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thisisnotmeta · 1 year ago

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Million Dollar Man

Chapter 2

The train journey to London unfolded with a continuous hum, a rhythmic repetition of tracks beneath its carriage wheels. I leaned against the window, gazing into the passing landscape that morphed into its own mosaic of fleeting images. The city sprawling out before me, a canvas painted with the subtle hues of the afternoon.

Ben messaged me a couple of days ago inviting me to Jack Hatton’s (lead of streaming at Dirty Hit) leaving party in London - I made a mental note of the fact that he was leaving to move to Australia with his girlfriend - incase I needed a conversation topic… just for my socially anxious brain. As much as I was excited to meet more of the team and potentially the artists, my enthusiasm mingled with a thick layer of apprehension.

The city lights flickered in the distance, casting shadows on my skin as I considered the people I could potentially encounter there - industry insiders, artists of the label, potentially new… friends? The invitation felt like a pass into a realm where my burgeoning career could intertwine with the established echelons of the music industry and it made me feel slightly sick, especially since I was going in alone.

Stepping onto London’s turf, I deliberately chose a hotel in Canary Wharf, paid for by yours truly - this choice being highlighted by my newfound but still modest monthly income courtesy of Dirty Hit. With a sense of fiscal responsibility guiding me, I made a conscious decision to specifically allocate these earnings towards my career and music in general (ie. Travel, hotels, instruments) - the frivolous expenditures can be done by my part time job at home, I thought.

Unpacking with ease, I had some time to kill before needing to get ready. The hotel, strategically positioned just a 15-minute walk from the venue, became my new hub. The TV emitted a soft glow, casting an ephemeral light on the hotel room. Mindless reruns of “Victorious” played in the background, their laughter and scripted drama a distant hum. Perched on the edge of the bed, I idly observed the characters on the screen. At just 23, I couldn’t shake the subtle unease about the most definite generation gap I would be encountering at the party.

What am I getting into? I mused, scrutinising my own reflection in the TV’s muted light.

The likely attendees loomed in my mind. I always strive to never care about how I will be perceived in times like this but it gets the better of me here. Would they see me as a songwriter? Or just another one trying to get by as an amateur artist like every other angsty young adult. Am I truly just crashing a party beyond my years? Do I sound like an absolute idiot right now?

My apprehension found a bit of refuge in the idea that there’s a few youthful signings to Dirty Hit in the recent years - hopefully they don’t cancel like I was contemplating to do a few minutes ago.

In the lingering hours leading up to the event, I settle into a quiet rhythm, my fingers dancing across the strings of my guitar. Quietly strumming to not upset anyone next door, the melodies echoed through the room. Jotting down anything that resonated with me on my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles notebook, I sought solace in the familiar embrace of my instrument, using it as my own vessel to get out the jumble of nerves and excitement within me.

My upcoming encounter with Matty Healy on the ‘songwriting getaway’ loomed large in my mind. He has a profound reputation for his creative mind, occasionally flirting with pretentiousness, but an intricate and enviable mind nonetheless. Would he see the potential in my songwriting?

The weight of his potential judgement fuelled my determination to impress him with the depth of my ideas. A fangirl moment interrupted my thoughts as the realisation struck - Matty might be at the party. It wasn’t even an outlandish notion either; after all, he was apart of the label, a big part at that. The mere possibility that the entirely of The 1975 might grace the event sent a shiver down my spine. Amid the brief reverie, I needed to refocus.

I want to show him good work.

A few more minutes of brainstorming and writing down ideas pass. “We all look for heaven, and we put love first,” was a phrase born from the introspective haze of my disassociation. I wrote down a few more ideas to pair with it - I liked it, it was earnest and real… hopefully others would think the same.

Glancing at my phone, the numbers told me there were still two and a half hours left. I nudged myself off of the bed and started the practical task of getting ready for the night. The shower became a sanctuary, the hot water cascading over me, it was a welcoming embrace after the lingering residue of travelling. As steam filled the bathroom, I closed my eyes, letting the warmth wash away not just the physical grime but the lingering nerves that clung to my skin.

