Page 3 of Never Too Late
‘They can wait.’ He sounded dismissive and she was about to retort when he elaborated. ‘But Royalty can’t.’
‘Royalty?’ She knew she was sounding gormless, but she couldn’t shake the image of Charles and Camilla that suddenly materialised in her head.
He was quick to explain. ‘Royalty, the group. They want us to produce their new album.’
‘Wow.’ In spite of everything, Steph felt a surge of excitement run through her. Royalty really were royalty in the world of music. With platinum albums, BRIT and Grammy awards to their name, they had dominated the rock music scene throughout the nineties and well into the new century, even if they had dropped out of the limelight over the past few years. ‘And they’re reforming? I thought they’d split up.’
‘They had and they are.’ Ethan was sounding unusually animated. ‘And they want me to produce their comeback album. Do you realise what this means?’ In case she might be in any doubt, he spelt it out to her. ‘This means the big time for me… for us. It doesn’t get any bigger than this.’
‘Wow.’ Steph was aware that she was getting a bit repetitive but she had to agree. Being chosen to produce a brand-new album for a group whose fame ranked them up there alongside legends like Pink Floyd or Queen was huge. A thought occurred to her. ‘But why Italy?’
‘That’s where Keith has his home nowadays, or at least one of his homes.’
‘I see.’ Keith Bailey was the leader of the group and he had achieved legendary status in the world of rock music, most notably for the famous millennium concert in Hyde Park in aid of world hunger. He had also hit the headlines, she remembered, for punching a renowned chat-show host live on air but that was a long time ago now. Hopefully he had mellowed with the passage of the years, otherwise this new contract might turn out to be fraught with problems. ‘But what about a studio? We’re going to need a truckful of gear, surely.’
‘No need, he has his own. I’ve just come off the phone with him now. He’s been telling me all about it. From what he’s said, he’s got even better gear than we have: some real traditional stuff and some state of the art.’ He rattled off names and specifications of the recording equipment in Keith Bailey’s Italian studio and Steph had to agree. This was top of the range stuff. Mind you, if anybody could afford that sort of thing, it was Royalty.
‘Sounds good. When does he want us?’
‘Starting next weekend.’
‘Blimey, talk about short notice.’ She thought frantically. The doctor had said she would arrange the mammogram this week so presumably that wouldn’t be a problem, but there were other considerations as well. ‘We’re going to need to contact the performers we have booked in for the next month and put them off. They aren’t going to be happy.’
‘We’ll offer them a fifty percent reduction in our rates to make up for it. That should keep them sweet.’
Steph glanced at her watch. ‘We need to start calling people as soon as possible. I’m round at Mum’s for tea. I could be back at the studio by seven thirty. Do you want me to come straightaway?’
‘Enjoy your tea and then come back. It’ll be fine.’ He was sounding chirpier than she had heard him for ages. Maybe, she wondered, this would be the kick-start he needed to give up the Bad Boy lifestyle and concentrate on carving out his career for real – and he really was good at his job. Everybody said so and the fact that Royalty were coming to him proved it. And, she realised, if this did indeed signify him turning over a new leaf, maybe this new Ethan might also change back into the man she had fallen for three years ago.
Over the chocolate cake Steph told her mum all about it. Although her mum had little interest in modern music she knew the name Royalty, but Steph had to spell out how significant it was that she and Ethan were going to be involved in the group’s first record in years. A quick search on her phone told her that it was almost exactly a decade since their last public appearance. ‘As comebacks go, this is one of the greatest. Maybe not quite like reforming the Beatles but still huge.’
‘Now I come to think of it, didn’t you have a Royalty poster on your bedroom wall for years?’
Steph grinned at the memory. ‘Yes, all the way through school I had the most enormous crush on Ben, the bass player. In fact, half of the girls in my class did.’
‘And now you’re going to meet the man in person.’ Her mother grinned back at her. ‘Maybe you’ll end up dumping Ethan in favour of a rock star.’
Steph shook her head. ‘I hardly think so. When I was a teenager, he was probably already in his thirties.’ She did a quick bit of mental arithmetic. ‘That probably makes him fifty now. I’m not sure how I’d feel about dating a man who’s twenty years older than me.’
‘Amulti-millionaire rock starwho’s twenty years older than you.’ There was a distinct twinkle in her mum’s eye. ‘You wouldn’t be the first. Mind you…’ Her mother hadn’t forgotten what they had been talking about before Ethan’s phone call. ‘If you get Ethan to yourself for a bit, away from his toxic friends, it might mean that you and he…’ She didn’t need to say more.
‘We’ll see, Mum. Here’s hoping it changes him back to the man he used to be.’
Chapter 2
The following Sunday she and Ethan flew to Pisa. All the way over on the plane Steph had tried to keep her mind on the job rather than on what the radiographer had said on Friday. After both a mammogram and an ultrasound scan, she had informed Steph that they would get the results to her in a week or so and told her to try not to worry. The very fact that she had told her not to worry had had the opposite effect and the possible outcomes had been uppermost in Steph’s mind since then. Because she was coming over to Italy the clinician made a note to ensure that she would get the results by email, rather than letter, and indicated that they shouldn’t take too long. As far as Steph was concerned, she just hoped the news whenever it came would be good.
Upon arrival in Italy, they took a train from the airport to the main station and picked up a train heading north. Keith Bailey’s holiday home was less than an hour up the coast between Pisa and Genoa but Steph had been unable to locate it on Google Earth. Luckily somebody would be coming to pick them up at the nearby station when they got there.
The train journey was comfortable in their air-conditioned carriage, and the views, superb. To the left of the railway line was flat terrain with a series of long sandy beaches, surrounded by houses, hotels and restaurants. Clearly this area was a major holiday destination. This was the first time Steph had been to the west coast of Italy and she was fascinated to see palm trees among huge umbrella pines on one side of the railway and snowy slopes on the mountains to the right of them. Considering it was the first of September and the temperature down here at the coast very high, she was amazed. It wasn’t as if these were the High Alps, after all. However, a quick search on her phone revealed that what she could see wasn’t snow after all but the white marble of the Apuan Alps cloaking the hillsides above places like Massa and Carrara. Apparently Carrara marble had been Michelangelo’s material of choice for his sculptures and she wondered if she would have time to get across to Florence to see his masterpiece: the huge statue of David.
She suggested this to Ethan but received only a grunt in return. He hadn’t come home the previous night until long after she had fallen asleep and she could still smell drink on his breath now. She had almost had to pour him into the cab this morning and had given him a serious talking-to as they waited for their flight, but he had been monosyllabic and uncommunicative all day. Her hopes that this exciting new job might prove to be the spark to snap him out of his spiral of self-indulgent excess were looking less and less likely to be realised. Maybe, she told herself, clutching at straws, when he found himself mixing with famous names like Royalty, a sea change would come over him.
But she wasn’t holding her breath.
The train arrived at the little station at Sarzana bang on time and she was impressed by the punctuality. For somebody used to the vagaries of commuter trains in and out of London, this was refreshing. Stepping out of the cool interior on the other hand was anything but refreshing. A digital sign indicated that the afternoon temperature was thirty-three degrees and she could well believe it. Compared to the damp grey day she had left behind in England it was quite a shock to the system. She was just starting to tug her suitcase along the platform when a man approached and addressed himself to Ethan.
‘Good afternoon, are you Ethan Carson? My name’s Cesare. I look after Signor Bailey when he’s here in Italy. Can I help you with your bags?’
