by Laura Carter
‘She meant it as a compliment. Oh, and my momma was a supermodel, that’s how she met my dad, at an awards bash. But she’s had so many injections now her face doesn’t move any more. Let me tell you, Teej, there’s a fine line between growing old gracefully with a little tinkering and turning your face into a distorted Barbie doll.
‘Oh, but I do love her and Daddy adores her.’
Rosalie finished her latte and beckoned over a waitress with the universal sign for ‘check, please’.
‘Right, little man, we need to leave, we have people counting on us today. Should we go buy aunty Andrea something fabulous to wear to the concert? We might find something cute for a handsome baby, too,’ she said, winking at TJ.
He giggled and hiccupped simultaneously, making Rosalie laugh. Hanging with TJ was really a heck of a lot more fun than taking coffee alone.
* * *
Hours later, Rosalie dropped TJ and Hannah back home in New Jersey.
‘Are you sure you won’t come in?’ Hannah asked, holding TJ on her hip as Rod carried his car seat from Rosalie’s car into their now clean home.
‘I’m good – thanks, though,’ Rosalie said. ‘Oh, don’t forget Andrea’s dress. She’s going to look fierce in that, I promise.’
‘Thanks, Ros, for everything. You’ve been a lifesaver these last two days.’
Rosalie shrugged. ‘My pleasure.’ And it really was. Her days had seemed to fly by looking after the baby. ‘Goodbye, Teej. Have fun at nursery tomorrow, buddy.’
As she drove away, Rosalie watched Hannah and TJ in her rearview mirror. Hannah kissed his brow then held him high in the air. Rosalie knew he’d be laughing – that hearty man-baby laugh of his.
That strange feeling came over her again but this time, she knew what it was. Jealousy. Unconditional love and that whole life in her hands, depending on her every day. Rosalie was totally, completely jealous of Hannah. She wanted what Hannah had – only with more money in her savings account and a better zip code. She wanted to be needed like a baby needs its mommy. She wanted a family, love, like her parents had.
But finding a good man like her daddy was proving impossible. That she was going to fix with a recording label of her own, where people would look up to her, admire her and take her seriously. It was about time she started implementing her plan.
* * *
It had been a while since her last visit but Rosalie left New Jersey and found her way through the streets of Williamsburg to Sanfia Records with ease. She killed the engine of her Porsche, slung this season’s signature Gucci purse over her wrist, and twisted elegantly out of the car.
She tended not to double-brand but today she had teamed her Gucci purse with a Gucci red belted crepe dress, that came to the top of her knee –sophisticated business length – and a painfully stylish pair of Valentino rockstud sandals.
As the car beeped to lock behind her, Rosalie pinned her shoulders back and strode up to the door of Sanfia Records, where she used a tissue over her fingertip to press the door buzzer.
‘Come in, Ros,’ Sofia’s voice called over the intercom. ‘We’re in the sound booth.’
Rosalie remembered her way along the bland corridor, that looked magnolia, as opposed to white, more due to years without a refresh than by design.
She wasn’t surprised as she approached the sound booth to hear country music – a male voice singing soft rock. Sanfia Records took on a range of artists but there had always been a preference for country music, which Rosalie suspected came from Andrea and Sofia’s father and the fact their mother, God rest her soul, had been a country musician of the Eva Cassidy ilk.
Whilst Rosalie preferred to put her feet up on a pouffe with a glass of something chilled and effervescent with smooth jazz playing on her home speakers, she would happily listen to the dulcet tones of Brett Eldredge or the soothing lyrics of Carolyn Dawn Johnson.
Using her tissue, she pressed down on the handle of the door to the sound booth, which stuck as she pushed, pushed and pushed again, eventually stumbling into the room on her high heels.
‘Ros, are you okay?’ Sofia asked, standing from her leather stool in front of the room-width mixing board.
Rosalie waved away her blushes. ‘You need to give this place a facelift, sweetie.’
‘Top of my list when we strike gold, Ros,’ Sofia said in good humour, though Rosalie had been entirely serious.
