Page 12 of Heart Strings
Lark frowns and sits on the piano bench next to Callum. “I’m serious. Don’t play with her emotions, okay?”
“You’re giving me more credit than you should, pretty sure I don’t have any sway over Lo’s emotions. But I wouldn’t do that to Lo anyway.” My stomach growls as I get a whiff of peanut butter.
“What was with the song choice, then?”
Saoirse bites down on a biscuit.
“It’s just a good song,” I lie. Even more than the straightforward lyrics; I wanted Lo to remember the good times. She’s created an image of me as some prick who threw her away the instant fame called. And I suppose it does look like that, but that’s not how I experienced it. Cielo let go of my hand first and balled hers into a fist. How could I hold on to her when she’d hardened herself against me?
“I’m surprised you two are speaking, honestly,” Saoirse says.
“She tried to impale me with a kebab stick.”
Lark shrugs. “Well, that’s a start…”
“If you two, erm,reconciled”—Saoirse lifts a sardonic brow—“Lo would eat your head afterward like a praying mantis.”
That mental image isn’t as strong a deterrent as you’d imagine.
“Occasionally, the females will even d-d-decapitate the male before mating,” Callum interjects mildly. “They’re still able to finish the job.”
His tone is so casual, it takes a moment for that horrifying fact to sink in. The man’s full of morbid trivia.
“Once you cross Lo, she’ll hold a grudge for eternity,” I remind Lark before she gets any ideas. “So don’t hold your breath for a reconciliation.”
Lark knows firsthand how stubborn Cielo can be. Begrudgingly, she offers me the tray of baked goods. I bite into a chewy peanut butter biscuit. I’m not going to win back a woman who wants nothing to do with me. We just need to form a truce for long enough to survive this wedding.
“We’re trying to get a new producer to work on the upcoming album,” I say, grappling to change the subject. “You’ll make it again for studio recording, Saoirse?”
She wipes rosin dust from her fiddle with feigned disinterest. “Maybe.”
We both know she’ll happily toss a bouquet of tulips aside and come running when the time comes. Like me, she can’t resist the rush of performance.
“My manager, Martin, is working on getting us a meeting with Nigel Culpepper.”
Callum’s eyes snap to mine. “Stop the lights!”
“Honest. I hope we can get him. The lad’s a genius.”
Notoriously eccentric, he’s known to go off-grid for years at a time, before reemerging with a fresh new act. With his slew of Grammys, Nigel Culpepper is well past the stage where he’s expected to be polite to anyone in the music industry. Meaning…he hasn’t returned my agent’s calls yet.
Martin is keeping at it, convinced a collaboration with Nigel would be my ticket to stratospheric fame overseas. All I want is the opportunity to create something special with a legend. I’m not so sure global stardom is my goal anymore. Touring makes me feel untethered.
“I’ve a good feeling about it,” I tell them. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start to believe it.
These new songs are a far cry fromHeaven-Bound,written during and immediately after my relationship with Cielo. Now all the songs with lyrical substance are melancholic. I envision textured analog production, but the label asked me to write something in an energetic pop-rock vein instead. They were awful. My contract demands a new album in production by the end of October, whether I like it or not.
Public relations for the label also asked me if I’d entertain strategic sightings with a popular English television actress. Martin argued that being spotted together would give me a healthy boost in the cultural consciousness, but it sounds so contrived. I don’t need to be a celebrity; I just want to make music that matters.
“We’ll be rooting for you,” Lark says. Callum nods. “Nigel would be lucky to work with you. Remember that.”
“Well, have you got any new material you want to practice?” Saoirse asks, tucking the fiddle under her chin. “That man won’t be easy to impress.”
She’s absolutely right, this is no time to mess about. If I manage to secure a meeting with the legendary producer, I’ve only got one shot. Like Cielo, Nigel doesn’t offer second chances.
I pull out my mobile and open the notes app, where snippets of inspiration coalesce into lyrics that eventually become songs. Soon, I find the one I began right after leaving Lo sputtering with indignation on the bench on Quay Street. The first halfway decent tune I’ve written in months, with a playfully irregular 5/4 time signature to reflect the excitement I felt at seeing her again.
“I started this one last night,” I say. “It’s called ‘Stake Through the Heart.’ ”
