have ideas for other promo items, bring them along. If you’d like to have a second listen in one of the studios rather than working on headphones, just yell and I’ll sort it out. And then maybe we can talk about it, later this afternoon?’
‘That sounds fine,’ Bella said, smiling back. She was being thrown in at the deep end, but she’d always thrived on that. And this was her chance to shine and prove they’d made the right decision in hiring her.
‘This is your desk, over here,’ he said, and ushered her over to a desk by the window with a drawing board and a computer. ‘As soon as Shelley—our admin guru—comes in, we’ll get you set up with a password and username. The meeting room’s on the floor above, along with Hugh’s office, the staff kitchen and the toilets. I’m over there in the corner, and I’ll get everyone else to come over and introduce themselves as they come in.’
‘That’s great,’ Bella said, trying to damp down the sudden flood of nervousness. She was good with people. She knew she’d find her place in the pack and quickly work out how to get the best from the people she worked with. She always did. But these first few hours in a new role were always crucial.
‘Is there anything else you need before you start?’ he asked.
Yes, but she couldn’t exactly explain why she needed to see the boss without making things awkward. But she’d just thought of the perfect excuse to go up to the next floor. Hopefully Hugh wasn’t in yet, so she could leave the neatly wrapped parcel in her bag on his desk. Or, if he was at his desk, hopefully he’d be alone and she could snatch two minutes to apologise to him in person while the kettle boiled. She smiled. ‘How about I make us both a coffee?’
‘Excellent idea. Thank you.’ Tarquin smiled back. ‘Mine’s black, no sugar. I’m afraid it’s pretty basic stuff in the staff kitchen—tea, instant coffee and hot chocolate—but help yourself to whatever you want. If you’d rather have something fancier, you do get a staff discount downstairs at the café.’
‘That’s good to know. And instant does me just fine. At this time of the morning, any coffee works,’ Bella said with a smile.
To her relief, she discovered that Hugh’s office was empty. So she wouldn’t have to confront him quite yet, then. There was a pile of post set neatly in the middle of his immaculate desk; she left the package and accompanying card on top of it. Then she boiled the kettle and made herself and Tarquin a mug of coffee before heading downstairs to her desk and making a start on the design briefs. And please, please, let Hugh Moncrieff accept her apology.
* * *
Hugh wasn’t in the best of moods when he drove his car into the tiny car park behind the record label offices. His shoes had just about recovered from their ordeal on Friday night, and his dry cleaner had said that there would be no problem with his suit. But he hadn’t been able to get Bella Faraday out of his head.
Worse still had been the slew of texts and emails and answering machine messages over the weekend from his mother, his brothers and their partners, all reminding him that his brother Nigel’s engagement party was coming up and they couldn’t wait to see him. Which meant that Hugh was in for another bout of familial nagging. Why was he still messing about with his record label? When was he going to treat it as the hobby it ought to be and get himself a proper job?
He knew what the subtext meant: he was the baby of the family, so they’d let him have his dream and do his degree in music instead of economics. Now he was thirty, they all thought it was about time he gave up his financially risky business and joined the long-established family stockbroking firm instead. Which was why Bella’s comment about him looking like a stockbroker had really touched a raw nerve on Friday night.
He happened to like his life in London, thank you very much. He loved what he did at Insurgo—finding promising new talent and polishing their rough material just enough to make them commercially viable without taking away the creative spark that had caught his ear in the first place. Insurgo had made a name for itself as an independent label producing quality sound, from rock through to singer-songwriters, with a sprinkling of oddities who wouldn’t fit anywhere else. Hugh was proud of what he did. He didn’t want to give it up and be a stockbroker like his older brothers Julian, Nigel and Alistair.
But the question that drove him really crazy was when his family asked when he intended to find a nice girl and settle down. That wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Jessie had cured him of that particular pipe dream. He knew his family meant well, but couldn’t they see that they were still prodding a bruise?
His business, his heart and his music had all taken a battering. And finding a new, suitable girlfriend wasn’t going to repair any of the damage. Sheer hard work and some quiet support from his best friends had rescued his business, but nowadays his heart was permanently off limits. And the music that had once flowed from his fingers and filled his head had gone for good. He didn’t write songs any more. He just produced them—and he kept a professional distance from his artists.
He ran through a few excuses in his head. None of them worked. Even being in a full body cast wouldn’t get him a free pass. He was just going to have to turn up, smile sweetly at everyone, and metaphorically stick his fingers in his ears and say ‘la-la-la’ every time his career or his love life was mentioned. Which he knew from experience would be about every seven minutes, on average.
He collected a double espresso from the café on the ground floor—on a morning like this one, a mug of the instant stuff in the staff kitchen just wasn’t going to cut it—and stomped up to his office, completely bypassing the team. What he needed right now was music. Loud enough to drown out the world and drown out his thoughts. A few minutes with headphones on, and he might be human enough again to face his team without biting their heads off even more than he normally would on a Monday morning.
And then he stopped dead.
On top of the post he’d been expecting to see, there was a neatly wrapped parcel and a thick cream envelope. It wasn’t his birthday, and the parcel didn’t look like a promo item. It was the wrong shape for a CD or vinyl, and in any case most unsigned artists pitching to him tended to email him with a link to a digital file on the internet.
Intrigued, he untied the ribbon and unwrapped the shiny paper from the parcel to discover a box of seriously good chocolates.
Whoever had sent them had excellent taste. But who were they from and why?
He opened the envelope. Inside was a hand-drawn card: a line-drawing of a mournful-looking rabbit with a speech bubble saying ‘Sorry’. Despite his bad mood, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Whoever had sent this was saying they knew he wasn’t a happy bunny—and Hugh had a very soft spot for terrible puns.
He opened the card to find out who’d sent it, and a wad of banknotes fell out.
What?
Why on earth would someone be giving him cash?
He scanned the inside swiftly. The writing was beautifully neat and regular, slightly angular and spiky—the sort you’d see on hand-drawn labels in an art gallery or upmarket bookshop.
Dear Mr Moncrieff
Thank you for rescuing us on Friday night and I’m very sorry for the inconvenience we caused you. I hope the enclosed will cover the cost of valeting the taxi, dry-cleaning your suit and replacing your shoes. Please let me know if there’s still a shortfall and I will make it up.
Yours sincerely
Bella
