The Show Must Go On

Chapter Ten: Turn the Record Over

Chapter Ten Soundtrack: Turn the Record Over by Emina Sonnad

I'm still wearing Nas's coat draped across my shoulders. It's heavy, but not unpleasant. The rain drips onto the hardwood floors.

As I hang it up, he lights the lamps, illuminating his loft. An enormous window covers one wall and wraps up to the ceiling, becoming a broad skylight. Bookshelves climb up the walls, stuffed with faded paperbacks, and between the shelves are vintage movie posters. His table is large, light wood and set with melted wax candlesticks and an open wine bottle.

Through an open archway, I can see his bed. I quickly look away.

'It's beautiful,' I say honestly. 'Your landlord has amazing taste.'

When his mouth quirks, I realise he owns it. My cheeks flame.

'Thank you.'

He gestures me to the table and I set up my laptop. Looking around, I can't see any photographs or souvenirs: his home is beautiful but strangely impersonal. I add this to the 'Mysteries About Nas' column.

'Okay, tell me what's wrong.'

I explain briefly: the cancelled studio work, the festival in two weeks, the unrecorded audio. I'm spiralling into a panic about the missing contracts, but he snaps me out of it. One thing at a time.

'You just need scratch audio?' he asks, referring to unfinished voices which will be replaced later. 'For the festival.'

'I guess so? But I don't know where I can find another studio and until Legal sorts the contracts I don't even know if we're allowed to work with anyone else.'

'And you have the existing audio mix currently? Not final deliverables, but enough that we could watch it?'

'Sure.'

'Why don't we just do the crowd noises?'

I laugh. 'Sure. Let's just star in it too, shall we? Direct, maybe?'

I stop laughing when I remember that, for one of us, a starring role isn't laughable.

'Why not?' he asks. 'I have a microphone somewhere. Can you do a Yorkshire accent?'

Can I?

'Maybe,' I say, in a sort-of-Yorkshire accent.

He looks hard at me. 'That'll do. Have some water, stretch. Then we'll record.'

Again, I wait for the punchline, but apparently he doesn't joke about voice recording. I do some half-hearted side stretches.

He sweeps back to the table with a podcast-style microphone. I nearly ask my burning question ('Have you ever hosted a podcast?') but remind myself, firmly, that he's doing me a favour.

A huge favour, actually. This is the perfect opportunity to oust me. It's embarrassing to everyone involved, but especially me. All he has to do is nothing and I'd be out of a job. No one to share work with. No one to bicker with. No one to glare at, spill coffee on, or flick paper aeroplanes at during late nights at work.

But he isn't doing nothing, and suspicion spikes, hard and thorny. He's not just helping: he hasn't said anything snide in at least twenty minutes.

'Stop overthinking,' he says, without looking up. 'I'll direct us.'

Why should he direct? Why shouldn't I?

'Unless you know how to direct?' he continues. 'Or anything about ADR?'

My mouth snaps shut.

'Good,' he nods. 'We'll record a load of takes, pick the best selects, and overlay it all. The important thing is to put on different voices, and different pitches, so that they sound like a crowd. Just to warm up, give me Yorkshire wench. Be outraged. Say anything you like. Shout if you want.'