Why the hell had Teela lived in an apartment without an intercom and a chain on the door? If she took over the lease, she’d rectify that. She opened the door wide enough for Errol to get a look at her disheveled glory. “I don’t want to talk.”
He pushed inside. “No problem. I only need you to listen.”
“The part about this is not a good time to lecture me.” She let the door slam. “That part escapes you?”
Errol looked around the apartment, taking in her suitcase and picking up the cushion. “Do you want to get dressed?”
She did not want that and told him so by glaring at him and returning to the couch.
“I’m not here to talk about Jay. I want to know if you’re okay.” He rubbed his face. “I know you’re not okay, what I mean is.” He tossed her the cushion. “You know what I mean.”
“You want to know if I’m going to live the rest of my life in someone else’s apartment, in someone else’s pjs and never answer my phone or wash again?”
He lowered himself into a chair. “There are worse things.”
“He shouldn’t have done that,” she blurted. It was the first thing she’d said about what happened. She’d shown up at Teela’s knowing Tee had seen the concert and wouldn’t need to be told.
“I’d have disagreed with you once upon a time, but I can see it from your perspective now.” Errol sat forward, elbows on his knees. “He didn’t think it through and he hurt you.”
Evie’s face was hot and itchy. She pulled another cushion across her lap and fiddled with the tassel on one of its ends. Teela had said the same thing, but hearing Dad say it was a fresh blow. She wasn’t simply being a drama queen. Jay fucked up. He took a good thing and poisoned it.
“Which makes what I need to say even more difficult,” Errol said.
“You said you weren’t going to talk about Jay.”
“I’m not going to defend him. I want to kick his arse till it’s blue. If you’d asked for Jay’s help to launch a career that would be one thing, but you didn’t.” Errol looked at his feet. “What you need to know is my phone has been blowing up all day with opportunities.”
“Oh no, no.” She glanced at her own phone. She’d turned it off as soon as she went backstage but beneath its dark screen it was seething with issues she’d have to deal with eventually.
“It started last night. Agents, promotors, advertising agencies who want to license the song.”
She stood and went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for something to do, keeping her back to Errol, the kitchen counter between them.
“I know you didn’t ask for this, but I don’t represent you, so I can’t make any decisions on your behalf in this,” he said.
So now he couldn’t make any decisions on her behalf. “I authorize you to tell everyone to go to hell.”
“Evie, are you sure?”
She turned to face him. “For God’s sake, yes.” How was this still not clear?
“I have to ask. Are you truly sure you don’t want to do a deal?”
She didn’t want to be a singer. That didn’t mean she wasn’t curious. “What kind of deal?”
“How about one where you write and get paid well and someone else gets famous on your words.”
She switched the kettle off. She didn’t want tea anyway and Errol needed to leave. He was already standing, that was half the way gone. “When I wanted to be a songwriter you told me that was dumb, a waste of my time.”
He sighed. “I was very wrong. I thought I knew best but I was trying to force my own vision on you. I will never do that again, but that’s why I need to ask if you’re sure you don’t want Layla Flowers to have your song.”
Layla Flowers. Australia’s answer to Taylor, Katy, Ari. Layla Flowers wasn’t some random hopeful. She was a real talent. “Layla Flowers wants my song?”
“Layla wants all your songs, past, present, future. The deal her manager outlined is one of the best I’ve seen.”
She put the kettle back on. “What’s in it for me?” Made sense to have all the details. She was a businesswoman after all.
“Money, Evie. Very good money. Ongoing royalties. A songwriter’s credit. That’s it.”