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“Okay, so…who’s Goran, and what is this plan you both keep going on about?”
“Let’s get to the hotel, and I’ll tell you everything.” Alex smiled.
Room twelve was perfect as far as Morgan was concerned. More contemporary than the previous ones, it was light and airy, and on the ground floor with views over the gardens. The flowers were almost gone, and the grass was yellow in places, but still, even in the rain it was beautiful.
She wasted no time in placing her bag into the room. Only one bed. There was no pretence now of them having different rooms.
“This is amazing,” she said as she strolled through the opening between the bedroom and the lounge. “I could live in something like this.”
Alex smiled at her. “Good, you’ll like my house then.”
Morgan turned quickly. “Is that an invitation?”
“Well,” Alex said, moving closer to her. “I thought once the tour was done, maybe…” She was right in front of Morgan now. “Maybe you’d like to come over. If you’re not too busy with work, of course.”
The mention of work made Morgan grimace comically. “God, I forgot about that.” She laughed. “Is it bad that I haven’t missed it one bit?”
“Nope, not bad at all, but maybe an inclination that you might prefer to do something else?”
“Maybe. I think the reality is I threw myself into it because I knew it would make my parents happy, but long term, I’m either going to burn out or…” She shrugged. “I dunno.”
“It’s never too late to make a change, Morgan. Try something else.”
“I can definitely think of something else I’d rather be doing,” she said, her cheeks blushing, “but I do believe that at some point, even that is going to even out. Anyway, stop distracting me, who’s Goran?”
“Goran Ivanov,” Alex finally said as she sat on the bed and swung her legs up. She was dressed in khaki combats and a baggy jumper over a white cotton shirt that looked as though it had seen better days, but Morgan knew was ridiculously expensive and made to look that way on purpose. Alex looked small and vulnerable as Morgan prepared to join her.
“Who is he?” Morgan asked.
“He’s a multi-award-winning producer, hugely talented, and he wants to produce my next album.”
“Okay,” Morgan said, folding a jacket and holding it against herself. “So, some big wig in the music industry is rightly interested in working with you; what’s the bigger picture?”
“Goran isn’t known for his patience. He’s a genius, but he’s also someone who will only work with the best. He demands perfection. Commitment. Passion.”
“And he wants to produce your next album?”
“Yes.”
“So, why does Francine think you’re scared to do it?”
Alex sighed. “Because she’s right. I am scared. Working with him terrifies me.”
“So, get another producer.” Morgan flung the jacket onto the bed.
“Morgan,” Alex got to her knees and shuffled down the bed, “if Ivanov produces my next work, it won’t just be a hit. It will be a masterpiece. My mother will finally recognise me without the sly digs about popular music. It will be the kind of music that people six generations from now still talk about. It will make huge amounts of revenue—”
“So, all that’s a win, right? It will catapult you into a fancier life.”
“That’s not why I’d be doing it,” Alex stated, her eyes filling instantly with emotion. “That’s not the life that I want. I exist in a world of transactions, of doing what I need to do to keep as low a profile as I can. Hiding you. Hiding me. In the shadows of life rather than in the sun. If I work with Ivanov and I get that album made—” She stopped talking, breathed in deeply and smiled. “Then I’m retiring and leaving all of this behind me.”
Morgan stopped what she was doing and stared, dumbfounded. “You’re—”
“I’m going to stop touring, stop the interviews, stop producing music for sale. I just want to merge into the background someplace where people forget all about me.”
“But you love music and performing.”
Alex smiled. “I won’t stop enjoying music, but it will be nice to only play for me. To play because I want to, not because I have to.” She reached for Morgan’s hand. “I don’t want to do this anymore. Living this life is…exhausting.”
