1987: george clement sighs, fiddles with his cuff links, tips his head back to the gray london sky. he feels like an intruder, wants to get home to his newborn daughter and probably a nice glass of brandy. he watches the processional in front of him as every person places their flowers before dragging themselves over to greet her parents. there's a chorus of sniffles behind him, and the faintest echo of whispers underneath. "he's taking the baby from her parents, you know," he hears. "they weren't even married!" he feels like he's suffocating. he turns and leaves his lover's funeral, red anemones still clutched tightly in his fist. maybe he'll place them in their daughter's bedroom.

1992: their street's relatively quiet, save for the strains of cymbals and snare escaping their windows- all the soundproofing in the world can't contain george when he's tracking. the girl next door is named amanda, and she's always got on frilly socks, like the ones ginivieve's grandmother always sends with her christmas dresses. she says she's an actress, but they've been neighbors for a whole year and ginivieve's never seen her on tv, so she's pretty sure amanda is just a liar. her dad says that almost everybody in los angeles is, except for him, and her, and their dog. she's supposed to be watching tiny toons with her nanny, but hilda's dozed off and it's just so nice outside. gg toddles out the front door, bucket of chalk in hand. she spends the next hour or so illustrating their front walk and, when that's all filled up, the adjoining sidewalk. her masterpiece extends past amanda's house and the one after it, a million frames of the same pink stick figure heroine with a crown atop her head. when she shows her dad, he asks if that's her, princess ginivieve of toluca lake, and she holds up a regal hand to silence him. "no, dad," she says with all the exasperation of a grown woman scolding a child, "my name is princess honey."

2004: gg's got a cigarette in one hand and both bare feet settled on the balcony railing. she's gesturing wildly and george thinks she's never looked more like her mother. "i know you want me to be 'normal,'" she tells him, making sure to emphasize it with a thick, mocking accent, "but if you're still living your dream, then it's not very fair of you to keep me from mine." they've had this fight a number of times, but ginivieve is nothing if not stubborn. he wants her to go to university, and she's insisting that she wants to move to new york, make music. "darling, i know you think this is what you want, but-" "but nothing, dad! you're being bullheaded because you don't think i'm capable of handling myself. i'm not asking you to make me a record- i'm not asking you much of anything, i'm telling you that this i what i want to do!" she flicks the cigarette off the balcony and storms back into the house. "what would mum say if she were here right now?" and just like that, she knows she's won.

2011: this is the darkest, dirtiest bar in all of brooklyn. it has to be. the walls are lined with rock posters, faded beyond recognition, and the lights may look dimmed for ambiance, but it's actually because they're too fucking cheap to change out the bulbs. it's her favourite place. she's not wearing makeup and her blonde hair is in a knot on top of her head. there's a hushed argument going on a few feet behind her, but she pays it no mind, coyly touches the arm of the stranger beside her and asks him what he does. he's in the middle of droning on about his fucking courier job- which she knows means he's a drug dealer- when she hears a mousey voice from beside her asking, "you're that girl, right?" and normally, she wouldn't turn around, because no, she's not, but she can definitely feel their eyes practically searing holes into her temple and she knows she's not tripping. there's a girl and a boy standing there, looking impossibly "cool" in their boat shoes and flannels. "you're the honey girl, the video with the wicked cigarette burns on it? i caught it on pitchfork, it's so cool. it's visually stunning and, like, haunting and just, like, a completely different spin on what other musicians are doing right now. you're really cool." it's simultaneously the most pretentious and most insipid shit she's ever heard, but it's the first time she's ever been approached, and she eats up their praise like sunday dinner.

2014: "...we understand you've come under a bit of fire for this lyric, 'he hit me and hit felt like a kiss,' what's that about?" she can barely hear the question over the deafening screams. the red carpet rolled out behind her is lined with what seems like an infinite number of millennials, all shrieking their heads off at the mere prospect of standing within a mile of their favourite musicians. within a mile of her. they all turn their attention toward the gigantic screen, watch her roll her eyes and huff dramatically. "it's a fucking reference," she says for what feels like the millionth time, and she can practically see the internet headlines in her mind's eye: moody pop star at it again! "it's a reference to a song that i really like. music doesn't always have to be so fucking literal! but i don't wanna talk about that, and neither do you, so just ask me who i'm wearing." "okay, who are you wearing?" ginivieve hesitates for a second before turning on her charmingly sheepish smile. "um, i actually don't know. sorry to whoever made this dress, it's beautiful!" "and i see you've got some flowers in your hair, are they real?" the man with the microphone reaches up to touch them and she quickly slaps his hand away. "yes, yes they are, don't mess them up! they're red anemones. they're my favourite."