Turning off the shower, I stood before the mirror, my damp hair awaiting transformation - fingers crossed. After drying, I curled and weaved strands into pin curls, a skill passed down from my mum. The familiarity of the routine was comforting. Makeup followed, the unfamiliar intensity of liner, mascara and slightly over-lined lips were a subtle nod at my newfound insecurity in my maturity. It made me look a little more mature, I guess. My hold-all offered a few choices of different outfits. I selected an off-the-shoulder black lace top, low-waisted jeans that hugged my hips and point-heeled boots to complete the ensemble. I surveyed myself in the mirror, definitely passable for the evening. With fourty-five precious minutes ticking down, I unraveled the pin curls, each strand dropping down into place showing a nice ‘blowout’ style. The air filled with the sweet embrace of my perfume, a final touch to my persona tonight.

Turning to my phone, I couldn’t resist the urge to take a couple selfies before heading out - I’m Gen Z, give me a break. Downstairs, the bar beckoned with the confident offering of liquid courage. I approached, I definitely need something strong. Ordering a double vodka, lemonade and a splash of blackcurrant, I winced as the contactless reader slapped me with a hefty £12.00 charge. Ah, London prices. The glass in my hand became my talisman, my elixir to bolster my resolve. As I sipped the time away, nerves tingled beneath my skin.

The party was likely in full swing by now, but my strategic calculations told me that arriving 30 minutes later meant most would be deep into their second drink, too dizzy to give me more than a fleeting thought. I nursed my drink, eyeing the clock, unwilling to dish out another £12 when a free bar awaited me at the venue. As I contemplated moving to a more comfortable spot a few feet away from the bar, my phone lit up with a message from Ben.

Eta?

Pre drinking alone at the bar haha. My university student brain is fried at London prices.

Nice lol, thought you weren’t coming for a sec. See you later.

Finishing the remnants of my drink, I relished the familiar burn as the liquid slid down. The hum of conversation and clinking glasses around me formed an antithetical soundtrack to the city’s docile pulse outside, excluding the occasional taxi driving past. I found a comfortable refuge in the short time i’d sat here, not really finding it in my feet to leave yet. The dim lighting cast a warm glow, creating their own little pockets of intimacy. A plush, but old-fashioned patterned carpet absorbed people’s footsteps, and the scent of aged wood and polished brass lingered in the air.

Pulling up the venue’s address on my phone, I looked at the walking journey on my screen. Google maps being my sacred guide through the labyrinth that is London streets - and oh, what I would do without it. And I know what you’re thinking: Camille, why the fuck are you planning on walking the streets of London at night alone? That is, my angels, because I am a cheap bitch and I refuse to spend £5 for a 3 minute car journey - I will just take my chances.

With a final glance at my phone, I examined the reflection staring back at me - not bad. I absolutely didn’t look like I was overcompensating for being an absolute nobody/foetus at this party.

Popping off the high bar chair, I smoothed down my top, my fingers brushing against the lace. As I reached the exit, the city’s climate bared itself to me, pinchingly cold air wafted onto me. The initial opening of the door was bad, but once I was outside, I was able to absorb most of the coolness. The glow of the streetlights guiding my way, casting a golden hue on the pavement.

At the end of my very safe -actually- walk, I was greeted by the bright LED sign that boldly announced the bar venue - ‘Pergola On The Wharf’. The glowing letters ambient against the night sky, like a beacon to draw people in. I could hear the muffled laughter and music through the refined brick walls. Stepping underneath the halo of the sign, I took a moment to myself, letting the good vibes and energy seep onto me. I made a mental commitment to let go of any lingering anxiety and embrace what could be a really fun night ahead. Maybe I’ll find Ben or I could introduce myself to other producers, or maybe even talk to Holly or Jamie.

