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Viewing Note: This story should be viewed with the Edwardian Script ITC font installed on your Windows platform in the c:/Windows/Fonts directory. Microsoft Word installs this font automatically.

Editor's Note: Jenny Walker has graciously allowed me to represent her original story No Half Measures on BigCloset. Originally published on BigCloset Classic, this story was migrated over to BigCloset TopShelf on 2005-02-02. Due to the original story presentation format being unsuitable and unwieldy for most portable devices (each part being over 1 meg in length), the story is now being broken up into single chapters for easier reading. The original Movements will be indicated on their respective chapters. The first chapter of each Movement will retain the original comments and read hits so as to preserve them for the author.

Sephrena Lynn Miller

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Chapter 1
 
 
I began to belt it out as my fingers hammered the keyboard's keys,
 
 

"So take a good look at me now.....  I'll still be standing here.....  and you coming back to me is against all odds.....  and that's a chance I'll have to take....  so take a look at me now."

 
 
The final chords faded and I looked up, smiled and into the microphone said, "Thank you, have a good night folks." As the usual crescendo of applause hit my ears I felt that buzz, that indefinable rush that I always got with performing. Perhaps some people got used to it, but I doubted I ever would. I hoped I wouldn't. I looked around the club and through the smoky haze saw folks chatting, ordering a last drink or getting ready to go. I leaned back in my chair and after a few slow breaths, found the energy to rise and steeled myself for the hated task of packing up my equipment.

At last the keyboard was in its case as was my guitar. The sequencer was carefully packed away with my laptop, all cables neatly coiled and bagged, and my amplifier unplugged and ready to go. By now the club was practically empty and the staff were beginning to clear up. Dave came over and offered to help me lug my gear down to my car. I gratefully accepted. "Great set as usual," he remarked as I packed the stuff into the back of my beat-up Ford Fiesta.

I stood back, everything packed in tight, I wiped my brow and grinned, "Thanks Dave. Good number in tonight."

He smiled, "Thursday nights with Nick Evans are becoming a popular tradition in The Last Stop". He handed over a brown envelope, "There you go Nick," his brow furrowed, "Real sorry I can't give you more, you know I'd love to, but making ends meet and all that."

I shrugged and waved a hand at him as I took the envelope, "Dave, you know I'd gladly do it for free..." I paused, "If I could live on air alone." I winked.

He laughed and replied, "You know I think you would. Say, any comeback from your recent demo?"

I winced as he reminded me. "Yeah well, I've got to go and meet one of the agents at Sony tomorrow." I stuck my hands in my pockets and idly kicked the kerb with my right foot, "But I don't hold out much hope," I continued, looking at the ground. Which was a lie, as I had great hopes, great dreams, but was well aware of their potential to be shattered yet again.

"Well, it's their loss if they turn you away if you ask me," Dave replied giving what was probably supposed to be a friendly light punch on the shoulder. However as he was 6 foot something and somewhere over 200 pounds and I was, well a good bit less than that -- I staggered and nearly fell over. "Sorry man," he said with an apologetic smile.

I shrugged and waved. "No problem, I'll see you next week," as I got into my car. "Good luck tomorrow," he called as I pulled the door closed.
 

*          *          *
 
When the alarm blared at seven the next morning, I groaned--and despite trying to ignore it, turn it off, destroy it or at least maim it--I eventually remembered I had deliberately placed it out of reach of my bed to protect it against such intended destructive actions. I dragged myself out of bed and heading for the shower muttering, "Damn it, I'm an artist. Shouldn't have to get up at such ungodly hours." I worked late into the night and rarely rose before mid-morning, but not today.

Getting dressed in the one and only suit I owned, I thought briefly about breakfast but the immediate wave of nausea that crashed over me laid that idea to rest. I checked myself in the mirror and tried to make my straggly shoulder-length black mane look something approaching respectable. I heard my mother's tones in my head, "Nicholas, would you not think of a haircut once in a while?" I grinned to myself as I heard myself tell her I was an artist and not subject to the same expectations of society as the worker drones were. I sighed as the usual progression of such conversations played through my mind inevitably moving towards the issue of me getting a 'proper job' or the like. With the current feeling in my stomach, a part of me was siding with my mother this morning. I shrugged, straightened my tie and headed out the door.

