woman, they’re the ones who will be missing out,” she said. “These other guys you’re screen testing are in over their heads. They’ve never been on the road. They don’t know what a writing session is like. They don’t know the alchemy of finding the perfect bass line. They don’t know the chaos of being backstage on tour. And when things get unpredictable, which they will because we’re dealing with musicians here, they won’t know how to keep the show going smoothly. I will. And I’ll make it look easy.”
Robert cracked his knuckles, scratched his goatee, and took a deep breath. “I’ll give you three episodes,” he said finally. “We’ll tape three episodes, and if you can prove you’re the man for the job, it’s yours.” He stood up, and his entourage did the same. “You haven’t sold me,” he said, eyes locked on Odette’s. “If I’m not wowed by those three episodes, that’s it. Don’t make me regret taking a chance on you.” He nodded at her quickly and walked out of the room.
As Robert and his cronies filed out, Odette sat stoic in her corporate swivel chair. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the surge of adrenaline in her bloodstream. Okay, she thought, Okay, I can do this. I can do this. I’m going to prove to Robert and the whole network that the only way this show can succeed is with me at the helm. Holy shit. I’m gonna do this.
“Hey,” said Macie, a producer, popping her head into Odette’s green room.
“Hey, what’s up?” Odette replied, trying not to move her lips too much as she spoke, so as not to anger the makeup artist who was hard at work on her face.
“Counted Out just finished their sound-check,” Macie said. “Jim showed them around the set and is getting them settled into their green room, so they’re just gonna hangout for the next hour or so as we get the audience seated.”
“Okay,” Odette said, lips barely moving. “Thanks for the update. Everything else going according to plan?”
“As much as it can with a live audience, a rock band, and a show’s first episode,” Macie replied.
“Love to hear it.”
“Go introduce yourself when you’re ready,” Macie said, rapping her knuckles on the doorframe and leaving the green room.
Odette looked at herself in the mirror. She’d turned 31 a few weeks ago and she could hear the network execs in the back of her head calling her haggard. The only thing worse than being a woman in this business was being an old woman, and now she was both. She shook her head, trying to rattle the thought out of it. You’re meant for this, she told herself. This show is your baby, it’s the culmination of everything you’ve been working toward, and it’s yours for the taking. Knock ’em dead.
After the makeup artist left her room, Odette stood in front of the mirror, smoothed her palms over her slacks a few times and adjusted the neckline of her silk blouse. Wearing pants at all had been yet another fight with the network, but Odette knew she had to feel like herself to do this job, and the leather miniskirt the wardrobe department had selected for her was the opposite of that. Her long brown hair was beginning to gray, and streaks of silver sparkled in the light as she tucked and untucked her hair behind her ear, trying to see what looked better. She adjusted the oversized glasses on the bridge of her nose, a style she’d chosen because they evoked a seriousness while maintaining a ’70s cool factor. You’re ready, she thought.
“Odette St. Denis,” she said, reaching out her right hand to Tom Shiling, the lead singer of Counted Out. He remained slunk back on the couch, raised an eyebrow at her outstretched hand, and slowly said: “suuuuup.” Odette put her hand in her back pocket.
“Hi,” she said, turning to the other band members who were speckled around the room. “It’s great to meet you, thanks so much for coming on the show.” They nodded at her, and the drummer, Jace Ray, offered a half-smile.
The sound of a lock unlatching clicked, and the adjoining bathroom door opened. Odette’s eyes darted toward the movement and she saw Charlie Lourde, the band’s bassist, enter the room.
“Hey,” he said, locking eyes with Odette and walking up to her. He wiped his palms on the front of his tight black jeans and held one out. “What’s up, I’m Charlie.”
“Odette,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Yeah, I know,” he replied, a twinkle passing over his honey brown eyes. “Rolling Stone has actually become readable since you took over.”
“Thanks, I think,” Odette said.
“I mean your column has always been a must-read, and now the whole magazine feels like it actually cares about music,” he continued. “Jann Wenner had started to get a bit too celebrity-obsessed before you got the big job.”
“And you’re not into celebrity?” Odette asked.