Everything from the dark wood old-style mixing board, to the chipped laminate flooring that screamed 1990s, to the tatty leather sofa that wasn’t helped by beer bottles sitting in holsters on the arm rests, to a lingering smell of cigarette smoke – it all needed a refresh. Nevertheless, Rosalie wasn’t here in her capacity as an interior designer, she was here to learn.
She kissed Sofia on the cheek and held up a hand to Sofia’s father, Jimmy, who she wasn’t surprised to see. Despite retiring six years earlier, Jimmy had music in his blood, like his daughters.
‘How’re you doing, darling?’
‘I’m good, thanks, Jimmy,’ Rosalie said, looking around between the sofa and the spare stool between Sofia’s and Jimmy’s, wondering which would be least likely to leave a stain on her two-thousand-dollar dress.
Through the glass wall of the room, Rosalie saw the source of the country music she was hearing, as three men played, one of them singing, in the studio beyond.
‘So, you said you had a favour to ask?’ Sofia said, returning to her stool and pulling one knee into her chest.
‘Oh, mmm, yes,’ Rosalie said, forgetting the state of the worn leather in her excitement and taking a seat on the sofa. ‘It’s very exciting. So, Daddy is giving me my own label at XM.’
She tried not to be irritated by the scrunching of Sofia’s brow, followed by the raising of her eyebrow in the direction of Jimmy, choosing to believe it was confusion.
She wafted a hand. ‘Let me take a step back. I’m going to be in the music business now. You know, I have experience, what with running my design projects and things, and I’m ready for a new life challenge, you know? So, Daddy said I could have my own label but, there’s a catch. First, I have to get a little more experience in the industry, behind the scenes stuff.’
‘Ah, and that’s where I come in?’ Sofia asked.
Rosalie smiled. ‘If you’ll have me, I would like to be, like, your apprentice, or understudy even, for, maybe a couple of months, until I really get the hang of all the…’ She gestured to the mixing board and the hundreds of nodules and flashing lights ‘…digits and gadgets.’
Jimmy chuckled, stealing Rosalie’s attention. ‘Darling, it’s going to take longer than two months to crack music production. It’s not just something you do with these,’ he said, holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers. ‘It’s what you hear with these.’ He tugged his ear lobes. ‘And what you feel in here.’ He held a closed fist to his chest.
‘Sure,’ Rosalie said. ‘I totally get that. But will you show me a few things, Soph?’
Sofia shrugged. ‘Ah, yeah, sure.’
At that moment, the music coming from the studio stopped. Sofia turned on her stool, pushed a button and said, ‘Great job, guys. Come on out and we’ll listen back to it.’
Moments later, two session players Rosalie recognised and a tall, buffer than average, scruffier than average man with the bluest eyes she had ever seen, stepped into the sound booth.
‘You smashed it, guys,’ Sofia told them, giving each of them an unladylike fist bump.
Jimmy stood and went to the scruffy blue-eyed guy and said, ‘My daughter told me you were good, son. She wasn’t wrong.’
As the men did variations of fist bumps, back slaps and handshakes, Rosalie stood from the sofa, straightening her dress, and subtly cleared her throat.
‘Guys, this is Rosalie,’ Sofia said. ‘Billy, Frankie, you might remember Ros, she used to come here a lot when…’
‘Yeah I do. The cupcake lady,’ Frankie said, winking distastefully.
Rosalie smi
led. ‘Well, cupcakes were very on trend a few years back. We’re really in more of a veggie phase now but I’m sure I can find some treats for you guys over the next couple of months. I’m going to be hanging out here, whilst Sofia shows me the ropes.’
The exchanges of questioning looks didn’t escape Rosalie’s attention but Billy said, ‘Well, nice to have you onboard, Ros. I, personally, am a carnivore, though I can make an exception for waffles.’
Rosalie giggled. ‘I’ll remember that.’ As she did, she looked around the five other people in the room and it occurred to her that every one of them wore some variation of ripped stonewash jeans – some intentionally ripped, others not – dirty boots or sneakers and flannel shirts. ‘This, erm, isn’t a compulsory uniform, is it?’
