Fallen for Rock (25 page)

‘You’re nuts.’ I laughed.

‘No more than you. And that’s why we’ll rock.’

He inserted himself into the booth next to me and pressed his body next to mine, holding his hand up high so he could take a selfie of the two of us.

‘Say “Fallen For Rock”,’ he instructed.

‘Fallen For Rock,’ I sing-songed, and the flash went off to capture our likenesses.

‘There. Done. Deal!’

And thus I became a birthing partner for Fallen For Rock. Ha! I hugged myself inwardly.

Chapter Forty

I didn’t see Mike much over the following days. Well, in fact, I did see him, but I didn’t get to interact with him. Most of the time, he was in his room with the door firmly shut. I heard keyboard chords and melody lines, guitar riffs, bass lines, and synthesised drums. I heard singing. Don Octavio put in a brief appearance every day as a kind of warm-up exercise, and he gave me goosebumps every time. Inevitably, I heard random bits of songs that didn’t make much sense to me to begin with.

When Mike emerged, it was typically to grab a cup of tea or a hastily thrown-together sandwich. He looked hollow-eyed and pale, but buzzing with it. A few times, he colonised the lounge, spreading out with reams of blank paper that he filled rapidly, almost feverishly, with notes, notations and words. He completed weird-looking charts with numbers that didn’t make sense to me. In amongst all of that, I spotted harmonies and complicated arrangements worthy of a small orchestra. Mr Bach would have been impressed.

Speaking of, Mike did remind me of a different classical musician. His absolute absorption with his music to the exclusion of all else, including decent meals, mirrored almost exactly the second half of the movie
Amadeus
. I had visions of Mozart writing at his small table, manically working on his
Requiem
and
The Magic Flute
all at once, in failing health and under financial pressure, wild-eyed, dishevelled,
consumed
by his music.

Superimposed over the image of Mike hunching over my coffee table, the vision was so vivid that I got frightened. I retreated to the kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate, and I made one for Mike while I was at it. He got extra cream and a double helping of marshmallows for sustenance.

‘It’s merely a superficial similarity,’ I reassured myself while I dissolved the cocoa powder in hot milk. ‘For starters, Mike is already earning money from his music. Plus I’m not Constanze, and there’s definitely no Salieri in the picture here.’ I thought of Will and grimaced. ‘Well, not anymore, at least.’

I took the steaming mug of hot chocolate into the lounge and set it quietly on the corner of the table. Mike grunted and continued writing without missing a beat.

‘For you,’ I whispered, lest he hadn’t understood. ‘You need a break.’

‘Nope,’ he responded gruffly, never once pausing in his work. ‘No time.’

I bit my lip. He looked terrible, and I was worried. Surely a quick break wouldn’t hurt?

‘Come on,’ I cajoled softly. ‘Five minutes, and the sugar rush will—’

‘For fuck’s sake, Emily!’ Mike exploded and threw his pen down. ‘I said, I’m working. What fuckin’ part of that don’t you fuckin’ understand?’

I recoiled as if he had struck me.

I’ll bite your head off when you interrupt me
, a little voice muttered in my head. I had completely forgotten his warning, and now I was feeling his wrath.

‘I’m sorry,’ I soothed. ‘I was merely concerned for—’

‘Jesus, woman, you
are
a pain in the ass. Now I’ve completely lost the moment.
Fuck
.’ Mike snatched up the piece of paper he had been writing on and scrunched it angrily into a tight ball.

‘Fuck,’ he repeated emphatically, then aimed his paper missile at my head. He missed by several centimetres and stared at me, anger flashing in his eyes, his hair standing on end. He looked deranged, dangerous even.

I swallowed hard. I had invited him to stay with me, and I had sworn to myself that I would nurture his creative genius, but I hadn’t bargained with outbursts like this despite his warning. I took a step backwards.

‘Sorry,’ I whispered, keen now to extricate myself from the situation.

‘Fuckin’ hot chocolate,’ Mike roared, eyeing up the still steaming mug. ‘Who said I liked hot chocolate in the first place? Bloody hell. Now I’ve got to start all over again.’

I took another step backwards, not knowing what to say. Mike raked his hands through his hair, and for a moment I flinched, thinking he might actually lash out at me. He saw me cower and dropped his hands to his side.

‘God, Emily, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ All the anger left his voice, and he looked really contrite, almost deflated. He sat down again wearily.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I told you I’m hell to live with. I didn’t mean to swear at you. It’s just…you caught me at a bad moment, and now it’s all gone.’ He picked at a sheaf of paper despondently.

‘I—I didn’t mean to get you off track,’ I whispered. ‘Only you look so tired, and I thought a bit of sugar would maybe perk you up.’

‘I know. I know, and you’re right. But I can’t stand being interrupted. It really pisses me off.’

