by Nicky Wells
“Yer not a burden unless you start messin’ me about or not takin’ instruction properly. But it doesn’t look like that’ll be a problem.” Richard’s voice was dry and patient.
“Just do what you’ve been doing and Richard will simply love you. He’ll eat out of your hands,” Dan laughed. “I’m sure of it.”
I looked from one man to another, stood straight, and stepped toward Richard, extending a hand for a formal shake. “Okay. I’ll accept. I’d love to be your apprentice,” I enunciated carefully, sensing the gravity of my decision settle onto my shoulders like… like a lightweight, soft, feather boa. This was the right thing to do.
Richard took my hand and shook it. “Great,” he confirmed. “Starting tomorrow.”
“Starting tomorrow,” I repeated, and Dan gave me a thumbs-up.
Chapter Twenty-One
Richard revealed himself to be a tough-love kind of master. My official apprenticeship as a sound engineer began with the proverbial ice-cold shower, and it took several weeks before Richard and I, teacher and learner, master and apprentice, reached an easy, comfortable mode of being that enabled me to relax and see purpose in my torture.
The portents were all there on the first morning when Dan drove me across to the studio in Central London where Richard was based. I was full of beans and excited anticipation until Dan started making ominous noises.
“Um,” was his eloquent opening line. “Um. Richard doesn’t mince words. I’m fairly sure that your initiation will involve him taking your mix of “Turn Your Corner” apart.” He flashed me an apologetic smile.
“What do you mean, take my mix apart?” I had an odd sensation in my tummy, like I had swallowed a lead weight. “He was totally enthusiastic about it, as were you.”
Dan slowly nodded his head. “He was. I was. It is a great mix, for a rookie. It shows potential.”
“But?” I waited for a response, becoming increasingly agitated when none came. “But what?”
Still no reply. Dan rolled his head from side to side, as though hoping for inspiration on how to best break the news.
“For weeks, you’ve been telling me how great I’ve been doing, and now you’re telling me that wasn’t true? Is that where you’re headed?” I tried to anticipate the blow, aware that I sounded petulant.
“No, of course not,” Dan protested. “You are doing fantastically well. But you have a lot to learn still. Your mixing shows an instinctive awareness of common rookie mistakes, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t committed any sound-engineering crimes.”
“Crimes?” Sub-surface hysteria made my voice sound shrill and brittle. “What crimes? I thought it sounded cool!”
“It did, for where you are. I’m sure Richard will take it all apart and tell you,” Dan mumbled. “He’s the genius. I only hear so much. Just… Just listen to what he has to say. And don’t cry.”
I swallowed hard. That sounded even worse, Don’t cry.
Twenty minutes later, I was clinging to those words for dear life. My initiation had been brutal. Dan had delivered me and fled. “I’ll see you at half past eleven,” he shouted before dropping the briefest of good-luck kisses on my head.
Upon my arrival, Richard wasted no time in playing “Turn Your Corner” back to me, quite loudly. It sounded somewhat different in the studio. Alternately boomy and thin, bass-heavy in places, and too loud on the vocals in others. A week’s worth of hard work sounded misdirected and wasted in this different space. But not totally bad.
No, total annihilation came a little later. Richard handed me some printouts of frequencies that I had mixed, and the sheet looked like a child’s scribble.
“This is nuts,” was the laconic comment. “For this part of the song, it should be a nice, smooth, even distribution of lines across the frequencies, like waves coming on shore. This shows you how bad your mix really was.”
Gulp.
Richard was ruthless in destroying any kind of false confidence or self-esteem I might have mistakenly built while working on my mix. With swift manipulation of sliders and faders, he demonstrated how I had ruined the song, and how it needed to be done properly. My cheeks and ears were burning at the dressing-down, but when all was said and done, I had to admit, he was right.
Nonetheless, the inevitable tears were threatening, and my eyes were smarting from the effort of holding them back. I dug my fingernails into my palms and made myself breathe evenly and deeply, all the while forcing a fake smile to disguise my mortification.
