Sophie's Encore (The Rock Star Romance Series)

by Nicky Wells

  No, that, she wasn’t. All afternoon, she had picked out outfits to wear to her official playschool debut the following morning. Chattering away to the best of her not-quite-three-year-old ability, she had selected and dismissed clothes like a mini-me getting ready for a night out. Dan kept a straight face throughout her entire discourse while I quietly choked into my hanky. Emily was feeling a lot of things, but maternal displacement wasn’t one of them.

  “Now, you, young lady,” Dan broke into my thoughts. “I don’t want you moping around your house tomorrow or, God forbid, spend your hard-earned three hours of freedom cleaning.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, although I had mentally made a list of all the jobs that needed to be done.

  Dan regarded me critically. “I know you. You are planning to wash the curtains and sofa covers, and hoover under all the beds. No way, my friend. You’re coming to my house instead.”

  “I am?” I echoed, surprised.

  I hadn’t been to Dan’s house alone in five years. I had visited, of course, but always together with Steve or at least the kids. We hadn’t had any un-chaperoned time together since before I got married. I frowned uncertainly and Dan erupted into one of his famous belly laughs.

  “I promise I won’t ravish you the minute you walk in the door,” he teased. “I only want you out of this house. I’ll make some tea and we can have some cake and you can tell me what you think about the new album. How’s that?”

  That sounded delightful. It sounded like something that the old Sophie would have jumped at, and I was taken aback to feel a finger of excitement deep down in my belly. It would be fun to do something out of the ordinary. It would be fun to be privileged enough to listen to Dan’s work once again before the rest of the world got the chance. After almost five years of being a mum and more than two years of being a widow, I was surprised to find little shreds of me rising to the surface.

  Dan watched my face eagerly, no doubt scrutinizing the display of changing emotion, and he breathed a sigh of relief when anticipation finally emerged.

  “Yes,” he shouted and punched the air. “I believe there is an excited girl in there somewhere. It’ll be like the old days!”

  “Ah, but I thought I was due for a new beginning,” I teased, reminding him of his wise words in the restaurant.

  “New beginning, a re-discovery of self, it’s all much of a muchness as long as…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “As long as what?” I prompted.

  “As long as… As long as that sadness leaves your eyes,” Dan whispered, suddenly serious and tender. “It’s been breaking my heart seeing you so unhappy. I know, I know.” He held up his hands before I could speak. “I know what you’ve been going through, and you’ve done it brilliantly. You’re an awesome mum and a fabulous friend. You’ve laughed with your children and turned them into happy little beings. But still, the whole time, you’ve been sad. And it’s killing me.”

  The great lump in my throat threatened to dissolve into tears, and I swallowed hard. Enough tears, enough crying.

  “I don’t want to be sad, but it feels wrong to be anything but.” I finally confessed the thought that had been haunting me for weeks. “I want to move on, but it’s not even been three years, and…”

  As I was in confessional mode, I carried on. “Sometimes I can’t quite remember what Steve looked like. And I can’t recall the sound of his voice. And I feel so guilty.” I wrapped my arms around my chest to hold myself together.

  “Don’t feel guilty. You’ve got to let go. At some point, you’ve got to let go. Steve wouldn’t want you to be sad—”

  I stifled a howl, but Dan continued. “No, he wouldn’t want you to be sad and lonely. Gosh, even by traditional standards, not that I believe in them, but even by the most reactionary standards of mourning etiquette, you’ve done your time. You are allowed to move on.” He held my eyes, daring me to challenge his words.

  “How do you know so much about mourning?”

  Dan had the grace to look discomfited. “I did a lot of reading up on it lately. I was getting worried, and I wanted to understand better what you were experiencing and… well, how long you should be putting yourself through this. At what point it’s appropriate for a friend to try and extract you from your self-inflicted exile.”

  “And?”