From my Greenwich bed-sit flat, it was about a 35 minute ride on the Tube with one change to get to the headquarters of Sony Music in central London. Sitting in the crowded carriage, I played my demo disc over and over in my head. I was damn proud of this one. I had poured body and soul into the writing of these songs. They were full of emotion, pathos -- full of me. I had recorded them again and again on my digital four-track recorder until I was at last fully satisfied with them.

I had no doubt that this was the best I could do, and hence why I felt so nervous this time. Hell, I had had plenty of experience of rejection but up to now I had used the negative feelings to spur me to better writing, better singing and performing. This time? This time I wasn't sure if I had anything more to give. I had chosen Sony as on my previous round of rejections, they were the most positive. If it is possible to have a positive rejection that is.

As I walked up Great Marlborough Street towards the Sony building, I thought I was going to have to stop and throw up in the street. "Get a grip would you," I muttered to myself and then I noticed the look a woman passer-by gave me. I just smiled and nodded to her as I walked on. Inside the building the plush entrance lobby was probably twice the square footage of my miserable flat and the cheerful girl behind the desk, after checking her computer, told me to go to the 4th floor lobby and ask for Simon Andrews.

I was kept waiting of course. I expected nothing less. After 40 minutes a tall tanned guy in what had to be an Armani suit came out and, effusively apologising, introduced himself as Simon Andrews. He ushered me into his office which needless to say was large, plush and expensively furnished. I politely declined his offer of coffee as my stomach did another somersault and I sat in the proffered leather chair as he sat down behind his desk.

"Well, Nick," he began with a smile, his palms face down on his desk, "Can I call you Nick?" he asked and then carried on without waiting for an answer. "I have to say I was really impressed with your demo. Strong songs, good writing, good performing." He paused.

I felt my heart was going to break through my chest, but I managed to keep it in and smiled faintly, "Thanks."

He nodded, "Yes, good songs, accomplished writing. You obviously have a talent." He paused again and nodded and I began to get an impending feeling of doom. There was a 'but' looming on the horizon I was sure.

"However," he said with a slow intake of breath, "although the songs and the musical performance are very strong, I'm just not sure that your vocals are exactly what we would be looking for at this current time." He smiled apologetically.

It was that old familiar kick in the stomach feeling. My vocals weren't strong enough? I don't have much of an ego, but I did feel I had a good voice. After letting his words sink in, I steeled myself and made myself ask the pathetic questions, "So you are not sure? Not what you are looking for at the moment, but maybe another time?" I hated myself for asking.

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably and that was all the answer I needed, but he spelt it out, "Look to be honest Nick, we wouldn't be considering taking you on as an artist," he paused and half-winced, "now, or at anytime, really." He spread his hands.

I nodded, "OK. Thanks for being straight with me." Sure thanks for kicking me in the teeth, for removing the last straw of hope. I don't know what it was that made me press on. "I'm sorry for going on," I began, "but it would be helpful for me if you could explain just why my vocals aren't what you are looking for."

He nodded as if to say 'fair enough' and with a bit of hesitation replied, "Well, I don't know quite how to put it....," his voice trailed off and he looked like he was searching for the right words.

Instead of telling him 'where' he could put it I stifled the reflexive urge and said, "Look, just give it to me straight, I can take it." I lied.

"Alright," he said a little more happily, "to be honest in today's climate we are looking for male vocalists with voices that are stronger, more commanding."

I blinked a few times, "But my voice is strong." I was a little puzzled.

He nodded, "Ye-es, it is a strong voice, however what we are looking for is a voice with...." he paused and wrinkled his brow, "with more balls, let's say."

I sighed, and rubbed my chin, "Was that the only reason?" As I asked I knew from his expression that it wasn't, "You can tell me straight, I promise not to cry," I forced a smile. In front of you, I added mentally. As for later? All bets were off on that one.

He sighed, "Well, the agent who met you initially did remark that he didn't think your image would be very...how can I say it....marketable?"