“So…” Richard concluded the session, turning the sound off and relaxing into the ensuing silence. “Are you still happy to go ahead?”
I nodded, speaking not an option for the moment. A single tear escaped from my eye, and I swiped at it before it could roll down my cheek. “I-urgh…” I cleared my throat, trying to get words out after all.
“I’m happy to go ahead. I’m simply a little shocked, that’s all. I thought…”
“I know what you thought. And you have to understand that you did well with your mix overall. I wouldn’t have invited you here if you hadn’t. But I needed you to know that there’s a lot to learn. There’s everything to learn, in fact. We need to go right back to the beginning. You need to learn about set-up and equipment and placement before we can even start to talk about mixing. It’s a long and tedious road, but you’ll get there. I’ll get you there,” he added, not even remotely modest. “As long as you’re prepared for steep hills and rocky outcrops.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. I can do that. As long as…”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “Not your place to make demands.”
“I’m not making demands.” I stood up for myself, suddenly finding my voice again. “Well, just the one. I can do all of this and take the criticism and dressing-down as long as you explain to me exactly where and how I went wrong, and show me how to fix it. And as long as you don’t mind me asking a million questions and taking notes and shedding the occasional tear. ‘coz that’s how I work.”
“That’s quite a lot of demands rolled into one,” Richard observed, but his smile was kind and genuine. “Yet I like your style and your attitude. We’ll get along fine.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You survived,” Dan congratulated me when he picked me up. “Baptism by fire. I imagine it wasn’t pretty.”
“It wasn’t,” I agreed, and found myself laughing at the experience. “Richard is the master of taking you down.”
“You still look in one piece to me,” Dan retorted. “Believe me, I’ve seen many of his new apprentices leaving in floods of tears after day one. And most of those were men!”
“He reminds me of my ballet teacher,” I mused, and Dan snorted through his nose with amusement. “Well, you know, all ‘take that chewing gum out of your mouth, young lady, and stand up straight.’”
Dan burst out laughing at my Mrs. Burke impression, and I joined him.
“I survived ballet. I’ll survive Richard, too,” I predicted.
“I’m sure you will. I’ll remind you of that in when you want to throw in the towel.” Dan grinned.
“Ha,” I countered. “I won’t do that. I can be one stubborn lady if I want to, and Richard just pressed my stubborn button.”
Dan’s response was unintelligible, although I could have sworn I heard something along the lines of ‘stubborn, don’t I know all about that?’ But as we were pulling up outside Emily’s playschool, I let the mumbled remark pass.
The next few weeks were a blur of engineering exercises and activities. Most mornings, Dan would join Richard and me in the studio to act as guinea pig and chief sound maker. Richard had me physically positioning microphones, repositioning microphones, positioning and repositioning Dan-the-singer, Dan-the-guitar-player, and even Dan-the-pseudo-drummer in the studio, time and again, until he was satisfied I was starting to comprehend the ins-and-outs of a professional set-up.
At last, it was my turn to sit behind the console and observe Richard ma
king adjustments to buttons, sliders, and faders, while Dan undertook the positioning-routine all over again based on my vocal instructions. At every step of the way, Richard played sound-bites back to me, asking for my assessment, and cruelly informing me how wrong I was.
Several times in the first two weeks alone, I came dangerously close to giving up, but I reminded myself of my stubborn promise and refrained from venting to Dan in the evenings. On the other hand, I relished the fact that I could command this rock star to do this, that, and the other—if only based on someone else’s instructions—and that he spent so much time with me when he could have been at home resting or writing songs.
We slipped imperceptibly into a routine where Dan would help me collect Emily from playschool, share our lunch, and disappear to work for a couple of hours before returning for a family dinner with Josh at around five-thirty. More often than not, Dan took part in the children’s bath and bedtime routines before leaving the house to join the band in the studio, and I wouldn’t then see him again until the next morning.