As the others laughed, Rosalie’s panic was alleviated because she had been truly concerned that she might have to dress like them to ‘fit in’.
‘Phew,’ she said, wiping her brow.
Then Scruffy Blue-eyes stepped forward and surprised her with a southern twang, as he said, ‘Just stay away from the kick drum in those weapons,’ he said, gesturing to her sandals. ‘If your foot slips off the pedal, you’ll pierce the head.’
His lips curved at one side into what could be a deadly half-smile, if it weren’t for his snide remark and the fact he looked like he hadn’t showered… ever. Who was he to talk about fashion, in his scuffed suede boots, shaggy jeans, open farmer’s shirt, that tight white T-shirt and hanging dog tags that were soooo ten years ago?
‘I’m Seth, by the way,’ he said, holding out a hand and wafting what was surprisingly a musk of soap and outdoors under Rosalie’s nose.
‘Grab a seat,’ Sofia said generally to the room, adjusting the right faders to bring Seth’s recording over the speakers.
As they listened to Seth sing, Sofia tweaked the sound, making the bass more pronounced in some places, enhancing the melody in others. Her foot tapped and her shoulders swayed of their own volition as she worked. It was a pleasure to watch and reminded Rosalie why she was here.
She reached into her purse and took out her leatherbound notebook and Montblanc pen. ‘Can you talk me through the buttons as you push them?’ she asked, and Sofia briefly did as Rosalie made notes, oblivious to the eyes in the room that were focused on her.
When the track finished, Sofia turned on her stool to face Seth, who was now perched uncomfortably close to Rosalie on the arm of the sofa. ‘So, I was thinking the opening riff is just so pretty, maybe you should let it run completely and bring in the lyrics on the repeat.’
Seth’s response was to hook his guitar strap over his shoulder and play the riff. Sofia leaned back against the studio wall and let her head move with the beat, her eyes on the ground as she listened. Rosalie, on the other hand, was fixated on the ease with which Seth’s fingers commanded the strings.
On the repeat, he began to sing:
I can still see your smile,
Right before you closed the door,
For the last time.
‘Keep going,’ Sofia instructed.
Sofia listened to verse and chorus, verse. Then she said, ‘Instead of picking up the beat for the second chorus, bring it down.’
But Rosalie had stopped taking notes because just inches from her, she heard a voice that surprised her, chilled her and made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
She followed as the group moved into the studio, Billy offering her a hand down the few steps inside.
‘Go again from the second verse,’ Sofia said.
As the others played, Sofia walked across the room to the upright piano and quickly lifted the lid then slipped onto the stool in front.
At the end of the verse, Frankie killed the bass, Billy dropped the drums and Seth slowed the melody. Sofia flexed her fingers then closed her eyes and began to play. Taking her lead from Seth’s tempo, she improvised. Seth’s lyrics ended but he stayed with Sofia on guitar, then she built the melody to a crescendo and the others took her lead – Frankie struck a chord on bass, Billy brought back the drums, Seth strummed his acoustic – and at the right moment, Seth let rip on notes Rosalie hadn’t heard from a country rock singer before.
They played until the end of the track and Frankie closed on one heavy strum on the bass guitar.
After a moment’s pause, the others all shared a smile, ignoring Rosalie’s presence in the room entirely. ‘That’s your first single,’ Sofia said and Seth simply nodded.
Rosalie manged to close her jaw that had been hanging loose and clapped excitedly, drawing all eyes in the room to her. ‘That was super pretty.’
And she found herself looking forward to the day she signed her first Seth-type singer to her own label. Of course, at her label, his image would be less homeless person who’s been living under Brooklyn bridge for a decade without washing and more smooth, clean, lust-worthy.
She imagined herself at the Grammys in floor-length silk, cameras flashing around her as she linked arms with her rock stars. The headlines would read:
ADORED BY HER ARTISTS AND AN INCREDIBLE MOTHER: IS THERE NOTHING THIS WOMAN CANNOT DO?
And her life would be filled with love, admiration, success and her very own Prince Charming.
But Rosalie’s thoughts were brought to an abrupt end when the studio door was pushed open so hard that it slammed against the wall.
