and leave. It seemed rude.
A flash of red hair. The outline of a woman’s body cast in shadow, small breasts obscured by clouds of steam. A glimpse of red-lip, an upturned, triumphant smile.
He was hard again immediately.
It was over in minutes.
‘Sorry,’ he said, rolling off her and releasing her bonds. ‘The wine . . .’
He didn’t stay the night.
A few weeks before leaving New York, Noah had attended a gig in Brooklyn featuring Viggo Franck’s old band the Holy Criminals blooding a possible new lead singer. Both the music and the dynamics had proven underwhelming. Without their charismatic front man they were reduced to a humdrum band, professional and slick but lacking that undefinable magic that makes for a great group. The absence of Viggo’s swagger and fantasy created a void that could not be filled, Noah reckoned, and one of the first decisions he had to reach now in his new position of power would be to assess whether the musicians’ contract should be renewed. Their management were hinting heavily that, should he decline, another rival label was ready to sign them up in a flash. Noah was hesitant. A one-year extension could cover one album and maybe in the studio a spark would fire, and if the budget was held on a tight leash, the profitability break-even point would not be astronomical, and the new product would inevitably have a healthy influence on back catalogue sales. He also knew the guys in the band well and they happened to be particularly nice people, not that it should influence what was strictly a business decision.
The company’s headquarters were situated at the top end of Portobello Road, just a minute’s walk from Notting Hill Gate, and unlike their Manhattan counterpart were not open plan. Noah had the privilege of a large office that occupied the whole top floor, with wide bay windows that opened up overlooking a set of gardens at the back of the building.
He’d been considering the dilemma for some days now and had cleared the afternoon of meetings to contemplate quietly and try to reach a decision. He sat listening to the band’s past albums in strict chronological succession in order to catch any thread of musical progression that could not automatically be attributed to Viggo, who often only supplied lyrics for the songs.
He knew the records well already, had to a certain extent grown up with them. As he listened to each, his desktop screen called up the respective Profit and Loss accounts for the individual recordings. The trend was downwards. He knew what logic dictated.
Then he noticed a jewelled CD box still lingering on his desk. He’d asked his PA, Rhonda, to bring in the band’s entire catalogue. Maybe another album altogether had slipped into the pile by error? Unlike Rhonda.
He picked up the record. He’d never even heard of it, even though it sported the label’s logo.
‘Rhonda?’ She sat just outside his office.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a CD here I’m not familiar with.’ Noah handed it to her. The cover art was generic, an image of the sea at sunset and a handwritten title ‘Christiansen’, with no name of artist.
Rhonda, a prim, tall woman in her early forties who had been with the label longer than anyone in the building and kept all non-musical matters running with a sergeant major’s cold efficiency, peered at the CD.
‘Ah yes, that. It was something of a favour to Viggo. Some experimental stuff he did with a classical violin artist who was a friend of his.’
Noah’s memory clicked.
It had happened just as he was about to move to New York with Bridget and seeking a way to finance the move, and courting editors to get a book contract. Viggo had performed a series of European gigs with some violin player and had then gone into the studio with her and later other talent from the classical world. A vanity deal.
‘I didn’t realise we’d actually released it.’
‘We did, albeit with little marketing support. Your esteemed predecessor
A flash of red hair. The outline of a woman’s body cast in shadow, small breasts obscured by clouds of steam. A glimpse of red-lip, an upturned, triumphant smile.
He was hard again immediately.
It was over in minutes.
‘Sorry,’ he said, rolling off her and releasing her bonds. ‘The wine . . .’
He didn’t stay the night.
A few weeks before leaving New York, Noah had attended a gig in Brooklyn featuring Viggo Franck’s old band the Holy Criminals blooding a possible new lead singer. Both the music and the dynamics had proven underwhelming. Without their charismatic front man they were reduced to a humdrum band, professional and slick but lacking that undefinable magic that makes for a great group. The absence of Viggo’s swagger and fantasy created a void that could not be filled, Noah reckoned, and one of the first decisions he had to reach now in his new position of power would be to assess whether the musicians’ contract should be renewed. Their management were hinting heavily that, should he decline, another rival label was ready to sign them up in a flash. Noah was hesitant. A one-year extension could cover one album and maybe in the studio a spark would fire, and if the budget was held on a tight leash, the profitability break-even point would not be astronomical, and the new product would inevitably have a healthy influence on back catalogue sales. He also knew the guys in the band well and they happened to be particularly nice people, not that it should influence what was strictly a business decision.
The company’s headquarters were situated at the top end of Portobello Road, just a minute’s walk from Notting Hill Gate, and unlike their Manhattan counterpart were not open plan. Noah had the privilege of a large office that occupied the whole top floor, with wide bay windows that opened up overlooking a set of gardens at the back of the building.
He’d been considering the dilemma for some days now and had cleared the afternoon of meetings to contemplate quietly and try to reach a decision. He sat listening to the band’s past albums in strict chronological succession in order to catch any thread of musical progression that could not automatically be attributed to Viggo, who often only supplied lyrics for the songs.
He knew the records well already, had to a certain extent grown up with them. As he listened to each, his desktop screen called up the respective Profit and Loss accounts for the individual recordings. The trend was downwards. He knew what logic dictated.
Then he noticed a jewelled CD box still lingering on his desk. He’d asked his PA, Rhonda, to bring in the band’s entire catalogue. Maybe another album altogether had slipped into the pile by error? Unlike Rhonda.
He picked up the record. He’d never even heard of it, even though it sported the label’s logo.
‘Rhonda?’ She sat just outside his office.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a CD here I’m not familiar with.’ Noah handed it to her. The cover art was generic, an image of the sea at sunset and a handwritten title ‘Christiansen’, with no name of artist.
Rhonda, a prim, tall woman in her early forties who had been with the label longer than anyone in the building and kept all non-musical matters running with a sergeant major’s cold efficiency, peered at the CD.
‘Ah yes, that. It was something of a favour to Viggo. Some experimental stuff he did with a classical violin artist who was a friend of his.’
Noah’s memory clicked.
It had happened just as he was about to move to New York with Bridget and seeking a way to finance the move, and courting editors to get a book contract. Viggo had performed a series of European gigs with some violin player and had then gone into the studio with her and later other talent from the classical world. A vanity deal.
‘I didn’t realise we’d actually released it.’
‘We did, albeit with little marketing support. Your esteemed predecessor
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