by Zoe Sugg
After much debate with Elliot about what to wear up to London, I decide on a black-and-white stripey top with my black denim dungarees, and my mum’s old battered leather jacket. I leave my long auburn hair loose round my shoulders, only twisting and pinning a few strands of my fringe off my face so I don’t get annoyed. I’ve kept my makeup to a minimum but used a matte red lipstick to add a bit of low-key glam—“It’s only an afternoon date, my love, not a night on the razzle-dazzle,” says Elliot, shimmying towards me with jazz hands—and I’ve painted my nails a coral pink. I wish I hadn’t though, as by the end of the train journey I’ve almost picked it all off.
I keep checking my phone in the taxi, scrolling through the running WhatsApp chat I’m having with Posey, who keeps trying to figure out what I’m up too.
PENNY!! I just googled the place we’re going to and it’s a recording studio?! What am I going to do there?
Wait, how did you find out?
I saw the address on Megan’s phone. Argh, I don’t know if I can do this!
Of course you can!
Well, I don’t have much choice—we’re almost there. See you soon?
See you!
I breathe a sigh of relief that Posey is not bailing on me.
“Here you are, love,” says the Uber driver. My mum had linked her debit card to the app on my phone because she didn’t want me to get lost in the London streets. I thank the driver and step out onto a tree-lined road. It’s eerily quiet and leafy, tucked away from the main London thoroughfares, and the only thing out of place is a long, black stretch limousine parked a little bit farther down the road. Most likely Leah’s ride. Who even drives around in limousines anymore? I guess if anyone does it’s Leah.
I glance up and down the street but there’s no sign of Megan and Posey just yet. I lean up against a low stone wall, enjoying the warm autumn sunshine on my face.
“Penny! There you are!” Megan appears from round the corner, Posey in tow. Posey is wearing dark sunglasses and a cute panama hat pulled down low over her face. Megan is dressed to the absolute nines in a tight minidress and high-heeled boots. It looks more like she’s ready to go clubbing than hang out in a studio.
“Hey, guys!” I say with a wave. Once they’re close enough I give them each a big hug. “Are you ready?” I ask.
Posey lifts her sunglasses up. “I don’t know! We’ll see,” she says. She stares over my shoulder at the door to the studio, and I turn to face it as well. In fact, it looks just like an ordinary London house—or rather, a London mansion: a tall, three-storey, white-painted townhouse standing behind a black cast-iron gate with elegant gold finials. The only indication that it’s a world-class recording studio is the small glass plate inscribed OCTAVE STUDIOS above the push-button bell on one of the gateposts.
I press the button and give my name to the crackly voice that answers: “Penny Porter and friends here. We have an appointment?”
The gate swings open and we walk through and up the steps to the main entrance. The front door opens, and we’re greeted by a girl who doesn’t look much older than us—although she looks much cooler in her worn leather jacket, black vest top and studded jeans. Megan tugs nervously at her hemline.
“Hi, are you Penny?” the girl asks me. I nod. “Great. I’m Alice. I work at the front desk here at Octave. She’s expecting you, but she’s in the studio already, checking the set-up. You can go right on through—it’s just down the stairs and follow the corridor. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, which I hope makes me look more confident than I feel.
“Wait, are we meeting someone here?” asks Posey. Excitement laces her every word.
“Maybe.” I can’t help the small grin that appears on my face. Once upon a time, the thought of meeting Leah Brown in person would have had me quaking in my boots, but now I just want to jump for joy. Even though she’s always megabusy, she’s become a great friend since the tour. She lives in another world, but she’s never too high and mighty to come back down to earth once in a while.
The stairs down to the main part of the studio are lined with famous faces—including a stunning black-and-white portrait of Leah. I try not to linger on it in case I give everything away.
When we reach the bottom, I recognize Leah’s personal assistant, Talia, who gives me two kisses on the cheek. “Hello, lovely!” she says. I’d briefed her that it was a surprise, so she winks at me. “This way.”