Jay, Sofia’s husband appeared. ‘Fuck,’ he said, as he stumbled and slid down the door, stopping himself from falling by gripping onto the door handle.
‘Christ, Jay. It’s after ten and you’ve been out since brunch,’ Sofia said, moving to him and helping him stand. ‘Have you even been home?’
‘Nope. But lishten, Sophs, you schgot to hear this.’
With Sofia’s help, Jay made it to a stool, barely acknowledging the others in the room. ‘Lishten.’ He hit play on his cell phone and an electric pop track played into the room.
As he drunkenly wagged his head and pumped the air in time to the tuneless track, Rosalie risked a glance at Sofia, whose jaw was hard set.
‘All right, Jay, let’s get you home and we can talk about this later, yeah?’ Sofia attempted.
‘Ishn’t it great? Shay it. Shay it’s… it’s banging.’
‘We’ll listen to it properly later. Do you want coffee or do you want to go home?’
‘Fucking lishten to it!’
‘No, Jay. Let’s go home.’
‘What isss your problem? Always sho uptight. You used to be fun.’
‘Jay, I don’t have a problem. Let’s just go home, okay?’
‘I don’t want to go home, I want you to lishten.’ He staggered up from the stool, stumbling into Sofia, forcing her back against the open door.
‘And I will. But right now, you’re embarrassing us in front of clients. You need to go home and sober up.’
Jay laughed sardonically as Jimmy grabbed his arm roughly, hoisting it over his shoulder and all but dragging Jay from the studio.
In the silence he left behind, Rosalie asked, ‘Does that happen a lot?’
Sofia lifted her head sharply and snapped, ‘He’s had a boozy lunch. It happens.’
Rosalie watched her best friend’s baby sister follow her drunken husband out of the studio.
6
Andrea
Paperwork. There was so much paperwork. Andrea still had a say – in fact, a bigger say than ever – in which musicians and songwriters were contracted to the Stellar label, but she had no hands-on role in producing any more. What had once taken ninety per cent of her time had been replaced with management meetings, budgeting and smoothing things out when the proverbial shit hit the fan.
Tonight was Sir Presley John’s remembrance concert and at the current time – four p.m. – it was looking like there was no end in sight. She had told Hannah they could get ready together at her apartment but she was starting to think she wouldn’t have time.
She hated to let Hannah down, when she was sure her oldest friend could do wi
th a night of glamour away from all the kids. But… ‘Hannah?’ Andrea called from her desk, through the open door of her office.
Hannah had a spring in her step today, which Andrea was sure was down to the thought of dressing up and letting her hair down. She came to a stop on the threshold of Andrea’s office, almost with a bounce.
‘Hannah, I’m so sorry,’ she said, genuinely apologetic.
Hannah interrupted. ‘You’re not going to make it later, are you?’
‘No, I am, I promise. Plus, Tommy Dawson…’ She rolled her eyes then, knowing her friend would understand the reference, ‘…is playing part of the main tribute tonight. Despite his flaws and our… history, he and the band were my first breakout and I feel like I should be there, especially when he’s performing on my doorstep.’
She knew as she said the words how shitty they sounded – she couldn’t let down one of her artists but she could let down Hannah. ‘I don’t want to let anybody down,’ she corrected. ‘It’s just that I have to finish then run through my presentation to the board tomorrow.’
‘It’s fine. I get it.’
‘Look, you have a key to my place. There’s a bottle of fizz in the refrigerator that I planned for us to share whilst getting ready. Pour yourself a glass, take whatever you want from my closet and I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
* * *
It was gone five before Andrea even turned to the slides to support her board presentation. Tomorrow morning, she intended to give the board of Stellar her vision for the future. The problem was, she wasn’t even convincing herself with the ideas she had. There was nothing standout or inspirational. She needed something – or someone – new, screaming potential.
Had she lost her touch? She had gotten to this position by being able to spot new talent and though she scoured YouTube and the indie charts, no artist or group was grabbing her. She couldn’t remember the last time a voice had made the hairs on her skin stand on end, given her chill bumps, made her breath hitch or her heart soar.