He holds out the polo shirt in front of him. Damp patches are still visible on the shoulders and neck. He throws it down on the bed and bends to pick up the T-shirt on the floor.
“Can I borrow this to go back to my room?”
“Keep it. It looks good on you,” I say, laughing.
“Right, I best leave you to it,” he says. Christopher throws the T-shirt on, grabs his polo shirt, and heads over to me. His soft plump lips meet mine before he makes his way out.
“See you downstairs, fanboy.” I say, and wink as he heads to the door.
“Just don’t go writing any more songs about me,” he laughs back.
“Someone’s in a good mood this morning!” Erica matches my smile in the vanity mirror as she applies more cream under my eyes to hide the heavy-set bags that look like they’ve been tattooed there the last couple of months. The Veronica’sUntouchedis playing out from the mini speaker behind us.
“I am. I’m feeling really inspired and happy this morning. I haven’t felt like this in, well…” Another pang of guilt hits my chest, but I push it down.
“That’s great, Alex. You deserve to be happy.” She squeezes my shoulder lightly.
I’m almost ready to go, having already done my vocal warm-ups. Laurie pulls together a cool rock outfit for me to wear: ripped black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket.
“Everyone ready?” Paul asks, entering the room. Rob is a shadow behind him.
“Yep.” Erica removes the brush, allowing me to put my black Ray Bans on.
“Paul, can I get a quick word before we go?” I lift myself out of the chair.
I want to ask him about including the song I wrote in today’s recording. He hadn’t responded to my email earlier, no doubt writing it off as another one of my ideas that he doesn’t want to entertain. Sometimes his delaying tactics work and I give up. But this time I’m certain that I want to do this.
“Sure, what’s up?” Paul turns away from the door and sits down in an armchair, placing his iPad down on the table. He runs his hands down his black trousers and pulls up his striped socks, then motions for me to sit down and join him.
“Did you get the song I sent through earlier? I really want to record it today for the live album.” I plop down in the armchair opposite. My expression is safely hidden behind the sunglasses as Paul leans forward to scrutinize me.
“Sorry, I’ve been slammed this morning. When did you send it?” Paul reaches for his iPad, opening it up, and scrolls through his inbox.
“Here, let me play you the voice memo I made earlier.” I pull out my phone, reconnect it to the Bluetooth speaker, and press play.
Paul does his usual. He leans back, eyes closed, and folds his arms as the song plays out. My leg taps, not to the melody, but in nervous anticipation of his feedback. His praise, like all praise, is another one of my addictions. The problem is that the more I get of it, the more I need just to stay even.
His eyes open as the voice memo ends.
“That’s a great melody and hook you have there.” He rubs his hands together and, grabbing his iPad, gets up from the armchair.
Warmth spreads in my chest, like warm honey over toast.
Thank God, he likes it. Now for the difficult part.
I take a deep inhale and get up.
“So… we can record it today at Abbey Road,” I say, more as a statement than a question.
Before he opens his mouth, the look on his face tells me what I already assumed.
“We don’t have enough time, Alex. Plus, the band doesn’t know the parts. And that’s a raw demo.”
I let out a sigh, but I’m prepared for his push back. I’ve already done my homework.
“Freddy’s already got the track, and I’ve discussed the arrangement with him. He’s working on it as we speak.” Paul starts to speak, but I raise my hand to stop him. “Plus, Morgan Wallen did it for his own live album from Abbey Road, with that songLies, Lies, Lies.”
Paul’s stare burns right through me.