I grab Posey’s hand so that she will be the first person to see it all.
We push through into the studio, and there, behind the glass, singing her heart out, is Leah Brown.
“No. Way,” whispers Posey beside me. Her hand suddenly grips mine so tight I start to lose feeling in my fingers.
Leah, as always, looks amazing. She’s made almost no effort with her appearance (because on recording days there’s no need for her to care about it, only her music)—just thrown her long blonde hair up into a messy bun that still manages to look Instagram-worthy.
As soon as Megan sees, there’s an ear-piercing squeal and she throws her arms round my neck. “This is amazing! Is this really happening? Leah Brown!”
“That’s her!” I say with a laugh. Megan and Posey jump up and down, and I collapse into a fit of giggles.
The commotion attracts Leah’s eye as she finishes her warm-up, and she waves to us. Then she detaches herself from her headphones and makes her way through the soundproof doors towards us.
“Oh my god, can I Snapchat this?” Megan asks me.
Before I can answer, Talia pipes up. “No social media inside the studio. In fact, no photos or recording of any kind. Normally we’d collect your phones but . . .”
“No need for that, we’re all friends, right?” says Leah as she walks up to us. “Any friend of Penny’s is a friend of mine.”
“Leah! So good to see you!”
“And you too, Penny!” We give each other a huge hug.
“This is Posey and Megan, my two friends who are studying at the Madame Laplage School for the Arts.”
“So nice to meet you both!” She reaches out and gives them both hugs too, even though they are frozen stock-still like statues. Leah’s used to having that effect on people. “Wow, Madame Laplage—I know a few other singers who went there. What an awesome opportunity.”
“Oh, it’s amazing,” says Megan, recovering from the hug faster than Posey. She flips her chestnut hair, sending it cascading across her shoulders. “We get real vocal training there, which will set us up for the rest of our careers.”
A small frown flits across Leah’s face. My jaw almost falls to the floor at Megan’s rudeness. Was she making a dig at Leah’s singing—within two seconds of meeting her?
But the frown disappears before Megan can register it, and Leah’s smooth smile is back again. She turns it on Posey next, who is shaking like a leaf. Leah reaches out, takes Posey’s hand and leads her over to one of the sofas. Leah hops onto the cushions, crossing her legs underneath her. Posey follows her obediently, and I can see the tension relax from her shoulders. I marvel at Leah’s ability to make someone feel at ease without even having to say a word.
“So, Posey, I hear you have some trouble with stage fright?” says Leah, getting straight to the point.
Posey looks up at me with alarm in her eyes. “You told Leah Brown about my stage fright?”
I nod. “I—”
“She told me,” says Leah before I can say anything else, “because she knows I can help. I went through it too.”
Posey blinks. “You did?”
Leah nods. “I did. But before we get into that, I’d love to be able to hear you sing? Please?”
“Oh no . . . I couldn’t. I can’t! I’m such a huge fan of yours . . .”
Leah waves her hand dismissively in front of her face. “No, no, none of that. Does it trigger your fright to sing for a small group?”
Posey wrings her hands, the bracelets on her wrist clinking togethe
r. “Not normally. It’s really only a stage and large audience thing . . .”
Leah nods sagely. “I get that. The recording booth is so dark you can forget you’re even there. The glass can be tinted so it’s only one way. Will you sing for me?”
Posey thinks about it for a moment, then nods. “OK.”
Leah claps her hands together. “Great! Have you been in a live room before?”
Posey shakes her head.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s easy. Just head through the door, make yourself comfortable in front of the mic—sit on the stool or stand, whichever you want—then put on the headphones. Then there’s a button on the side that you can use to communicate with us in the control room, and vice versa. You can just start when you’re ready.”
