that she had someone new, that the world could see that she was happier with Brenton than she had ever been with Kobe.
Her new boyfriend hadn’t been entirely embraced, by either the music press or her fans. Amber Solomon is dating a slice of Wonder Bread, someone had commented. Someone else had theorized that Kobe had ruined black men for her. Amber didn’t respond, but it wasn’t always possible for her to ignore the comments. It put a little bit of a strain on her—but she told herself, again and again, that the furor would die down. She really did want to be with Brenton; she was comfortable with him, she cared about him—she could even say, three months into their relationship, that she loved him.
At five o’clock, Amber checked in with David one last time, sitting in the control room for fifteen minutes to discuss what they would be working on the next day. “I think, assuming everything goes to plan, we’ll have this done in the next several weeks. Then you and the label can figure out what’s going on with the promotional efforts, what the first single will be. Honestly, I think this one we just finished today should go out first. It’s a fucking hit. You’ll knock everyone on their ass with it.”
“It’ll probably depend on whether the label sees it our way,” Amber pointed out. “But your recommendation will definitely help.” She packed up her purse with the things she needed to take home—including the rough mix of another new song—and headed for home.
Amber smiled to herself as she thought of the event that she and Brenton were going to that night; it was a fundraiser for one of the charities she’d been involved with since she had first started to come up in the world. Oriented towards helping young women of color gain practical music education, it was a cause that was close to her heart: not only did the charity encourage young black girls and women to learn about music, but it also sponsored talks about entering the music industry intelligently. Amber herself had done a few of the talks, visiting schools around the country and telling rooms full of girls that they had just as much right to respect in the industry as any man, as any other woman.
Since it was a “professional” event, Amber had arranged for her normal stylist and makeup crew to come by her mother’s house to help her prepare. Sasha and Tyrone were sitting in the living room when Amber walked in, the dress bag in Tyrone’s hands, Sasha’s lap covered by her makeup bag. Amber knew that Tyrone would have already dropped off the suit that Brenton was going to wear to the event at his house; fortunately for Amber, Brenton, coached in military standards of neatness, was more than capable of wearing a suit well.
Amber showered quickly and wrapped a robe around herself, and her team went to work: even though she was proud of her curves and happy with her body, the kind of dress that she was wearing, a slinky emerald-green gown with a plunging neckline, required some careful thought for what she wore underneath. On a previous outing, Brenton had lovingly teased her about the “armor” she had to put on under a costly and expensive designer gown. “You’re probably bullet-proof,” he had said with a laugh when they went home together afterward. Even though the whole world knew that Amber Solomon was a voluptuous woman, with thick thighs and broad, sensual hips and full breasts, the entertainment industry required something more svelte—and required her curves to be just a little contained to be “perfect.”
“Can you imagine what it must have been like back before spandex and nylon?” Tyrone asked her, shaking his head as Amber shimmied into a pair of control-shorts. “Girdles, corsets, a layer of petticoats, a bustle… How they didn’t die of heat stroke back then on a regular basis is beyond me.”
“A lot of them did,” Sasha pointed out. “Of course back then they considered you only a proper woman if
Her new boyfriend hadn’t been entirely embraced, by either the music press or her fans. Amber Solomon is dating a slice of Wonder Bread, someone had commented. Someone else had theorized that Kobe had ruined black men for her. Amber didn’t respond, but it wasn’t always possible for her to ignore the comments. It put a little bit of a strain on her—but she told herself, again and again, that the furor would die down. She really did want to be with Brenton; she was comfortable with him, she cared about him—she could even say, three months into their relationship, that she loved him.
At five o’clock, Amber checked in with David one last time, sitting in the control room for fifteen minutes to discuss what they would be working on the next day. “I think, assuming everything goes to plan, we’ll have this done in the next several weeks. Then you and the label can figure out what’s going on with the promotional efforts, what the first single will be. Honestly, I think this one we just finished today should go out first. It’s a fucking hit. You’ll knock everyone on their ass with it.”
“It’ll probably depend on whether the label sees it our way,” Amber pointed out. “But your recommendation will definitely help.” She packed up her purse with the things she needed to take home—including the rough mix of another new song—and headed for home.
Amber smiled to herself as she thought of the event that she and Brenton were going to that night; it was a fundraiser for one of the charities she’d been involved with since she had first started to come up in the world. Oriented towards helping young women of color gain practical music education, it was a cause that was close to her heart: not only did the charity encourage young black girls and women to learn about music, but it also sponsored talks about entering the music industry intelligently. Amber herself had done a few of the talks, visiting schools around the country and telling rooms full of girls that they had just as much right to respect in the industry as any man, as any other woman.
Since it was a “professional” event, Amber had arranged for her normal stylist and makeup crew to come by her mother’s house to help her prepare. Sasha and Tyrone were sitting in the living room when Amber walked in, the dress bag in Tyrone’s hands, Sasha’s lap covered by her makeup bag. Amber knew that Tyrone would have already dropped off the suit that Brenton was going to wear to the event at his house; fortunately for Amber, Brenton, coached in military standards of neatness, was more than capable of wearing a suit well.
Amber showered quickly and wrapped a robe around herself, and her team went to work: even though she was proud of her curves and happy with her body, the kind of dress that she was wearing, a slinky emerald-green gown with a plunging neckline, required some careful thought for what she wore underneath. On a previous outing, Brenton had lovingly teased her about the “armor” she had to put on under a costly and expensive designer gown. “You’re probably bullet-proof,” he had said with a laugh when they went home together afterward. Even though the whole world knew that Amber Solomon was a voluptuous woman, with thick thighs and broad, sensual hips and full breasts, the entertainment industry required something more svelte—and required her curves to be just a little contained to be “perfect.”
“Can you imagine what it must have been like back before spandex and nylon?” Tyrone asked her, shaking his head as Amber shimmied into a pair of control-shorts. “Girdles, corsets, a layer of petticoats, a bustle… How they didn’t die of heat stroke back then on a regular basis is beyond me.”
“A lot of them did,” Sasha pointed out. “Of course back then they considered you only a proper woman if
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