He pushes his Ray-Bans onto his head, shooting me a piercing stare from his steely grey eyes. ‘You need to sort your shit out and pull something out of the bag, or Diamond Recordswillpull the plug on you, permanently.’
Older than me by a year, he’s never had any problem bossing me around. Even if I am supposed to be a fucking rockstar.
He has a point, a valid one, but voicing the worst-case scenario is a dick move.
‘Look, I know. Believe me, I’m working on it.’
His eyebrows raise as his hand sweeps the expansive landscape in front of him. ‘Yeah, I can see precisely how hard you’re working on things.’
‘Oh come on! You of all people know my job isn’t your typical nine-to-five. I can’t just sit at a desk and force out unfelt lyrics. They need to resonate with people, and in order for that to happen, I need to feel inspired. I can’t simply magic them out of thin air.’ I scrape a hand through my jet-black hair. It’s well overdue a trim, but I can’t even face the thought of leaving the comfort of my own mansion, because every time I do, someone asks me when the next album is coming out and the truth is, I don’t fucking know.
I’ve never struggled this way before. It’s like the creative part of my brain has run drier than the Sahara Desert. The words just refuse to come. I can’t even muster a single artistic idea.
I’ve been shutting down my emotions for the last ten years. Running from the overwhelm of my own obfuscated feelings.
Now I’m feeling brave enough to attempt to open Pandora’s box again – the code’s changed or something. I’m utterly incapable of any kind of meaningful emotion, let alone able to write about it. I’m emotionally frigid or something. I can’t, or maybe I just don’t want to feel.
‘You’re contractually obliged to provide two more albums, one before the end of January. You have roughly a month until the three concerts at The Colosseum in Vegas to pull something out the bag. Even a few new songs might convince the world, and Diamond Records, that a new album is imminent.’
We’ve had this conversation multiple times this year. I might have five multi-platinum albums to my name, but it’s been years since I’ve even attempted to write anything. Cruising shamelessly along on the gravelly voice I was born with, and old material from many moons ago, which had the most exquisite muse.
One I’ve tried not to dwell on – unsuccessfully I might add- since the day I left her.
‘Believe me, I’m well aware of my contractual obligations.’ Aware that, more than likely, I’m not going to be able to fulfil them.
‘The press are swooping in like vultures, printing crap about your writer’s block, claiming you’re a “has-been”. If we don’t do something, Diamond will drop you and no one else is going to snap up an artist who can’t uphold basic contractual obligations. We need to give them something.’
My considerate housekeeper, Mrs Garcia, chooses this moment to stick her head out of the patio doors. ‘You boys about ready for some lunch?’
Sara Garcia has been with me for the past five years. She makes the best steak sandwich known to man, and turns a blind eye to the countless women who traipse hopefully through here, before being rapidly replaced by the next.
I make no secret of the fact I’m a commitment-phobe. It’s their fault if they think they can change me.
Eyeing the cool condensation dripping across the length of the beer bottle, I call back, ‘Lunch would be amazing! Thanks.’
At the same time Jayden shouts, ‘Not yet, we haven’t quite finished talking shop.’
‘There’s nothing more to say.’ I pop the top from one of the bottles and hand it to him. He pauses for a split second before reluctantly accepting it.
‘You better find something to fucking say. The world is waiting.’ Jayden adjusts his glasses back on his nose, then gulps down a couple of noisy mouthfuls.
‘I will. Don’t panic. I just need a little inspiration.’ My gaze falls back to the water, as if the answer might be lurking at the bottom of the pool.
‘Well, for the love of god, find some! I don’t care if you have to go to Timbuktu to get it.’
He might have a point, because sitting here, holed up in this luxurious self-imposed prison, certainly isn’t helping. But where would?
So desperate to change the topic of conversation, I bring up the only thing I know will distract him.
‘Have you heard from Dad?’
‘Nope. Probably drinking himself into a stupor somewhere. For a man who rushed us back to this country in such a fucking hurry, he sure doesn’t seem happy to be here.’
And what a rush it was. A shudder rips through me as memory of that night flashes to the forefront of my brain.
Dad’s a liability. Truthfully, he always has been. If it wasn’t a dodgy investment, it was a get-rich-quick scheme. Both of which landed this family in a ton of shit. Enough that we had to flee the country I loved.
And the woman I loved.
