by PJ Vye
She asked the question with her eyes and he was quick to respond. “I promise you I’m not wired.” He pulled out the pockets of his shorts to prove his point. “Do you want to pat me down?” he asked with a wicked glisten in his eyes, whilst holding his arms up, ready to be frisked.
She refused to smile. “Not necessary.”
“So will you sing something for me now?”
“Absolutely not,” she said.
“If I close my eyes, will you sing?” he asked.
She knew it was coming. The man couldn’t spend weeks of his life playing gardens, cook and happy holidays without there being a payoff. And here it was. “What is it you want, Jack?”
“I want you to come to L.A. with me and record some music,” he said. “Just for a couple of weeks. Then you can come back here and pretend it never happened.”
She sat silently, mulling over his words in her head. What a simpleton he must think her, to believe that. A five-minute slot on a B-rated TV show had thrown her life into chaos. Imagine what an entire album would do to her life. It was absolutely non-negotiable. She would never do it. Not if a gun was to her head. Not if he promised her the moon. She wouldn’t ever put herself in a position of scrutiny or pressure. She would never risk losing control of her space and clarity. She needed to stay here. Safe. Private. Alone.
But explaining it to Jack was proving harder than she expected. She liked him. Was it his company? Because he made her laugh? Was it his musky man smell or his wide, strong shoulders? Or those round eyes that she couldn’t stare into for long before turning away? She wanted to please him, she couldn’t help it. The way he concentrated on her as she spoke, hearing every word. How he anticipated her needs and took care of her animals and garden when she was unable to. He seemed safe to her. Secure. And she hated to disappoint him now. She hated to disappoint him more than she ever thought was possible.
She looked up to see his eyes on her, waiting for an answer, and her stomach shifted in a nervous rush. It was an unsettling moment for her, trying to understand this unexpected connection she had with him. There was only one place she could find the answer. She picked up her guitar.
He sipped his tea, trying to act unaffected by her decision to sing for him. But he was secretly delighted they had reached this point. He watched her tune the instrument by ear, tightening and loosening the strings over the pitch until she was happy with its placement. Busy with her task, he was free to assess her aesthetically. She was no classic beauty; her chin was weak, her top lip thin. But her skin was pure and her eyebrows framed her face nicely. With the right lighting, she could pass for a slot above average. Her physique was small, but lithe and strong, most likely from years of physical labour and limited nutrition.
Most importantly, she was interesting. She had a backstory that would hook listeners and sell records. No question. Even though he didn’t know what it was, he knew it was gold. He just had to keep on with the charm. Identify her fears and then placate them.
Without any fuss at all, she began picking out an introduction of a song on the instrument. He didn’t identify its title until she began to sing.
And from that second on, he was transformed.
He lived a lifetime in those three minutes. He was so lost; it was as if she could morph time when she sang. There was no sense of past, present and future, and when she finished, he couldn’t remember what he had been thinking or what had just happened. Only that his body was still drifting, weightless and serene. She was a superhero with super powers. And yet completely real.
Willa Jones, the singing hermit, was truly extraordinary.
He didn’t applaud or compliment. Such conventions seemed gaudy and out of place in the moment. Instead, he nodded and she began another song.
This time, he determinedly tried to stay present. Assess her skills and identify what made her special. But again his focus hazed over as he was swept up in the enchanting sounds that surrounded him.
As she finished and lifted her head to meet his eyes, he realised his first assessment of her appearance was all wrong. She wasn’t average looking. Not in the least. She was beautiful. Stunning. Golden.
What was going on? Was she some kind of witch? How did she affect him so? Would she affect everyone that way, or was it just him?
He licked his lips together, aware of the potential. This woman was going to not only save EP Records, but shape the entire music industry. His excitement bubbled inside him. He’d always dreamed of being at the top of his game, the one who others aspired to be, talked about reverently as the best in the business. He would be richer than ever, sure, but much more than that, he would be untouchable. His contemporaries would sit up and take note, and the board would no longer have such stifling power over him.
This was it. He could sense it.
As with all the greatest joys and deepest disappointments in his life, he needed a drink. Right now, he wanted to celebrate—to feel the maximum joy possible.
“Thank you, Willa.”
She shrugged dismissively, like she hadn’t just changed his world.
“You want a drink?” he asked.
Chapter 7
As consciousness returned, he felt the sting of a twig pressing into his cheek, and he stood up remarkably quickly for a man whose blood-alcohol ratio was in double digits. He ignored the thickness in his head, as he always did, and blinked his eyes open against the morning light. There were only two things he would be doing today. The first was damage control; the second was lying back down, preferably on something soft, and sleeping away his misery.
As a rule, he couldn’t understand people’s reaction to his heavy drinking. It was his life and his choice. So he always felt partly victimised when he had to make amends for his behaviour, believing he shouldn’t be held responsible for what he said and did whilst under the influence. It was his right to drink, so just get out of the way. But in the real world, he had to recompense, and it was a ball-shrinking practice he was well versed in.
