Max snickered. “Can’t think why they bother securing it, unless it’s to keep the squatters out.”
I dropped a second key into his palm. “Yours, for those rare occasions when you get here before me.”
He guffawed. “In other words, a key I’ll never get to use.”
We climbed the narrow stairs to the metal door at the top, secured with another padlock. I pushed the door open, and we stepped into a large room with a battered linoleum floor, chairs and tables that looked as if they’d seen better days, and a small toilet at the back of the room. In the corner stood an upright piano, its wooden panels scratched to hell, a piano bench in front of it, the red leather covering worn in places.
Max smirked. “Wow. You pulled out all the stops to impress our little gang, didn’t you?”
I glared at him. “Before you say another word, let me point something out. We don’t have the money to rent a studio to rehearse in.”
That earned me a snort. “Well,Imay not have the money, but I’m sureyoucould lay your hands on it.”
“The point is, let’s save that for when we’re ready to start recording something. When we’re certain this is going to work. For God’s sake, we haven’t even sung one note together yet.”
Max gave a grudging shrug. “Okay, and it’s a fair point.” He glanced at our surroundings. “I still thinkIcould’ve found something a bit better.”
I snorted. “You’re welcome to try, but you’d be wasting your time. London prices, remember? Even Soho isn’t cheap.”
“Please, tell me we haven’t paid a shitload for this. How long is the lease?”
“Only a month. I hoped we’d be ready for better premises by then.” I smiled. “Think of it this way. The studio gave the right impression, but that was like a first date.”
Max frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
I grinned. “When you start dating someone, you’re on your best behaviour for the first few weeks or months. Then when you get comfortable, the mask comes off and suddenly it’s okay to let rip with a fart.”
Max laughed. “Okay, now I’m imagining a chorus of farts.” His eyes gleamed. “Ooh.There’san idea. We don’t sing, we fart out a song.” He waggled his eyebrows. “That a big enough hook for you?”
I shook my head. “Are you going to be this facetious when the others get here?”
He chuckled. “I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise.” He gazed at the windows. “Hey, at least there’s natural light. From downstairs I was envisaging a dingy attic with a few skylights.” Max bit his lip. “The dingy part was on the money, though.” He grinned. “You know, this might work in other ways. They could take one look at this place, decide no way in hell do they want to keep rehearsing in here, and pull out all the stops. Talk about incentive.” He dropped the long duffel he was carrying to the floor with a clatter. “I’ll set up the music stands. I didn’t bother bringing mics.” He smirked. “Which is good, because we have no equipment. But I do get it. Today is all about first steps. Mics come in when we’re ready to record something.” He cocked his head. “And speaking of being ready… Are you prepared for chaos? Because withtheseguys, youknowthat’s what we’re going to get.” He began moving the tables to the outer edges of the room, leaving a space in the centre. Then he opened the bag and extracted the stands.
I had a feeling Max was on the money, but I didn’t care. I’d been buzzing all morning.
I want to hear what sound we make.
I was thankful to have Max at my side.The only person on earth who can make a bass note sound like a hug.
“The last time we all met, we were still two members short,” he said as he worked. “And now adding Finnley to the mix…”
I smiled. “You like him.”
“I like all of them,” he remonstrated. Then his eyes gleamed. “But not as much as you liked our impromptu guest that night.” He grinned.
“Leave it.” The words came out more sharply than I’d intended.
Max’s eyebrows went skywards. “Ooh. Methinks I hit a nerve. You’ve got good taste, I’ll say that for you. Cameron is?—”
“Am I in the right place?” a voice hollered up the stairs.
I was never so grateful for an interruption. “Come on up,” I yelled. I couldn’t place the speaker.
Feet clomped on the stairs, and a moment later, Julian Richards came through the door, a denim jacket slung over his shoulder, his skinny jeans tight enough to be a second skin, his boots gleaming. He sniffed, his nose wrinkling. “You know what it smells like in here? Burnt coffee, duct tape, and the ghosts of failed indie bands.”
I frowned. “Does duct tape have a smell?”
“Yes,” Max and Julian said in sync. They both blinked, then gave each other an appraising glance.