‘I am!’ He sipped his beer. ‘But it’s not a bad idea, is it? You split up with him for a few weeks, he gets his mojo back, and none of us have to get a proper job.’
She shook her head. ‘Matty, you’re an arsehole.’
‘What?’ He sounded wounded. ‘You’d be doing him a favour. What’s the alternative? He goes back to being a delivery driver. You get married, have kids, and live happily ever after? You think he’d be happy with that? And all the people who bought the first album and loved it – they’ll all be saying: “whatever happened to Will Bailey?”’
His speech sounded rehearsed.
‘He just needs time,’ she explained calmly.
‘Time’s running out, Emily. The record company won’t keep paying for us to play frisbee in the countryside forever. They’re sending the suits down next week. They want to hear what we’ve got. And we’ve got nothing.’
That was why Will was still in the studio.
‘Think about it,’ he continued. ‘He wrote most ofFragmentswhile pining for you when you were with Aidan. He needs more of that love-sick angst.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not splitting up with him, Matty.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do. At this rate, we’re gonna get dropped…’
Her stomach tightened. ‘Is that likely?’
‘If we’ve got nothing to sell, of course. It’s a business like any other.’
‘ButFragmentsis still selling…’
‘That’s why they want us to strike while the iron’s hot. Apparently, it’s all about timing.’
‘What’s all about timing?’ came Will’s voice from behind them. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.
‘Pool,’ said Matty. ‘You’ve got to get your timing right when you take a shot.’
‘I thought it was all about your stance?’ said Will.
‘Yeah, and that.’
Emily joined them in the studio the following morning. She’d brought newspapers from the farmhouse and was sitting on the floor cutting them up and putting the tiny pieces into a bowl. No one batted an eyelid. They were all used to her crazy art projects by now.
When the band took a break, she pulled Will to one side. ‘I thought we could try something,’ she said.
She took the bowl of newspaper clippings to the table, and Will sat down beside her.
‘I watched an old David Bowie documentary; this is how he comes up with ideas for lyrics.’
‘With newspapers?’
‘It doesn’t have to be newspapers, it can be books, or magazines, or stuff you’ve written yourself. You cut out words and jumble them up. Bowie reckons when you see unrelated words together like this, the subconscious mind tries to make sense of it, and it sparks ideas you wouldn’t have had otherwise. Shall we try it?’
‘Okay…’
Emily picked out random words: ‘Choice, forgive, testament, legends, confession, perfect strangers, polite.’
She arranged the words on the table in front of them.
‘What now?’
‘Well, you see if it sparks any ideas for a song or a line or something.’
Will glanced at the words on the table. ‘I don’t get it.’