answers. Jessica ran to the living room towards the large bay windows. As she peered through the shutters she could see Andrew loading up the boot of his Porsche. She resisted the urge to run outside and hurl abuse at him but she had no idea what she’d be fighting for. As the car drove away, Jessica slumped down to the ground and for the first time in years she had no idea what to do next. She could call Beatrice, Emma or Wendy but what would she say? How would she explain it? Another marriage over. It always came in threes. First her dad, then Lucinda and now Andrew. She felt that her life was running through her fingers. She should be able to manage a crisis like this but this was her life and the rules that she applied to clients didn’t apply to her.
FIFTEEN
IT COULD have just been living in London in the summer that was giving her an illusion of sun drenched false hope. They’d been back in London for three weeks and Lucinda had to admit that the rhythm of London life suited her; that ability Londoners had to just do their own thing and not be forced into any boxes. That kind of life suited Lucinda perfectly…until she opened up the next screen on her laptop. Her budget. The figures weren’t adding up. You’ve been such a fool the voice inside her head told her again. She ignored it and clicked onto the iTunes music store.
‘I must be out of my fucking mind,’ Lucinda said out loud as she scrolled through the iTunes top ten. Firstly, she didn’t have a clue who half of the female artists were, and secondly, when she listened to a sample of their music, the only thing she could conclude was that the music they were making was simply noise. To make matters worse, she wasn’t even sure what genre of music she fell into. What was she? Pop, R’n’B, Soul? She definitely wasn’t a new artist but she didn’t want to be relegated to the confines of adult contemporary classics. For starters, she wasn’t even sure what that was.
Lucinda didn’t like labels despite her penchant to purchase them. As far as she was concerned, the Brit and Ivor Novello awards, gathering dust in the garage, proved that Euterpe was a group who won awards for making good music.
She’d never thought that she’d have to reinvent herself, especially after the success of her first solo album. She had even been nominated for a Grammy but lost out to Erykah Badu in the best female R’n’B performance category. Lucinda had never wanted to be marketed as an R’n’B singer but the record company and her husband pushed her and she wasn’t surprised that her second album was critically and financially mullered. She’d been visibly uncomfortably in dresses that were too tight and weaves that were too long. There were parties with hip-hop stars and music executives that she didn’t want to go to and she was fighting against girls, who were just girls, but who had the steely determination of seasoned pros who were willing to be exploited. Lucinda recalled the night that she’d bumped into Ruby Nestor. When they first met Ruby had been a naïve 18-year-old, doe eyed and fully clothed. Two years later she had the familiar look of someone who was self-medicating themselves as she stood at another party wearing a halter-top that barely contained anatomically out of proportioned breasts and a skirt that showed there was absolutely nothing underneath.
Lucinda was dragged out of her thoughts by her phone ringing. Since she’d come back, her phone had hardly rang and the texts usually told her that she was entitled to £3,498 because she’d recently had an accident or that there was a PPI payment waiting for her. If only.
‘You sold the house,’ Paul said.
‘Well hello to you too, Paul.’
‘How could you sell the house?’
‘Forget about the house. Where have you been for the past three months?’
‘It wasn’t three months. I can’t believe that you sold our house.’
‘It was my house to sell and quite frankly I have no
FIFTEEN
IT COULD have just been living in London in the summer that was giving her an illusion of sun drenched false hope. They’d been back in London for three weeks and Lucinda had to admit that the rhythm of London life suited her; that ability Londoners had to just do their own thing and not be forced into any boxes. That kind of life suited Lucinda perfectly…until she opened up the next screen on her laptop. Her budget. The figures weren’t adding up. You’ve been such a fool the voice inside her head told her again. She ignored it and clicked onto the iTunes music store.
‘I must be out of my fucking mind,’ Lucinda said out loud as she scrolled through the iTunes top ten. Firstly, she didn’t have a clue who half of the female artists were, and secondly, when she listened to a sample of their music, the only thing she could conclude was that the music they were making was simply noise. To make matters worse, she wasn’t even sure what genre of music she fell into. What was she? Pop, R’n’B, Soul? She definitely wasn’t a new artist but she didn’t want to be relegated to the confines of adult contemporary classics. For starters, she wasn’t even sure what that was.
Lucinda didn’t like labels despite her penchant to purchase them. As far as she was concerned, the Brit and Ivor Novello awards, gathering dust in the garage, proved that Euterpe was a group who won awards for making good music.
She’d never thought that she’d have to reinvent herself, especially after the success of her first solo album. She had even been nominated for a Grammy but lost out to Erykah Badu in the best female R’n’B performance category. Lucinda had never wanted to be marketed as an R’n’B singer but the record company and her husband pushed her and she wasn’t surprised that her second album was critically and financially mullered. She’d been visibly uncomfortably in dresses that were too tight and weaves that were too long. There were parties with hip-hop stars and music executives that she didn’t want to go to and she was fighting against girls, who were just girls, but who had the steely determination of seasoned pros who were willing to be exploited. Lucinda recalled the night that she’d bumped into Ruby Nestor. When they first met Ruby had been a naïve 18-year-old, doe eyed and fully clothed. Two years later she had the familiar look of someone who was self-medicating themselves as she stood at another party wearing a halter-top that barely contained anatomically out of proportioned breasts and a skirt that showed there was absolutely nothing underneath.
Lucinda was dragged out of her thoughts by her phone ringing. Since she’d come back, her phone had hardly rang and the texts usually told her that she was entitled to £3,498 because she’d recently had an accident or that there was a PPI payment waiting for her. If only.
‘You sold the house,’ Paul said.
‘Well hello to you too, Paul.’
‘How could you sell the house?’
‘Forget about the house. Where have you been for the past three months?’
‘It wasn’t three months. I can’t believe that you sold our house.’
‘It was my house to sell and quite frankly I have no
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