Putting everything behind me, I stepped through the door of the bustling nexus of a bar. Unfolding everything before me, it was flooded with an array of unfamiliar faces, each one adorned with a concoction of some type of alcohol in their hand, laughter bubbling from every corner.

Groups of people, all talking together to make a harmonious cacophony, were scattered across the contemporary styled and what looked like plant-filled botanical bar. Lush ferns, vines, and vibrant flora adorned every corner and ceiling pane, creating a natural abundance of decoration. The vast glass window at the back offered a panoramic view of the dock outside, hinting that this bar probably had an inundation of bright, natural light during the daytime - which was a stark contrast to the glowing, candle-lit evening tonight. The aroma through the air was an intoxicating blend of florals and oud. A faint hint of cigarettes clung to people’s knitwear and thick clothing, adding a touch of ease to the ambiance.

Navigating through the basically sea of people, I looked around for any familiar faces. Some people danced energetically on the makeshift dance floor, lost in the rhythmic allure of the older club classics spun by the DJ in the corner, whilst others gathered in clusters, sat and stood all around. Amidst the crowd, I saw someone at the bar that caught my eye - a girl, roughly my age, who I knew just recently signed a deal with Dirty Hit, just a couple of months before me. She was engaged in a conversation with an unfamiliar face as they were paying for their drinks.

Seizing the opportunity to make some new friends, I made my way over, introducing myself with a smile. “Hey, hope I’m not interrupting, but I don’t really know anyone here. I’m Camille, I just signed with Dirty Hit a couple of months ago.”

“Hey! No, you’re totally fine,” her thick Scottish accent welcomed me warmly, the girl next to her turning also with a friendly grin. “I’m Isla and this is Sorcha. I was signed a few months ago as well so I don’t really know anyone here, so I thought I’d bring a plus one.”

“I didn’t even realise you could bring someone,” I laughed. “I wish I brought someone from home because honestly, an hour ago I was debating not even coming.”

“Oh, there was no plus ones allowed,” Isla replied in a hush, leaning in closer. “I just hope they think Sorcha’s one of the interns!”

Isla, a girl with unmistakable Scottish charm, stood out with her gorgeous, curly, ginger hair that tumbled in a cascade of vibrant, thick waves. Her fair skin bore the artistry of delicately placed freckles, and a bright smile that creased her eyes. Next to her, Sorcha was a striking contrast with her tanned complexion. Her long straight black hair flowed with a sleek elegance, framing her face and adding a touch of shine. Sorcha’s features were chiseled, embodying a blend of modernity but classic allure at the same time. They both were gorgeous and looked like a dynamic duo only seen in movies.

We found a comfortable spot at the bar, and talked about what we were working on in our early days being signed at our label. Sorcha was still in University, studying media and radio in hopes to have her own radio show one day. Isla was found via TikTok and had amassed an impressive following of 70k for her covers before she was scouted. She had been working with one of Dirty Hit’s partner producers in Scotland to save the constant trips, and is looking at releasing her first single in the next few weeks, which is so exciting.

“It’s called ‘Do I Have Your Attention?’, it’s basically a slow, acoustic song about my relationship with my family. I’m really proud of it,” she beams, circling her finger around the glass top of her cocktail.

“Honestly, that’s so exciting,” I smile at her. “I’ll keep an eye out for it when it’s out!”

“Aw, yeah, you should give me a text and let me know what you think about it!” Isla replies as she grabs her phone out of her pocket and slides it over to me. “Put your number in, always good to stay in touch with each other!”

Whilst putting my number in her phone, it seemed like a perfect time to grab a drink. I perused the menu, green circular stickers next to certain drinks indicated what was and wasn’t apart of the included drinks tab tonight. Opting for a French martini, I joined the conversation again, mentally wiping the sweat off my forehead for finding people I could talk to.

“What are you working on right now?” Sorcha shifted the spotlight onto me.

