WALL OF FAME

And this is how the book begins:

1.
Traffic was heavy as it zoomed by on Central Park West. Jens had attempted to hail a cab several times. It was rush hour and therefore pretty hard to stop one of those yellow monsters. New York cab drivers consider driving to be a matter of life and death. He threw back his long hair and lit a cigarette. Now he definitely wouldn’t get a cab any time soon. Smoking had practically become a capital offense in his home country. However, the stricter the rules became, the heavier Jens smoked.
A middle-aged woman with two miniature Pinschers crossed to the grand old trees on the opposite side of the street. So many dogs had watered the trees that it was a miracle they were budding again this spring. The woman, who was at least twenty years older, looked thoughtfully at Jens and greeted him with a vague smile.
He inhaled deeply, feeling his adrenaline level slowly come down. It had been pretty high during the past hour. He’d had a meeting with Brigitte Friends, a pop singer who, although she wasn’t on the Forbes 400, was definitely worth over one hundred million dollars. The walls of her guest bathroom were covered from floor to ceiling in gold records.
Jens had received a call a week ago from one of Friends’s personal assistants. He initially assumed a friend of his was playing a trick, especially when he was immediately transferred to the star herself.
Brigitte Friends was famous for avoiding publicity. She gave interviews only when she released a new album or kicked off a tour. The interviews were generally no more than superficial chitchat lasting at most fifteen minutes, to which reporters were often invited in groups of two or three.
Brigitte seldom talked about her private life. Her standard line was that she was extremely boring, that she preferred spending her evenings watching soaps, and that she hated being in the spotlight everywhere she went. The only reporter who had ever really tried to delve into her past hadn’t found out more than that she was from Europe and estranged from her family. She had adopted her artist name Friends since—as she said regularly in interviews—her friends were her real family.
Jens had reservations when he first talked to Brigitte. Why would a star like her personally invite a guy like him over to talk? She said she wanted to get acquainted, to find out “whom she was dealing with.” She was looking for someone to write her biography. Jens had immediately said yes. His friends were probably tricking him or they were organizing a surprise party. Either way, he wouldn’t disappoint them.
The Brigitte impersonation was first-rate. She had a distinct voice and he couldn’t imagine, off the top of his head, which of his female friends would be able to imitate Friends’s wonderful gravelly sound. The longer the conversation lasted, the more he wondered if it really was a joke. What if this was for real? However uninteresting Brigitte Friends may be, any publisher would still pay a hefty advance to acquire the rights to a book about her.
“May I ask what kind of book you have in mind?” Jens had asked. She said she would rather explain in person.
“Very well,” he replied, adding warily, “An unusual request from someone who’s known for avoiding publicity. You do realize who I am and what I do?”
Brigitte knew. She gave a rapid and perfect summary of his résumé, much better than Jens could ever do himself. He would go on and on and get lost in details while at the same time being so modest that in the end you still wouldn’t have learned anything about him.
Jens Jameson was born in Boston and raised on Cape Cod, the Mecca for writers, poets, painters and other artists who were attracted to the place where Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote and Norman Mailer had found inspiration.
He had gone to Boston College, where he majored in journalism. However, his heart hadn’t been in it. He wanted to be a writer, although he hadn’t decided on a genre yet. He was drawn mostly to nonfiction. Now, at age thirty-eight, he had written three books. Two of them hadn’t made it to a second printing but the third was a modest success.
His first book dealt with the New York punk scene at the end of the seventies. It had resulted in an argument with the manager of the Ramones, who didn’t like the way Jens had portrayed the band. The second book was a portrait of the London guitarist Steven Curtain. Jens had been convinced this guy would be famous. Despite being severely autistic, Curtain composed the most unusual melodies. Later he was accused of plagiarism. He and his guitar subsequently ended up in an institution and were never heard from again

His most recent book was about Jenna Long, a forgotten pop star who had had hit after hit in the seventies. After a tumultuous career involving lots of drinking and drugs, she had retreated to Cape Town, where she had set up a small business with township youth making trendy sandals from car tires. Jens first met her while she was fundraising for her project in the States. He was impressed with her and suggested writing a book about her life. They could split the profits, which could end her financial problems.
For three months Jens stayed in a small corrugated iron hut in Jenna’s backyard. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling and he had one outlet, enough to charge his laptop. The book was a success and even though he had to split the money, he had been able to live off his half quite comfortably for roughly six years.