‘I can tell.’
Well, now I could.
But I kept my sarcasm to myself.‘It won’t happen again. However…’

An idea shaped in my head, and I decided to push my luck while he was in a more mellow mood again. ‘Tell you what.
I
promise to leave you utterly and completely in peace if
you
promise to spare me half an hour for dinner tonight. Only a little half hour.’

Mike rubbed his nose and sniffed. ‘Okay,’ he agreed with evident reluctance.

‘At seven. For half an hour. You
must
eat.’

‘O-
kay
,’ Mike repeated. ‘Yes,
mum
.’

I rolled my eyes and left him to it.

To distract myself and to give myself time to recover from Mike’s vicious outburst, I took myself off to Oxford Street and purchased a copy of Bon Jovi’s biography, plus a dummy’s guide to music marketing and publicity. I figured I could use all the help I could get. Afterwards I went off to the record store to buy the entire collection of Bon Jovi CDs going right back to the very first album.

‘That’s a lot of music,’ the shop assistant commented when I turned up at the till with my stack of albums.

‘I’m late to the party,’ I joked. ‘I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

He gave me a blank look and rang up my purchases. I left the shop and treated myself to a spot of lunch before returning home and sequestering myself in my bedroom with my portable stereo and the book. I could have downloaded the lot onto my tablet, of course, book, music, and all, but I fancied holding the real thing in my hands while I listened.

Pretty quickly, I got the idea of why Mike was so inspired by this band, and I started taking notes for a launch campaign for Fallen For Rock as and when he was ready. I would start a Facebook page and a Twitter account for the band, plus start them up on YouTube and ReverbNation. I would write press releases, haunt radio stations to get the band airplay…

The task was enormous and somewhat daunting, but I made myself lists of things to do. First and foremost, I would need to make contacts. To do that, I would have to hang around clubs, pubs, radio stations, and recording studios. I would have to find London’s music media moguls’ most favourite haunts and frequent those, too. And to do all of that, I needed some kind of presence of my own, so I began my journey with a Facebook and Twitter account for myself. I would also have to get a website, but that could wait a little while. ‘One step at a time, right?’

For two weeks, Mike and I coexisted in this manner. He wrote, and I stayed out of his way as best I could. He really was a nightmare to live with when he was writing, and I found myself tiptoeing around my own flat. We had another few outbursts along the way, but I learned to let them wash over me, even though they upset me.

When I wasn’t trying to avoid disturbing the creative monster, I read books and trawled the Internet to learn everything I could about publicity, and I compiled a great folder of notes and ideas.

Unfailingly, every night at seven o’clock, I lured Mike out of his room or the lounge with home-cooked food. I kept my offerings simple and mostly healthy. I cooked up burgers with a large salad; steak with broccoli bake; home-made pizza with a hidden vegetable sauce as well as double pepperoni and lashings of cheese; tuna melt pasta bake; fishcakes with vegetable rissoles; chicken stir-fries.

To my surprise, I found that I greatly enjoyed taking care of our culinary needs. I did more cooking than I had ever done before. It was immensely satisfying to produce a steaming dish fresh from the oven and be able to say, ‘I made that from scratch.’

Mike wolfed down enormous portions every evening and drank several glasses of water with them, plus a strong coffee to finish. He still had that faraway, obsessed look on his face, but with an enforced eating routine, he began to look less gaunt. His mood swings became less erratic, and I swear he slept better, too. I had no evidence of this, of course, other than that there was complete silence in his room from about midnight.

Gradually, snippets of tunes turned into whole songs, and Mike’s voice floated around my flat in memorable patterns. Very quickly, I recognised songs and even began to hum along. It was magic in the making, and I knew I was part of something extremely special.

And then, one morning, Mike emerged from his room fresh-faced and sparkly-eyed, showered, shaved and dressed in clean clothes.

‘I’m done,’ he declared triumphantly.

I gave a big whoop of joy and thrust my arms around his neck. ‘Well done, you!’

‘Do you want to listen? I mean, properly listen? I’ve made a scratch demo.’

‘I’d love to!’

‘Cool.’

Mike scurried off and returned with a USB flash drive. ‘I’ve put it all in mp3 format, so it should play on your stereo. Ready?’

‘Of course.’

Mike plugged in the drive. He called up his list of songs and hit play.A number that I had secretly titled ‘United We Stand’ filled the room, and I swayed to the music.

United we stand, divided we’d fall

This is the greatest truth of them all

When the world gets down on you

When you feel like you are through

Remember that I’m here with you…

Mike regarded me open-mouthed, and I ceased my swaying.

‘What?’

‘You’re singing along.’

‘Am I?’ I scratched my head self-consciously. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed.’

‘No, no, it’s all right. I love it. But I
am
a little surprised.’

‘You’ve been playing this for days,’ I reminded him. ‘It’s one of my favourites. I think you should definitely make this the opener and release it as a single. What are you calling it?’