“I want Mutt,” he said, insisting on the famously reclusive super-producer, “or maybe Michael Kravis, can you get me Michael Kravis…?”

  When she was done with the litany of complaints from a guy that had just gone sextuple-platinum, she called her hair bands. More whining. Poppy was soothing, but she felt sick of it, sick of them. A manager now was half a babysitter, which she’d never signed up to be. Her acts these days wanted Poppy to bail them out of jail, to find kennels for their pets, and to hear their incessant moaning that somebody else was doing better than they were … which was always management’s fault, never the band’s fault …

  As she prepared to catch a cab downtown to visit Menace in the studio—they were at a high-rent place in Soho, and it was a good job they were selling to pay these bills—Poppy thought that her client roster suddenly reminded her of Silver Bullet. Was there ever an act that blamed a drop in fortunes on themselves? No way. It was always the record label, the manager, the touring crew. Never that their songwriting skills had dropped off, or they needed to lose a few pounds or play some gigs more passionately.

  Poppy climbed into her cab, tipped the doorman five bucks, and gave the driver the address of the studio.

  I’m too young to be sick and tired of these guys, she thought. If I feel like this now, how will I react when I’m forty?

  Fifty-Eight

  “Well, look who it is,” said Tyrone, leering at her. “What’s up, sweetness?”

  “Hey, guys,” Poppy said easily, dropping her Prada purse and sliding into the producer’s booth beside Jake Ritter, who was working the controls.

  Menace raised hands to her. A few of the guys smiled, really just baring their teeth. Two of them didn’t even look up.

  “Got any blow?” Keith said.

  “Not on me,” Poppy replied, unfazed. “Sorry.”

  He looked at her as though she were less than useless. Poppy pressed on; she had always believed you didn’t have to be best buddies with your clients. Menace had hired her on their lawyer’s recommendation. They just expected her to make them money, and that was fine with Poppy.

  “What are ya here for, then?” Tyrone demanded.

  “Hmmm, let me see. What am I here for? Oh yeah, to hear the new shit. You boys are carving up the charts right now, programmers want some more.”

  That got their attention. They started high-fiving each other, grinning and whooping. Good sales were always welcome news, whether you were in hip-hop or country.

  “Lay that shit on her, Jake,” Reese told him.

  The producer hesitated, looking at Poppy. “Maybe we should…”

  “Fuck that. Just play it for the bitch,” Tyrone said.

  Poppy stiffened. She wasn’t going to let this guy call her a bitch. But before she could call him on it, Jake Ritter had sighed … why sighed, their productions were usually spot on … and started to play the new track.

  Poppy listened. And then her mouth dropped open.

  “No means no/Ain’t my show/The bitch was crying but she wanted to go/Got her on the floor, make her beg for more/When I’m done Reese runs the back-door/The boys line up/While she lays down/Street ho runs a train…”

  Poppy reached across Ritter and pressed a button to stop the filthy sound from polluting her airspace. She looked at her act, sickened.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “Fuck you talkin’ bout, bitch?” Tyrone asked angrily. “Nobody asked y’all for critical judgment, fuckin’ Tipper Gore.”

  “This song is about gang-rape. You’re talking about gang-raping a woman.”

  “So what? It’s rap.”

  “Song say she axin’ for it,” Reese said, and laughed unpleasantly, which they all thought was highly amusing.

  Poppy felt her cheeks burning red. “You can’t write that kind of dirt.”

  “We can do whatever we like,” said Tyrone. “This is black culture, no cracker gonna tell me what I can and can’t do.”

  Poppy stood up. “Screw you, Tyrone. Like hell that’s black culture. I work with black people and this crap isn’t their culture. This is slob culture, gang culture, scumbag culture. If it’s culture at all. I just call it trash.”

  “You know? You weren’t upset when we wrote a song about killin’ a cop. That you don’ mind, huh? But rape bugs you, lady? Killin’ is OK, but rape…” He whistled through his teeth. “Maybe y’all had some experience, maybe it hit home…”

  “You fucking gross disgusting bunch of animals,” Poppy said, “find yourselves another manager.”