“OK,” Posey says, before biting her bottom lip. She stands up slowly, then walks a little shakily through into the other half of the studio. My eyes follow her. She reaches the stool and moves it aside. When she sees the microphone, though, her eyes light up.
“She looks like a natural in there,” says Leah. “Here, pull up a chair to the mixing console, you two.”
Megan and I drag a couple of ergonomic rolling chairs from the corner of the room and slide them over to the huge mixing console—a table on a slight tilt with what seems like a million buttons on it. I’m grateful suddenly that my camera only has a few as even those are tricky enough.
“Impressive, right?” says Leah, as I stare at the rows and rows of controls.
“You’re telling me!”
“We have three of these in the basement at Madame Laplage,” says Megan. “They’re top of the line and donated by a former student.”
“Well, you’re really lucky. I didn’t get into one of these babies until I was signed up by Sony! Before that I was just recording in my bedroom . . . Trust me, when you have three younger brothers, no room in the house is soundproof.”
There’s a short beep and then a barely audible voice comes through the speakers. “I think I’m ready,” says Posey.
Leah presses one of the buttons on the mixing table. “Great!”
We all stare through the glass at Posey, but she’s not looking at us. In fact, her eyes are closed and she’s nodding her head to hidden music. Then, almost without warning, she breaks into Maria’s section of “Tonight” from West Side Story.
As her incredible soprano voice fills the room, the three of us lean back in our chairs, blown away by her talent and tingling all over with goosebumps.
And, when the song finishes, Leah Brown leaps from her chair and gives Posey a standing ovation.
Chapter Fifteen
When Posey comes back into the control room, her cheeks are glowing with the flush of singing such a demanding piece. “Thanks, guys,” she says, as we continue applauding. Even Megan joins in, unable to hold back her appreciation.
“That was really amazing!” Leah says. “Gurl, you have real talent.”
“Thanks,” Posey says again. But then she hangs her head. “It’s still not going to do me any good, though. There, in that room, with only you guys watching . . . I’m not afraid of that. But put me onstage and it’s a whole other story.”
“Good luck actually performing then,” Megan mumbles under her breath, but I hear her and shoot her a sharp look. Megan rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest—she’s been bitten hard by the green-eyed monster.
“Tell me what happens,” continues Leah, her voice soothing. Thankfully, I don’t think she heard Megan.
Posey sits down on the sofa, crossing her ankles. I’ve never met someone who sits and stands with such incredible posture, so ram-rod straight. But then, that control is also evident in her singing. Even I, with my untrained ear, can tell she hits every note with ease and precision.
“It’s like . . . when I leave the safety of the curtains, I’m not going out onstage towards the audience. I’m on a narrow plank over shark-infested waters. With each step I take, all my muscles seem to weaken until I can barely stand up. My fingers tingle, my mouth goes dry—no matter how much water I’ve had backstage. And then the worst thing is—my mind goes blank. All the practice I’ve put in, all the hours of memorizing every word and note and beat and movement . . . gone. In a snap.” She snaps her fingers to emphasize the point. “Once that happens, I can’t recover from it.”
Leah nods her head all through Posey’s description. “Check, check, check. I’ve experienced all that.”
“There’s a bit more, though,” Posey whispers, in a voice so quiet I have to lean in to hear her. “At the beginning of the summer I was playing Sandy in our school’s production of Grease. But on opening night I couldn’t do it. I just froze—in front of everyone. The worst part was, my legs were so heavy I couldn’t even move them and someone had to come and basically drag me off the stage and send in my understudy. And they were already in costume as one of the Pink Ladies. It was an awful, awful mess and I ruined everything.” Tears well up in her eyes as she talks and I can’t help it—I feel my eyes begin to prickle as well. “I should have just given up then and there and refused my place at Madame Laplage.”
“You know, I pulled out of a Broadway role once, for the same reasons. It went on to win a Tony—it would’ve been an amazing experience and I regret that decision every day. So I know how you feel, honestly,” says Leah.
