“Kelly King and Rhea will only work with you in the States, so you will have to fly over there at some point.”
I shrugged. “Then they might have to wait until I’ve worked with people who can be bothered to come out here.” I didn’t need to do this, write songs for other people. I had enough money in the bank and from royalties coming in to retire now, maybe work with rescue dogs or something to keep me occupied. But the truth was I liked writing songs; the music, the lyrics. I enjoyed the moment and the buzz I got when I’d completed something that sounded good.
Wes was panicking for no reason.
“There’s no recording studio here.”
“There’s one in Reykjavik. And there will be one here soon. Plus I can write songs from anywhere – we don’t need a recording studio for that.” I stood up and walked the few metres across the lounge to the huge single pane of glass that must’ve been hell to clean but afforded the best view I’d seen in my life of the lagoon. Across the water was a building smaller than the hotel, and with only a few separate pods scattered from it. It was the almost finished project of a woman who had wanted to retire out here with her husband three years ago. Unfortunately, her husband had died, and she’d decided to not move here.
The building stood empty and it was now on the market. It had the bones for a recording studio, was remote enough to guarantee privacy and possibly too much space for people to stay while they created and recorded.
“So you’re being a diva?”
Wes had a point.
“You could say that. I’m also in no rush. While you sort out whatever contracts and shit you need to work on, I’ll be working on some stuff that can be sold generally.”
The lagoon seemed bluer today. Apart from the suite I had reserved pretty much indefinitely, the rest of the hotel had been booked out by two parties. I was hoping they weren’t going to be full of crazy women, hell bent on one last night of freedom if they were hen parties. But even if they were, I could hide away.
I was getting pretty good at that.
“So you have no problems with the contracts and details for these three.” Wes pointed to the pile of papers he’d made me read through. The three other artists I’d worked with before in some way or another. Two were gems, easy going pre-fabricated bands that were a little young but very enthusiastic and had decent voices they were willing to practise. The other was a solo artist who had recently split from his group; he wanted to co-write as much as possible given that he was new to the songwriting aspect and trying to learn.
“None at all. I can start in the next couple of weeks if anyone is urgent.”
“How about an interview? Put some things straight. There are questions being asked of the residential children’s home where you were -- questions about their practices.”
Wes’s words were a sharp poke in the chest.
“They did nothing wrong.”
“I know. You’ve told me several times. Help them out. Give an interview – it’ll stop the speculation.”
I returned to my seat and sat back down. He was right. The home where I’d lived for four years while I was a teenager had put up with a lot from me, from all of us in our different ways. There had been three of us: me, Jodie and Lena. None of us had been easy, all of us had been too much for foster care because our behaviour had been unpredictable.
We kept in touch and somehow, we’d all made it in our own way. Jodie was now an assistant in an accounting firm and going through night school to qualify herself. Lena was a social worker, becoming the thing we’d all hated at times. I’d done whatever people called it. Been a rock star, won a few awards, written songs and music. But it had been down to the carers in that home that I’d been able to do that.
They hadn’t given up on the angry kid that’d landed on their doorstep aged thirteen, full of hate and violence. By fifteen they’d taught me guitar. My tutor made me look at literature and then write songs. At sixteen I was in a band and on the verge of leaving care. They’d let me stay one more year, by which time we were making enough from gigging that I could afford my own place with some of my band mates and we took a chance on our talent that no one in their right older minds would dare.
“Send the offer my way. I’ll overlook them and choose one that seems sensible. There are a couple of good reporters that I wouldn’t mind working with.” Not every journalist was a blood hungry rabid vampire. Amber had always been good. At everything.
I pushed the thought of her away. She wasn’t someone I could consider right now, mainly because I’d fucked up, or she’d fucked up. One of us had and neither of us knew which it was, and I didn’t know if we had anything left to fuck up in the first place.
“I’ll do that. Tell me about your plans for a recording studio here?”
“As in contractual stuff?”
“No, Liam.” He shook his head. “I am interested in more than making us both money, you know.”
I knew he was. I’d put him through too much to stick around if it was just about the cash.
I told him the story about the widow and the building, giving him the details I remembered from the estate agent’s specification. I hadn’t done a tour of the property yet, but from everything I’d researched – including speaking to the builders – it was ideal for what I wanted. “I can fully kit it out. Soundproofing, wooden panels, acoustics, synths – everything I’d need, which means it’d have everything someone else would need, in a place that’s pretty much bespoke. You can get away here; no media, no fans. It’s heaven on earth.” And there were the lights. Eight times in the last three weeks I’d seen them.
“Would you live out here?”
“Half and half. Between here and London. So not a complete recluse.”
“What happens if you don’t get the building you want?” Wes looked serious.
