chose to be.
It was typical of Nick both to have such a lavishly stocked bar, and to have it in full view, where it would provide a constant reminder and maximum temptation.
On the other side of the hall was the library, now a television and video room, which looked altogether more lived in than the drawing room. This too was empty. Back in the hall, David paused to glance at the visitors’ book, a thick leather-bound volume, already more than half full of signatures and comments from what seemed to be a fairly constant stream of guests. There were a few big names – actors, writers, new rich – but in the main it was Nick’s carefully chosen inner circle, none of whom, as David well knew, came from the music world. The dining room he didn’t bother to check, but went straight along the adjoining passage to the studio. The padded door was open, a sure sign that Nick was not at work, but David looked in all the same, just in case. He was curious to see if the setup had changed and, though he hardly admitted it even to himself, to see if there were signs of work in progress. In the twenty-eight years he’d handled Nick, David had never once asked when the next song was coming. He liked to think that that was one of the reasons he was still around.
The studio was a fairly recent addition to the house, built when Nick had decided to move in permanently six years before. Like everything else Nick had a hand in, it was beautifully designed, though, unusually for him, the room was untidy. In the old days Nick had always been neat to the point of obsession, especially when it came to his work places, yet there were books scattered over almost every working surface, even the piano and synthesizer.
David peered at the titles. There were books on organic farming, broadleaf forestry and environmental protection. Nick had been interested in things Green for a long time. As far back as the early seventies he’d marched in protest against whaling – or was it sealing?
On another surface were two large expensive-looking books on, of all things, birds. The books were lying open to show large colour illustrations of such feathered friends as – David had to peer at the unfamiliar names – kites, buzzards and ospreys. Beside them was a loose-leaf student’s pad covered in Nick’s spidery scrawl. David couldn’t help glancing at it. Under the heading ‘Habitat’ were various notes on, as far as David could make out, the nesting habits of ospreys.
He scanned the rest of the room. There was no sign of anything like work, no scattering of sheet manuscript. Sipping the last of his coffee, he returned to the open pad and stared thoughtfully at the bird notes. When Nick had first thought of burying himself up here David had been as keen as anyone for him and Alusha to find a place where they could get over the unpleasantness of the New York incident, and had gone out on a limb to encourage him, something he would normally have avoided. It was one thing to be responsible for people’s working lives – money and deals had neat conclusions – and quite another to interfere in their private affairs, which were always, but always, minefields of the most lethal kind. The mildest suggestion, the slightest offer of help, earned you nothing but resentment, hostility and a lifetime’s blame.
Having broken his own rule and encouraged Nick, he had long since regretted it. He’d hoped this Scottish jaunt would mark the beginning of a new era of productivity, but far from stimulating Nick the place seemed gradually to have stultified him. The first three years had been all right – there’d been enough material for two albums – but more recently the flow had dropped to a trickle. Three songs in two years, not enough for an album, and worst of all, unrecorded because, try as David might, he couldn’t get Nick near a recording studio.
Nick had hinted that he was working on some experimental material – there was a chilling rumour that
It was typical of Nick both to have such a lavishly stocked bar, and to have it in full view, where it would provide a constant reminder and maximum temptation.
On the other side of the hall was the library, now a television and video room, which looked altogether more lived in than the drawing room. This too was empty. Back in the hall, David paused to glance at the visitors’ book, a thick leather-bound volume, already more than half full of signatures and comments from what seemed to be a fairly constant stream of guests. There were a few big names – actors, writers, new rich – but in the main it was Nick’s carefully chosen inner circle, none of whom, as David well knew, came from the music world. The dining room he didn’t bother to check, but went straight along the adjoining passage to the studio. The padded door was open, a sure sign that Nick was not at work, but David looked in all the same, just in case. He was curious to see if the setup had changed and, though he hardly admitted it even to himself, to see if there were signs of work in progress. In the twenty-eight years he’d handled Nick, David had never once asked when the next song was coming. He liked to think that that was one of the reasons he was still around.
The studio was a fairly recent addition to the house, built when Nick had decided to move in permanently six years before. Like everything else Nick had a hand in, it was beautifully designed, though, unusually for him, the room was untidy. In the old days Nick had always been neat to the point of obsession, especially when it came to his work places, yet there were books scattered over almost every working surface, even the piano and synthesizer.
David peered at the titles. There were books on organic farming, broadleaf forestry and environmental protection. Nick had been interested in things Green for a long time. As far back as the early seventies he’d marched in protest against whaling – or was it sealing?
On another surface were two large expensive-looking books on, of all things, birds. The books were lying open to show large colour illustrations of such feathered friends as – David had to peer at the unfamiliar names – kites, buzzards and ospreys. Beside them was a loose-leaf student’s pad covered in Nick’s spidery scrawl. David couldn’t help glancing at it. Under the heading ‘Habitat’ were various notes on, as far as David could make out, the nesting habits of ospreys.
He scanned the rest of the room. There was no sign of anything like work, no scattering of sheet manuscript. Sipping the last of his coffee, he returned to the open pad and stared thoughtfully at the bird notes. When Nick had first thought of burying himself up here David had been as keen as anyone for him and Alusha to find a place where they could get over the unpleasantness of the New York incident, and had gone out on a limb to encourage him, something he would normally have avoided. It was one thing to be responsible for people’s working lives – money and deals had neat conclusions – and quite another to interfere in their private affairs, which were always, but always, minefields of the most lethal kind. The mildest suggestion, the slightest offer of help, earned you nothing but resentment, hostility and a lifetime’s blame.
Having broken his own rule and encouraged Nick, he had long since regretted it. He’d hoped this Scottish jaunt would mark the beginning of a new era of productivity, but far from stimulating Nick the place seemed gradually to have stultified him. The first three years had been all right – there’d been enough material for two albums – but more recently the flow had dropped to a trickle. Three songs in two years, not enough for an album, and worst of all, unrecorded because, try as David might, he couldn’t get Nick near a recording studio.
Nick had hinted that he was working on some experimental material – there was a chilling rumour that
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