But now his reserves had pretty much dried up. His little one-bedroom apartment in Tribeca cost a fortune in rent each month and he paid child support for his daughter Barbora. Life in New York isn’t cheap for a bachelor who doesn’t like cooking and who likes to party from time to time.
Brigitte Friends’s apartment was on the ninth floor. She opened the door herself, after the doorman had let him into the building. She wasn’t what he expected. In her clips, Brigitte was a sexy bombshell with heavy make-up, provocatively scant clothing, long blond hair and big, dark brown eyes. The little girl in a ponytail standing before him wore glasses and absolutely no make-up. She was clad in faded jeans, a sparkling white t-shirt and well-worn sneakers. She thanked him cordially for coming. He followed her into the living room, where he was introduced to Nora, her personal assistant. Nora took his coat and went off to hang it in another room.
The apartment was minimally decorated in a modern style. No exaggerated design furniture, but nevertheless quite a few luxury brands. The furniture was the opposite of the classical style of the apartment itself, with its countless details in the doors and ceilings. Despite this juxtaposition the whole was in perfect harmony. Jens asked Brigitte who her interior designer was and he wasn’t at all surprised when she proudly told him she had chosen everything herself.
He sat down uneasily. Just a sweet, regular kid, he thought as he sank into a de Sede chair and glanced around. Brigitte sat on the sofa, kicked off her sneakers and folded her legs Indian style.
“I read your book about Jenna. I like your writing.” She spoke with the slightly raspy, sensual voice he had heard on the phone. “Did you enjoy working with her?”
“Jenna’s extraordinary. I couldn’t have found anything negative to write about her if I tried, not even when I was forced to hang out with her for three months in the slums of Cape Town.”
“I envy her. I wish I could do what she does.”
“What makes you think you couldn’t?” Jens was genuinely surprised.
“I don’t have the guts. I might think of stuff like that but when it comes down to it, I’m a coward.”
“It can’t be easy to perform for ten thousand people, though.”
“Oh, that’s a piece of cake. I don’t actually see any of them. Just my own band. I stare into the light and all I see is a big black void. I don’t hear anyone. Sure, a wall of screaming, applause, some whistling, but if anybody yells ‘You suck,’ I don’t hear it.”
Jens had never thought of it like that. And he was amazed that she spoke with such candor, considering he was a complete stranger.
“It would be scarier to sing just for you, right here. I used to get really nervous when I had to play in the small clubs where the audience could almost touch me.”
She shuddered at the memory.
Nora entered, holding a tray with a cappuccino, a glass of water and a white wine. It was almost five—the time Jens usually had his first alcoholic drink of the day. He was slightly taken aback when Nora put the wine in front of him, gave Brigitte the cappuccino and took the glass of water for herself.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers.” Brigitte laughed impishly at Jens as he took his glass. “I had a background check done on you. I hope you don’t mind.”
Jens did mind. How did she know what kind of wine he drank and when? Had she hired a detective?
“Have you been delving into my private life?”
“Well, it’s a habit with Onkel Gerard, my manager. He always checks out anyone we do business with.”
“I’m not sure I want to do any business with Onkel Gerard.” His voice betrayed his annoyance.
“Come, come, Jens Jameson. Isn’t it your job to delve into people’s private lives? At least I’m straightforward about it.”
“You can’t imagine the idiots who show up at the door or try to intrude on Brigitte’s life in other ways,” added Nora, taking a sip of her water.
Jens held his wine up to examine it against the light. He sniffed the glass and took a softly slurping drink, rolling the wine around in his mouth before swallowing. Not that he was a wine connoisseur—he either liked it or he didn’t. This one was divine.
“I rarely drink wine like this.” A jab at whoever had checked him out.
“I don’t drink at all. I just wanted to treat you to something special to make up for the background check.”
“Well, it does help.” Jens took another sip. “And did you discover anything interesting?”
Brigitte sipped her cappuccino and smiled sweetly.
His most recent book was about Jenna Long, a forgotten pop star who had had hit after hit in the seventies. After a tumultuous career involving lots of drinking and drugs, she had retreated to Cape Town, where she had set up a small business with township youth making trendy sandals from car tires. Jens first met her while she was fundraising for her project in the States. He was impressed with her and suggested writing a book about her life. They could split the profits, which could end her financial problems.