“Well no,” Charlie said. “I’m in it for the music. Aren’t we all?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I think a lot of people just want to be rock stars.”
“Eh, fame is overrated,” Charlie said. “The real highlight is writing something that you truly know is good.”
“And the chicks, obviously,” the drummer piped up. Odette and Charlie glanced at him, seeming to remember there were other people in the room. Charlie laughed.
“Yeah, and sometimes the women,” he said, locking eyes with Odette. She felt a flush spread onto her cheeks. She’d spent the past two decades with musicians practically nonstop, it wasn’t often she got flustered around one. She tucked and untucked her hair behind her ear.
“Okay, well,” she said. “I’m gonna get out of here and let you guys do whatever you need to do before the show. I’ll see you on stage.” She nodded, glancing around the room at the band members and their manager.
“Good luck out there,” Charlie said.
“Pretty sure it’s the host who’s supposed to tell the band ‘good luck,’” Odette replied, raising an eyebrow.
“A gig’s a gig,” he said, fixing the sleeve of his T-shirt, which had rolled up at the cuff. Odette’s eyes darted to the bicep beneath, sturdy and toned, then down to the forearms that showed off his years of playing bass. She swallowed.
“A gig’s a gig,” she repeated, then walked out of the room.
“You’ve been a band for four years, but you’re only recently getting radio play with your latest single ‘I Found the Antidote.’ Why do you think that song is resonating so much with listeners?” Odette asked from her interviewer’s chair on stage. Despite the bright studio lights, the Sunday Sessions production team had managed to make the set look like a cozy recording studio—the band members lazed on a plush leather couch and the dingy studio floor was covered with a collage of Turkish rugs.
“‘Antidote’ is just a vibe,” Tom said, answering first to assert his frontman status. “We always knew people were going to like it.” Beside him, Charlie smirked.
“Charlie?” Odette dug in, “You look like you have something to say.”
“No, no,” Charlie chuckled. “It’s just, you never really know if people are going to like a song.” Tom shot him a look of annoyance. “I mean, if we knew what songs were going to kick off we would’ve written a lot more of them for our earlier albums.” A laugh rippled through the audience.
“So what do you think makes this song different from the ones on your prior albums?” Odette asked.
“Killer drums,” Jace interjected.
“Obviously,” Odette smiled. “But what else?”
Tom picked at the rips in his jeans. Odette had read through the album liner notes. She knew that Tom didn’t have writing credits on any of the songs on this album, he was strictly on vocals. Most of the songs were written entirely by Charlie, with a few contributions from Jace. Charlie glanced at Tom to see if he wanted to say something, but Tom continued to stare at his thighs.
“We’re not posing anymore,” Charlie said.
“Posing?” asked Odette.
“Yeah,” Charlie nodded. “It’s embarrassing to admit, but on earlier albums I think we were writing what we thought people wanted to hear. Now we’re writing how we actually feel. It’s a bit rougher, but that roughness is real for us. And I think people resonate with that.”
Odette nodded. “You can hear that roughness in the instrumentation of the song for sure. And the lyrics, too, are a departure from your previous work. Tell us about that.”
“It was just time,” Charlie said.
“Time for what?” Odette asked.
“Time to stop pretending. Time to take stock of what we’re doing, why we actually want to be a band.”
“And what did you find?” Odette asked. “Why do you actually want to be a band?”
“Hot chicks and free booze,” Tom perked up. “Isn’t that why everyone wants to be in a band?” The audience chuckled. Odette did not.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Is it?”
Tom scoffed. “Don’t worry, the over-30 crowd doesn’t usually get it.”
Odette felt a heat rise in her chest. The last thing she needed was for the network to see a hot young band declaring her to be old and out of style.
“Huh,” she said. “I’ve interviewed quite a few musicians over 30 who have said otherwise. Mick Jagger, Lindsey Buckingham, Pete Townshend—those are just a few who come to mind. They all told me being in a band was about more than that.” Chastised, Tom returned to picking at the fraying strings on his jeans.
“Those guys are right,” Charlie said. “Obviously it’s about the music.”
“And what does the music represent?”