“But you get up onstage and sing to thousands of people all the time! You’re carrying your own tour! I bet you don’t get stage fright now.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not true. Every time, I have to compose myself. Every time, I have to remind myself that I am in control—not my fear. And, Posey?”
“Yes?”
“You were born to do this. I know there’s a passion inside you, burning just as strong as your fear. Maybe even stronger—otherwise you wouldn’t have auditioned for Madame Laplage in the first place. You can do this. You need to do this—for your own sanity. You might think that going onstage is insane. But it’s not. You not being onstage, you not performing—that ’s insanity. Find that kernel of confidence, cling onto it for dear life, and eventually that seed will grow into a shoot, and the shoot into a sapling, and the sapling into a massive great oak of confidence, with roots that reach every part of your body. I’m not saying your stage fright will completely go away. But under that tree, you will have sanctuary from the storm.”
“Are you sure?” says Posey breathlessly.
“Absolutely.”
“I can’t believe even the incredible Leah Brown gets stage fright,” says Posey, smiling for the first time since she finished singing.
“Oh, you’d be surprised! When I first spoke about it in public, I got loads of messages from performers you wouldn’t dream have stage fright. Some of the most famous singers and actors in the world. In our case—and I know this maybe isn’t the case with other anxieties—the only way out is through. You can’t remove it; but you can control it; you have to embrace it. Use it. You can do this. I promise you.”
Posey nods, but I can see she’s not quite convinced. I feel for her. I’d hate to be in her position, as I know there’s absolutely no way I could push through my anxiety. When it wells up, I just have to ride the wave—and (normally) I can escape from any audience I may have. For Posey, there’s no escape. But there is her talent. I only hope she can grow that tree of confidence quickly, or else I know she will let it wither and die without a chance.
“Do you want to sing some more?” Leah asks Posey.
Posey’s eyes instantly light up. “Yeah, I’d love that!”
“Great! We can duet. Do you know ‘For Good’ from Wicked ?”
“Of course!” Posey leaps from the sofa. “I just love that musical.”
“Ace, me too! Then, if you guys are up for it, I’d love to play you some of my new album. Top secret of course.” Leah winks.
“Oh, we’d love that!” I say. “Would you mind if I set up to take some pictures of you guys?”
�
��No problem.”
When the two others are in the studio, Megan spins around her chair to look at me. “Do you really think it’s going to be that easy for Posey?”
“What do you mean?”
“One session with the great Leah Brown and she’ll be—” Megan mimes air quotes with her fingers as she says the next word—“cured?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that at all. But I do think Posey has something special she wants to share with the world—and stage fright isn’t going to stop her. Whether it’s this performance or another one—she’ll do it. I only think that she shouldn’t give up hope.”
Megan snorts. “Maybe.”
“Hey, why are you being so sour about this? I thought you said you wanted to help?”
Megan shrugs. “You can’t help a lost cause.”
I grit my teeth. “OK, well, I’m going to step outside as I think the lighting will be better out there for a photo. Let me know when Leah starts singing her new stuff?”
“Sure.”
Once I leave the control room, I breathe a sigh of relief. Sometimes being cooped up with a grumpy Megan is like torture. I head up the stairs again, toward the bright entrance hall I saw when we first walked in. Alice is nowhere to be seen, but I’m glad—it gives me a moment to look around properly.
The aspect I’m most instantly drawn to is the huge skylights—they flood the room with light, making the space feel incredibly airy. The white walls—which could look a bit clinical—are warmed up with lots of hanging ferns, their long, pointed leaves draping over large, burnished copper pots.
I set up my tripod in the middle of the room, facing two low white sofas. There’s a patch of sunlight on the ground in the perfect shape of a parallelogram on the floor in front of them. I bite my bottom lip. I’m not sure whether the lighting is going to work—it might be a bit too harsh on Leah and Posey’s skin with so many reflective surfaces.