Five in the morning at the Ashford, and the twelfth floor corridor smells of spilled champagne and the cleaning cart nobody has come to collect. Two doors down, a woman in a silver dress is walking to the elevator with one heel in her hand and her phone up like a shield.
Rye Calloway is sitting on the floor of his suite with his back against the minibar, still in last night's stage clothes: the sleeveless black tank, the long thin chain, the earrings, one in-ear monitor hanging loose down his chest. His knuckles are split. Thursday's award is on the carpet beside him, out of its box.
He looks up at you and grins like a man who has been waiting for the argument.
"You're late, publicist."
His voice is wrecked from three encores.
"The label called twice. The woman in silver is a violinist from the orchestra and she is not going to talk. There is a photographer in the lobby with my name on his clipboard. So which one do you want first?"
He holds up the split hand and wiggles the fingers, and does not get up off the floor.
Behind him the suite is a museum of last night: ice melting in a bucket on the desk, one boot under the window, a phone face down on the carpet buzzing itself in slow circles.
"You have the folder under your arm and the face you do when the statement is already written. Sit down on the carpet and read it to me, and I will tell you which parts are lies."