For three months Jens stayed in a small corrugated iron hut in Jenna’s backyard. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling and he had one outlet, enough to charge his laptop. The book was a success and even though he had to split the money, he had been able to live off his half quite comfortably for roughly six years.
But now his reserves had pretty much dried up. His little one-bedroom apartment in Tribeca cost a fortune in rent each month and he paid child support for his daughter Barbora. Life in New York isn’t cheap for a bachelor who doesn’t like cooking and who likes to party from time to time.
Brigitte Friends’s apartment was on the ninth floor. She opened the door herself, after the doorman had let him into the building. She wasn’t what he expected. In her clips, Brigitte was a sexy bombshell with heavy make-up, provocatively scant clothing, long blond hair and big, dark brown eyes. The little girl in a ponytail standing before him wore glasses and absolutely no make-up. She was clad in faded jeans, a sparkling white t-shirt and well-worn sneakers. She thanked him cordially for coming. He followed her into the living room, where he was introduced to Nora, her personal assistant. Nora took his coat and went off to hang it in another room.
The apartment was minimally decorated in a modern style. No exaggerated design furniture, but nevertheless quite a few luxury brands. The furniture was the opposite of the classical style of the apartment itself, with its countless details in the doors and ceilings. Despite this juxtaposition the whole was in perfect harmony. Jens asked Brigitte who her interior designer was and he wasn’t at all surprised when she proudly told him she had chosen everything herself.
He sat down uneasily. Just a sweet, regular kid, he thought as he sank into a de Sede chair and glanced around. Brigitte sat on the sofa, kicked off her sneakers and folded her legs Indian style.
“I read your book about Jenna. I like your writing.” She spoke with the slightly raspy, sensual voice he had heard on the phone. “Did you enjoy working with her?”
“Jenna’s extraordinary. I couldn’t have found anything negative to write about her if I tried, not even when I was forced to hang out with her for three months in the slums of Cape Town.”
“I envy her. I wish I could do what she does.”
“What makes you think you couldn’t?” Jens was genuinely surprised.
“I don’t have the guts. I might think of stuff like that but when it comes down to it, I’m a coward.”
“It can’t be easy to perform for ten thousand people, though.”
“Oh, that’s a piece of cake. I don’t actually see any of them. Just my own band. I stare into the light and all I see is a big black void. I don’t hear anyone. Sure, a wall of screaming, applause, some whistling, but if anybody yells ‘You suck,’ I don’t hear it.”
Jens had never thought of it like that. And he was amazed that she spoke with such candor, considering he was a complete stranger.
“It would be scarier to sing just for you, right here. I used to get really nervous when I had to play in the small clubs where the audience could almost touch me.”
She shuddered at the memory.
Nora entered, holding a tray with a cappuccino, a glass of water and a white wine. It was almost five—the time Jens usually had his first alcoholic drink of the day. He was slightly taken aback when Nora put the wine in front of him, gave Brigitte the cappuccino and took the glass of water for herself.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers.” Brigitte laughed impishly at Jens as he took his glass. “I had a background check done on you. I hope you don’t mind.”
Jens did mind. How did she know what kind of wine he drank and when? Had she hired a detective?
“Have you been delving into my private life?”
“Well, it’s a habit with Onkel Gerard, my manager. He always checks out anyone we do business with.”
“I’m not sure I want to do any business with Onkel Gerard.” His voice betrayed his annoyance.
“Come, come, Jens Jameson. Isn’t it your job to delve into people’s private lives? At least I’m straightforward about it.”
“You can’t imagine the idiots who show up at the door or try to intrude on Brigitte’s life in other ways,” added Nora, taking a sip of her water.
Jens held his wine up to examine it against the light. He sniffed the glass and took a softly slurping drink, rolling the wine around in his mouth before swallowing. Not that he was a wine connoisseur—he either liked it or he didn’t. This one was divine.
“I rarely drink wine like this.” A jab at whoever had checked him out.
“I don’t drink at all. I just wanted to treat you to something special to make up for the background check.”
“Well, it does help.” Jens took another sip. “And did you discover anything interesting?”
Brigitte sipped her cappuccino and smiled sweetly.