After a while, Dan suggested that Emily and I should have lunch at his house, which would make it easier for him to do a little work before dinner. Very soon, a trail of Emily’s clothes and toys made its way to Dan’s house and into one of his spare rooms. Before I knew it, we had fallen into the habit of bringing Josh to Dan’s house for dinner, and we would rush home only for bedtime.
None of us commented on this state of affairs. Everything seemed natural and normal. We were simply doing what was easiest under the circumstances, and the kids flourished with Dan’s presence in their lives. They even took the altered playschool and school runs in their strides. It was only when Jenny asked me for some kind of weekly food plan so she could shop and cook according to our collective needs that I realized the Jones family had, more or less, relocated to the Hunter residence. I elected not to dwell on the larger underlying question and simply wrote out our evening meal requests. And that, as they say, was that. Until Rachel cottoned on to what was going on.
I hadn’t seen much of Rachel in the past month or so. What with Josh starting school and my apprenticeship, I had been pretty busy. Rach, in turn, had been rushed off her feet herself with the mad social whirl that was post-natal group, baby massage, sing-and-sign group, coffee mornings, swimming… It was fair to say that she had left the initial baby blues behind and was throwing herself into a mummy’s life with gusto. So, between our respective schedules, we hadn’t really managed to get together until one Wednesday afternoon I received a text from Rach telling me she was outside my house and where the heck was I?
I picked up my phone to ring her back. “I’m at Dan’s,” I declared before she could repeat her question. “Emily, too. Why don’t you come over?”
There was only the slightest hint of hesitation before Rachel agreed. No more than fifteen minutes later, she rang Dan’s doorbell, clutching a screaming Henry, who gave a distinct whiff of a full nappy. I steered her toward the downstairs bathroom while I made a pot of tea and carried the mugs to the lounge, where Emily was already hosting a tea party for her dollies.
“Well, well, well.” Rachel half-whistled when she joined us. “What’s all this?” She laid a now gurgling Henry on the rug and rummaged in his changing bag for his favorite cuddly.
“Erm,” I started. “Well… It’s just…” Telling the story slightly backwards, I filled her in on my apprenticeship with Richard and the gradual migration of our daytime lives to Dan’s house.
Rachel’s eyes sparkled with glee. “I think it’s wonderful,” she declared with undisguised hilarity. “I always thought you were meant for each other.”
“Rach!” I hissed, before Emily, Jenny, or, God forbid, Dan could hear. “It’s not like that. We’re simply camping out here during the day because it makes things so much easier.”
“Of course it does,” my best friend concurred. “I can see that. I’m merely agreeing.” She flashed me an amused look over the rim of her mug of tea.
“Cake?” a chirpy voice interrupted our near heart-to-heart. “I got muffins or cupcakes, fresh out of the oven.”
Emily launched herself at Jenny with a massive howl of approval. “Muffins, muffins,” she sang, well familiar by now with Jenny’s prowess in the baking department, which was diametrically opposed to mine.
“Thank you, Jenny,” I said politely, as I always did, feeling only mildly uncomfortable by her extra work. Jenny, however, beamed a thousand-watt smile.
“No problem,” she laughed. “It’s lovely baking for the little ones. Mr. Hunter never really appreciates my baking, although, of course, he is around a lot more than what he used to be…” She threw me a meaningful look, set down the plate of baked goodies on the table, and withdrew.
Rachel stared open-mouthed. “Is this for real?” she eventually managed.
I shrugged. What could I say?
“My God, girl, you’ve got it made here. You totally deserve the break, too. I’d simply move in, if I were you,” Rach chuckled while she helped herself to a vanilla cupcake with Jenny’s trademark pink sparkly icing. “And Dan’s here a lot more than what he used to, is he?” She mimicked Jenny’s approving tone. “I say, I say.”
“You say what?” I challenged. “There’s nothing to it. Dan’s the children’s godfather, and he’s helping me out with the childcare while I go through some training. That’s all.”
