The Hidden Girl by Louise Millar Read Free Book Online

the woods and was never seen again still sounded flat and monotone. It was nowhere close to the wrenching, stark quality that Jeremiah’s record company wanted Will to inject into their new YouTube find.
    ‘Going for a smoke, man,’ Jeremiah said, appearing and rubbing his blond beard. Will avoided Matt’s eye. Jeremiah was wearing a nineteenth-century-style American woodsman’s hat. The fact that his real name was Paul, and he came from Stevenage and his dad was a bank manager, had no bearing on his determination to live out his artistic calling. That also included smoking a clay pipe.
    Jeremiah headed off through the maze of rental rooms that comprised Smart Yak Studios.
    ‘Fu-uck me,’ Matt whispered. ‘The thing is . . . I’m not too hot on that idea . . . man,’ he drawled, mocking Jeremiah’s sensitive whine.
    Will folded his arms.
    ‘So, what now?’ Matt said.
    ‘Hard to tell them anything at that age,’ Will said. ‘I was the same. Pain in the bloody arse. What is he – nineteen? He hears some alternative American folk band and wants the sound, but he doesn’t know the genesis of it.’
    ‘So . . .’
    ‘So . . .’ Will made a clueless face. ‘We work the magic.’
    Matt stood up. ‘Want a beer to help you with that magic, sir?’
    Will did want a beer, but the old habit of drinking in the studio was creeping back recently. ‘Coffee, if you’re going, mate. Cheers.’
    As he tried to think of how to stop Jeremiah sounding like a pastiche of an Appalachian folk singer, he realized that Matt was holding the door open, talking. A woman’s coat was visible. It was Clare, the lighting designer, who rented the smallest of the Smart Yak studios.
    Matt popped his head back in. ‘Clare says they’re cancelling trains.’
    ‘What?’
    Will jumped up and headed to the corridor. ‘Is it that bad?’ He wiped the window and saw a white blizzard below. Dark figures hurried through Shepherd’s Bush. There were no cars anywhere.
    ‘Where’s it you’ve moved, Will?’ Clare said, placing a fake-fur Cossack hat on her head.
    ‘Suffolk,’ he said, distracted.
    She grimaced. ‘God, well good luck. Jamie’s stuck in Brighton at his dad’s. Just as well his school’s closed.’
    ‘Do you want to head off?’ Will asked Matt.
    ‘Might do, actually. What about you?’
    ‘I’ll crash here, I suppose. Jem might be up for another session, anyway.’
    ‘Well, good luck,’ Clare repeated, heading downstairs.
    They waved ‘bye’ to her, and returned to the studio.
    ‘I didn’t know they’d split,’ Will said, sitting back at the desk. ‘Wasn’t he in the pub, at Christmas?’
    ‘Broke up on New Year’s Eve.’ Matt pulled on his jacket. ‘You need to spend more time in the kitchen. Right. Sure I can go?’
    ‘Yep. Let me know if you can’t get in tomorrow.’
    ‘Will do.’
    ‘Cheers.’
    As soon as Matt left, Will turned on his mobile. Hannah was going to go mental. Excellent.
    The message sign was lit. He counted. One, two . . . five. All from Hannah.
    The first voicemail cut out almost as soon as she spoke, leaving him none the wiser. The rest weren’t much better, both garbled and intermittent. Even so, he could make out that irritating hyper-quality in her voice. Something about the broadband engineer cancelling, and . . . a . . . broken boiler? Will swore. A boiler would cost a grand, plus. This house was going to eat every penny he made for the next ten years. At this rate he’d never be able to build the studio. He’d be on that bloody train from Woodbridge for the rest of his life.
    There was a soft knock on the door, and Clare came in. She held out a six-pack of beer.
    ‘Forgot my gloves – your lovely Matt asked me to bring this up from the shop.’
    ‘Did he?’ Will said surprised, taking them from her. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘You want to hang on to him,’ she said, pulling on a black leather glove.
    ‘You’re telling me.’ He scratched his upper arm and saw her eyes