Read Chapter 26: The Price of Loyalty

The label’s offices smelled of stale coffee and ambition. Mara had been here twice before, both times to drop off contact sheets and collect press credentials, and both times she’d felt like a child sent to the headmaster’s study. The walls were the color of bile, hung with framed gold records that belonged to bands whose names she’d already forgotten.

Now she stood in front of Gerald Whitfield’s desk, his assistant having waved her through without a word, and tried to keep her breathing steady.

“Miss Ellis.” Whitfield didn’t stand. He was a thin man with a thin mustache and thinner patience, and he spread his hands over a stack of papers like he was guarding treasure. “You’ve been a reliable contact for The Unknowns. I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you.”

“Which is why I’m giving you the chance to do us all a favor.” He slid a sheet across the desk. She didn’t pick it up. “Sunday. The Riverside Festival. Full press push. Radio, print, television. The Unknowns are headlining the second stage, and we need them looking like the next big thing, not a band whose bassist can’t be bothered to show up for his own career.”

Mara’s jaw tightened. “Robbie will be there. He’s—” She stopped. She didn’t know where he was. He’d walked out of the bar two hours ago, after agreeing, after telling her he didn’t trust her, and she’d assumed he’d gone home. But she hadn’t checked. She’d come straight here, because Dex had called and said the label was asking questions, and she’d thought she could field them.

Whitfield raised an eyebrow. “He’s what?”

“He’s preparing.” The lie came out smooth. “He’s been working on new material. He’s got a process. You know how artists are.”

“I know how artists are when they’re reliable. And I know how they are when they’re not.” He tapped the sheet. “This is the schedule. Call time is nine a.m. Sunday. If he’s not there, we invoke the replacement clause. It’s in the contract. We’ve got a session player on standby who can learn the basslines in a weekend.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. And I’d do it with a smile.” He leaned back. “But I’d rather not. So here’s what I’m offering you. You’ve got access. You’ve got the camera. You’re the one who’s been documenting the whole thing from the inside.” He paused. “Shoot the rehearsal.”

“What rehearsal?”

“The one you’re going to stage. Get the band together tomorrow. Run them through a few numbers. Make it look like they’re hard at work. We’ll plant a photographer from the *Evening Standard* to capture the moment. You’ll be there to make it authentic.”

Mara stared at him. “You want me to lie for you.”

“I want you to protect your client. Your—what do you call him? Your subject? Your friend?” Whitfield’s smile was thin as a razor. “The press is sniffing around. They’ve noticed Robbie missed the last two sessions. One of them is already asking questions about the drummer’s brother.”

Her blood went cold. “Danny’s old news.”

“He’s news if we make him news. And we won’t, if Robbie shows up on Sunday looking like a man who belongs on that stage.” He folded his arms. “So. You stage the rehearsal. You make it believable. You keep the label happy. And in exchange—the label keeps your name attached to the album’s official photography credit.”

She felt the trap close around her. “My name was already attached.”

“Was it?” Whitfield pulled a folder from his drawer and flipped it open. “Let me read you the fine print. ‘All photographs taken during the contractual engagement period are the property of the label for promotional purposes. Photographer credit at the label’s discretion.’” He looked up. “We can put anyone’s name on those photos, Miss Ellis. We can put a monkey’s name on them if we like. But we’d rather put yours. The question is whether you’d rather we don’t.”

Mara’s hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her thighs. “That’s blackmail.”

“That’s business. They’re the same thing.” He slid the schedule closer. “Call time tomorrow. Ten a.m. The studio on Denmark Street. I’ll have the *Standard* photographer there by eleven.”

She wanted to tell him to go to hell. She wanted to grab the folder and tear it up. She wanted to walk out and never look back.

But Robbie was out there somewhere, drunk or disappearing or already gone, and Dex was the only one who could hold the band together, and Lenny's film was still in her bag, undeveloped, and none of it would matter if the label pulled the album and buried The Unknowns under a breach-of-contract suit.

She picked up the schedule.

“Fine.”

---

The studio on Denmark Street was cold and smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap carpet. Mara arrived at a quarter to ten with her camera bag slung over her shoulder, the replacement Canon heavy against her hip. The Valium bottle was still in her coat pocket. She’d meant to get rid of it a dozen times and never had.

Dex was already there, setting up amps, his face drawn. He looked at her and knew immediately.

“You talked to Whitfield.”

“He wants a staged rehearsal.”

“He wants a fucking puppet show.” Dex set down a cable with more force than necessary. “And you said yes.”

“I said yes because he threatened to replace Robbie and strip my credit.” She set her bag on the floor. “I said yes because the alternative was watching this whole thing fall apart in forty-eight hours.”

“And what happens in seventy-two hours, when Robbie’s still not here and we’re out there pretending nothing’s wrong?” Dex’s voice was low, tight. “You can’t crop reality forever, Mara. That’s what he said to you, isn’t it? That you crop reality to fit your story.”

The words hit like a slap. She opened her mouth to answer, but the door banged open and Lenny walked in, guitar case in hand, face guarded. He looked between them and said nothing.

Viv followed a minute later, a paper bag of pastries in one hand and a portable cassette player in the other. She took in the room, the tension, the absence of Robbie, and set the bag down without a word.

“We’ve got until eleven,” Mara said. “Then a photographer from the *Standard* is coming to capture the gold rush.”

“And we’re going to smile for the cameras.” Lenny’s voice was flat. “While our bassist is God knows where, doing God knows what.”

“He’ll be back.”

“Will he?” Lenny looked at her. “You told me the same thing two days ago.”

She had no answer.

They ran through the motions. Lenny set up his guitar, Dex fiddled with the amp, Viv arranged the drum kit. Mara circled them with her camera, clicking off shots she knew she’d never use—posed, stiff, wrong. The lens felt like a liar in her hands. Every frame was a fraud.

At ten fifty-eight, the studio door opened.

Mara turned, expecting the *Standard* photographer, ready to put on her own mask.

It was Dex who stepped forward, pulling her aside into the corner by the mixing desk, his voice low enough that Lenny and Viv couldn’t hear.

“I know about the Valium.”

Her blood went cold. “What?”

“I saw you take it from Robbie’s jacket. The night of the first session.” Dex’s eyes were hard. “You’ve been carrying it around like some kind of guardian angel. But here’s the thing, Mara. If Whitfield finds out Robbie’s been popping benzos to get through gigs, he’s not just invoking the replacement clause. He’s voiding the whole contract. He’s taking the album. He’s taking everything.”

“You wouldn’t tell him.”

“I would if I thought it would save the band.” Dex’s jaw was tight. “I’d do a lot of things to save the band. And so would you—you proved that today, didn’t you, walking in here ready to shoot a lie for them?” He leaned closer. “So here’s my price. From now on, you tell me everything. No more secrets. No more deciding what I get to know. You want to be the one with the camera, fine. But you don’t get to be the one with all the stories anymore.”

The door opened again. The *Standard* photographer walked in—a man with a pressed shirt and a telephoto lens, already looking bored.

Mara stared at Dex, cornered on every side.

“Smile,” she said flatly. “We’re on.”