Chapter Ten Soundtrack: Turn the Record Over by Emina Sonnad

I'm still wearing Nas's coat draped across my shoulders. It's heavy, but not unpleasant. The rain drips onto the hardwood floors.

As I hang it up, he lights the lamps, illuminating his loft. An enormous window covers one wall and wraps up to the ceiling, becoming a broad skylight. Bookshelves climb up the walls, stuffed with faded paperbacks, and between the shelves are vintage movie posters. His table is large, light wood and set with melted wax candlesticks and an open wine bottle.

Through an open archway, I can see his bed. I quickly look away.

'It's beautiful,' I say honestly. 'Your landlord has amazing taste.'

When his mouth quirks, I realise he owns it. My cheeks flame.

'Thank you.'

He gestures me to the table and I set up my laptop. Looking around, I can't see any photographs or souvenirs: his home is beautiful but strangely impersonal. I add this to the 'Mysteries About Nas' column.

'Okay, tell me what's wrong.'

I explain briefly: the cancelled studio work, the festival in two weeks, the unrecorded audio. I'm spiralling into a panic about the missing contracts, but he snaps me out of it. One thing at a time.

'You just need scratch audio?' he asks, referring to unfinished voices which will be replaced later. 'For the festival.'

'I guess so? But I don't know where I can find another studio and until Legal sorts the contracts I don't even know if we're allowed to work with anyone else.'

'And you have the existing audio mix currently? Not final deliverables, but enough that we could watch it?'

'Sure.'

'Why don't we just do the crowd noises?'

I laugh. 'Sure. Let's just star in it too, shall we? Direct, maybe?'

I stop laughing when I remember that, for one of us, a starring role isn't laughable.

'Why not?' he asks. 'I have a microphone somewhere. Can you do a Yorkshire accent?'

Can I?

'Maybe,' I say, in a sort-of-Yorkshire accent.

He looks hard at me. 'That'll do. Have some water, stretch. Then we'll record.'

Again, I wait for the punchline, but apparently he doesn't joke about voice recording. I do some half-hearted side stretches.

He sweeps back to the table with a podcast-style microphone. I nearly ask my burning question ('Have you ever hosted a podcast?') but remind myself, firmly, that he's doing me a favour.

A huge favour, actually. This is the perfect opportunity to oust me. It's embarrassing to everyone involved, but especially me. All he has to do is nothing and I'd be out of a job. No one to share work with. No one to bicker with. No one to glare at, spill coffee on, or flick paper aeroplanes at during late nights at work.

But he isn't doing nothing, and suspicion spikes, hard and thorny. He's not just helping: he hasn't said anything snide in at least twenty minutes.

'Stop overthinking,' he says, without looking up. 'I'll direct us.'

Why should he direct? Why shouldn't I?

'Unless you know how to direct?' he continues. 'Or anything about ADR?'

My mouth snaps shut.

'Good,' he nods. 'We'll record a load of takes, pick the best selects, and overlay it all. The important thing is to put on different voices, and different pitches, so that they sound like a crowd. Just to warm up, give me Yorkshire wench. Be outraged. Say anything you like. Shout if you want.'

My tongue is too large for my mouth, suddenly. What can I say that isn't mortifying? I'm not an actress. I'm apparently not even a good producer.

'I don't know how.'

'It's just me, Eleanor. Do you care what I think?'

His voice is oddly intense, as though he's asking an entirely different question.

'Of course not.'

He exhales and leans back. His voice is flat when he says, 'Wench me, then.'

'Come over here!' I try. He listens through his headphones, leans back, and nods.

'Okay, the accent was good. Do the same again, but shout it like you mean it'. I do as he says and he smiles approvingly.

He takes me through a series of lines, all improvised, asking me to pitch my voice up and down. Between takes, he records lines too, riffing off my words. 'Do you think you could do a child's voice?' he asks.

I'm on a roll now.

'Here, lassie!'

He spits his water across the table.

'Nasir!' I squeal, tugging my headphones off. I uselessly paw at his drenched shirt. 'Do you have napkins, or—'

He is laughing too hard to respond. Enormous, rolling laughs emerge until he is sobbing and soundless. He gestures me to the counter, where I find kitchen roll to dab at the table.

'Nas!' I am shrill now. 'Your laptop!'

His giggles subside. Slowly, he turns his dark gaze to me. His eyes are warm and liquid with pleasure.

Something bubbles up in my belly. It rises, slowly, up my chest and squeezes from my pressed lips like a snort—and now we're laughing together, hopelessly, and I can't press it down. It insists on being felt.

'My laptop's fine,' he finally sighs. 'Thanks for that, Eleanor. That was the worst child's voice I've ever heard.'

Somehow the criticism doesn't sting. He's always thought I was useless—why should this matter?

Instead, I reply, 'You just lack my artistic vision.'

'It was like a horror film. Like if a chipmunk was a serial killer in a horror film.'

'That was my vision, Nasir.'

He looks intently at me. 'Envision this: old man does goat impersonation.'

He lets out a raspy bleat.

'Timid teacher drives a bus.'

'Irate shopkeeper throws away his bananas.'

'That actually sounds just like my Uncle Tim.'

'Really?'

'Uncanny.'

'Well, I'm a gifted mimic.'

'Is there anything you can't do?'

His lips twitch. 'You're not so bad yourself. Maybe we'll cast you in a puppet show. The Exceptional Adventures of Eleanor the Extraordinary.'

'Featuring infamous child prodigy Nasir Naji.'

His smile dims. 'I'm not a prodigy anymore.' He turns back to his laptop. A shiver runs through me.

Fun's over, I guess. I switch off the microphone and save the files.

These recordings—they're a reckless idea, but they might be enough, just maybe, to edit into something usable.

Nas is deliberately not looking at me.

Not that I care, of course. I hate when he looks at me. That's all we are: two colleagues who hate each other.

'Have you read the latest script submissions?' I ask.

He runs his hands through his hair. 'No.'

'I'll do it tonight and send you notes.'

'Eleanor, it's almost midnight. You're tired, you've been drinking. Do it on Monday.'

She shows up weeks late, unqualified, unprepared.

'I'll do it tonight,' I tell him, and stand up to leave.

'Sit down,' he sighs. 'Stay here. If you want to work, let's work.'

*

i had so much fun with this chapter! here's what i was picturing for nas' living room:

maybe ellie will get to see his bedroom so maybe we will too 😉