“I’ve had a few sessions with a few producers to establish what sound I want to make, I think I’ve found my voice with one of them, so I’m excited to work with him again,” I say, thanking the bartender as he brought over my freshly made French Martini. “I actually got a call a week or so ago about if I was interested in going on a work getaway for a few days to make new music, so all I’m doing right now is just writing down anything I like or anything I think I could use in a song. The idea of showing off my ideas to them is so nerve wracking.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Isla chimed in with understanding, acknowledging the pressure in the industry. “Everyone has so much experience and is so creative, that it’s actually really anxiety inducing to show them what you’ve been working on, honestly I’m completely in the same boat. But everyone here is just so lovely.”

Her reassurance carried the weight of our shared anxiety, and I found comfort in her words. As we moved away from the bustling bar, standing amidst the lively crowd, Isla's curiosity veered toward the details of my upcoming musical getaway. I shared the scant information I had – a countryside location, collaboration with Ben, and the unexpected mention of Matty from The 1975 expressing interest in working with me, for some unknown reason.

"Matty Healy?" Sorcha's eyes widened, leaning in with genuine awe. Isla, equally surprised, exchanged glances with her friend. "Are you friends with him?"

I chuckled at Sorcha's enthusiasm and Isla's teasing nudges into her friend’s arm. The playful banter lightened the mood as I clarified that I wasn't friends with Matty, but rather, the prospect of collaborating with him was a part of the upcoming getaway.

Sorcha, in her unabashed love for Matty Healy, couldn't help but gush over the luck tied to the opportunity. Her cheeky question, a typical Love Island-esque move, drew an amused look from Isla. I navigated the topic, acknowledging Matty's attractiveness and creative prowess while trying to gracefully sidestep the "do you fancy him?" inquiry.

"I mean, he's definitely attractive," I replied with a hint of laughter, unsure how to navigate the question diplomatically. Admitting my admiration while surrounded by his friends and colleagues required a delicate balance of honesty and discretion. "I saw him at Leeds once, and, well, he was quite a sight."

Sorcha’s unabashed admiration for Matty echoed through the buzzing atmosphere of the party, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting the man of the hour to materialise. She turned back to face me, a mix of awe and envy painted on her face.

“I think he’s fucking stunning,” she declared, her gaze still darting around the venue in search of, to her, the elusive rock god. “I’m gonna be honest; I am so, so jealous of you right now. I’m absolutely in love with that man.”

“I know, it’s so surrea-“ I begin to share my thoughts with her, only to be abruptly cut off by Sorcha’s relentless proclamation of undying love for Matty Healy. Isla, seated beside her, sank slightly into her wooden chair, glancing between the two of us with a mixture of amusement, embarrassment and concern.

“The fact that he could even be in this room right now is driving me insane,” Sorcha continued, fervently expressing her infatuation and getting her point across (very much so) to me.

“I know it’s—“ I attempted to respond, but Sorcha’s enthusiasm overpowered any chance of a cohesive conversation.

“When you’re on your ‘getaway’ with him, you need to FaceTime me or something, she exclaimed, her excitement escalating as she fumbled for something in her purse. Suddenly, her phone emerged in her hand like a prized possession, and the conversation took a turn that left me feeling a bit uncomfortable, if I wasn’t already. “Then you can be like, ‘oh, this is my friend; I think you guys would get on well’ - something like that. Here, let me get your number!”

With the commotion, Isla sprang from her seat, nearly toppling over a woman in a black fur coat trying to navigate past her. The two exchanged hurried apologies before Isla seized Sorcha’s hand, pulling her away from the table.

“One sec, come with me to the toilet really quickly,” Isla instructed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sorcha replied, following Isla’s lead. Before disappearing into the crowd, she turned back, flashing a wide smile my way. “I’ll find you later, okay?”

“Yeah, of course!” I shoot her a polite closed mouth smile back at her, my attention then shifting to Isla. She mouthed a guilt-ridden ‘sorry’ before vanishing into the sea of people. Well, that was interesting. I couldn’t help but think that maybe avoiding Sorcha for the rest of the night might be a good idea, as endearing as her enthusiasm was.

