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He wrinkled his nose, looking at me in disgust like he’d forgotten I was there at all. But it was my job to ask questions. “What about her?”
“Well, you’ve told all these wonderful stories of how your four brothers came to inherit the fortunes of your father, Emory... the story might feel a little incomplete without yours, too.”
Apollo’s lips moved side to side, like he’d chewed on something bad and was trying to get the taste out of his mouth. “I don’t think anyone will care about that. Will they?”
“I think your first book being mainly tales of your brothers lives worked well... for one book. But the readers who are eagerly awaiting your next one are going to be disappointed if it’s just more of the same.”
“But more of the same is great, if the ‘same’ was successful, surely?”
“Not always, in the literary world... I think people will want a slightly different angle. You can keep all of the stories about your brothers, because you do tell them so well... It’s just you might want to consider telling some of yourpersonalstories, too.”
Apollo was staring sullenly down at the table. “I’ll think about it. Not today, though.”
“That’s okay. All in your own time. Shall we continue?”
He looked up abruptly. “No. You’ve spoiled my train of thought now. We shall continue this some other time. I suppose I must return to the ‘bored room’ and call an end to that dreadful meeting, put everyone out of their misery.” He stood up. “Come. I’ll get someone to escort you out of the building.”
It all happened before I could really protest. Really, there was rarely any point in protesting with Apollo. Even now, all I’d asked was a gentle question, and I was being escorted out by another of Apollo’s armed security.
As I was led past the boardroom, which Apollo resignedly threw open the door to, I caught another glimpse of that woman. This time I caught a glimpse of her from her side angle, her profile. With a sudden realization, I knew who she was. I’d seen that profile before: it was on an album cover.Priscilla Lamb, a recording artist from the 70s – a contemporary of David Bowie’s, in fact.
She’d vanished in the late eighties, while she was still at the height of her powers. No one had known where she’d gotten to. She wasn’t presumed dead, so the music world had assumed she was still around somewhere, just lying low, hiding out from the scrutiny of the media, maybe. But there was no reason why she should have been. Her last album had had amazing reviews, and her reputation untarnished.
Then, she’d gone, never to be seen again.
Until I’d caught her eye in thatBrock Industriesboard room, a glittering dress in the middle of a sea of drab suits, smiling at me with an almost knowing look in her eyes.
What was Priscilla Lamb, infamous for disappearing without a trace at the height of her career, doing at Apollo Brock’s board meeting?
After being depositedin Apollo’s reception after that weird meeting, I walked outside somewhat wearily.
I needed to cool down and compose my thoughts, so I didn’t immediately hop into a taxicab. Instead, I went for a slow, meandering walk away from Apollo’s offices. I pulled out my phone and searched the name ‘Priscilla Lamb’. It brought up hundreds of articles about her disappearance, theories about why or where she’d gone, highlights from her stellar career.
I slid my phone back into my pocket and kept thinking. Had Apollo wanted me to see her for some reason? Or had he just not really cared what I saw, since I’d signed the NDA? Had he wanted me to go and tell Sylvester who I’d seen, which would then lead to some chain of events through which Apollo wouldknowI’d been passing secrets to his half-brother? Was that what all of this was about?
I was so deep in thought that I didn’t notice I was being tailed by a car with darkened windows until I stopped to throw a wrapper from my handbag into a bin.
The car stopped right next to me, parallel on the road.
I eyed it sideways and kept walking. The car surged forwards and then stopped again when I halted. Then the back door swung open and out came an older woman wearing a huge grey woolen trench coat, the collar covering half of her face.
I braced myself for whatever was to come. Then, as the woman drew closer to me, I realized it was the film director from Sylvester’s office.
She was walking towards me with her hand outstretched. “Eli Robinson.”
I took it warily. “Luna Black.”
“I know who you are.” She said the words ominously, but they were then followed by a grin that spread from one side of her face to the other, like a greying Cheshire cat. “You’re the soundtrack to my next film.”
“Um. Am I?”
“Yep, kid. You’re a star now, etcetera, etcetera. Now if you’ll get in my car, I’ll discuss terms and conditions, and you can sign the contract.”
I frowned. I’d not heard of this woman before meeting her in Sylvester’s office, and I’d never been interested in providing soundtrack to any film. It just wasn’t my thing. When my music career had fallen through, friends and family had suggested a bunch of things like that: composing for adverts, for television, for film. Or music tutoring or joining a choir. They’d been well-meaning suggestions, but they only drove home how I’d missed out on my real dream, and how anything else I did that was tangentially related to music would only be a shadow of what I’d actually wanted.
And, since I was already being constantly bossed around by two rich people already – Sylvester and Apollo – I didn’t exactly take kindly to yet another rich person jumping out of a car and ordering me around.
There was a question I needed answering before I could say anything else. “Sorry, but where did you hear my music?”