I gave what I am sure was a very cynical smile with an unimpressed snort. "Marketable," I repeated and shook my head. "Alright, Simon, can I call you Simon?" I said and continued apace, "Well thanks for your honesty. I'll not take up anymore of your time." I stood up and was about to head for the door when he spoke again.

"Nick, wait." I turned around as he continued, "I said we wouldn't be taking you on as an artist, but we would be very interested in working out a deal with you as a songwriter."

I paused and chewed my lower lip, "A songwriter." I repeated. I shook my head, "I really don't think so, I'm not going to give up so easy."

He persisted, "Alrigh,t but at least think about a one-off deal. The five songs on your demo we would be very keen to cut a deal with you on." He could obviously see my expression building up to the 'get stuffed' look as he raised his hands defensively, "Look, Nick just think about it, ok? Here take this proposal and look at it, give me a call if you are interested." He held out a white manilla envelope and smiled almost pleadingly. I shrugged and took the envelope from him and headed out the door without another word.
 

*          *          *
 
The weather fitted my mood. Typical November London day -- grey, misty, drizzly and windy. I walked, head down, and walked. From ever since I could remember, I had loved music. It had been my life and I always thought I would make it. Despite all the rejections I still had the belief in myself. Until now perhaps. This was the big one and as they say the bigger they are, they harder they fall. A voice with more balls. A marketable image. I knew what he was getting at.

He wasn't the first. OK, so I didn't want to play rugby at school, or any sport for that matter. I had made every excuse to escape to the music department at every opportunity. I wasn't what you would call well-built. Slight and thin, not the tallest, nor quite the smallest though, at 5 foot 7. I shrugged and winced inwardly as the memories came back from my school days.

Pretty boy. What a hateful nickname. It didn't start out spitefully as in fact it was some of the girls who had coined the term for me. They meant it factually. I was fine-featured as I liked to think of it. However once it got out, I was stuck with it. It was eventually shortened to PB and that was how I was known by most of my year. I sort of hoped most people forgot what it originally stood for. The jocks didn't beat on me at least; it was just what they called me.

I think if I hadn't had my music, if I hadn't had something in my favour, something to be respected for, I may have attracted the casual beatings that other non-entities did. I closed my eyes and pictured the yearbook caption to my photo, "Award for: Most gifted musician. Nickname: 'PB'." I sighed then jumped as the car horn dragged me from my reverie and back to reality. I jumped onto the pavement and gave the car driver a two-fingered salute. Couldn't he see I was in a 'not to be messed with' mood?

I paused to gather my bearings as I had been wandering aimlessly. Charing Cross Road. I pulled the collar of my jacket up as the rain became more persistent and headed for a familiar coffee shop about a hundred yards down the street. Ordering a black coffee I slouched into a corner seat and slipped back into my self-pitying introspection.

Marketable image. The words seared through my brain. Damn, I mean I could eat more, put a bit of weight on, work out a bit. I stirred the coffee and added two sugars and then a third, feeling that I deserved the extra fix. Problem was if it came to spending the hard-to-come-by cash on decent food or a new piece of musical equipment, I knew which would win. And if it came to a choice of spending time cooking, exercising and the like or working on a new tune, or even just listening to music. I knew what I would do.

I drank the coffee and realised that music was my life. Take it away and there was little left. It seemed a little pathetic put like that. I pushed my straggly wet hair back from my face and rubbed my eyes. What now? What else could I do?

The rain had eased a bit so I dragged myself from the chair and headed out again and after pausing for a moment to decide my route and destination; I decided it was home via Charing Cross station and two tube changes. I trudged on with heavy feet, not sure what I was going to do when I got home.

I'd left school with two A-levels. Music of course - an A grade. English a C grade which I was pleasantly surprised with. The Maths had been an unmitigated disaster. I shrugged, the Maths and English were by the bys. I'd spent most of my younger days' spare time involved in music of some kind or another. Orchestra, choir whatever.

A voice with more balls. I winced. Sure I was just about a tenor, as long as it wasn't too low a part. Sure I occasionally had helped the altos in choir practice. But I had a strong voice, I knew it.

When I got home I passed on lunch despite having had nothing to eat all day. No nausea, just no appetite. I stripped out of my damp clothes and tossed them in the corner of my bedroom with a mixture of anger and frustration. With nothing better to do and feeling exhausted I decided to climb back into bed and see if the world looked any better the other side of a few hours nap. It didn't really.
 

