‘What type of books?’
‘Children’s books.’
‘OK.’ It was the way Scott looked at her, steadily, interested, open. His eyes she’d thought were brown were actually a layered and dark slate-blue. ‘Children’s books,’ he repeated.
‘I write them.’ There you go. That’s me.
He tipped his head to one side. ‘You’re an author?’
‘Yes,’ she shrugged. ‘That’s what I do. What about you?’
Scott appeared to think about this, as if he wasn’t entirely sure. ‘I’m in music.’
‘A musician?’ That was much better than an accountant.
‘Well – I guess.’
‘Are you in a band?’
Scott laughed at the way her face had lit up. ‘No. God no.’
Frankie thought he didn’t really look like a rock star anyway; no piercings, no visible tattoos or rings in the shape of skulls, just a pair of dark jeans, a shirt loose, brown shoes or boots, she couldn’t tell. On looks alone, she’d hazard a guess at university lecturer, or perhaps some outdoorsy career. Close up, there was something rugged and lived in about his face, soft stubble that might be consciously groomed or simply because he had chosen not to shave away from home. The eyes she knew now to be steel-navy; hair in carefree brushstrokes of brown. Well, perhaps once upon a time, he had been in a band. She placed him a little older than her.
‘What do you play?’
‘So – guitar, piano.’ He appeared to be thinking whether he played anything else. ‘Harmonica.’
As he cut into his steak, his reserve struck Frankie. Perhaps her questions were precisely those he tired of too. Perhaps he was wishing he’d told her he was an accountant. She turned to her food. It was just a pasta dish, despite the fancy name. And, on first forkful and to her dismay, speckled with olives.
‘A children’s author,’ he said, chinking his glass against hers.
‘A musician,’ she said, raising her glass to him. ‘What sort of music?’
‘These days, I write for other people mostly.’
He smiled quizzically because she’d balked at that.
‘But isn’t songwriting akin to ghostwriting?’ she asked. ‘Producing work for someone else to claim as theirs and bask in unentitled glory?’
‘Do you only write for the glory?’
And it was then that Frankie experienced an unexpected surge of pure attraction. His sudden bluntness, that he’d challenged her straight, his eyes steady, his smile wry. Actually, she liked it that he wrote music, she liked his face and his hands and that she was here, right now. She liked it that she’d gone ahead and said yes to a drink and to this plate of revolting pasta. She liked his even gaze, that he was focused on her, wanted to know her, wanted her in his evening.
‘No,’ she told him. ‘I don’t write for the glory. In fact, I often feel I’m little more than my characters’ PA. I’m at their mercy, at their beck and call. I take dictation while they tell me their stories.’
He thought about that. ‘I always assumed an author was – I don’t know – like a Master Puppeteer.’
‘Oh blimey no. My characters run rings around me, especially Alice,’ she said darkly.
Scott didn’t know who Alice was. He’d like to know. He’d ask later. It was just that she had a little sauce on her cheek and he was sitting there with an urge to take his finger and wipe it away, to feel how soft her skin was, to touch her. It all felt suddenly a little crazy. He told himself, just eat your steak and talk about books and music. He felt ravenously hungry and yet full.
‘I was in a band,’ he said, ‘in my misspent youth. Nowadays, I hate performing but I love to write music, that’s the sum of it. And you know what, I don’t do so much songwriting these days anyway – I was finding it depressing. The lack of control. I’d put my soul into a song, create something I believed in, something – I don’t know – nourishing. Then the producers change it, fuck with it, manufacture it and before you know it, the stuff the labels churn out is the musical equivalent of fast food. And the kids spend their money on it. It can get a little depressing.’ Scott thought, if Aaron could see me now he wouldn’t believe his eyes or his ears: Scott Emerson actively choosing to be sociable, talking away, engaging with a girl, seeking company and conversation. ‘Mostly these days I write music for movies. That’s why I’m here at the moment – the movie I’m working on has British funding so the music needs to be recorded here for tax breaks.’
Frankie just wanted to listen. ‘You write soundtracks? Wow.’
But Scott just shrugged. ‘And you write books. Double wow.’
‘How many films do you do?’
‘Well, depending on the budget, probably up to four a year.’
‘Do they tell you what they want?’
‘Well, I guess I’m lucky. Mostly I get to work with directors I know, who like my music anyways, who give me the freedom to read the script and interpret it my own way.’
‘You’re really a composer, then,’ said Frankie.
Scott looked a little bashful. ‘Sounds a little grand. I guess so – on paper. But you know there’s a whole department that makes the music happen. The orchestrators, the editors, the producer, the engineers, the music supervisor, the copyist. You know, in a movie if there’s a song you know playing quietly in the background of, say, a scene in a bar – that’s no accident, that’s been sourced very specifically. I’m talking too much.’
‘No you’re not,’ said Frankie quietly.
‘No?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I spend most of my evenings with people who don’t exist – my characters – so this is welcome. Can I ask you, how do you write, how do you compose?’
He sipped thoughtfully. Usually when he told people what he did they pretty quickly steered the conversation to wanting autographs, even phone numbers, of actors. No one had ever asked him how do you do it, how do you come up with the music, yet it was such an intrinsic part of his life.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll read the script and see what comes to me – like images or scenes come to you, so tunes come to me. Then, near the final cut, I’ll have a spotting session with the director and producer and we’ll discuss the various cues, then off I go. At that point, it’s probably not dissimilar to you – though the process and the output are different. You probably go about your day with a head full of words and dialogue, eh? So – my head’s full of disparate notes which tumble into melodies, feelings for rhythm, phrasing, which start to steady. Soon as I read a script – I hear it. It’s weird sometimes. Like the music’s already written, already exists out there in the ether, waiting for me to harness it. When I read dialogue something happens – I hear tone of voice in terms of musical tone, a conversation between characters carries melody, cacophony, harmony, dissonance. And I just take it from there, really. I play, I write, I’ll record.’ Surely he was talking too much, surely. But Frankie was alert, her face animated. ‘But like I said, I only play guitar, keyboard – so then my music and my directions are passed on to an orchestrator or an arranger and finally the fixer organizes professional musicians to really spin the magic and give gravitas and meaning to my simple notes.’
‘I never met one of you before,’ Frankie said quietly, with a shy smile.
‘Well, you’re my first children’s author,’ said Scott.
Their eyes locked and silently, they marvelled. Of all the places. It’s here. It’s now.
‘You