Page 63 of A Country Kind Of Love
“I’m looking forward to it,” Peyton replies.
Most people would be happy to get to the floor they require unscathed and untraumatized. Peyton is not. Cleo peels herself away. She pulls at her bottoms ineffectively because they drop straight back down. She’s wearing a large baggy T-shirt that covers her modestly.
There’s barely time to adjust as the doors glide open. On the other side is anotherMandy, tapping her foot impatiently. Peyton’s face is warm. She can blame the lack of air-conditioning in the elevator, but anyone with an ounce of sense will spy the awkward way she’s re-tucking her shirt and adjusting her belt buckle. They’ll know some frolicking justtook place.
Frolicking. Peyton chuckles. It’s a funny word, and never did she ever think it would be part of hervocabulary.
“Did you say something?” Cleo asks.
“Nope.”
They enter room five at the end of the hall. Peyton takes advantage of the water machine outside. It’s the fancy metal kind with ice, and it’s glistening with beads of water vapour.
There’s a circular leather mustard-coloured sofa. It’s beautiful, and it looks expensive. It sits in the middle of a vast open space. There are two green coffee tables; they look like something you’d find in the children’s section at IKEA, but the posh children’s section, not the plastic flimsy section—they’re probably expensive. To the right there’s a bi-folding glass door that separates a conference room. It’s bare, nothing but a wooden table and eight chairs facing a large flat-screen television. The walls and floor are the colour of concrete, but the artwork on the walls brighten the space. Peyton’s eyes are drawn to a huge watercolour of a microphone. The space feels contemporary, hip, and she can see why people would want to be a part of the label.
Cleo approaches a woman with curly black hair. She wears a perfectly ironed white blouse tucked into a garish pair of yellow trousers. She has a stern face, Peyton observes. She introduces herself to Peyton as, Shonda, the general manager. In no uncertain terms, she calls the shots. Peyton finds it wholly positive that sheisn’t a man.
Hank is there too, but he barely acknowledges them; he’s too busy taking advantage of the minibar. A scotch on the rocks looks to be his poison. There’s one other gentleman present; he looks to be in charge of technology. He’s ferociously typing on his laptop, he doesn’t look up.
“Cleo, we’ve met before, briefly.”Shonda says.
The day Peyton first met Cleo she was at the record label to meet with Shonda. Cleo told Peyton that thirty seconds in to them listening to one of her songs Shonda had to leave. Hank later told her she didn’t like the song. Her only explanation was, “She’s not good enough”.
Cleo nods. Shonda turns towards Peyton.
“Let me start by saying I have been looking forward to this. It’s always an exciting day when a potential new artist brings in music. Hank assures me this new path you’re taking will be prosperous for all of us.” She speaks clearly and eloquently. Peyton can’t make out whereshe’s from.
“I am the decision maker. If you want an album produced by this label it’s with my say so. All aspects of creation such as marketing, distribution, budget, and promotional shoots go through me.” She sits back on the grand leather sofa. “This is Dwayne, my marketing director.” Dwayne glances in their direction, throws two fingers up in a peace sign, and goes back to the work at hand.
“He’s not much of a talker. Part of why I like him so much.” Shonda winks. She’scharismatic.
Shonda crosses one leg over the other. She picks at the edge of the sofa. “Please, sit down.”
Hank takes centre stage. “Shonda, with my guidance, I believe Cleo has created some amazing tracks. I think you’ll bevery happy.”
With your guidance?Peyton refrains from laughing out loud.
“Let’s get to it then,”Shonda says.
He nods towards Dwayne, who taps on his keyboard twice, and the room is engulfed with the sweet sound of a piano. Cleo already had several tracks; she didn’t struggle to create the music, but when she wrote on her own the lyrics almost always failed the melody. Together they’d rewritten three songs with a fourth as a backup. Hank informed Cleo that three good songs would be enough to get Shonda to sign off on an album. Every album needs a minimum of two hit songs, 3-4 if the artist is lucky, and the rest fill the space.
The first track is Peyton’s favourite. It’s called, “Love Like This”, it starts soft and slow, but the verse builds to an upbeat chorus that has Shonda tapping her foot.
That has to bea good sign.
The second Peyton would categorise as country rock. It’s got more of Cleo’s influence, and Peyton can tell it’s her favourite as she watches her eyes twinklein response.
Peyton’s career isn’t on the line here, Cleo’s is, so she doesn’t feel the same pressure. Yes, she wrote the songs, but Cleo will sing them. Cleo will release them to the world, and it’s Cleo who ultimately will take the praise or the criticism when she does. Nobody remembers the writer. Most people assume singers write their own songs, and some do, butmany don’t.
Shonda raises her hand halfway through the third song. Hank is quick to have his input.
“We have another song, Shonda. If you don’t like the hook, we can alter it. I was thinking...”
“Please be quiet, Hank.” Shonda rolls her eyes. She visibly rolls her eyes,yes.Peyton takes that victory. Maybe Shonda doesn’t like Hank either. It’s not hard to draw that conclusion seeing as he isn’t likeable.
Period.
“The songs are good, but...” Peyton doesn’t like the wordbut. Her palms are sweaty; she can’t bear to think about how Cleo must feel. “They’re safe.”