*          *          *
 
It was about 6pm when I surfaced and showered. I didn't bother getting dressed again even though there was something pathetic about sitting around in my dressing gown having slept all afternoon. I didn't really care though. I forced myself to eat a cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps. I turned on my stereo and selected one of the compilation CDs that I had made for myself of music that I liked. I lay down on the sofa and let the music wash over me as I tried not to think. Easier said than done.

A voice with more balls. The words cut into me over and over again. What was he trying to say? I had a girly voice? Rubbish. I reached for the remote and turned up the volume as one of my favourite songs started. 'Show me Heaven' by Maria McKee. I loved the way it started slow, quiet, mellow and built up to an emotional crescendo. As it finished a strange thought came to me. A girly voice? No way, I'll prove it. I can't do it.

I switched the stereo off and went over to my studio. OK, the corner of my living room cum kitchen that contained my equipment. I fired up the sequencer and four-track and began to lay down some tracks for 'Show me Heaven'. I never stopped giving thanks for the ears that God gave me. To be able to hear a song and, without much trouble, to be able to sit down and play it was not something I ever took for granted.

I laid down a background keyboard track, a bass guitar riff and then programmed in the percussion on the drum machine. I played it back and nodded to myself, not bad. I never tried to play a song exactly as others performed it. Take what you hear, interpret it, play around with it and add a bit of yourself to it. I picked up my semi-acoustic guitar and plugged it into my amp, switched on the microphone and added a bit of reverb to the mic channel. I adjusted the mic stand's height -- I never could do the old sit down and sing with the guitar thing. You had to stand, had to perform.

I paused and closed my eyes. I wasn't going to sing this song as a man might. Think, think -- how would a woman sing it. I touched the record button on the four-track. I would give it my best shot and still it would be me. No balls, huh?

The intro started and I began a little finger plucking on the guitar and closing my eyes, sang the familiar words.
 
 

"There you go, flashing fever from your eyes.  Hey babe, come over here and shut down tight.  I'm not denying, We're flying above it all.  Hold my hand, don't let me fall,  You've such amazing grace.  I've never felt this way..."

 
 
I smiled to myself as the music crescendoed. I really loved this song and as the chorus kicked in I forgot about what I was trying to do and just went with it and sang it out,
 
 

"Oh, Show me heaven, Cover me, Leave me breathless,  Oh, Show me heaven please."

 
 
I added more rhythmic strumming on the guitar,
 
 

"I've shivers down my spine,  and it feels divine."

 
 
I did have shivers down my spine. That inexplicable feeling of being lost in music, lost in the moment of performance. I felt the dark cloud of the day slipping away as I reached for the high notes at the end and finished with some mellow guitar finger-picking. I sighed and turned off the recorder. I smiled. It was good to play. Good therapy. Cathartic. Now let's hear it.

I sat down on the stool and pressed play. The intro started and I winced as I heard a slightly off note from the guitar. I resisted my perfectionist urge to stop right there and do it again as the verse started. It was good. Or I was good, a little too good for my liking. I sighed and closed my eyes and tried to listen as impartially as I could. I shook my head as the chorus burst in.

This was not good. What I heard was a next to perfect rendition of this song. Emotion, feeling, all the notes perfect. As it closed I felt a strange mixture of feelings. Professional pride, yet personal distress. I had a strong voice alright and being honest, I had just heard one of my strongest vocal performances. A strong voice, but right enough I doubted anyone would have said the singer had a 'ballsy' voice.

After sitting staring into space for a few moments I mentally shook myself. Alright, one song doesn't make a diva. It's a fluke, a scary one, but a fluke. Let's try it again. I thought for a few moments trying to think of another familiar song to try to prove myself wrong with. 'Torn', by Natalie Imbruglia. If you're going to be a one-hit wonder may as well make that hit a great song I always said. I knew the song well.

The tracks were laid down and I grabbed the guitar. As tempting as it was to deliberately do it badly, I just couldn't do that. I gave it my all and as I sat and listened to the playback, it was the same again. As the song ended, my head was in my hands. Was slimy Simon right?