  “Two years.” Dan paused. “Actually, one year. One year of heavy mourning, and within the next year, a widow graduates to light mourning, being free to live her life and court.” He smiled at the old-fashioned word. “So there. No one will fault you or judge you in any way if you come out and have a little fun again. Not with me,” he added hastily. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.” He scratched his head. “In fact, I’m not really talking about dating, just, you know, doing things for you. Fun things, things that challenge you, or entertain you, or stretch you a bit.”

  I took his arm, trying to halt the flood of words. “It’s okay. You can stop digging now. I think that hole is deep enough.” I giggled. “I know what you mean.”

  And I did. I couldn’t quite fathom why his little speech had made a difference, but it had. A small weight had been lifted. A door opened, if only a crack, and there was a sliver of light. Perhaps I could permit myself to lighten up and look after myself a little bit every day.

  “All right.” I returned to our original conversation. “All right. I’ll come to your place after I drop Emily off tomorrow. For tea and cake, and to listen to your new music.”

  “Tea and cake and music,” Dan repeated. “Deal.”

  PART TWO:

  FALLING

  Chapter Ten

  Ten thousand déjà-vu’s and a million conflicting emotions crashed in on me as I rang Dan’s doorbell the next morning. Standing on his doorstep brought back too many memories. I stamped on them and pressed the bell again. At last the door was flung open and a smiling Dan greeted me. “You came!”

  “Of course I came. You made me promise. Now can I come in?”

  Dan stood back and held the door wide.

  “Work first, or tea and cake first?” he demanded as I stepped into his hallway.

  “Work? What work?” No work had been mentioned yesterday.

  “Oh, I need your advice on something. You know, the songs. I want to play you my new songs.”

  Ah, now that I did remember. A brief silence settled between us while I pondered options. Technically, I had only just had breakfast and it was too early for cake. On the other hand, it was never too early for cake, but it was distinctly too early to venture downstairs into Dan’s sanctum, his recording studio. I suddenly felt awkward at the prospect of finding myself alone with Dan in that secluded space.

  “Cake and tea would be lovely,” I finally resolved, and Dan ushered me into his lounge. My eyes were immediately drawn to a lovely cake stand adorned with dozens of little fondant fancies in shades of white, pink, and light blue. The ensemble looked pretty and delectable. I faced Dan with astonishment, but he simply laughed.

  “Nothing to do with me. I told the housekeeper you would be coming and she got terribly carried away. I think she likes you. From, you know, way back when.”

  “But—” I struggled with the logistics. “It’s only half past nine. When did she make all of these?”

  “Um.” Dan blushed. “I texted her last night and she came in at seven. She’s off now for the rest of the day, but we can always go for lunch if we get hungry.”

  “I’ll need to collect Emily at noon.” I rained on his rather too enthusiastic parade.

  “Of course, of course,” Dan conceded. “I was just saying. Anyway…” He gestured toward the tower of cakes. “Shall we?”

  We sat down on a sofa each, facing each other, and Dan poured tea from a dainty teapot. I lifted one of the bone china cups to my lips, but set it down again before I drank. Dan mirrored my actions and looked at me with a puzzled expression.

  “What’s wrong, Soph?” His voice was laced with genuine concer
n.

  “It’s… I don’t know. This is so weird. It’s not you, really, or me.” I tapped a fingernail lightly against my cup, producing a soft ping. “Before…you know, in the old days…we simply used to dump teabags into mugs and pour milk straight from the bottle. I didn’t know you’d gone all posh.”

  Dan rose and collected the tea things onto a tray. “I haven’t. Jenny was simply trying to impress you. Let’s do it the normal way.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, now feeling worse than before, but Dan had already disappeared into the kitchen. I heard him fill the kettle with water and flick it on; the banging of various cupboard doors suggested that he was hunting down cups, teabags, and spoons. Within three minutes, he returned to the lounge bearing two steaming mugs and looking much more himself. He walked carefully around the sofa and sat down next to me.

  “There. Better?”

