Page 54 of When We Were Young

Tyres crunched on the gravel in the courtyard. Will went to the window and saw Emily pulling up in her mum’s old Mini.

He jogged out to the car and as she stepped out, he gathered her up, nuzzled her neck and squeezed her so tight she squealed to be let free.

‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’

‘Don’t let me stop you working.’

‘Nah, it’s fine. We’re taking a break.’

He led her through the gate, across the field of cows, towards the pond.

The record company had booked a residential recording studio on a farm in South Wales, away from the distractions of everyday life, to focus on writing the Difficult Second Album.

The original booking had been for two weeks, but they had been there three weeks already with nothing to show for it.

They’d spent a lot of time climbing trees, shooting arrows, and building rafts. So much for no distractions.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked, as they lay down under a willow tree.

He sighed. ‘Everything I’ve written so far is crap.’

‘I’m sure it’s not.’

‘Believe me, it’s crap.’

‘You’ve got to start somewhere.’

‘The last album was easy. I’d been writing songs my whole life and now I’m supposed to magic this out of nowhere.’

‘I had to do the same with my exhibition. Start, and once you have something, you can make it better.’

He wanted to believe her.

They lay on their backs, gazing at the sky through the branches of the willow. He closed his eyes to the sun as it came out from behind a cloud and watched the dappled red on the inside of his eyelids. Everything went dark, and her lips were on his. She was here now. Everything would be okay.

Matty and Reu were playing frisbee on the grass in front of the studio when he got back.

‘What kept you?’ called Reu.

‘We all know what he’s been up to,’ cried Matty. ‘Look at the smile on his face.’

‘He’s much more relaxed, isn’t he?’ said Reu.

‘Yeah, really relaxed .’

‘Shut up, you two.’

When Emily came into the studio later, he was far from relaxed.

The song they were working on was terrible.

He didn’t want her to hear it. So, as she sat in the corner writing her dissertation, he got the guys to work on something else.

She looked up, caught his eye, smiled, and went back to it.

It helped she wasn’t watching, but it kind of annoyed him she could get on with her work when he was stuck with his.

That night, Emily woke to find Will’s side of the bed empty.

Her watch said 2:45 a.m. She pulled on a jumper and boots and went to look for him.

The coach house was dark and deserted, but dim lights shone in the building across the courtyard.

She jogged over and followed the sound of music down the corridor.

In a rehearsal room at the end, she found Will strumming an acoustic guitar and singing softly.

She paused in the doorway and watched him scribble in his notebook.

Just as she was about to speak, he ripped out the page, screwed it up, and threw it across the room.

‘Hey…’ she said gently.

He whipped around in his seat. ‘Jesus!’

‘Sorry.’

She went to him. He moved the guitar out of the way and pulled her onto his lap.

‘Oh God, it’s such a cliché,’ he whispered as she wrapped her arms around him.

‘It’s a cliché because it happens a lot.

Everyone who’s ever been lucky enough to be in this situation finds it difficult.

It’s hard, but it’s not impossible. Why not go back to what made you want to make music in the first place?

Listen to your old favourites. Or listen to what other people are doing.

For inspiration. It will trickle down through your filter and come out as yours. ’

‘Hmm…’ She felt the vibration of the non-committal sound in his throat.

‘If it’s not happening tonight, try again tomorrow. Come back to bed.’

It was six weeks before Emily could make it back to Wales for another weekend.

When she arrived, Will was alone in the rehearsal room.

He was tanned but looked tired and a little thin.

He said he was finishing up and sent her off to join Matty and Reu at the pub in the village, promising to follow shortly.

At the pub, Reu was busy thrashing the locals at pool while Matty looked on, bored.

Emily bought a round of drinks and sat with Matty.

‘How’s Will doing?’ she asked.

‘He’s pretty stressed out. I think he’s lost his mojo.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve been here months and we’ve got nothing to show for it. I like what he’s writing, but you know what he’s like; he’s a perfectionist, and he’s being hard on himself.’

‘How can we help him?’

Matty thought for a minute. ‘You should split up with him, then he’ll be all heartbroken and write more brilliant songs.’

Emily bristled. ‘What?’

