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“Unfortunately not, Luna. My genius requires an audience. Thus is the curse of it. I need someone there to hear them as – what do they call it – a rubber duck?”
Nice to know I was hisrubber duck. That was just how he talked, though. Brushing off the offense, I continued. “Well, feel free to leave the thoughts with me in any way you can, if you decide to. Maybe try a real rubber duck. I’ll get back to you when I’m free, but it won’t be until tomorrow, now.”
He sniffed. “I’ll let you know if I still have the thoughts percolating then.”
Then the phone line clicked dead. That was Apollo: nohello, nogoodbye.
The guy was surprisingly easy company, I’d discovered. Even if I was just his rubber duck, he clearly enjoyed entertaining and he had such a funny way of putting things that I couldn’t help but laugh at his tales, even the most sordid. I’d carried that tone over into his memoirs, which partially accounted for his book’s success. Whatever else you could say about him – and believe me, he had plenty of opponents and haters out there – the guy was compelling.
If Sylvester had been able to find out that I was Apollo’s ghostwriter, presumably at some point Apollo would find out that I was writing for Sylvester, too. I smirked thinking how funny it would be if Sylvester’s book found as much success as Apollo’s had, if I then ended up in a literary war with... myself.
More than likely, Apollo would have some objections. But I knew I was valuable to him. For some reason he needed an image boost, and I’d given him the best one he could’ve hoped for. He needed me.
Right now, I had bigger problems. I was running out of time to choose an outfit.
Who was I kidding? My wardrobe was an all-black assortment of band t-shirts, jeans, and jackets. There were a few dresses for when I had an occasion, but they rarely came around. I certainly wasn’t going to wear a dress for Sylvester. We’d both know, then, that he still made my chest flutter with butterflies, even as my mind seethed with hatred for him and what he’d done. No, I’d just wear a generic outfit and think no further on it. I’d just made sure my make-up wasextranice. Extra... menacing.
I layered on extra-thick eyeliner, checked myself out in the mirror, then headed out with my little backpack of recording equipment.
I did all the actual writing separately, on my own. That was how I worked best. Meetings with my clients were essentially a series of conversations, like a Q&A. I’d dig deeper into the areas I could see potential in, and eventually, I’d have enough material to form a rough shape of a narrative. I’d then spend a few months perfecting it, and then, voila. A first draft would take shape.
As a first meeting, we wouldn’t really get into the details of Sylvester’s life. This meeting would be more about expectations, what he wanted from the memoir, and how the process would work. Since we were already familiar with each other, we could skip the professional overview of our own careers.
Getting out of the taxi at Sylvester’s address, I rolled my eyes. The apartment block was ridiculously lavish, even from the outside, and since Sylvester’s apartment was the penthouse, his apartment would be the most lavish of them all.
I climbed the stairs to the foyer. The inside was practically plastered with jewels, chandeliers, ornate frames, that kind of thing.
The concierge scuttled over. “Who are you here to see, ma’am?” His ridiculous faux-British accent made him seem like a caricature of a butler, or of someone playing a role in a murder mystery.
I hid my mirth behind a polite hand. “Erm, Sylvester Brock. He should be expecting me.”
“Ah, yes. I imagine he is.” With that cryptic statement, the concierge waved an arm towards the elevator. “You’ll know where to find him.”
Weren’t concierges supposed to give directions? Whatever. I did know where to find him. I got in the elevator, eyeing up the bronze busts that guarded the entrance. I did a double take at one of them: it was of Sylvester himself. I rolled my eyes and jammed the button for the top floor, then waited.
No one else joined me in the elevator as it sped its way upwards into air that was once occupied only by birds until humans had decided to build taller and taller buildings. My dad lived in the mountains, now, and luckily, I enjoyed heights. But there was something more unsettling at being at a great height in a manmade structure than there was on a mountain.
I stepped out into the landing, a little dizzy, approached the entrance, and knocked. Had the concierge not told him I was coming? I’d expected more from the exaggerated butler act of my welcome.
It was then that I noticed the noise. I frowned. From beyond the door, there was a rumbling of music and the sounds of people laughing and talking. Loudly.
The door swung open, and beyond it was Sylvester, swigging from a beer bottle. “The invite said just come in, the door’s...”
Behind him, a party was in full swing. He trailed off as he realized who was at his door – a person who had certainly not received an invite to whatever this event was. Me.
“Did we... did we have our meeting this evening?”
“Yes.”
His eyes widened as he realized the schedule clash he’d made. “Oh, shit.”
I took a step back and shook my head. “It’s okay, we can reschedule.”
He held out his free hand to stop me leaving. “No no no. Come in? We probably won’t get much work done, but you’ve come all this way. Maybe it’ll give you some insight into my... life?”
It certainly gave me an insight into Sylvester’s life, that was for sure. The media were right about him: the biggest playboy of the bunch of them – them being the five Brock brothers – and the one who partied the hardest. This was before the other three of them, minus Apollo, had settled down, too.
Yes, I knew my Brock history. I’d been schooled in it by Apollo.