  “Bitch, you fired!” Tyrone screamed at her departing back.

  Poppy got outside. She was so overcome she had to walk six blocks gasping for air before she felt she could even hail a cab. It was so sick that they thought that was entertainment. Sicker still that she’d ever had anything to do with them. And sickest, sickest of all was that Tyrone, that evil fuck, had a point.

  She was a hypocrite. Rape threatened her, like every woman, and of course she wasn’t gonna work with a band that promoted it. But she’d been happy to work with an act that wrote songs about how to kill cops …

  How could Menace have thought she’d stand to work on that “song”? Well, maybe because she’d worked on the last one.

  Poppy flagged down an approaching cab, jumped in, and let it take her to the Victrix, where she stumbled into the elevator, making it back to her room on auto-pilot. Dear God, she thought.

  Henry had been right. Absolutely right. Of course it wasn’t a free-speech issue; if it were, she’d have been willing to promote the current piece of filth. And she wasn’t. No, the real issue had been that she’d resented doing anything for him. Henry had never asked her to give up her job; but she, Poppy, had asked him to pretty much give up his.

  No politician could be elected with a spouse who condoned cop-killing.

  LeClerc had called her a spoiled brat. And maybe she had been, maybe she’d gone and thrown away the best thing in her life over a dumb temper tantrum.

  Poppy sat down heavily on the bed. It was eleven, too late to call him, and he’d most likely be at a campaign dinner anyway, raising money. She felt sick, stupid, and tired. It wasn’t just Menace either. Even Travis was bothering her. She suddenly felt a wash of nausea come over her, as though she just couldn’t be damn well bothered to hold hands and wipe noses for one more second. She was tired of being mother-hen, scapegoat, lawyer and guru all at one go.

  But this was her career. If she didn’t do this, what would she do?

  Poppy peeled her clothes off and headed for the shower. She was too tired to answer that question right now. She’d sleep on it, wake up and call Henry, apologize to him … things would be much better in the morning.

  It didn’t quite work out like that.

  * * *

  Poppy woke groggily when her wake-up call came through at eight. The first thing she did was call the executive vice-president at Sony to announce that Menace was no longer an Opium act, effective immediately, and that she was canceling her meeting. The rest of it she’d figure out later. She left messages on the office machine in L.A., dictating a statement for Billboard and Variety. It was short and harsh: Poppy Allen of Opium Management announces she is severing her managerial relationship with Menace. Due to the nature of the act’s lyrics Ms. Allen no longer wishes to have anything to do with them. Yeah, that was a little better than the regular industry platitudes about “parting of the ways” or “musical differences.” Let them know what she really thought.

  That made her feel a bit better. And then she picked up her morning papers. Poppy had subscriptions to Variety, Billboard, and The Economist, but when she was in hotels, she settled for USA Today, the Wall Street Journal, and the Financial Times. She almost didn’t bother with the FT this morning, but decided to skim through it, out of habit. Poppy shook out the pink pages over her steaming cinnamon coffee and toasted bagel, flipped over to the features section, and felt her entire universe crumble around her.

  Her face was staring up at her. Poppy jumped out of her skin, sending her coffee cup crashing to the floor, delicious cinnamon-brewed Colombian now nothing more than an ugly stain on the pristine white carpet. But she barely moved. She simply stared, rooted to the spot.

  At first she’d thought she was having a drugs flashback or something, even though she’d only really done the odd joint, and not even that anymore. But once Poppy had done most of the same things that Rose had done … once she’d stared at the picture, examined it from all angles, and then walked into the nearest bookstore to buy a copy of the book, she was still mystified.

  She was the daughter of the Allens of Beverly Hills. This was just some freakish coincidence, something you saw on Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Wasn’t it?

  Poppy canceled her meetings for the day and called her parents at nine-forty-five, a quarter to seven on the West Coast.