I shrugged and like a failing gambler looking for double or quits, I decided to give it one last shot and raise the stakes. I racked my brain for a song that had a fantastic female vocal. After running through many possibilities I knew the one to try. 'Unbreak my heart' by Tony Braxton. God, I loved that song, fantastic vocal. Starting low with a hint of veiled emotion but building up to melancholic heights of vocal agility. This was the hurdle on which I would fall. I shoved in the CD and listened to it a few times. Fantastic. And unmatchable, I was sure.

I followed the same procedure and determined to give it my all, no matter what. I even laid the guitar track in first so I could concentrate on the vocal. Taking the microphone in both hands I put my heart into it and surprised myself with what I thought was probably a reasonable effort. I was wrong. It wasn't reasonable, it was ghastly. Ghastly because it was brilliant. I was sure I would sound like a man in pain on the high falsettos. But no. I rubbed my eyes. It had been a long day and I felt like an emotional wreck. I transferred the three songs to a blank minidisc. Why? I always kept a record of what I had done. The old obsessive-compulsive side coming out again I guess. I crawled into bed for what I knew would be a fitful and disturbed night's sleep.
 

*          *          *
 
I reached out for the alarm clock and tried to thump it, crush it, the usual. I smacked it across the room but still it kept trilling. I was sure I hadn't set it as I had had no particular intentions on the getting out of bed before lunchtime front. Eventually I realised it wasn't the alarm clock, but the phone and, gathering enough coherent cognitive power, I managed to co-ordinate my right hand to lift it off the cradle and bring it to my ear. "Yeah," I murmured into it, hoping I was holding it the right way up.

"You're still in bed!" the voice accused, "I don't believe it -- well actually I do."

Jools.

"Umm, hi Jools," I said, forcing myself to sit up to ensure that consciousness was maintained, "Wassup?"

"Not you obviously," she said with more than a little hint of irony in her voice.

"Umm no," I agreed as I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I looked for my clock to see the time and was puzzled when I couldn't see it. I spotted it in the corner of my room, upside down. I vaguely remembered launching it in that direction subconsciously. "How are you?"

"Oh I'm fine," she said brightly, and then in a sarcastic tone, "except for the fact that a good friend has stood me up for the brunch date we had."

Damn. "Oh.....yes," I said slowly. "Erm sorry. I sort of -- well, forgot."

"So I gathered," she retorted. "So should I cut my losses or can you make it here sometime before sundown?"

"No, I'm coming now," I said more awake now and climbed out of bed just before dropping the phone. "Crap," I muttered and grabbed the receiver, "Jools, you still there?"

"Of course Nick, I'm always here aren't I?"

"Err OK; I'll see you in about 20 minutes. Bye." I set the phone down and grabbed a pair of jeans. I looked in the mirror and wished I hadn't. No need to shave at least, did that yesterday. Hair a mess, could do with a shower. I shrugged as I pulled on a shirt and shoved my feet into my already laced sneakers. Grabbing my jacket and just remembering to grab my keys as I ran out the door, I also as an afterthought grabbed my minidisk player with last night's disk still in it. I knew I should make more of an effort with myself. I thought that it least it was only Jools. Only Jools?

Julie Carstairs. Possibly the closest friend I had right now. We'd been a lot more at one time. When I first came to London 5 years ago, fresh out of school and painfully naive, a friend suggested I get myself an agent. Not knowing any better I got a music mag and looked up the classifieds for agents. There were two entries under 'A' and one under 'B'. As serendipity would have it, the first was a wrong number; the next two were answer phones. Under 'C' I phoned Julie and when she spoke to me she must have realised how green I was and taken pity on me. We met up and chatted.

She was only 4 years older than me yet shared the same love of music that I did. She couldn't play or sing much but had decided to get into the business in the best way she could. Julie could sell ice to Eskimos and having completed a business degree was starting out as an agent. Her business was small and scanty at that time, but she had the fortunate backing of wealthy, generous and concerned parents. Not that mine weren't generous; I was just too stubborn and had this thing about making it on my own.

