Page 89 of The Sound Between Us

21

lightning in a bottle

Seren

This is exactly what I didn’t want. This is Dad’s life.

The thought hits me the moment we step through the studio doors. Full-body assault of expensive equipment and the specific hum of creativity-for-hire. The air smells like ambition dressed in cologne. Polished wood, leather, that electrical buzz humming under high ceilings. Technology waiting to capture lightning in a bottle for the right price.

I’m already cataloguing exits. Windows. Fire door. A polite British excuse about sudden food poisoning. Anything to escape Dad’s idea of hell—artistry sold by the hour.

“This is Seren.” Harrison’s voice holds a thread of uncertainty. “She’s going to sit in today.”

Silence. Just long enough to wrinkle.

Jamie and Dex flick their gazes between Harrison and me. Henry—Harrison’s manager, all sharp lines and sharper ambition—studies me. Cold-eyed. Calculating. Mentally totalling my potential profit margins and finding them wanting.

Harrison catches Henry’s expression and wags a finger at him. “Don’t. She’ll have us all signing NDAs if you start treating her like a business opportunity.”

Henry’s eyebrow arches. Says nothing, but I can feel suspicion radiating off him.

“Just sit wherever you’re comfortable.” Harrison gestures toward expensive furniture that probably costs more than my yearly rent.

“I’m not comfortable anywhere in here.”

“None of us are,” Jamie says, bass hanging from his shoulder. “That’s the point.”

Dex snorts from behind his kit. Custom Ludwig, fully mic’d. “Speak for yourself. I’m always comfortable. It’s my natural state.”

I almost smile despite myself. Something refreshingly unpretentious about him, shoelaces untied, adjusting his hi-hat with casual precision.

“Right.” Henry claps his hands, all forced cheer and barely concealed panic. “Shall we make some magic?”

The way he says ‘magic’ makes it sound like a quarterly target.

The next two hours are a masterclass in elegant futility.

I sit in my corner, close enough to watch, far enough to ghost out if this becomes unbearable. Harrison’s hunched over his guitar, a vintage Gibson Les Paul gleaming beneath designer lighting. He keeps playing the same three chord progressions with increasing urgency, hitting them harder, willing them to bleed something meaningful.

“Try building from that E minor,” Jamie suggests, fingers finding harmonies that are technically flawless and emotionally vacant.

“We’ve done that. Three times.” Frustration bleeds into Harrison’s voice.

“What about sampling something? Layer it in?” Dex offers, but his heart isn’t in it.

“We’re not a remix act.”

Mark, the studio owner, tweaks levels compulsively from behind the SSL console. Adjusting EQ settings that don’t need adjusting, solving a problem that isn’t technical. The Pro Tools screen glows with waveform after waveform of half-formed thoughts, digital ghosts of songs that never arrive.

“The room sounds good,” Mark says during a silence too long to ignore. “Great natural reverb.”

But reverb can’t conjure soul.

It’s professional. Polished. Completely void of spark. They’ve been at it so long they’ve forgotten how to feel. This is artistry reduced to algorithm, creativity by committee, inspiration scheduled between lunch and Henry’s next panic attack.

“Fuck this.” Jamie drops his bass harder than necessary, the sound echoing off soundproofed walls. “I’m getting burritos. Anyone else?”

I expect Harrison to pass. He radiates health-conscious, time-optimising energy. But he’s already grabbing his jacket.