  “Poppy? You know what time it is?” Marcia Allen asked crossly. “I need my beauty sleep, young lady…”

  “Mom,” Poppy said, now suddenly, ridiculously nervous, “this is going to sound like a very strange question. A real weird question…”

  And then she heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath, as though she’d been waiting for this moment for her entire life, and Poppy instinctively knew that Marcia Allen knew what she was about to ask, and she also knew what the answer was, but she asked the question all the same.

  “Mom,” Poppy whispered, “was I adopted?”

  Fifty-Nine

  Daisy waited with Soren, unable to concentrate or to think until the bell finally rang. Magnus offered her a drink—“To calm you”—but Daisy refused; she wanted to be able to think straight.

  This was one of the most important moments of her life, assuming it wasn’t some elaborate joke—but why would Julia play one on her? Could she really be that cruel? Or that stupid? Daisy couldn’t prevent the thoughts running through her head, but on one level, the calm heart of her, she knew they weren’t true.

  It would have been impossible to fake the emotion in Julia’s voice. So Daisy paced and fretted and finally, when the buzzer rang, she raced to the door as though she were still the fat kid in school when the last bell rang.

  Magnus walked behind her, hanging back a fraction, but keeping close.

  Daisy wrenched open the door, looked at Rose, and then stumbled back, gasping. She felt dizzy and short of breath.

  “Are you OK?” Soren said, catching her. He looked at the replica of Daisy standing in front of him; she, too, was looking very pale, steadying herself against the doorway. “Are you OK?” He moved forward and shook the Daisy-replica girl’s hand. “My name is Magnus Soren,” he said calmly, and the need for social politeness snapped Rose to herself.

  “I’m Rose Fiorello,” she said.

  “So it’s true,” Daisy said. “You’re my twin sister. I don’t know how this could have happened.”

  “Won’t you come in, Ms. Fiorello?” Magnus said politely.

  Rose looked up at the magnificent Village townhouse. It looked like something that one of the Rothsteins would own; in fact, from what she knew of Magnus Soren, he was probably even richer than they were. She glanced curiously at her sister, wondering if they shared a genetic trait for going for rich, ruthless bastards.

  “Thank you, Mr. Soren,” she said, just as courteously.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Daisy, “all things considered, don’t you think we should be on first-name terms?”

  * * *

  This time Daisy did accept a glass of Chardonnay, and so did Rose. Magnus discreetly left them to it in the drawing room, telling Daisy to call him if she needed him.

  “I was adopted in New York,” Rose said. “You?”

  “London. When do you celebrate your birthday?”

  “June the twenty-eighth. You?”

  “May the twelfth.” For a second Daisy was perplexed, then she laughed. “Oh. Duh. I mean, that’s the day I was adopted.”

  “Me too,” Rose said, smiling for the first time.

  “The agency that adopted me out was in London, though. And they disappeared, no record.”

  “Same with me.” Rose shrugged. “It’s all very mysterious. I feel very weird right now. I mean, I hardly know you, and you have my face.”

  “I think you’ll find you have my face,” Daisy said crisply, and Rose cracked a tiny smile.

  “You’re looking for your parents?”

  “Yes.” Daisy leaned forward, all eagerness. “Do you have any information about them, where they came from, why they split us up?”

  Rose shook her head. “And I guess we’re not all that alike, Daisy, because I couldn’t care less. My father is dead, and my mother lives here in the city, and whatever those people did, and whoever they are, matters about as much to me as if my mother had conceived me through a sperm donor. I already asked my mother about it, but she had no records, and the agency disappeared. And, you know, it never bothered me.”

  Daisy said simply, “I want to lay the past to rest.”

  “I think we do that by building a future,” Rose said.

  “I want to know why they rejected me. Or if they did.”

  “I think that last part is pretty clear.”

  “Without information, we won’t know what happened. What if our mother was raped, and couldn’t care for us? What if our father died and our mother was destitute?”

  Rose considered this for a second, then dismissed it. “It can hardly make a difference now. If I were you, I’d give it up.”