As we chatted, we realised we had a lot in common and she agreed to try and get me a few gigs to start off with. I had nothing to pay her with but she didn't care. She came round and I played her a few songs and I knew she was impressed. We met up regularly and one night after a gig, she came back to my place and, well, things got personal if you know what I mean. For a few months, I was able to say for the first time that I had a proper girlfriend. It didn't last though. Things sort of got stale.

Music was both of our priorities. Her business was picking up, and she was representing a growing number of West End performers. It wasn't what she really wanted. She wanted to crack open the commercial music industry with a big star, but she was still waiting. I wasn't going to be it despite both of our hopes and things sort of petered out. We both decided to shake hands, separate and remain friends. Most Saturday mornings we would meet up in Marnies' Cafáˆ, a little deli at the start of the Portobello Road and chat about life, give off about our lack of success, laugh, cry and basically hope and dream together.

I ran out of the Notting Hill Gate tube station and huffed and puffed my way up the street until I got there and collapsed into the seat opposite her, red-faced and panting. She smirked and shook her head, "20 minutes! More like 35 and you look awful."

I shrugged, "You know I always promise more than I can deliver, and you look wonderful."

She laughed. "Flatterer." Looking concerned she continued, "But seriously you look like crap."

I raised an eyebrow and with a mirthless chuckle retorted, "You sure know how to kick a guy when he is down, Jools."

After the waitress came and took our order, she said, "Didn't go well yesterday then?"

I shook my head, "You could say that." I related the exchanges between myself and Simon and she made all the right sympathetic noises. I told her the specifics of the reasons why he'd turned me down. She just commented that he sounded like a jerk. She didn't quite contradict what he had said though. When I mentioned the offer of buying my songs, her business brain clicked into gear.

"How much did they offer?" she asked with interest.

I shrugged, "I don't know, I turned him down of course." I bristled a little with indignation, "You know my views on just being a songwriter Jools."

"That's fine, but you need to live and eat. So you weren't interested to know what they were offering?"

Julie could be so darned practical and real at times. I suddenly remembered and fished in my pocket and pulled out a crumpled white envelope. "He said this was the proposal."

She snatched it out of my hand and began to open it just as our food arrived. "Hey," I protested lamely as she pulled out a headed piece of paper and scanned it. Her eyebrows rose a little and she handed it to me.

I took it and trying to pretend indifference, I read it with some interest to see what they thought my songs were worth. I was somewhat pleasantly surprised. I finished reading it and looked up at Julie, " £10,000 for the rights to 5 songs," I stated. "That's probably a lot isn't it?" I asked her.

She nodded, "I'd say so. But don't accept it -- tell them you want 2% royalties also."

I sighed, "I wasn't going to accept it at all Jools, you know..."

She leaned forward and interrupted, "C'mon Nick. Think about it. You are a professional musician as you like to think about it. What is a professional? Someone who makes money from what they do. You aren't sacrificing your artistic integrity or your goals by actually cashing in on your talent, are you?"

"I guess not," I murmured. I grimaced, "But it's the thought of someone else singing my songs." I paused, "It just seems like a violation or something."

Before she could pester me about it any further, I figured I'd distract her with my minidisk. I wasn't quite sure why I was going to get her to listen it. Perhaps it was a hope that she would think it was a poor effort and that would do something to restore my wounded ego. Or rather perhaps it was the total opposite. I think somewhere deep down I was actually quite proud of the performances in a strange sort of way. I slid the minidisk across the table, "Have a listen to this."

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

I shrugged, "Just some songs a friend sang, I did the musical accompaniment." I wondered if she would realise who had really sung them.

She grimaced, "Nick...you know I don't really like it when people try to get things past me by the back door. Get your friend to come see me up front."

I sighed, "Look Jools, just have a listen and give me your honest opinion. That's all -- no catches, no strings attached." Not half!

She nodded, "Alright." She put on the headphones and started to listen. I drank my coffee and made a half-hearted attempt at my sandwich. I could just about make the sound out from across the table. The singing started and I could see her expression change from one of resigned reluctance to one of interest. She nodded a few times. After the first chorus, she slipped the headphones off, "Who is she? She's good!"

I winced momentarily but shook my head, "Just listen, there's three songs. Listen to them all and then we can talk."

