I head inside a non-descript building on King Street in Sydney’s city centre. Apparently, this is where Max Hargreaves, manager extraordinaire, works from.
There’s no one at reception, so I follow the instructions on the text JC sent me and take the elevator to the tenth floor.
On arrival, I see there’s no one at this reception desk either, but I can hear music coming from down the hall. I follow the noise, identifying the song as Juicy Wiggle by Redfoo. I hope that is not indicative of Max’s taste. But then, he’s represented JC through a long and successful career, so I shouldn’t judge.
I reach the office at the end and pause in the doorway. An older guy with a shiny bald head is facing away, looking out the window and moving his head from side to side in time with the music.
I clear my throat, and he spins around.
“Lincoln! You made it! Sit down, sit down.” He points to a chair in front of his desk that I belatedly realise looks like a baseball glove.
I perch awkwardly inside the mitt and smile at Max. “Thanks for taking the time to see me.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been watching you all season and hearing the good things JC has been saying about you. I know you’ve been through all this bullshit before, so I’ll get straight to the point. You have potential, and I want to make money from that. I’m thinking a national tour with at least thirty dates.”
“Seriously?” My brain feels like it’s about to explode already.
“Yeah, I saw the voting data from the show, and you have a lot of fans. Your social media tracks well, too. Do you know your most popular demographic is women in their thirties and forties?”
I feel my face get hot. “Uh…”
He laughs. “They see you as approachable. You’re their age, and they remember you from the old days. It’s hard to make a tour work for many of these reality stars, because all-ages gigs don’t sell well, and it’s often kids who watch shows like Sing to Me. But the data showed you appealed to a wide cross-section of viewers. It’s not just the cougars, but women in their twenties, and pretty much all guys over eighteen are fans, too.”
I’m not sure I agree with him using the term cougar for any woman over the age of thirty, but I get what he’s saying. And I suppose it’s all quite flattering. Obviously, not appealing to teenagers is a little bit of an ego bruising, but I can live with that.
“That’s really great. It sounds very positive.”
“It is. So, if we do this tour, can you and your guys be available at a moment’s notice?”
“Of course. I mean, JC told me to wait until I’d seen you before telling the rest of the band the news, but I’m sure they’ll be as excited and ready for this as I am.”
“Good, good. I’ll have my assistant talk to your assistant, blah, blah, blah.”
I don’t want to tell him I don’t have an assistant, so instead I say, “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Please, just call me Max. None of that ‘sir’ crap.”
I smile. “Sorry. Max.”
“Okay. Now get out of here. I have a waxing appointment in five minutes, and the woman is coming here to the office.”
I blink. Right. I don’t want to ask what he’s having waxed. “No problem. Thanks again. I’ll…uh…see myself out.”
I stand up and leave the office, dazed. Did that really just happen? Could it be that easy?
I get out my phone and call Rachel. She doesn’t answer, so I leave a message for her to call me back. Out on the street, I head in the direction of my hotel, not really paying attention to my surroundings. I don’t come to Sydney very often, so I should be making the most of it, but I’m too distracted. I’m going on a national tour!
I can’t wait to tell the guys. And thank JC! I lean against a nearby wall and shoot off a few texts. I see I have a ton of notifications on Instagram, so I scroll through a few. Most of them are fans, and their loyalty makes me smile. I’m so glad I’ll be able to play for them again.
And then I see a message from Felix. I was going to call him while I was down here if I had the chance, but he contacted me first. And via a public comment on Instagram, of all things.
Are you in Sydney, man? You want to meet up tonight at Nicky’s Bar? 9?
I should probably reply privately, but the odds of being ambushed by a bunch of people at this late notice on a Monday night are small.
Sounds great. I’ll call to confirm.
I make my way back to where I’m staying at the Shangri-La. My room has an amazing view of the historical Rocks area, with the Harbour Bridge in the background to my left and the Opera House to my right. It doesn’t get much more iconic than that.
I stare out at the scene, intermittently being interrupted by phone beeps from the guys replying to my text. They sound as excited as me.
My phone finally rings with Rachel responding to my voice message.
“Hey!” I say, knowing I sound like a little kid hopped up on too much sugar.
“Hey. How’s your work thing?”
“Actually, I didn’t want to ruin the surprise until I knew for sure, but I just came from a meeting with Max Hargreaves. He manages JC’s career.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he’s organising a national tour for me and the guys! Isn’t that amazing?”
She takes a split second too long to reply. “That’s great,” she says eventually.
“What’s wrong? Are you worried I’m not going to be around as much? Because I’ll make sure I’m close to home whenever possible. And the three of you might be able to come along to some of the shows. Maybe Sydney and Melbourne?”
“Maybe,” she says neutrally.
“Rach! Why aren’t you happy about this? I thought it’s what you wanted. For me to be successful with my music career.”
“I guess I just don’t want to get my hopes up. Have you signed any paperwork? How many shows is it? How come they’re not offering you a record deal or any international dates?”
I laugh. “Honey, you’re getting way ahead of yourself. I literally just came out of the meeting. But Max said they’re thinking about thirty shows! And a national tour is just the starting point. Of course, if it goes well, they’ll start considering record deals and international venues. We just have to take it one step at a time.”
“But you’ve already paid your dues. Surely, ten years of local gigs is enough to prove you’re worthy of more.”
“Please don’t worry about any of that. Enjoy the fact that it’s all finally coming together!”
“I guess…”
I hear a noise in the background. “Is that the girls? Can I say a quick hello?”
“Uh, I might have to call you back later. I think Madison is trying to cut Isabella’s hair.”
“Oh. Definitely sort that out. Call me tonight! I love you.”
“Love you, too,” she says, sounding distracted. She hangs up, and I look back out at the harbour. Rachel’s reaction wasn’t exactly what I expected, but I’m too excited to let it bother me now. She’s probably just overwhelmed from looking after the girls for a couple of days. Twins can be exhausting.