Amidst that wild chaos of an interaction, I rose from my seat, scanning the crowded room for any familiar faces. At least I already filled an hour or so of being here.

Before I began walking around aimlessly, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the crowd, and I turned to see Ben waving from the back of the bar near the windows.

“Camille!” he called out, his thick curly hair falling just before his shoulders. His tanned skin was complimented by wearing a white button up and fitted dress trousers. I weaved through the pulsating mass of people, relieved to have found a familiar anchor in this place.

“How’s things?” Ben asked, taking me in a brief hug, careful not to spill his pint of cider in his hand. “Thought you were gonna bail.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “No, no, couldn’t miss out on a free bar, don’t be silly.”

“I know, think I’ve saved sixty pound already tonight,” he chucked, bringing his glass into the air, causing some of it to spill over the top. For someone who’s probably had 8/9 pints of cider now, he wasn’t overly drunk, just on a good wavelength I would say.

We caught up for a while, talking about what we’ve been doing since we last saw each other, which wasn’t long at all. Ben talked about the new audio interface that he’s just bought for the studio and how he’s excited to try it out with me. A lot of our conversation was about our upcoming getaway, touching on topics like our favourite takeaways and how we are actually going to the Cotswolds for a week to write, which was exciting as I’d heard that that place was one of the most beautiful places in the country!

“Do you smoke weed?” Ben asked casually, his gaze fixed on his now-empty pint of cider with a frown. “Totally fine if not, just I know Matty and I probably will be bringing some down with us… if you’re fine with it?”

“God, don’t even be silly, of course you can,” I reply with a laugh, fanning away his slight concern with my hand. I didn’t smoke a lot, but when I did, it would usually make my throat hurt the morning after, so I tend to stay away from it but edibles are another story. The amount of times me and my flatmates at university used up the last of our change in our pockets to buy laced Haribos after a long week of studying, I couldn’t count on my fingers. Those were the best times. “I’m not much into smoking, but I’ll fetch some gummies or brownies down as well, what do you think?”

“Honestly, that’s perfect,” he smiled at my offer, and we sealed our agreement with the clink of our empty glasses. “Think it really gets your mind going to places you can’t explore otherwise, great for writing, plus it just gets you chilled out, doesn’t it?”

I was about to reply when a hand was firmly placed on Ben’s shoulder, a black nicely fitting long sleeve and washed out blue jeans was the first glance I got of him. He excluded the smell of thick smoke and some sort of expensive alluring fragrance, he must’ve been outside for a cigarette and then reapplied his cologne just a couple minutes ago - that or the cologne was just that strong.

“Going to the bar, mate. You wanting the same again?” Matty asked raising his eyebrows, holding his empty glass and pointing at Ben’s with the same hand. His eyes briefly flickered to mine before doing a very obviously double take at me. “Oh hi, Darling, I should’ve introduced myself sooner. I’m Matty.”

“No, you’re fine!” I say quickly before I’m engulfed in a hug from him, his smell being even more intoxicating this close. Yeah, I get what Sorcha was saying now. “I’m Camille, how are you?”

“I know exactly who you are, I’ve been listening to your work with Ben for a bit,” he says, beaming between the two of us in front of him, clearly a lot more gone than Ben. “I’m great though, what are you drinking? I’ll fetch you back something.”

Before I could reply, Ben intervened by taking both mine and Matty’s glasses from our hands. “You’ve went and got my last two, Matty. I’ll get this next one. Same again?”

“Yeah, please, mate. Love you, mate, thank you,” he replied slightly slurring his words as he had both hands on Ben’s shoulders giving him an affectionate shake.

As Ben made his way towards the bar, it left us momentarily alone together in this hectic room of a party. I found myself just stood beside Matty, a subtle tension lingering in the air as if waiting for each other to speak first.

