Page 91 of The Last Love Song
‘Well...’ The established pop star twiddled with her pen on the table.
‘Get on with it,’ muttered Todd.
‘I loved it.’
‘Yes!’
‘Wow, man!’
‘Shh, you lot, let’s hear what she has to say.’ Freddy waved an arm to silence the room.
‘I liked the melody line, the lyrics, and from their photo, I think I might like the look of them as well,’ giggled the pop star.
‘Right then, on to you, Jimmy.’
‘Here goes,’ muttered Freddy. The record producer had a reputation for trashing seventy per cent of what was played.
‘Not bad, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. A bit run-of-the-mill. It might make the top thirty, as everyone likes a soppy record at Christmas, but’ – Jimmy shook his head – ‘if they do make it with this one, I reckon they’ll be a one-hit wonder. Nothing special.’
The air in the sitting room turned blue. Cushions were hurled at the screen.
‘And now you, John. What did you think of the song?’
The disc jockey nodded. ‘As usual, whatever Jimmy dislikes, I like. It’s a smashing record. I’ll certainly be giving it airtime over the next few weeks. I reckon The Fishermen will go far. They’re my tip for the top this week.’
Screams of delight resounded around the sitting room.
‘And Paul? What about you?’
‘Loved ’em.’
‘Way to go, boys,’ murmured Freddy.
‘So, let’s vote. A hit or a miss?’
The panel held up their cards. David Jacobs rang the bell to signal a hit.
‘Three hits and one miss for The Fishermen. Now then, we’ll move on to the new single by...’
Freddy stood up, switched the television off and turned toface the others. ‘Well, lads, Brad and I were in two minds as to whether we should release it toJuke Box Jury. It’s always a gamble, but if it pays off, it can give you a hell of a start.’ He smiled at them benevolently. ‘You’re on your way, boys.’
The telephone rang just as Sorcha had dribbled shampoo onto her hair.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she murmured, taking her head out of the kitchen sink and searching for the towel she thought she’d put on the drainer. It had fallen onto the floor. Bending down, she picked it up, wound it round her head turban-style and padded across the room to the telephone.
‘Yes?’ she said sharply.
‘Hello, darling, what’s wrong?’
‘Hello, Audrey. I’m sorry. It’s just that our phone never stops ringing these days.’
‘What it is to be popular, my dear.’
‘Well, it’s not me they want to speak to. It’s Con. I’ve no idea how half the journalists get this number.’
‘That’s the price of fame, my darling. Talking of which, I have some very good news for you. Can you stop by my office this afternoon for a chat?’
‘It would have to be quick, Audrey. Con’s record company are throwing a big party for the boys for getting to number two in the hit parade. We’ll know later today whether they’ve climbed to number one.’