With a body screaming for rest and a throat burning with dehydration, he slid himself up into a chair and cursed the kookaburras that were laughing loudly, quite obviously he felt, at his expense.
Once the throbbing in his head settled down into a predictable rhythm, he stood up to light the gas ring and filled the kettle with bottled water. Over the past few mornings, Willa had joined him for tea. He hoped she would do the same today, but he couldn’t be sure she would. It was impossible to know how she would react to last night’s events. He remembered the way she had sipped her drink and declined a second glass, while he had slugged it back like it was cordial at a primary school fun run.
He had been so happy to have heard her—so affected by her presence—that all restraint and reason had fallen away.
He’d been told he was unpleasant when he drank. And his memory loss and waking up position indicated he had overindulged last night. But the question remained—how had he behaved? And how would Willa react? Would she laugh it off? Would she tell him about all the funny things he did and said? Or would she be disappointed with him? Afraid…angry?
The kettle boiled and he poured two cups, even though there was still no sign of her.
He drank his tea alone and forced himself to stay awake, craving his espresso more than ever. Had he blown it? Just when she had allowed him a glimpse of herself. They were connecting. She had trusted him enough to sing. And now, when he should be sharing their morning routine together, she had disappeared inside her shack again. But she couldn’t stay in there forever—it was going to be another scorching hot day.
On the strength of this thought he opened a bottle of water and drank the entire contents in one easy motion. He was dehydrated from yesterday—probably why he had been so thirsty last night. How could she blame him for that?
Still, everything had been coming together so well. Why did he have to be so careless when so much was at stake? If he couldn’t get Willa to sign with his label, he might as well throw in
the towel and set up a tin house next door to the woman. His team were counting on him to get this done, to save their jobs as well as his own. He knew his responsibility ran deep and he felt it.
Well if she wasn’t going to come to him, he would go to her. With every ounce of effort within him, he climbed to his feet and turned towards the short path to her door.
She had been watching him, but he wasn’t sure for how long.
“I’m surprised to see you awake.”
“Why?” he asked. Good plan—pretend nothing’s happened. Play the whole thing down, just on the chance she hadn’t noticed.
But she wasn’t buying it.
“Because your body must hate you right now.” She rubbed her wet hair with a towel, and then sat down in the chair opposite, staring him straight in the face.
He had to pull his focus back to the conversation. He took his time pouring two fresh cups of tea and then added two sugars to his own, stirring longer than necessary.
A cacophony of kookaburras began another horror chorus of wicked laughter, making him feel uneasy. Were they on her side?
“I don’t know what happened last night,” he said. “I don’t usually drink that much.”
She didn’t look up from her cup—just took a small sip and sat back in her chair. He tried to read her, to see if she believed him, but it was impossible to tell. Then, without warning, she met his eyes and held them. He wanted to match her, challenge her will, but he knew he had to lose this time. He had to appear contrite. He let his eyes drop to his tea, but still he felt her scrutiny. She was studying him. Rattled, he picked up the teaspoon and began stirring again just to break the silence. “I guess it was the joy I felt listening to you sing,” he said. “It made me feel so good, I just lost track of—”
“Sure,” she said, and then muttered something unintelligible beneath her breath.
“Pardon?” he asked.
“What?”
He let it go, needing to resolve the situation as quickly as possible so that he could lie back down. “So, what are your thoughts? About L.A.? Is that something you can see yourself doing?”
He shone his emerald eyes directly on her now, smiling so that the dimple in his chin was set to its best advantage. His iridescent charm and handsome features had always been his saviour, and he challenged her to resist them now.
He saw her shiver as an expression of pity crossed her face. She moved away from him slightly, as if the smell of him had repelled her.
“No thanks.”
His eyebrows shot up in shock.
“You can’t be surprised?” she asked.
“But I am.”
“You frightened me,” she said.
“What? Why? I would never have hurt you,” he tried to sound dismissive but it only fueled her reaction.
“That’s easy to say,” she said. “That’s what they all say.”
“You don’t know me,” he said.
“Exactly my point,” she said. “I don’t know you. At all. And I was scared last night…”
“Well, that’s just stupid,” he said.
“Stupid?” she cried. “You’re calling me stupid? Really?”
“No, come on,” he said. “You’re over-reacting. I don’t mean you’re—”
“I will never, ever leave here with you or anyone. I want nothing to do with it.” The level of her voice hushed the birds momentarily.
“Don’t say that, Willa,” he said.
“I will never leave here—”
“Ok.” He knew a brick wall when he saw one. Time to try another tactic. “What if we bring the recording studio here, to you, and…”
“You are not hearing me, Jack,” she said. “No.”
“Is it me?” he asked. “I’m sorry about last night. I can get another guy. Phil is—”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t sing for anyone.”
“You sang for me,” he said.
“You are the only one,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
It took him a moment to consider this. “I’m the only one? The only person you have sung for?”
