Wildwood - Julian Casablancas

Chapter 5 - Pearlescent

A/N: I understand this fic has been kind of Sylvie-centric, but that won't always be the case. Happy thanksgiving to those who celebrate. Thanks again and much love.

Song of the day: Be My Wife by David Bowie

Jules and Sylvie stood outside her apartment, each holding paper cups stained with hot chocolate that had long since been finished.

Over the course of only a couple hours, they had talked until Sylvie's voice was hoarse. Jules was a kindred spirit; lost, like her, only he made it look beautiful. He told her he'd be in New York for at least the next couple weeks before The Strokes began touring again for their second album, which had apparently come out less than a month ago. He was a little surprised to learn a third album was already being pushed on Wildwood.

"I mean, didn't you guys just get back from touring for your second?" he asked. "Shit, at this rate they'll have you back on the road in six months."

"Don't remind me," she groaned.

Together they stood, wishing for only a little longer in each others' company. However, Sylvie's stomach growled. She took a step towards her building, more than ready to eat and then collapse on the sofa.

"Guess this is it," said Jules.

"Is this it?" Sylvie said cheekily, unable to resist the chance to make a cheesy pun. He'd probably heard jokes like that a million times. Surprisingly, though, he still laughed a little bit.

"See you around, Miss Fowler. Try not to get hit by a car."

"Oh," exclaimed Sylvie, looking a little sheepish, "I never did thank you for saving me, did I?"

He saluted her. "Always happy to help a pretty girl in need."

The sad thing is, thought Sylvie, he's probably lent a hand to lots of pretty girls. Literally. Nevertheless, she was excessively flattered at being called pretty, especially by the likes of Jules. The man in question was making his way down the sidewalk, waving as he went.

"Jules!" she called, "Come back for a sec!"

He did so eagerly. She took his hand in hers, pushing up the sleeves of his thick woolen jacket. There was a marker in her purse kept on hand for unexpected autographs. Sylvie took the cap in her mouth and proceeded to write her phone number along Julian's skin.

"Call me," she winked, and walked into her apartment building.

The days came and went after that, monotonous as Sylvie tried to shed the illness that clung to her. It held on stubbornly. After five days she was due for a meeting and still not feeling entirely well. The CEO of their label had recently retired; replacing him was his son, whom Sylvie had met only once or twice. From what she'd heard, he was a great deal less sleazy than his father before him.

An all-black look made her feel more powerful somehow. It reminded her of the clothes worn in the new Charlie's Angels that had come out earlier in the year. She made no attempt to be there on time. Ten minutes after the official start, Sylvie walked in to observe everyone and their mother seated around a rectangular table. The band members were sat shoulder to shoulder at one end, leaving no space for her near them. Only one seat was left open.

Michael Augbiny, new CEO of Avian Records Inc., sat in a leather desk chair at the head of the table. He looked like a king on a throne. To his right was the only spare chair in the room.

"Christ, Sylvie, you look like shit," said Rowan.

"Thanks," she retorted sarcastically. She took her seat with mild indignation.

Meg, clad in her usual birkenstocks and an unusual amount of necklaces, strode up with a journal in hand. It was her songwriting journal; she'd had it since the band's formation. Taped to the front was a picture of Wildwood's members. They were newly eighteen in the photo, barely more than children.

She flipped to a page that was already bookmarked and set it down in front of Augbiny, instructing him to survey the contents of the next few pages. Sylvie watched on as Augbiny's expression turned from impassivity to awe and mild delight.

"These are beautiful, Ms. MacDougal. How long have you been working on them?"

Meg was pleased. "About since touring for Shady Grove began. It really inspired me."

Sylvie wondered what was so inspiring about hotel rooms, tour buses, and getting drunk. She couldn't have found her face most nights, let alone written down music. Without asking, Augbiny tore a piece of paper from the journal and passed it around the table. Their producer seemed to find it amusing. Farrah and Yosef read it, looking simultaneously concerned and impressed. Brian and Rowan's reactions were the same.

"What?" asked Sylvie as she took the paper. All their eyes had shifted to her. She read it line by line.

The song was about her.

It began like a story - introducing some mysterious woman who insisted on digging a deeper hole for herself every day. The picture it painted became more and more unflattering as time went on. It was missing a title and a few lines at the bottom had been roughly erased. Sylvie realized Meg understood her better than she ever thought possible. She felt like she had been stripped naked.

Meg's all-seeing eyes met hers as if to convey some sort of apology. Save it, Sylvie wanted to tell her.

The meeting continued despite palpable tension across the table. Decisions were made by Farrah and Mr. Augbiny, leaving the performers out of it altogether. Recording would have to take place within the next year, it was decided, leaving that much time for music to be composed and lyrics to be polished. It was a better deal than expected. Leisure time would be in relative abundance until the time came to tour again.

People filed out of the meeting room in an orderly fashion. Yosef hailed a taxi, eager to get back home to his wife and baby daughter. Farrah and their producer sauntered out together into the night. Sylvie took a brisk flight to the curb, waiting to hail a cab of her own as she yanked a cigarette from her purse. Meg followed her, Rowan and Brian in tow.

A hand fell on Sylvie's shoulder. Attached to it was a silver ring that she'd bought some five years ago, for Meg's 18th birthday. It was inlaid with little pearlescent daisies - a symbol of the glimmering dream they'd shared - that had turned dull with age.

"I didn't mean for you to see that," Meg began. "I wasn't going to put it on the album. It was just something I wrote down when inspiration struck - I wasn't even going to finish it."

Sylvie scoffed. "Sure you weren't."

"Really. Listen, it was a bitchy thing to do and I'm sorry. I only wrote a few songs, not enough for an entire album. You can write the rest of it."

"Is that really what you think of me?" asked Sylvie, "That I'm some loser who can't stop wallowing in her own misery?"

Meg adopted her usual self-righteous expression. "That's not what I think of you. It's just that, you know, you do have some pretty self-destructive habits-"

"Enough. I don't need a puritanical lecture from you. I'm a grown ass adult who can smoke and drink and fuck if I damn well please."

"Fine."

"Fine."

The two women stared each other down intensely. Brian and Rowan stood to the side, awkwardly twiddling their thumbs. The scene was reminiscent of parents arguing in front of their children.

"Listen, we've all decided to get dinner at Brian's parents' place. Why don't you come with us?" said Meg gently.

A taxi pulled up against the curb, casting a faint shadow against her. In lieu of answering, Sylvie simply shook her head and got in. After getting home, she reheated some leftover soup and parked her ass in front of the TV. Faintly audible was the sound of cars rushing around outside, of people talking and the neighbors on her right arguing.

Alone, as always, Sylvie crawled into a too-large bed, laid her head on expensive cotton pillowcases, and slipped into melancholic dreams.