14. ELLY
14
ELLY
I spend the next week creeping around the house. It’s not that I’m not willing to raise my game, or ‘play with the pros’ as Jack would have it, but I already exposed a breast, and I don’t know where I go from here.
What’s the next move?
Whenever I walk past his bedroom, my heart thumps so hard I worry it’ll rocket right out of my chest. Sometimes I can hear him showering, and the idea of him naked and soaking wet under running water makes everything worse.
How am I supposed to resist, when I’m constantly bombarded by temptation?
I’ve been trying to focus on preparing for my interview at the Granville Agency, the most important event of my career so far. That should be dominating my thoughts, not Jack bloody Lansen and this stupid game. But… fuck. Why does the most annoying man in the world also have to be the most attractive?
I force thoughts of Jack out of my head, replacing them with Robert Lloyd and my interview. This day has been looming closer, my anxiety spiking with every hour that passes. My fixation on Jack is nothing more than a form of avoidance. Surely?
Thinking of him is easier than worrying about this.
I couldn't eat a bite this morning, and I'm still hungry as I make my way to the Granville Agency. It’s located within a huge 1930s building, covered in oversize white Metro tiles, in the centre of Soho.
I stand outside in a daze. This is such a big opportunity for me that if I let myself truly appreciate the magnitude of it, I’ll turn and run. Get it together . I deliberately root my feet to the ground, and suck in a few deep breaths to calm myself, but my heart is having none of it, continuing to beat at a rapid hum.
I’m so nervous that I’m visibly shaking, which is crazy. I can do this . Can’t I? If I can sing karaoke before a rowdy crowd, I can do this. This is nothing.
Fuck. I can't fool myself. This is far from nothing. This is huge. My music is the most important thing in my life; it exposes my soul to the world.
Doubt swarms my mind like bees, filling my skull with the buzz of negative thoughts. For years, the only place I’ve performed is the Marchmont. And now I’m here, meeting the agent who represents Amy Moritz.
It’s insane. I shouldn’t be here.
What if I’m not good enough? What if Robert Lloyd left the card for someone else? Maybe it was a mistake.
I’m spinning out.
Shit .
I summon what remains of my courage and stride into the building, where I register for a visitor’s pass at the main desk. They instruct me to take the lift to the fifth floor for the Granville Agency.
When I get there, I check in with reception and take a seat in the waiting area. Next to me, sits a gorgeous redhead who smiles kindly.
“Who are you meeting?” she asks.
I don’t want to talk to anyone. I need to concentrate on keeping my arse in this chair, or I’ll lose my nerve and run away.
But the redhead is peering at me, and I can’t ignore her. I have to respond.
“Robert Lloyd.” My voice is so quiet that the girl frowns and leans in. I clear my throat and repeat, “Robert Lloyd.”
“Ooh,” she coos. “That’s a big one. You must be really good.”
A contraction occurs in my chest. Am I?
Nico deserves the best, and you aren’t it.
Why does Jack’s comment have to come back to me now? Fuck him and fuck these intrusive thoughts.
My heart thrums like a muted drumroll, and my pulse throbs in my fingertips. They feel both numb and over-sensitive at once. What if Robert Lloyd asks me to play for him? I won’t be able to work my hands.
The girl reaches into her bag and pulls out a business card, which she holds in my direction. “This is me,” she says as I take the card between my trembling fingers.
I stare at it. I don’t have anything like this. It’s glossy and professional with a logo and her name in the middle. My vision blurs a little. Shit . That’s a definite sign of rising panic. I blink to clear it, deliberately slowing my breathing. Come on Elly, you can do this.
I focus again on the card. The handles for all her social media platforms are listed on the bottom of the card. This girl is a pro.
I don’t have an online presence at all. I hate the idea of being seen out there in the world, where I can’t control the response. Social media is like an untamed beast, lurking beneath still waters. If you take a dip, it’ll pull you down and strangle you. It’s easier to stay away entirely.
“I have two hundred thousand followers,” the girl says, and I get the sense she doesn’t care if I’m listening or not. She’s speaking to inform me, and anyone else who happens to be listening, that she belongs here. That she, in fact, deserves her seat in this waiting area. I don’t hear a glimmer of insecurity in her tone, which makes me feel even worse.
She continues wittering on about her rapidly expanding fanbase, oblivious to the way I’m shrinking. Do I deserve my seat? I have no following… no fans to speak of. I’m a wild card, and if Robert backs me, he’d have to start from scratch.
Why would he take a gamble like that, when he could scoop this girl up in all her readiness? She’s a done deal.
