do,” he stated.
“What’s what we’ll do?”
“Make you a contemporary gospel singer.”
Camille stuttered, “But . . . I mean, I can . . . it’s just not, you know, what I had in mind.”
He sat back again, put his hands on top of his head. “You heard of Heather Headley?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“Oleta Adams?”
“Yes. She’s awesome.”
“They were semihot names in R and B, but now they’re even bigger in gospel. They’ve managed to keep a career going by gaining a new audience. Trust me, if you don’t hit it big in music by twenty-five, you either give up on being a superstar or go back to the drawing board. Those are your only two choices.”
He had a point. Both of them were excellent, unique mainstream singers who had crossed over into Christian music. Still, gospel?
“Is there any way I can, you know, do some other type of music. Like light pop, or whatever Bonnie Raitt sings?”
“Camille, you’re no spring chicken. The only sector forgiving enough to take you back at this point is Christians. They’ll accept anybody at any age and any size, which, by the way, would pose a serious problem for you in the mainstream.”
“I can lose weight,” she stammered.
“I strongly suggest it, gospel or not,” he said matter-of-factly. He laid his eyes on Camille’s. “If you’re serious about getting back into this business, you’re going to have to do what you’ve gotta do. If you were a man, this would be a totally different conversation.”
Camille squinted. “So, men can do whatever they want at whatever age, huh?”
“Pretty much,” John David concurred. “Take Jonathan Butler. He does gospel and jazz. Kirk Franklin does gospel, but he’s very welcome in the secular crowd. Some might even say he’s better received there than in Christian music, just by looking at the charts.”
“This is so unfair.” Camille crossed her arms. “The arts are supposed to be universal. Transcend race, class, and gender.”
“This isn’t art, Camille, it’s business. It’s the way of the world. I didn’t make the rules, but I do understand them and I don’t break them unless I have to,” John David said. “In your case, we need to follow them to get your foot back in the door.
“Trust me, your best bet is gospel. It’s good music. Some even say it helps people. Maybe you can do R and B again later, I don’t know. But if you’re not willing to reinvent yourself as a gospel singer, I suggest you find yourself another agent.”
His words bore no hint of compromise. Camille squirmed in her chair. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. I haven’t been inside a church in, like, three years.”
“Then there’s your starting point. I suggest you join a church. A big one, and we’ve got plenty of ’em right here in Dallas. Become a member. Get yourself connected with the musicians. Get a demo with a choir or something behind you.”
John David handed Camille one of his business cards. “Come back when you’ve got all that in place, and I’ll get busy working on my end.”
Camille ran her thumb across the lettering on the card. She felt like her life was slipping away. This one last line had all but shriveled up and left her without a way back to her destiny.
“Have a good day,” John David shooed her out.
Camille blinked back tears as she let herself out of John David’s office. She breezed past Timber without a word. It probably would have been best to apologize again, but her pride couldn’t let the woman get a glimpse of the disappointment brewing in Camille’s chest.
The elevator ride down provided a chance to compose herself long enough to make it to the car, where Camille promptly burst into tears. This meeting had not gone the way she’d planned. John David was supposed to ask her to sing again, be blown away by her in-person sound, then whisk her over to someone’s studio to record a killer song that he would distribute to a major producer. That major producer would, in turn, sign her, next week, with a huge bonus that would allow her to kiss Aquapoint Systems and the entire Fossil Terrace apartment complex good-bye forever.
But no, no, no. John David would agree to represent her only as a stupid gospel singer, of all things. Not only did he want to make her a gospel singer, he wanted her to become a gospel singer before he’d actually do anything to promote her!
And the gospel game was certainly different than R&B. Half the attraction with a worldwide audience was sex appeal. Booty-shaking, hip-thrusting, cleavage-flashing dances sold just as many records and concert tickets as great vocals in her old world. Why couldn’t she just capitalize on her body—after she got it back in shape, of course?
There was also a teeny tiny part of her that didn’t like the idea of singing gospel just so that she could become a star again. This part, Camille knew, came from her mother’s influence (Bobby Junior would have told her to jump on the chance). But Jerdine Robertson would have told Camille point-blank not to play in the Lord’s house.
With a heavy foot on the pedal, Camille screeched out of the parking lot. She soon discovered that a bad attitude could be just as distracting as text messaging on the road. A fellow motorist honked at her when she stomped on her brake and made a quick right turn without signaling. She honked back. Yes, she was wrong, but she was not in the mood to be chastised by some guy driving a wood-paneled station wagon. He was wrong just for owning that thing.
Just so happened, a police officer witnessed Camille’s rash antics. His siren startled Camille initially. What did I do? All her tags were current. Insurance active. She slowed to a stop in a restaurant parking lot and waited for the officer to inform her of why he was stopping her, adding insult to injury on one of the worst days of her life.
She leaned forward for a wider angle in her sideview mirror and soon got an eyeful of tall, dark, chocolate in sunglasses and a uniform. Unfortunately, he was also sporting a metallic clipboard with a pen. And a wedding band.
Her driver’s window squeaked to the halfway point. “Hello, Officer. Is there something wrong?”
“You,” he barked, removing his shades. A dark brother with white teeth was a winning combination in Camille’s book. “You were weaving down Commerce, and you cut off another driver at the light. You could have caused an accident. Have you been drinking?”
Such ugly words from such a beautiful man. “No, Officer. I don’t drink.”
“Could you step out of the vehicle, please?”
She obeyed, taking this moment to offer a reasonable explanation. “Officer, I just got some bad news and lost track of where I was going for a second. I’m not under the influence of any illegal substance.”
Despite her justification, she was still subjected to a field sobriety test. She passed, of course, but the policeman still gave her a ticket for failure to maintain a lane of traffic. What kind of violation is this?
“Be more careful,” he scolded. “Cars are dangerous weapons, Miss Robertson. Don’t get behind the wheel if you’re psychologically impaired.”
Camille accepted the ticket. “I understand.”
Upon entering her apartment, Camille dropped her bag and flipped off her shoes. Life was just plain ridiculous. You think you’re advancing one square forward when, actually, you’ve been pushed all the way back to “go.”
She plunked onto her couch and fished the ticket from her bag. The back side of the document gave a range for the ticket fine. Two hundred to two hundred twenty-five dollars. She’d have to go to the station to determine the exact amount.
Already, her mind buzzed with thoughts about what she