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Chapter Fifty-Five

Trying to concentrate on my classes the next day was impossible. My slot at the showcase was at three fifteen, so I would need to duck out at lunchtime to be there in time. Although skipping class on the first day back wouldn't normally be in my nature, there are some opportunities in life that you just have to grab with both hands. Plus, there seemed to have been a lot of things 'not in my nature' happening recently.

PCJ's offices were as sleek and intimidating as I'd expected. As I waited nervously in the lobby to be called by the bleach-blonde receptionist with a headset firmly attached to her ear, I started to doubt whether or not I'd made the right decision by attending. My songs were personal. I didn't write them with the intention of anyone else ever singing them, I wrote them as a way to process things in my own life.

As I was escorted into the interview room, the sight of two guys and one woman sat around casually on brightly coloured, funky armchairs greeted me. A black grand piano took pride of place in the middle of the white, minimalist room and a table had been laid with an elaborate selection of pastries and coffee.

It certainly didn't look like an interview.

"Hi, you must be Abigail?" said one of the guys, standing up and stretching out his hand with a beaming smile. "We've heard a lot about you."

"Abi," I smiled back as I shook his hand, "It's nice to meet you..."

"Craig," he said, filling in the blank as his dark curls flopped over the top of his thick-framed glasses. "This is Angie and Rob, they head up our new talent division."

Shaking both their hands before accepting the invitation to sit down, I'm pretty sure that, at this stage, I was watching the whole thing unfold from some kind of outer body experience.

After chatting informally for at least twenty minutes, they finally invited me to play for them. My hands were shaking as I took a seat at the piano, and my throat was as dry as the Sahara.

As I took a deep breath to steady myself, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine I was back in my own room in my own flat, playing to an audience of only my tiny single bed and my wardrobe.

Three songs later, the whole nerve-wracking experience was over.

"Wow," said Craig, as I returned to my bright green chair. "Noah was right, your stuff is amazing."

Noah. Even after the way we'd left things, he had done this for me.

"Let's talk about the next steps, Abi. Please, have a croissant." Craig beamed at me from his chair opposite.

I was floating on air the entire train journey home. I had a meeting booked in on Friday to finalise my contract. That morning, I had been normal old Abi, trudging along on the bus to university. Yet, just hours later, I was on the verge of signing a potentially life-changing deal as an official PCJ songwriter.

This doesn't happen to people like me, I thought, trying to bring myself back down to earth. Something will go wrong and it will all end up falling through.

But, since meeting Noah, a lot of things had happened to me that I'd never expected. Even without him in my life anymore, he was still surprising me with new experiences.

The biggest surprise was, when I returned to the offices later that week, it appeared I hadn't dreamt up the whole thing. Ushered into a room by Craig on my arrival, I was met with the familiar faces of Angie and Rob, plus two smartly-dressed women who introduced themselves as contract lawyers; one to represent PCJ, one to represent me.

As I signed on the dotted line, I tried to prevent my hand from shaking too much at the figure in black and white staring back from the page. I was to be given a retainer fee - enough to cover at least a year of my living costs - plus a sixty percent share of any royalties and performance fees my songs earned.