A sly grin crept across Matty’s face and I couldn’t help but return it.

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thisisnotmeta · 1 year ago

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Million Dollar Man

Chapter 1

Sent.

There it was—my very first music contract signed.

My hands swiped back and forth between the 'sent' and 'draft' inboxes, confirming the reality of the moment. The air shuddered with anticipation as I blankly stared at my inbox, silently praying for a reply in the mere 1.4 seconds since I hit 'send.'

Fresh out of university last year, I found myself grappling with the realisation that I needed to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Studying history had its limits—teaching or diving into more debt for a specialised master's degree were the conventional routes. However, nestled in the corners of my life was my little secret—I'd always been a songwriter. It wasn't something anyone really knew about until 3 months ago. After a drunken night in with my mum, I mustered the courage to share one of my demos with her. Her insistence that it was the greatest piece of music she'd ever heard, albeit the expected maternal praise, boosted my confidence. The morning after, armed with nothing more than my shitty Amazon mic and GarageBand, I sent three of my best demos to four different music labels across the country.

In the agonising months of waiting for a reply from any label, hope slipped through my fingers with each passing day. Just when despair threatened to engulf me, a glimmer of possibility emerged two weeks ago. Emails from two labels requesting in-person meetings to discuss my music further landed in my inbox, a lifeline amid the silence. Navigating a whirlwind 24-hour trip to London, I juggled the meetings, fueled by a mix of nerves and excitement. Having returned to my parents' home post-university, my part-time receptionist job became the financial anchor for one day moving out and starting my own new little life.

The journey from the North to London felt long, god it was so long, yet the promise of these potential signings kept me going. The meetings with both labels exceeded expectations, but Dirty Hit held a specific pull on me. They not only understood my musical aspirations but, to my disbelief, I met specifically with the label's founder, Jamie Oborne. A stark contrast to the very very lovely but somewhat underwhelming talent scout at the other label, Dirty Hit resonated with me on every level—the sound, the artists, the team. It felt like a perfect fit, a musical home where my compositions seamlessly blended with their illustrious discography.

The dream was a reality when Jamie extended the signing offer. Without hesitation, I accepted. The train ride back, though again, immensely long, was some of the best fun I’ve ever had. Amidst the clatter of the tracks, I scribbled down fragments for future songs, mapped out my imaginary world tour, envisioned albums, and even planned my Met Gala outfit. The euphoria of realising a lifelong dream had just basically become a reality in a matter of months hadn’t given me any time to process anything. But I was absolutely ready to potentially start something absolutely amazing. And here I was sitting in front of my MacBook, staring blankly at my Gmail.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind, a lot of online meetings, emailing and future discussing. Jamie liked my demos and wanted to get them produced and mixed professionally as well as teach me how to do it myself. I travelled back to London a few times in the weeks prior to practice and test with different producers the team thought I’d mix well with. My most successful session was my most recent, as Dirty Hit expensed a hotel for me for two nights in London to focus on my time in the studio. Ben Gleason, one of Dirty Hit’s leading producers, was someone who truly understood my music and shaped it in a way that I could genuinely hear one of my demos appearing on the radio, it was crazy. His vision and expertise were admirable to anyone. My demo, over the past 15 hours we worked on it, had turned into a real, titled potential single – ‘Million Dollar Man’.

Before I was sent to travel back home, we sent it off to the team to listen to and give feedback. It was a success, thank god. Waiting for the train to come in at Kings Cross, the sound of my ringtone filled my headphones. As I looked at my phone, I wasn’t fazed by the ‘unknown’ number and filled my boredom by answering it anyway.

‘Hello?’ I said in a slow voice, totally expecting some type of phone provider or accident scam, which usually came with answering unknown numbers.

“Hi, is this Camille?” A chirpy, womanly voice replied back to me.

“It is, yeah,” I replied nonchalantly. “Who is this, sorry?”