“Yes.” It was almost a whisper.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He crossed his legs, wondering how he could work this in his favour. “Really?”
“YES.”
She looked embarrassed, like he’d discovered a secret. God knew what she was hiding. This woman was an entire bookcase of mystery.
“Why me?” He wanted to know, more than he realised.
“I don’t know. It just felt… safe singing for you. Which is ironic, because you then went about making me feel incredibly unsafe.”
He dismissed this with a shiny grin and threw his hands up in the air. “Willa, you can have anything you want. Please say yes.”
“No.”
“Anything you want.”
“I want you to leave,” she said.
“Come with me, just for two weeks and you’ll be back here in no time, with enough money to never have to work another tomato factory shift in your life,” he said.
“So you are saying I go record an album and then return here, just as it was before.”
“Yes. With a big fat cheque to make your life easier,” he said.
“Do you really expect me to believe that I could return here and no-one would bother me again?”
“We’ll release the recordings under an alias.” Even as he said it, he knew it was a promise he couldn’t keep. Her curious backstory would sell as many records as her voice. He could never allow it.
“You could promise me the world, Jack. But I already have it. Look around you. There is nothing I need, nothing that I can’t find right here.”
“I can offer you the best of both worlds,” he said.
“You can offer me the worst of both worlds.” She leaned forward and set her mouth in a way made that made him feel very small. “I want nothing to do with your world. You are broken, Jack. Damaged.”
The hangover combined with her obstinacy made him feel, at that moment, both of those things. But it wasn’t until she stood and folded her arms across her chest as if to protect herself from him, that he knew he’d lost. He’d seen that look many times before. Most recently from his ex-wife as she left him for the last time.
It was over. There was no changing her mind.
“Please, don’t come here again,” she said. “I have no interest in changing my life, now or ever.”
Beaten, he dropped his head into his hands as she turned to walk away.
“I hope you find some stillness, Jack; some peace,” she said, looking back. “I really do wish you all the best.” And with that, she disappeared inside.
He gazed longingly at his camp bed for a moment. He could just lie down a bit. Rest his eyes and head. Give her some time until she cooled down a bit. Or should he go after her now? Insist on her changing her mind. Threaten her, bully her, blackmail her.
Suddenly he hated himself. How could he allow things to become so desperate that he would consider becoming that oppressive?
He needed coffee. Real coffee. And he needed to sleep in a bed that wasn’t a piece of canvas stretched between two pieces of steel.
Most of all he wanted Willa to agree to the recordings. But he was beginning to realise it just wasn’t going to happen. He closed his eyes for a long time, listening to the river running over rocks and the frogs conversing with the birds while the crickets sang a recitative on a single note.
How could he compete with this?
He had to find another way—where they both got what they wanted. The idea didn’t take long to form. Truth be told, it had probably been his backup plan all along.
Quietly conceding defeat, he began packing up his personal belongings, and without bothering to say goodbye, he walked the long track back to his car and drove to the airport.
“Jack. Thank heavens. What the hell is going on? It’s been weeks. You haven’t answered any of my damn calls. The board
are looking for blood. They are closing down the entire company. They are saying EP Records has been haemorrhaging money for too long. I think it’s over.”
Phil was confused by the silence on the other end of the line and continued speaking. “Hello, you still there? — Jack? —” When he heard the faint grunt of an answer he continued in a more measured tone. “So did the hermit sign?”
“Phil, the television recordings—were they good enough for release?” asked Jack.
“Aww, shit, Jack. Don’t make me do that.”
“Were they?”
“Maybe,” said Phil. “So are you saying she won’t come in and record it properly, in the studio?”
“She won’t record with anyone.”
“Aww, man. That’s not good.” Jack could sense Phil’s disappointment over the phone. Phil, like all of them, had believed this their last hope. He hated disappointing Phil the most. They’d been together from the beginning. Besides, he was the only engineer that would put up with his crap. “So do you think you can lift the vocal line?” Jack asked. “Maybe re-record a fresh guitar track?”
“Yeah,” said Phil. “Look, it’s not impossible, but it’s not gonna be as good as studio time. Did she give you permission to release the recording?”
“Of course, I’ve got it sorted.”
It wasn’t in Phil’s nature to be distrustful, except when it came to Jack. “What do you mean, sorted?”
“I have her permission,” said Jack. “Do you want me to spell it out?”
“In writing?”
Jack took a deep breath and let it out quietly, not letting the other man recognise his displeasure. Playing by the rules had never been something Jack found entirely necessary. “Yes, in writing. Go get permission from the songwriters and the producers of the TV show, then remaster it and release the damn songs.”
He slammed the phone shut and called the flight attendant over. Once he had finished his drink, he began scrawling a makeshift document, signed his own name, had the hostess witness it, and then signed for Willa Jones, the rights to use her voice in the release. It was enough to keep the board happy, but probably wouldn’t last a day in a court of law. He would play the odds—it was unlikely Willa would ever prosecute, given her disassociation with the greater world.
