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And nearly choked on them. Fantastic. Survive cancer, suffocate on a beer nut. Angus put a glass of what he hoped was water in his hand and he drank. “Oh God, just hit me, but not in the throat and stay away from the mouth.”
“You’re telling me you’re done.”
“Why would she trust me again?”
Angus fussed around with glasses. “Good point. I see where you’re coming from. So the idea is to give up, because that’s the new take no chances you.”
“Can we change the subject?”
“So this studio, Jamie says it’ll be viable, maybe even profitable.”
“With investment, cheaper premises, updated equipment. If I can get it staffed right.”
“You’ve offered Georgia a job?”
“No, I haven’t offered her a job. I offered her me and she didn’t bite. Not thinking she’d want any job that’s anywhere near me now.” Which meant the vague hope she might engineer Sam and Taylor’s album wasn’t even the threat of a flea in Mel’s coat.
“Can’t fault your logic there either, but she wouldn’t be working for you, would she?”
“No, for Trent in partnership with the original owners. They hired everyone else back. They’re good guys, just caught without enough operating capital. That’s Jamie speak. Sharing the premises and administration with Dalia’s theatre company was a great idea. Having Lauren around to help Dalia out with administration is a bonus. Without the big city rent overhead, they’ll do fine.”
“Or Jamie will find you a bigger tax write-off.”
Damon chewed a nut. “Or that.”
“Which brings us back to singing.”
“In no way does it do that.”
“One night, one song. Hair of the dog.”
“What’s with the dog references today? It wasn’t singing that gave me cancer.”
“I know. I run a bar, it’s all about hair of the dog, particularly now we have Mel.”
Mel gave a soft bark, she can’t have been that asleep. She buffed against Damon’s leg and he put a hand to her big flat chocolate head. They were still getting used to each other. But since Taylor moved in with Jamie it was good to have Mel in his life.
“No.”
“One night. Full orchestra.”
“What do you mean full orchestra? Who are you, Simone Young?
“Who?”
“Famous conductor.”
“Don’t care. I’m thinking chicks with strings, ivories, and a brass section.”
“Brass section. Do you even know what’s in a brass section?”
“Whatever I can scrounge up for free. I’ve always wanted to do it—the whole catastrophe. The bar is five years old. You survived cancer. Jamie and Taylor are the real deal. Sam has material to try out. Come sing, one song for one night. What does it matter if you’re terrible?”
He might be terrible. Singing in a steamy bathroom was about as far as he’d taken things so far. “Orchestra?”
“What we can fit up there.”
The stage wasn’t that big, but the idea of singing with an orchestra, no matter how borrowed or ragtag was interesting; it made its way to the pleasure centre of his brain through the fog of jet lag, the dragging disappointment and the hollowness of failure. “One song.”
