Page 7 of The Second Ending
Breathe in, breathe out… smell the coffee… repeat.
“True,” he conceded at last, “but despite being perfectly in our rights, we’re going to come off as the bad guys. I’ll bet that columnist—you know the one, who's always looking for windmills to tilt at—will be smearing mud all over us in tomorrow’s paper. Or the big Saturday edition, more likely, the one that people actually read.”
Shelley produced her own cup of coffee, seemingly out of nowhere, and took an appreciative sip. “Peter might be slow on the filing, but he makes a damned good cup of coffee. Well,” she returned to the topic, “we can’t undo the press conference. So, we have to play the game with the pieces we have. You’re the boss. What do you suggest?”
Marcus gritted his teeth.
“We’ll have to show the world that we’re not so horrible. We’ll have to sit down and talk things through at the table. Negotiations. Nice, calm, happy chatter about how to make this work for everyone.” He finished his coffee and held out the cup. “Another?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“And I suppose I’d better read through this article, maybe find the press release and see if there’s more footage, and start planning our next steps.”
Shelley disappeared again and Marcus got to work. By the time his EA reappeared with his second cup and a plate ofpastries (where did she find these?), he had scanned enough to have a rough idea of how to proceed.
Damn Ashleigh, for doing this to him.
Even if she didn’t know it was him.
Even if she wasn’t the one front and centre in the video clips and on the page.
Hmmm… the more he read, and the more footage he watched, the more he realised that she was hardly involved at all. Sure, her name was there, because it looked good to be acting with proper legal counsel and all that, but in every photograph, she was a blur at the edge of the image. In every video clip, she was lurking as far back as she could manage. She wasn’t quoted at all, other than a single canned statement.
It all seemed to be her client.
Marcus looked this woman up. Masako Matsuzawa. Wow, she was a mover and shaker. She had identified a niche in the clothing market and had established a line that seemed on the verge of taking off. Young mother, four kids, visual artist, singer… Oh. That must be where Ash met her. Did Ash still sing? She’d always wanted to keep singing. He should find out.
If he cared.
Which he didn’t.
But as much as he wanted to blame all this mess on his ex, it seemed she wasn’t the cause of this particular headache at all. She was just melting into the shadows.
And something about that broke his heart even more.
CHAPTER 4
NEGOTIATIONS
One of thefew bright spots in Ashleigh’s life was her choir.
Between her long days at work and her longer nights alone in her apartment, she had little to brighten her existence. Chatting to Liora was always welcome, but for the most part, Ashleigh was alone and silent. In this sepia-toned mundanity, rehearsals for the Eglinton Echoes were a spotlight of technicolour, a separate space where Dorothy could waltz around Oz, where the sky was sapphire and the grass emerald, and where the roads gleamed in yellow gold.
Music was her joy. Singing with this group of first-rate musicians, making the sort of music that only a large group of dedicated artists can make, was transportive. It was here that she could almost forget her need to hide in the shadows, where she could release the spirit she kept so well contained most of the time, where she could step out of her barely adequate reality, and where her soul could soar.
This was the first week of the new season, the first rehearsal since their performance early last June. How she was looking forward to it.
Ashleigh managed through Monday, pushed herself through Tuesday, struggled through Wednesday, and counted theseconds through Thursday. She paid all due attention to her work and her clients, but only with the greatest effort.
And then, at last, it was Thursday night, Choir Night in Canada, when so many choral groups across the country, from small community groups, to church choirs, to full concert choral societies, met to revel in song. It was as vital to her as breathing, a communion of sorts, connecting her to something greater. She ate a light dinner, nothing that would gum up the vocal cords, had some hot tea, gathered her folder and pencils, and went out to catch the subway that would take her to within a couple of blocks of where they would practise for the season.
The Eglinton Echoes were fortunate enough to use the excellent rehearsal room at the Queen City Arts Centre. This building, an unassuming and rather drab light industrial block from the outside, housed some first-rate facilities inside. There were rooms for smaller ensembles and private lessons, a few medium-sized spaces for theatre groups and small ensembles, and a bank of fabulous art studios with huge windows upstairs. And, of course, the large rehearsal hall where the choir met.
The centre’s main mission was to provide arts programming for underprivileged kids. This was the dream of the woman who had started the enterprise, and who also happened to be a singer in the choir. Ashleigh and Elise had talked about Elise’s dream on several occasions, and when necessary, Ashleigh was happy to offer any legal advice that might be needed. It was exactly the sort of project that appealed to her. Having the use of this hall didn’t hurt either.
She walked in, and the weight of the week eased off her shoulders, a smile working itself across her face. Here she could be content. Her eyelids fluttered closed for a moment as she enjoyed her moment of satisfaction.
“Hi, Ash! How are you? It’s been too long.” She opened her eyes to see Elise waving at her from the other side of the room. Elise was always early, since she worked just down the hall.