She shrugged and replaced the headphones. As she listened to the second and third songs I could see she was enjoying them. When they finished she set the headphones down on the table and shook her head saying nothing for a moment. When she spoke it was one word, "Wow." Another pause. She leant forwards towards me, "Who on earth is she? What a voice! Good choice of songs, 3 of your favourites Nick, I presume you suggested them to her."

I shrugged and shifted in my seat suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. "Yeah, something like that," I murmured.

She would not be put off though. "Nick I want to know who she is. Does she have an agent?" I could see the wheels of her mind turning. "I really want to meet her." Seeing my disinterested expression she persisted, "C'mon Nick, she has a real future with a voice like that."

I sighed. Julie had never waxed lyrical like this about my singing before...well that is until now. "Jools," I began and then hesitated, "There is no future for 'her' because...well I don't know how to say it except that it was me singing on the disk." I sat back and watched her eyebrows shoot upwards.

She screwed her eyes up as she took that one in. "Huh? Did you get a new effects module or something? Electronically modify your voice?"

I shook my head, and said quietly, "No, I just thought I'd try something a little different."

"Why? How?" she seemed a bit overwhelmed.

I shrugged and tried to explain the mood I had been in after the rejection and comments from Simon Andrews. I don't know if she understood but she seemed to take it in.

"Nick, if that is you on the disk, which I still find hard to believe...well you sound amazing. I've never heard your voice like that, so strong."

I grinned wryly, "I sounded like a girl singing and now I'm told that my voice is strong." I gave an ironic half-snort-cum-chuckle. "But if you don't really believe me, come on back over to my place and I'll give you a live demo."

"OK," she said.

I was a bit taken aback but regained my composure and replied, "OK well then let's go." I made my usual pretence about wanting to pay, but as always she wouldn't hear of it and settled the bill herself.

We didn't talk much on the journey back to my flat. Julie seemed preoccupied. When we got in, I suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable, "You don't really want to hear me sing like that, do you?"

"I most certainly do," she said indignantly. Then with a sly smile, "I mean, I don't know if I really believe that was you singing." She always knew I couldn't resist a challenge.

"Alright then," I retorted, "which song do you want me to sing?"

"All of them."

"OK."

"Fine."

"Right," I said turning on my equipment. When everything was set, I grabbed my guitar, started the backing track and stood up to the microphone. I got my mind ready for what I was doing and began to play. I closed my eyes and began to sing, I let my voice flow over the familiar words and let myself get immersed in the music and the emotion. Just like last night, I put everything into it, heart, mind and soul and when I finished 'Show me Heaven' I opened my eyes and saw Julie sitting on the arm of the sofa staring at me with her mouth slightly open.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She shook her head as if snapping out of a trance. "Umm nothing, nothing. Go on, don't stop," she waved a hand at me to encourage me to continue.

I turned back and started 'Torn'. Again I let myself be absorbed into the performance and found it coming more naturally than it had last night. I reasoned it was probably just increased familiarity with singing this way.

When it finished, I didn't even look at Julie, I just set the guitar down and started the final song, 'Unbreak My Heart.' I gave it the 'full welly' as a friend of mine used to say. I cupped the microphone between my hands and it was as if I was almost pouring myself into it. When the song finished I just stood there, eyes closed for about half a minute, before turning to face her.

I shrugged, "There you go. Believe me now?" She just stared at me as if I was an alien or something. She shook her head.

"If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears I don't think I would have believed that was possible. Being perfectly serious -- that was absolutely amazing."

I winced again and murmured, "Pity it's not really the real me singing and getting such praise."

She looked at me thoughtfully and chewed her lower lip, "Perhaps, perhaps not." I didn't know what she meant and didn't feel inclined to ask her to elaborate. She jumped to her feet and said, "I'd better be going. Can I borrow that minidisk?"

"Sure. What do you want it for?"

She shrugged noncommittally, "I just want to listen to it again." She had that calculating look in her eyes, but I was too drained to push her any further so I gave it to her. She gave me a peck on the cheek and headed for the door. "I'll be in touch," she waved.

"Bye Jools," I said, "Oh, I'm heading up to see my folks tonight and won't be back 'til Monday afternoon so I'll talk to you sometime next week."

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