  I accepted my mug and sat back, relieved. “Yes, much.” We sipped contentedly at our tea, and Dan offered up the cakes again. “Go on, they look delicious.”

  I took one, he took one. We bit, we chewed, we swallowed. They were fabulous.

  “Have another?”

  We both took one more, a pink one this time. Next we had a blue one each to see if they tasted different. Twenty minutes later, they were all gone, and I lay back on the sofa, feeling full, fat, and a little decadent. Dan reclined the other way, and we let our feet rub together as though we were dry-cycling.

  “Phoar,” Dan groaned. “There’ll be hell to pay when my personal trainer weighs me next.”

  “You have a personal trainer?” I was dumbstruck. “When did this happen?”

  “A few years ago. Remember when I had some issues with my back after a tour and I had to see a physio, and she recommended upping my core strength and exercising to keep supple. Enter the personal trainer.”

  After this little confession, I couldn’t help looking him up and down pointedly. He did look very fit. As gorgeous as ever, in fact. It simply had never occurred to me that he would be working at it these days. My interest was piqued.

  “You kept that quiet. So what do you do? And how often?” I had visions of heavy-duty gym equipment, bar bells, and all manner of torture devices.

  Dan shrugged. “Pilates, mostly. Three times a week. For half an hour. I didn’t want to turn into a bodybuilder or anything like that. I simply want to be able to do my shows without doing my back in. And I want to keep touring for a good few years yet.” He smiled his irresistible smile.

  I nodded. “Looks like you’re doing well.”

  “Why, thank you kindly, young lady,” he retorted in a mock brittle voice. I laughed. It felt good to be back here again. It was lovely not to have to rush around and pick up toys and discarded clothes. I could feel myself relaxing by the minute, and I relished the moment of being me.

  Somewhere in the house, an alarm clock went off. Dan rose, clapping his hands together. “Time for work,” he declared, holding out his hands to help me up.

  “You set an alarm? To get to work?” This was getting weirder and weirder. What had happened to my friend, who normally didn’t rise before midday?

  “Well, I knew our time would be limited, and I really do want to show you my songs so…”

  I sprang to. “Let’s do it.”

  Half an hour later, I had listened to some of the most amazing raw material I had ever trained my ears onto. While only roughly put together, there was a new edge, a melodious ferocity to the band’s latest work that made me tingle all over.

  “Where did all this come from?” I burst out before I could stop myself. “It’s… I don’t know, different. Edgy, but in a different way than the older stuff. I…” Words were failing me and I shrugged helplessly.

  Dan looked pleased. “I take it you like the songs?”

  “Heck, yes, I do.” I rubbed my nose, a nervous habit I picked up since having the children and that came to the fore whenever I wasn’t sure how to say something diplomatically.

  “But?”

  “Is this finished material?”

  Whoa; that didn’t come out as planned. But Dan wasn’t offended.

  “No, it’s not. Some of it isn’t even mixed yet, and none of it has been mastered.”

  “Ah.” I tried to look intelligent. Having heard these terms used many times before, I felt I ought to know what they meant. I had a rough idea, of course, but I didn’t understand what was missing from the recording I just heard.

  “Sit down.” Dan pulled a second swivel chair into position next to his own in front of the mixing console.

  I sat, taking in the buttons and displays. A few years ago, Dan had conned me into recording a song for him in this very studio, and I had watched him mix and master without really understanding what he was doing. He had been so quick, so efficient, that it all gelled together beautifully. If, indeed, gelled was the right word. The song had been mastered properly in a professional studio later, with the band recording instrumentals and vocals in addition to mine. Anyway, I had watched Dan in action at his console at the time, but today, it seemed, I was to receive a full demonstration.

  He hit a button and one of the songs started playing. “Describe the sound for me,” Dan challenged. I closed my eyes and leaned back.

  “Dull,” I eventually offered. “It’s kind of… if it were a color, it would be gray. It’s… I don’t know, it’s kind of lifeless. It’s a great song, of course—”

  “Of course,” Dan cut in dryly. “That’s not up for debate.” Cue cheeky grin. “I want you to tell me what it sounds like, and what you think it should sound like. You’re critiquing the sound, not the song.”