‘I’m only messing with you.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I am!’ He sipped his beer. ‘But it’s not a bad idea, is it? You split up with him for a few weeks, he gets his mojo back, and none of us have to get a proper job.’

She shook her head. ‘Matty, you’re an arsehole.’

‘What?’ He sounded wounded. ‘You’d be doing him a favour.

What’s the alternative? He goes back to being a delivery driver.

You get married, have kids, and live happily ever after?

You think he’d be happy with that? And all the people who bought the first album and loved it – they’ll all be saying: “whatever happened to Will Bailey?”’

His speech sounded rehearsed.

‘He just needs time,’ she explained calmly.

‘Time’s running out, Emily. The record company won’t keep paying for us to play frisbee in the countryside forever. They’re sending the suits down next week. They want to hear what we’ve got. And we’ve got nothing.’

That was why Will was still in the studio.

‘Think about it,’ he continued. ‘He wrote most of Fragments while pining for you when you were with Aidan. He needs more of that love-sick angst.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not splitting up with him, Matty.’

‘Ah, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do. At this rate, we’re gonna get dropped…’

Her stomach tightened. ‘Is that likely?’

‘If we’ve got nothing to sell, of course. It’s a business like any other.’

‘But Fragments is still selling…’

‘That’s why they want us to strike while the iron’s hot. Apparently, it’s all about timing.’

‘What’s all about timing?’ came Will’s voice from behind them. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.

‘Pool,’ said Matty. ‘You’ve got to get your timing right when you take a shot.’

‘I thought it was all about your stance?’ said Will.

‘Yeah, and that.’

Emily joined them in the studio the following morning. She’d brought newspapers from the farmhouse and was sitting on the floor cutting them up and putting the tiny pieces into a bowl. No one batted an eyelid. They were all used to her crazy art projects by now.

When the band took a break, she pulled Will to one side. ‘I thought we could try something,’ she said.

She took the bowl of newspaper clippings to the table, and Will sat down beside her.

‘I watched an old David Bowie documentary; this is how he comes up with ideas for lyrics.’

‘With newspapers?’

‘It doesn’t have to be newspapers, it can be books, or magazines, or stuff you’ve written yourself.

You cut out words and jumble them up. Bowie reckons when you see unrelated words together like this, the subconscious mind tries to make sense of it, and it sparks ideas you wouldn’t have had otherwise. Shall we try it?’

‘Okay…’

Emily picked out random words: ‘Choice, forgive, testament, legends, confession, perfect strangers, polite.’

She arranged the words on the table in front of them.

‘What now?’

‘Well, you see if it sparks any ideas for a song or a line or something.’

Will glanced at the words on the table. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘I’ll show you. So, I like the phrase “perfect strangers”, it’s intriguing.

Then I’d choose “confession” and “forgive” and explore how these words might connect.

This song, or poem, or piece of art, or whatever, could be about strangers meeting.

And maybe they have been thrown together because of a bad thing they’ve done that needs confessing and forgiveness .

Now I have a theme and if I like it, I keep going or start again with different words.

There are no rules. It’s better than starting with a blank page. ’

He grabbed his notebook and started scribbling. She was pleased he was responding positively to the idea.

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s all nonsense.’

‘Does it matter if it doesn’t make sense? Lots of Bowie lyrics don’t make sense.’

‘But what’s the point if it doesn’t make sense?’

‘Well, it’s art, isn’t it? It provokes thought, and combined with music, it moves people. It gives them an experience and an opinion about that experience.’

His brow creased.

‘Try it by yourself for a bit. I’ll tell the boys to give you an hour.’

But when she went back later, he wasn’t at the table with the clippings. He was on the far side of the room, tinkering with his guitar.

‘How did you get on?’ she asked.

‘It was all gobbledegook.’

‘Shall I look? Fresh pair of eyes?’

‘Nah. It wasn’t working for me. Thank you, though.’

‘Do you want to try with some books? I can copy stuff out and cut it up––’

‘I can’t do it that way!’ His voice rang out in the silence that followed. He’d never raised his voice to her before. It stung.

‘You can’t fix this,’ he mumbled. ‘ I have to.’