And she’s beautiful. She takes out her phone and plays me a video, letting me use her headphones to listen to the song. Her voice is spectacular, her sound unique. I tug the headphones out before the piece is over and give her a weak smile. “It’s great,” I say, but I feel violently sick.
I glance at the clock. Ten minutes until my meeting.
My hands start to sweat.
Is it hot in here? It feels fucking hot in here.
I fan my face with my hand, wishing I’d worn my hair up because it’s sticking to my neck. I try to distract myself from my discomfort by focusing on the other people waiting. There’s a group of men dressed in black with long hair, chatting amongst themselves. They look happy, confident. In the opposite corner sits a gorgeous woman with impossibly long legs, who looks like a model. Perhaps she is one.
I don’t fit in here, with my messy hair and my worn out guitar case. And my stupid tryhard cowboy boots. What does Robert Lloyd want with me?
“I played at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire last month. That was pretty incredible. Where do you play?”
The girl’s voice crashes through my internal monologue, and I blank out. I can’t tell her I haven’t played anywhere other than a tiny pub in Soho, where hardly anyone ever comes to hear me.
I’m a fraud. I can’t stay here alongside people who are performing at the Empire, and who have hundreds of thousands of followers online.
The girl is still staring at me, waiting for a response. “A few bars in the West End,” I admit, keeping it vague. A few. What an exaggeration. A deep blanket of shame covers me.
Why did I think I could do this?
“Oh, yeah? Cool. Where did you record your demos?”
Fuck . “Demos?”
“Yes. Who did you use? Which producer? I went to a studio in Fulham.”
My insides are shrivelling, and every organ feels like it’s cramping. I don’t have demos. All I have are my songs, recorded on my phone and laptop. It’s painfully amateur. I’ve always wanted to get my music professionally recorded and produced, but I’ve never had the money to do it. I’ve been too busy trying to make my damn rental payments.
Now, all my financial choices are feeling idiotic. Maybe Kate would have covered my rent for a few months if I’d only told her about wanting to record my music. If I’d told her about this interview, she might have helped me. But I didn’t. I’ve tried to keep it all hidden, not wanting to worry anyone. Not wanting to fail.
The pain of striving to hide how hard it’s been hits all at once. I can’t do this anymore.
The girl continues talking about the producer who worked on her songs in the studio he set up in his mother’s basement but I’m not really listening. This is possibly the most important moment in my career, the most important moment for my music, and I’m completely unprepared. It’s too important to fuck up.
But the realisation is too late. I’ve already fucked up. Every choice I’ve made has resulted in this situation. Me, letting myself down. Prioritising the wrong things. Not asking for help when I’ve so desperately needed it. And now I’m being given a chance, and I’m not ready. I’ve sabotaged this, just like I’ve sabotaged everything else in my life.
If I go into this meeting, Robert Lloyd will laugh me half way home. I won’t be able to bear the shame of it.
I’ll die.
My left knee begins to shake, making my entire leg vibrate, and Jack’s words suddenly blast loud in my head, occupying every inch of space in my brain. If she were any good, she would have made something of herself by now.
Never have someone else’s words felt so excruciatingly true. I can’t do this. No microscopic part of me that believes I can.
“Excuse me,” I say, lurching from my seat in one swift movement, leaving the girl half-way through a sentence.
I push my way out of the reception area, my vision turning unfocused at the edges again. It could be tears. Or perhaps my brain is malfunctioning, my optic nerve shutting down.
I need to get out of here. Now.
I ignore the worried calls of the receptionist as I jab my finger on the button for the lift.
The doors open so fucking slowly. I can’t wait. I’m beginning to hyperventilate. I catch sight of a fire exit and head that way instead, clattering down the stairs. I’m barely aware of anything but the violent echo of my footsteps and the thump of my guitar case against my legs.
I don’t stop for a second, and in moments I’m out on the street, sticking my hand out into the road, hailing the next cab. It pulls over and I yank the door open. I huddle into my seat, clutching my guitar to stop my hands from shaking. My breaths are coming quick and shallow, and I feel sick. I push the guitar to the seat next to me and lower my head between my knees, riding out the wave of nausea.
“All right, love?” the driver asks, his voice laden with what sounds like genuine concern, but I’m not about to share my shit with a cab driver I don’t know.
“Yes, thanks. Notting Hill please,” I say, trying not to let my voice break or allow the shame that’s beating at my defences to break through. I’m holding it together by a thread.
I breathe in and out. In and out. For a few moments, it’s all I can manage, but the relief I’m seeking doesn’t come.
Before I can stop myself, I’m beating myself up for what happened. I ran away from the biggest opportunity I’ve ever had.
Shame and self-loathing roll over me, as thick and dark as tar. I was a fool to think I could handle this.