Page 43 of Wild Love
Attached is a spreadsheet with my anticipated budget for the office and recording studio renovation. One tab is budgeted, the next isprojected. I will work with the contractor and subcontractors to complete the latter.
Please advise on the feasibility and feel free to point out any issues you might find since I know how much you love to create problems where none exist.
All my best,
Rosalie Belmont
Business Manager at Death Eater Records
P.S. I’m hungry and leaving for lunch. You have a free hour to harvest souls or whatever while I’m away.
She’s up and walking out the door when I fire off:
Rosalie,
Thank you for this. Lucky for you, I can multitask eating souls for lunch at my desk while I work.
Have a happy day!
Tom Riddle CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records
I know she has her email hooked up to her phone, so I’m not surprised when I hear her laugh from outside the door. Then she shouts, “It’s really thehave a happy daythat gets me.”
And I shake my head because it’s hearing her laugh that gets me.
I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t care if random people think I’m a dick.
But Rosie Belmont isn’t random people.
I’m snapping photos of the outside of the barn-slash-office so I can send them to the designer I used in the city for my bar. The goal is to maintain the mountain chalet feel of this place by preserving the barn’s old wood.
I don’t want it to look shiny and new and cookie-cutter.
I wantcharacter. I want music with character and a space that inspires it.
I’m imagining charming, matching cottages nestled in the trees where artists can use this space as a retreat. Mountains, lake, wilderness—a serene space to calm their minds and focus on their art, away from the glitz and glam of what can be an ugly industry.
The quiet out here. It’s… profound. And I didn’t realize how badly I needed it until I got here.
That’s why the piercing sound of the office line ringing from inside makes me wince as it slices through my moment of peace.
Then it stops.
Then, “Hello, Ford Grant Junior’s office.”
My molars clamp down at the use of my name. I love my parents, but seriously, fuck them for keeping with that tradition.
“Oh my god, therealFord Grant?” Rosie lets out a fake little squeal, and I freeze.
“Mr. Grant! It’s been too long. How are you?”
My legs carry me over the craggy grass that surrounds the building and I march up the front steps, skipping one here and there to get inside faster.
When I fling the door open, I’m met with Rosie’s wide, blue eyes, her hip cocked against the desk. It’s brisk out today—it feels less like spring and more like winter—which is probably why she waves a hand at me to shut it.
“Oh,babyFord? He’s good. Working hard on this place and his scowl, as the case may be.”
A beat of silence as her eyes wander over my features.