His most recent book was about Jenna Long, a forgotten pop star who had had hit after hit in the seventies. After a tumultuous career involving lots of drinking and drugs, she had retreated to Cape Town, where she had set up a small business with township youth making trendy sandals from car tires. Jens first met her while she was fundraising for her project in the States. He was impressed with her and suggested writing a book about her life. They could split the profits, which could end her financial problems.

For three months Jens stayed in a small corrugated iron hut in Jenna’s backyard. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling and he had one outlet, enough to charge his laptop. The book was a success and even though he had to split the money, he had been able to live off his half quite comfortably for roughly six years.
But now his reserves had pretty much dried up. His little one-bedroom apartment in Tribeca cost a fortune in rent each month and he paid child support for his daughter Barbora. Life in New York isn’t cheap for a bachelor who doesn’t like cooking and who likes to party from time to time.
Brigitte Friends’s apartment was on the ninth floor. She opened the door herself, after the doorman had let him into the building. She wasn’t what he expected. In her clips, Brigitte was a sexy bombshell with heavy make-up, provocatively scant clothing, long blond hair and big, dark brown eyes. The little girl in a ponytail standing before him wore glasses and absolutely no make-up. She was clad in faded jeans, a sparkling white t-shirt and well-worn sneakers. She thanked him cordially for coming. He followed her into the living room, where he was introduced to Nora, her personal assistant. Nora took his coat and went off to hang it in another room.
The apartment was minimally decorated in a modern style. No exaggerated design furniture, but nevertheless quite a few luxury brands. The furniture was the opposite of the classical style of the apartment itself, with its countless details in the doors and ceilings. Despite this juxtaposition the whole was in perfect harmony. Jens asked Brigitte who her interior designer was and he wasn’t at all surprised when she proudly told him she had chosen everything herself.
He sat down uneasily. Just a sweet, regular kid, he thought as he sank into a de Sede chair and glanced around. Brigitte sat on the sofa, kicked off her sneakers and folded her legs Indian style.
“I read your book about Jenna. I like your writing.” She spoke with the slightly raspy, sensual voice he had heard on the phone. “Did you enjoy working with her?”
“Jenna’s extraordinary. I couldn’t have found anything negative to write about her if I tried, not even when I was forced to hang out with her for three months in the slums of Cape Town.”
“I envy her. I wish I could do what she does.”
“What makes you think you couldn’t?” Jens was genuinely surprised.
“I don’t have the guts. I might think of stuff like that but when it comes down to it, I’m a coward.”
“It can’t be easy to perform for ten thousand people, though.”
“Oh, that’s a piece of cake. I don’t actually see any of them. Just my own band. I stare into the light and all I see is a big black void. I don’t hear anyone. Sure, a wall of screaming, applause, some whistling, but if anybody yells ‘You suck,’ I don’t hear it.”
Jens had never thought of it like that. And he was amazed that she spoke with such candor, considering he was a complete stranger.
“It would be scarier to sing just for you, right here. I used to get really nervous when I had to play in the small clubs where the audience could almost touch me.”
She shuddered at the memory.
Nora entered, holding a tray with a cappuccino, a glass of water and a white wine. It was almost five—the time Jens usually had his first alcoholic drink of the day. He was slightly taken aback when Nora put the wine in front of him, gave Brigitte the cappuccino and took the glass of water for herself.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers.” Brigitte laughed impishly at Jens as he took his glass. “I had a background check done on you. I hope you don’t mind.”
Jens did mind. How did she know what kind of wine he drank and when? Had she hired a detective?
“Have you been delving into my private life?”
“Well, it’s a habit with Onkel Gerard, my manager. He always checks out anyone we do business with.”
“I’m not sure I want to do any business with Onkel Gerard.” His voice betrayed his annoyance.
“Come, come, Jens Jameson. Isn’t it your job to delve into people’s private lives? At least I’m straightforward about it.”
“You can’t imagine the idiots who show up at the door or try to intrude on Brigitte’s life in other ways,” added Nora, taking a sip of her water.
Jens held his wine up to examine it against the light. He sniffed the glass and took a softly slurping drink, rolling the wine around in his mouth before swallowing. Not that he was a wine connoisseur—he either liked it or he didn’t. This one was divine.
“I rarely drink wine like this.” A jab at whoever had checked him out.
“I don’t drink at all. I just wanted to treat you to something special to make up for the background check.”
“Well, it does help.” Jens took another sip. “And did you discover anything interesting?”
Brigitte sipped her cappuccino and smiled sweetly.