“The music is everything,” Charlie said. “It’s struggle and confusion, effort and breakthrough, risk and freefall. It’s life, you know. I think that’s why this album is making an impact with people, especially ‘Antidote.’ People can see through bullshit, and we’re not bullshitting anymore. Shoot. Can I say bullshit on TV?” The audience laughed, and Odette smiled.
“Don’t worry, we’ll give you a pass on that one,” she said.
The rest of the interview went as well as Odette could’ve hoped. Charlie had the audience engrossed in stories about writing the album, Jace interjected with silly one-liners, and Tom piped in every so often with an anecdote about his self-perceived heroics and a wink to a female audience member. After the Q&A, Counted Out performed ‘I Found the Antidote’ and ‘Melody for a Tuesday Morning.’ Odette watched from the wings, taking in the energy from the captivated audience and catching herself staring at the way Charlie’s fingers danced over his bass strings.
After their second song, Macie gently pushed Odette’s waist, ushering her out on stage in front of the cheering crowd. The vibes were so high she felt almost light-headed, and she was so happy she hugged each bandmember, even Tom.
Camera two, said a producer in her earpiece, and Odette repositioned herself to face the camera head-on.
“You just heard two songs from Counted Out’s latest album Here for Real,” Odette said, pausing for applause. “I’m Odette St. Denis, and this has been Sunday Sessions. See you next week.”
The crowd continued to cheer as production assistants popped out around the room, preparing to usher them out of the studio. The members of Counted Out ambled around the stage, bumping fists and patting backs, sweating under the studio lights. Odette remained still at centerstage, an island amidst a torrent of movement. First show in the books, she thought. I did that.
After all the noise of the past hour, the silence in Odette’s dressing room was loud. She made a mental note to wear earplugs for future band performances if she was going to be so close to the stage for them. She could hear a distant ringing in her ear. It went on for a minute before she realized it was the phone on the other side of the room.
“Hello?” she answered, twisting the curled cord around her fingers.
“Odette, it’s Robert,” said the voice on the other side.
“Oh, hi,” she said, leaning against the wall.
“My assistant just brought the tapes over from the show and I’m ten minutes into them.”
Oh God, thought Odette, what could he possibly have hated so much in the first ten minutes that he had to call? How could he not give the full episode a chance?
“The next two shows are void,” Robert said, and her heart sank.
“You promised me three shows,” Odette said, trying to steady her voice. “This is our first go at it, of course it’s not going to be perfect. But let me do the other shows. Let me prove it.”
“There’s nothing to prove,” he said.
“Come on, Robert,” she said. “This job is meant for me, I was great out there tonight, I know it.”
“That’s why I called,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” she replied.
“I’m cancelling the trial period because you don’t need it. It’s obvious this show was made for you. I’ll call you a liar if you say this to anyone, but I can’t believe I ever seriously considered anyone else to host. It’s yours, Odette. The job. The show. No trial. I’m going to tell the producers and you can get started booking guests for the rest of the season.”
Odette was so shocked she couldn’t make herself say anything.
“Just blink once if you want the job,” Robert said after a moment of silence. She blinked. “Odette?” he said.
“I blinked,” she replied. “I blinked.”
“Go home. We’ll talk on Monday.” He hung up the phone.
Odette returned the phone to its cradle on the wall and sank down onto the couch. Her feet were on the floor but it felt like the whole room was spinning. You did it, you did it, you did it, her brain kept repeating.
A knock sounded against the doorframe, knocking her out of her reverie. She rose slowly from the couch to open it. It was Charlie. His hair was wet from a shower, curling at the ends, and his new outfit still felt cool, though a little less rock and roll.
“Hey,” he said, reaching his arm up to rub the back of his neck.
“Hi,” Odette smiled.
“This might be against the rules,” he said, “but I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m into you.” Odette bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling too wide. “Can I come in?”
Odette tucked her hair behind her ear, then untucked it again. She looked him over, taking in the amber of his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks, the veins in his forearms. God, she loved music. She reached out and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, and a flash of something good to come danced in his gaze. She gripped the cotton a little tighter, and pulled him inside.
