Lock not told Isabelle about Max West?
“Max West?” Isabelle said. “Max West?” She might have said his name with awe and admiration—or disbelief—but what Claire heard was disdain. “Do we want Max West?”
Claire leaned against the back of her Windsor chair so that she could feel every one of her vertebrae, and she pressed her feet flat to the ground and simultaneously tried to lower her pelvis. She was creating her own yoga position. This distraction lasted for a few seconds before the shouting in her head began. Do we want Max West? That was like asking if they wanted Billy Joel, John Cougar Mellencamp, Tom Petty. Max West was probably the biggest cross-generational rock star in the whole world. He was right up there with Jimmy Buffett and Elton John. Do we want Max West?
Was she kidding?
“Hell, yes,” Brent Jackson said. “That’s why I’m here. I love Max West. Everybody loves Max West.”
Isabelle tilted her head back so that her nose pointed up. “I’m not sure he’s right for our demographic,” she said. “Our leading donor demographic is fifty-five to seventy. That’s the biggest money. They don’t want to hear Max West. They want to hear Broadway.”
Adams said, “With all due respect to our demographic, since Max West is willing to play for us for free, we are going with Max West.”
“I think that’s a mistake,” Isabelle said. “I really do.”
So there you had it: the well was poisoned. Claire hated Isabelle French. Siobhan had tried to warn Claire, but Claire had not heeded this warning—she had felt sorry for Isabelle French! (Bad divorce, Lock had said. And some subsequent bad decisions.) But now Isabelle was making Claire look like an ass in front of Adams, the committee, and Lock. Overriding Claire’s embarrassment, her humiliation, her indignation (should she recite the litany of charitable organizations that wanted to get Max West and had no prayer? Should she inform Isabelle that Max had turned down Bono?), was mounting anger at Lock. He should have told Isabelle about Max West before the meeting started, and he should be de- fending Claire now. It had never crossed Claire’s mind that there was a person alive who would not want Max West to play the ben-efit. Claire was completely blindsided. She was mute with rage.
Lock said, “I guess we could look into other options . . .”
“No,” Claire said. All this time she had been staring into her lap, and there was a reason for that—she knew her face would be discolored. Her skin was milky white, but now she would have a red spot—round as an apple—on each cheek. She looked up at Brent Jackson and Tessa Kline, the magazine editor—God, what must she be thinking?—then turned to Isabelle and Lock. “No way. If you make me cancel Max West after calling in this favor, I will quit.” She rose from her chair to show she was serious, but was this a threat? Did anyone care if she resigned as cochair? Did Lock care?
Lock said to Isabelle, “Claire brought us Max West. He’s a friend of hers from high school.” He made it sound like Claire was a cat who had dropped a dead mouse at their feet.
“Forget it,” Claire said. She felt like a nine-year-old, a seven-year-old, a four-year-old. “I’ll call him back and tell him we don’t want him. I’ll tell him he doesn’t hit our demographic.”
“I’ve been talking to people, too,” Isabelle said. “Kristin Chenoweth, who is the hottest voice on Broadway right now. And Christine Ebersole is considering us, too. I’ve known her manager for years.”
“Christine Ebersole?” said Lauren van Aln. “Never heard of her.”
“How old are you?” Isabelle said.
“Thirty-one.”
“Well, that’s why.”
“I’ve never heard of Kristin Chenoweth,” Brent Jackson said.
“She’s starring in the revival of South Pacific,” Isabelle said. “Her face is on every bus and billboard in the city. She is h-o-t.”
“What is your objection to Max West?” Claire said. “If I may ask. He has eight platinum albums. He has thirty-one Top Forty hits. He has mass appeal. He is a bona fide celebrity, everyone knows him, and he will put ticket sales through the roof.”
“Nobody’s going to pay a thousand dollars for someone they’ve never heard of,” Francine Davis said.
There was silence. Everyone was waiting for Isabelle to speak. When she did speak, she looked at Lock, though Claire was the one standing, demanding an answer. But Isabelle appealed only to him. “Max West is a rock star,” she said. “His songs are loud and