Page 11 of Sweeper
“I’m calling with a bit of a request.”
“Okay.” I grip the phone tightly to my ear and move to stand by my piano like I’ve been working on it all day.
“First off, you’ve been submitting some great tracks for our royalty-free music library, so keep up the good work there.”
A proud smile spreads across my face. I’ve been submitting tracks to Commercial Notes for a few years now, but the deals are always completed within the Commercial Notes freelancer portal, so getting a call from the man who signs my checks is really exciting.
“Well, thank you so much for saying that. I really enjoy the opportunity, and I’ll be laying down a few more tracks later this week.”
“Brilliant…but I was calling today to see if you wanted to try your hand at a proper jingle.”
“A jingle?” I bite my lip as nerves tickle my spine.
“Have you ever seen any of the national adverts for Tire Depot?”
“Oh, the tire shop with the five-star waiting rooms? I have actually,” I reply honestly. “I’ve been meaning to take my car to one of them for its next service. They all look crazy nice.”
“Well, their creative team fancied one of your instrumental tracks called ‘Driving to Nowhere’ and are wondering if you could add some lyrics to it for a television spot they want to produce. You can sing, can’t you? Your profile on Commercial Notes said you could, but nothing you’ve submitted to us thus far has featured any lyrics.”
“Oh…um…yes, I can sing a bit,” I confirm. A pit forms in my stomach as the image of having to stand on a stage hits me. “I won’t have to perform it for them or anything, right?”
“No, not at all,” Drake responds quickly. “This would just be for the advert. You can record it in your home studio.”
“Okay, good.” I sigh with relief. “I’m not keen on being in the spotlight.”
“I understand. And just so you know, since this is a custom jingle request, we’d be paying out ten thousand pounds for a local run and more if the advert runs nationally.”
“Did you say ten thousand pounds?” My jaw is permanently on the floor. I’ve been working for Commercial Notes for about five years now and have sold fifteen of my compositions to them. None of them paid anywhere close to ten thousand pounds. “Bloody hell.”
Drake laughs into the line. “I thought you’d like the sound of that. Quite a wage increase from the royalty-free tracks, isn’t it?”
“You could say that.”
“They’d like a vocal submission in three weeks’ time. Do you think you can manage that?”
I bite my lip as I silently laugh to myself. For ten thousand pounds, I’d consider selling him my firstborn. Clearing my throat, I attempt to sound calm and professional. “I believe I can make that work.”
“Excellent. I’ll send you the details of what they’re looking for in terms of messaging, and you can let your creativity flourish. I look forward to hearing what you come up with.”
We hang up, and I lower myself onto the sofa, my mind reeling from that surprising call. Ten thousand pounds is at least ten times what I normally make for my other tracks. I hadn’t realized how much money was in jingle work. It always seemed a bit corny to me, but for that kind of money, I can be corny!
I used to write lyrics all the time, so I should be able to manage. And maybe if I succeed at this, I can finally pay my parents back for all the lawyer fees they covered for me last year.
I shudder as the memory of my ex and what he did floods through me. Rex Carmichael was a wanker. More than a wanker, he was a dodgy git. A lazy sod who thought he could make money off me and I’d be none the wiser.God, I still hate him just as much as I did when I first discovered what he’d done.
The whole ordeal was so awful, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to write lyrics ever again. But this opportunity could be just the driving force I need to push that nightmare out of my mind for good.
Glancing around my tiny flat, I smile proudly to myself. This opportunity is exactly why I moved to London nearly a year ago now. I needed to get out from under my parents’ roof, forget all about Rex the Hex, and find myself again.
And when you’re a country girl who grew up in a small village in Essex, nothing says “finding yourself” more than moving to London.
Perhaps if I’m successful at this jingle, enough money would be left over so I can quit working at Old George. Not that I hate working there by any means. Hubert is a great boss. But between working at Old George and being the building manager for my brother’s property to get a discount in rent, I’m often too exhausted to work on what I came here for—my music.
Glancing at the clock, I only have two hours before my shift at Old George starts, so I could still try to catch up on some sleep if I hurry. Then I can start fresh on the jingle tomorrow.
I settle back into my bed and am just about to drift off to sleep when a deep bass blares into my flat. I sit up, my heart rate spiking as I focus on my neighbor’s television blaring through my flat wall. Sports announcers, it sounds like, at an alarmingly high level. I’d heard some movement in my neighbor’s flat before Drake called, so I assume it’s just Zander, but what I hear beyond the telly announcers is much more difficult to disregard.
It’s a high-pitched cry that sounds like a screaming goat. Definitely not human. It’s followed by several bouts of weeping and some awkward moaning and groaning. What the bloody hell is Soccer Boy doing over there? If he’s shagging a girl, he’s clearly doing it wrong.