“Perfect! It’s Holly from Dirty Hit,” She replied. My breathing hitched, okay this phone call was important then and not just fun. This must be Jamie’s assistant, who I met a couple times through our Zoom meetings. “Thought I’d give you a little ring, so you can get my number saved and so I can update you on some things! We’ve just had a meeting today about what we want to do with you in the next few weeks and we went through everything you talked about, and we were thinking about potentially focusing you more on studio time right now, and we are wanting you to build on the songs you are in the process of and create one really really strong song that we can put out as your debut. What are your thoughts on that?”

“I think that’s a great idea! Ben and I were brainstorming a lot of songs that had great potential, so it would be cool to work with him again,” I practically begged through the phone. Ben is most definitely my favourite producer in the three I’d worked with in the short time. As much as I think Million Dollar Man is perfect, there are so many that might even end up better.

“Yeah, Ben is one of the best, especially for your sound,” she agrees, pausing for a second as she clicks what sounds like a pen and takes time to write something down. “We were thinking of sending you and a couple of our producers on a work getaway and maybe taking the time that you are there to write some songs and find your own dynamic with them, what do you think?”

“Of course, I’d love to!” I exclaim through the phone. Walking through the station to get to my soon departing train back home. Amazing, more studio work, more song writing - I have been dreaming of getting phone calls like this for years.

I have so many ideas in my head and written in my notebook just waiting to be explored with real professionals like Ben. I just prayed silently in my head that my quick praise of him would lead them sending him on the getaway along with whoever else they wanted to send with me - probably Joel or Vanna, the other two producers I had worked with in the time I’d been here. Joel’s sound was old school and he loved that classic drum in the background. Of course I didn’t hate it; he always made it sound gorgeous, but I loved the more earthy, tender sounds - songs that you could sit in the bath and vibe/pour your eyes out to. Vanna’s sound was cool, she worked a lot with the 1975, Dirty Hit’s biggest signing. Working with her was very fun, hearing about her stories with them and lots of other big musicians she has produced allowed me to have a little fangirl moment a couple times in the studio.

“Do you have an idea on which producers are coming along?” I continued.

“I’m just gonna give Ben a call and see when he’s available,” she replied. Yes! Thank god. “Thought I’d give you a call first before I called anyone else… but I know you haven’t met yet but Jamie thinks it would be a great opportunity to work with Matty aswell.”

“Matty… Healy, from the 1975?” I stutter. Surely not, I know he worked with Baebadoobee and a couple others on their latest work but surely he wouldn’t take the time to work with someone who’s just starting, would he? I wasn’t a huge 1975 fan, but I knew of their songs and Matty’s work and I admired them a lot. I’d kill to get to the level they are, but all in good time.

“Yeah, actually!” She laughed slightly through the phone. Woah. “He actually works a lot with our artists to establish their sound, you know what I mean? and he’s really talented, I promise. He was a part of our meeting today and he’s got a lot of good ideas that I think you’ll like, not to mention all the advice he can give you with starting out and he can talk you through his own experiences as well.”

“That’s amazing, I love his work!” I smile to myself, probably looking like an idiot in front of all these serious, fast walking Londoners. It seems so unbelievable that Matty Healy would take any time out of his busy schedule to work on my music, he must be bored. “If that’s something he is interested in, then I’d absolutely love to work together on something.”

“Okay, that’s perfect!” She replied. “No, he’s very interested, don’t worry. He went with Beabadoobee on a work getaway a few months ago, working on some new stuff and they made some gorgeous music - think he just wants the bragging rights again really. But, honestly he’s a star, you'll love him.”

As I was settling myself down on the busy train, Holly was writing down my best dates for the trip and ended the phone call pleasantly soon after. A Sunday to Wednesday a few weeks from now was the time they had written down for Matty’s availability and that worked with me! God knows where they were going to take us, but I couldn’t help but get excited. Me, Ben and sexy Matty Healy. I just hope he’s not a dick.

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