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I open my mouth to deny this, but nothing comes out, and I find I don’t really want to lie. I don’t think she’s trying to catch me out, but I also don’t see the benefit of not telling the truth. I pull a face. ‘Yeah. I found it kind of revolting. The taste to me. . . it’s giving Hackney Marshes. Or Hollywood anti-vaxxer bathwater. Sorry.’ If Aminah were here she would admonish me for not being able to ‘pretend small’, but, honestly, telling Taré the truth was for the greater good. Allowing people to drink that might fuck up her brand and their guts. I’m being a humanitarian.

Taré twitches a shoulder. ‘Don’t be. Like you said, it’s an acquired taste and, plus, there really is no campaign. It’s my own personal drink. I like the kick. I just think it’s fascinating that you didn’t lie to me. I mean you saidsomething, but you never said you liked it. And when you realised that your opinion on it might count for something, you suggested something you thought was better, smoothly as fuck might I add, without me wanting to hit you.’

What is happening? I can’t tell if I’m messing this up or bossing this. What isthisanyway? She’d invited me to this event out of nowhere, and I’m the only person here. I idly wonder if I’m being recruited into the Illuminati. Although, I do think being successful– or at the very least employed– is a prerequisite for being recruited. Also why can I recognise the taste of the frog-piss drink sticking to the back of my throat?

‘Sorry– what was the name of the drink again?’

‘Elevated Matcha Margarita,’ she says it breezily, like I asked her the colour of the sky.

I nod as a faded memory begins to bring that weirdly botanic taste to the forefront. ‘Sure. And what makes it elevated? There’s this um, tang to it—’

Taré turns to her assistant, who has been scrolling listlessly on their phone, sat by the door, ‘Yo, Celestial. What gives it the tang?’ She turns to me in explanation. ‘Celestial’s done mixologist training. I give her a mood, and she comes up with a drink. This is one of her creations, actually. She’s the only person I allow to make my drinks for me. My experience in this industry means I don’t trust a lot of people. Plus, I’m half Nigerian, half Brazilian, so I’m very superstitious. So many people in this life are badmind.’ She looks back up to her personal bartender as she replies, in a chill tone, ‘The tang’s from THC.’

I nod with forced composure. ‘Cool, cool. Um. And by THC did you mean to say CBD?’ I scratch at my neck. ‘Just to clarify?’

‘No, no. THC. I like to unwind after performances. Tap into another plane.’

‘Cool.Cool.’ Am I still nodding? I think I am. I tell my mind to stop nodding, and I think I’ve achieved it because my hoops have stopped moving.

Taré is genuinely horrified, a hand flying to her mouth. ‘Fuck! It’s the teeniest, tiniest dose, though. Like a pinch. That’s something I should have told you about, isn’t it?’

I hitch a casual shoulder up. ‘Preferably, I think.’

‘Of course– oh man, this looks terrible. I am so sorry. I’m just so used to the drink I forgot—’

‘You know what! It’s OK! I needed something to take the edge off anyway. So, um, back to—’ I veer her back on course, realising that soon enough we’re both likely to lose track of where this conversation is supposed to go.

Taré claps her hands. ‘Right!’

I’m realising that Taré is like an eccentric little fairy, her shrewd, brilliant mind flitting and fluttering at lightning speed, her magic not evil nor angelic– it justis, at the whims of her desires.

‘You probably want to know what’s going on. Like I said, I’ve been a fan of your work for a while. How you connect music and vision and human emotion– how you understand it, how you’re curious. You clearly listen with your whole body. Music isn’t just a moment for you, it’s an experience. It’s personal history. You dive deep. Make roadmaps to emotions, to artist evolution. You’re like. . . some fucking music archaeologist wizard bad bitch.’ Her hands dance as she’s speaking, conducting an orchestra of the sections that form my self-esteem.

‘Um, thank you. . .’ I warm, a tension I didn’t know I had releasing, parts of me stretching out. Though this might be the effects of the cursed cocktail, it also just feels good to be seen, to know that what I did with The Heartbeat wasn’t all for nothing. It got me here, talking with someone whose artistry inspires me.

Taré shakes her head, and sips her nasty drink, ‘Mmm-mm– thankyou. You know, you’ve seen things in my work that I wasn’t able to articulate myself?’ She sits back and shakes her head, stretching an arm on the back of her chair and crossing her legs. ‘And I’m kind of narcissistic so I’m very preoccupied with my work. When I heard that you weren’t doing the podcast any more, I did some digging. Asked about you at SoundSugar. Told my people to tell their people that I wanted to work with you. Go on your show, maybe. You know what those fuckers said?’

Apprehension makes my tongue heavy, so I shake my head.

Taré grins widely. ‘They said you were “difficult to work with”.’

My stomach sinks with the confirmation that my hunch was correct. SoundSugar were blacklisting me. This is why all my meetings were falling through, why I was struggling to get my foot up anywhere. They were pre-empting my talking about what they did by trying to snuff me out. And now they were compromising my opportunity to work with one of my dream artists.

‘And in the same breath,’ Taré continues, her face lightly strewn with some merciful disgust, ‘they offered me a chance to come on their newpodcast with Kitty St James. “Similar vibes,” they said. I looked it up. Similar vibes like how fast fashion churns out a dupe for a runway show overnight, but it don’t fit right. Don’t look right. Strings running. Colour fading. Destined for the landfill of nepo-baby mediocrity.’

I swallow my anger, and it sits tight in my throat. ‘I see.’

Taré tilts her head, eyes earnest. ‘Hey. It was exactly what I wanted to hear, Kiki. When the wrong people call you difficult,you’re on to something. Trust me. It’s all I needed to know to know exactly what happened. They tried to pull you apart and sell you in pieces, right? Tried to extract your essence without theyouof it?’

Humiliatingly, tears spring into my eyes, tears I’d been holding back, because I’ve never had time to sit and reallythinkabout what happened. I just kept moving, working through applying to jobs, doing shifts at the restaurant, fucking exes–fuckingexes– and helping Aminah with her wedding. I haven’t had a moment to catch my breath. I now feel it all in my chest, the pain, the fury, the possessiveness.

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m—’

Taré reaches out for my hand, squeezes. ‘That’s OK. I know why. Look, they’re threatened by you. They tried to do the same to me just because I was sick of being silenced. I tried to play the game for a while, told myself I just need to get to a certain stage and then I can take back my power, but it doesn’t work like that. Because that “certain stage” kept looking further and further away. I woke up one morning and barely recognised myself or the music I was making. I was sick of feeling like I was compromising my soul, you know? That’s why I took a hiatus.’

I nod, confusion and gratitude and potential highness battling it out in my mind. ‘I really appreciate this. It makes me feel less. . . scrambled, I guess? Understood. And, honestly, this is all so amazing, but. . .’

‘What’s this all for? We’re getting there.’ Taré sits back and beams impishly. ‘Tell me what you thought of the new music, Kiki. They’re beta versions, so be honest.’