Rachel lowered her cake. “I’m sorry,” she relented. “I didn’t mean to tease you. It’s nice to see you so relaxed and happy. That’s all.”
We regarded each other gravely for a few seconds until Emily broke the mood. “Mummy, why are you fighting with Auntie Rachel?”
“We’re not fighting,” Rach and I assured my youngest in unison. “We’re talking.”
“Oh.” Emily absorbed this piece of information. Seconds later, she picked up her favorite doll and spoke to her sternly. “Amanda, stop fighting with Erin.” Amanda-doll received an energetic wriggle. “But we’re not fighting, mummy, we’re talking,” Erin-doll responded, Emily’s voice copying mine perfect in pitch and inflection. Rach and I burst out laughing.
“So that’s why you’re never at home,” Rachel then resumed our earlier conversation.
“That’s why I’m never at home,” I agreed. “Except, of course, in the evenings. But you know you can always find me here, or text me.”
“Cool.”
And thus the conversation was closed. Except in my head, it wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Later that night, I replayed my talk with Rachel over and over again, analyzing every last little word. She had it all backwards, I was sure of that. Dan and I were just friends. No strings attached. No funny business. Well, apart from that amazing…I stopped my train of thought and corrected my assessment of ‘that kiss’ before I could contemplate whether it would have been nice to pursue the attraction I had felt.
Apart from the little kiss we had inadvertently, and completely by accident, had in his studio, we were totally comfortable in our platonic, rock-solid friendship. The kiss meant nothing. It couldn’t. I wasn’t…I wasn’t in the right place for it to mean something.
But oh, wouldn’t it be nice if you were? a naughty voice piped up in my head, but I shouted it down. I am not ready.
But…the naughty voice went on. But what if Rachel is right? What if Dan still wants you? What if you miss your opportunity again?
“Shut up,” I told the voice in my head, speaking out loud. “Shut up, you. Dan and I, we have seen each other through some of the worst moments of our lives—well, mine, for sure—and there are no misunderstandings or innuendoes between us. Do you hear?”
There. That had done it. That was it.
However, I was aware the kids were receiving mixed signals. With no father figure in their lives apart from Dan, and the words Dan and Dad in such perilous phonetic proximity, I had recently overheard Emily referring to Dan as ‘Dad’ at playschool (“Dad pick me up”)
and also calling him ‘Dad’ to his face. Her pronunciation was still fairly indistinct, but I was certain I hadn’t misheard. Dan hadn’t noticed, or, if he had, he hadn’t commented, but her linguistic slip had sent shivers of worry through me.
Was I doing the right thing, indulging my friendship with Dan simply because it suited my needs and my purposes? Was I confusing the children by moving half our belongings into a house that very patently wasn’t ours, nor ever would be? Or was I giving them the benefit of a loving, caring male persona to…yes, to fill some of the holes that Steve had left behind? Wasn’t it a good thing that their godfather, who, after all, was so because Steve had made that choice…wasn’t it a good thing that he had become a much more integral part of our lives? Albeit in a distinctly godfatherly kind of way?
But what would happen when he had to leave? When he was touring, which would inevitably happen in the coming months? Where would that leave the kids and me? How would they react? How would I cope?
After all, it was that side of a relationship with a rock star that had prompted me to turn Dan down after he had proposed to me in Paris. The anticipated loneliness, the stress, the ever-present potential for betrayal… because yes, I knew all about ‘what goes on tour, stays on tour,’ I was living it at that time. I had firmly turned those prospects down back then, but was I exposing the kids and myself to the very same risk now?
On the other hand, I had spent the last two-and-a-half years of my life holding off on happiness because of ‘what if’s’ and other obstacles. Perhaps life was too short to miss out on good things simply because they might cease or go away for a short time. I had already learned to carry on, of sorts, with the biggest loss of all. Yes, I didn’t want the kids to go through an endless cycle of being upset with missing Dan. Yet surely that wasn’t a good enough reason to deprive them of the closest thing to a proper family life that they had ever experienced.