  Sound, not song. Right.

  “I want more… depth,” I offered hesitantly. “Something richer. More…” I still struggled to explain.

  “This is good,” Dan encouraged me. He was taking notes. “Just throw out some adjectives. Whatever comes to mind.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. Adjectives. I could do adjectives. I thought back to other Tuscq albums, trying to think what made them unique and distinctive.

  “I want warmth, and depth. Reds and yellows. Heat. Spark. I want this… dullness gone. Vibrant, that’s what I want. You have a gorgeous voice, but everything here sounds muffled. The guitars sound like they’re somewhere next door, and the drums are too loud, like they’re right in front of me. The bass is like a migraine, pounding away without definition.” I was on a roll, but caught myself short when I noticed that Dan had gone quiet. I opened my eyes and sat up straight.

  Dan regarded me open-mouthed. He had stopped taking notes and stared.

  “I’m sorry.” I laughed uncertainly. “Did I go too far? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Upset? I’m not upset. This was awesome. You are awesome. I had no idea you had such great ears. I’m totally blown away.” Dan shook his head and scribbled a few things down.

  “Right, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” Dan replayed the song, but this time, he started adjusting some of the buttons and dials.

  “Sound is made of waves, and the waves come in certain frequencies. Making an album sound great is about getting the mix and balance of frequencies right.”

  I nodded my understanding, and Dan continued. “I think you’ve picked up on a couple of distinct issues. One is that I haven’t mixed the tracks together properly. So—”

  “What does that mean?” I interrupted before I got lost. ”You haven’t mixed the tracks together properly?”

  Dan ran a hand over his face and rolled his shoulders while he contemplated a simplified answer for me. “Okay. So this is a 24-track console, meaning I can feed in twenty-four different bits of sound. My vocals make up a group, and the guitars, and the drums and so on. When you said the guitars sounded like they were next door and the drums were too loud, you were commenting on the mixing, or the lack thereof. I haven’t yet balanced the different tracks properly so they work together as they should. Here.” He pulled a slider and broug
ht it toward him. “This is taking out some of the drums and this…” He pushed another slider up. “This brings the guitar in more strongly. Listen to it now.”

  He played it back and the song sounded much more like… a song. More balanced, for want of a different word.

  “Amazing.” I clapped my hands.

  “The other thing that you picked up on is that I haven’t mastered the track yet. Mastering is the fine-tuning of the sound where you really play with and perfect the frequencies. There are all sorts of things you can do here. For example, you said you want more warmth, and there are dozens of ways of achieving that. It’ll take some time, but listen…” He turned a dial. “This is the song with a touch of reverb on the lead vocals. And look, I can bring the guitars into the same room as well.” He played with another slider and smiled a boyish grin at me. Already, the sound had improved.

  “This is only the beginning. There’s all sorts of things we can do to this. We can play with the equalizer, and we can compress and add more reverb or delay…”

  I held up my hands, feeling completely overwhelmed. “You’ve lost me now,” I admitted.

  “No worries. My God, it takes weeks, years to take this all on board. But that’s beside the point. You can learn all this stuff. You’ve got great ears—that’s the most important thing.”

  Said ears were glowing with pride, even though I didn’t understand exactly what I was doing so well. Dan’s eyes were full of admiration, which was both a new and exhilarating experience. It felt good. I felt good.

  With a jolt, I realized that I hadn’t thought about the kids or the housework or Steve for at least an hour. That had to be the first time in four years I had thought about something totally unrelated to my family. Sadly, the realization also brought the recollection that time was passing, and I would have to pick up Emily very shortly.

  Dan grabbed my hand and looked at me intensely. “Come back tomorrow,” he pleaded. “Let me play you some more songs, and let me teach you some of these mastering tricks. I think you’d enjoy it. I know I would!”