  “You’re not me,” Daisy said, slightly resenting her offhandness. How could Rose not want details?

  Rose grinned. “To look at us, you’d never know that.”

  Daisy smiled back. At least she had some family now, if this tall beauty would think about that. “I never realized how pretty I was until today.”

  Rose laughed. “Yeah, it’s better than a mirror. But I think I’d sound better with one of those English accents.”

  “They’re overrated.” Daisy looked out to the kitchen, where Magnus was waiting. “I think American accents are hot, myself.”

  “You have to tell me about him later.”

  “I’d like to. I hope you don’t think we shouldn’t get to know each other,” Daisy blurted out. “Whatever our blood parents did, I wasn’t a part of it.”

  Rose sighed. “I don’t see why we can’t be friends, but sisters…”

  “We are sisters,” Daisy insisted.

  “Biologically. I had a whole childhood without you.”

  “Yes, but that wasn’t my fault.”

  Rose thought about it. “Look, I don’t know if you’re going to want to get involved with me. I’m a workaholic, I live for my career, I don’t have a boyfriend, I think of my mom as my real family and I can’t tell you that you’ll ever be on the same level to me. I don’t want to hurt you, but you should hear the truth.”

  “Are you at least willing to get to know me? We can take it from there, afterward.”

  Rose shrugged. She had no social life at all. No real friends. She suddenly envied Daisy her handsome boyfriend, and her probably full life. She, Rose, was a little lonely now and then. Why not admit it? It wouldn’t hurt to be friends with this girl …

  “Sure.” She smiled. “Why not?”

  Daisy beamed, and it was as though her whole face lit up. “Magnus!” she yelled. “Come back in here, would you, and bring the bottle?”

  * * *

  Poppy called the publisher of Daisy Markham’s book.

  “Hi,” she said, nervously. “I think I’m her sister.”

  “Hold on, please,” said a woman. There was a pause, then, “Julia Fine’s office.”

  “Julia Fine is Daisy Markham’s editor, right? I know this sounds crazy, but I think I’m her sister.”

  “Yes, of course, Ms. Fiorello, right? That’s OK,” said the assistant, mystifyingly, and put her on hold again. A second later, another female voice came on the line.

  “This is Julia Fine,” she said. “Rose, I’m glad you called. How did it go with Daisy?”

  “What?” said Poppy, utterly confused. “My name’s not Rose. It’s Poppy, Poppy Allen. What’s going on here?”

  “There was some confusion. Another woman turned up here earlier today claiming to be Daisy Markham’s sister.”

  “That’s impossible,” Poppy said. “This is all some kind of a joke. How did you get that photograph of me? And why did you put it on the back of the book cover?”

  Julia Fine paused. “I’m not calling Daisy until I check this out for myself.”

  “You can call any record company in America,” Poppy said coldly, “or you can come over to the hotel and meet me in the lobby by the check-in desk.”

  Once she heard the woman was supposedly staying at the Victrix Hotel, Julia doubted it was a prank; pranksters couldn’t afford that kind of dough.

  “And how will I recognize you?” Julia Fine demanded.

  “I’ll be the one whose picture you stole for the back of your book,” Poppy told her.

  “Daisy Markham is a real person,” Julia assured her. “Were you adopted, by any chance?”

  Poppy pressed her fingers to her temple. “Just get here, Ms. Fine, would you, please?”

  * * *

  Julia Fine took one look at Poppy and burst out laughing.

  “Something’s funny?” Poppy said, furiously.

  “I’m sorry. Nerves,” the editor said. “But how many of you can there be? Are you clones?”

  She handed Poppy a sheaf of bios and press releases on Daisy. “I have nothing for the other sister, though.”

  “What are you talking about?” Poppy demanded. She was aggressive, because she was starting to feel frightened. The woman whose picture she was holding was her identical twin.

  “I don’t think you’ll believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “You have two identical sisters. Daisy, and a woman named Rose Fiorello.”