I'm a songwriter. A really good one. That's not wishful thinking or having delusions of grandeur, it's the simple truth. Problem is, I'm not a very lucky one. There are other songwriters around that aren't nearly as good, but they're a whole lot luckier than me. Me? I waited in the departure hall, along with the luckless and talentless, hoping someone might let me in.
My wife is unluckier still. She was the woman who had married the unlucky songwriter. She heard my voice when she was young and innocent, and decided that she would join me for the ride. Sadly for her, the ride was mostly downhill, save for the odd little thrill along the way.
So, two kids later, and having held down a host of jobs that allowed me to write and perform, my wife was well and truly over it. Normal people had amazing holidays. Others were mortgage free. Friends were doing so much better.
I'm not trying to paint her in a bad light - she's a superstar. She has stood by me through all of this, and to the best of my knowledge, she has never wandered, even when she probably wanted to. In return, I had never so much as touched another woman, despite countless opportunities when I had played at gigs where I happened to play just the right song to just the right woman with just the right amount of alcohol in her system. I pride myself on my loyalty to my wife, and whilst a woman deserves nothing less than such faithfulness, I knew that in the world of music, I was in the moralistic minority.
A couple of years ago, I had an epiphany. I had played at an event and as per usual, the response was very good (as I said, I'm good, just unlucky!) with people making a point of asking me why I had not prospered in the world of music. I decided that it was time to take the bull by the horns and make a proper go of music. I was going to make them beg me to grace their grand stages and I would lavish my wife with holidays, mortgage payments and success. It should be noted that I wanted to do this not because it's what she wanted, but because it's what she deserves. Like I said, she is an incredible woman.
Anyway, I had it all worked out, I knew where I could get financial backing, I knew how I could sell the music I was making, and I knew the audience that would like it. I talked my wife through it and she wore this expression that worried me. it was if she had borrowed a mask from someone and was trying it out for the first time. It was totally foreign to me, and behind this mask, she said nothing. Like any sales pitch, when the client's not buying, it's not a pretty scene.
My pitch fell flat. It was met with complete silence. And that mask! I finally ran out of words, and there was a moment that was so awkward I knew not what to do. So I did nothing, until she spoke, from behind this new facade.
"I'm over it. We've waited too long for this to work, and I can't see this one working. In fact, I can't see it ever working for you. If you do this, I think it would be putting our marriage at risk." And with that she stood up and walked from the room, leaving me utterly stunned.
Now, those of you blessed with unshakable conviction in yourself will no doubt have faced this situation in a different way, but to me, my wife and family is my foundation, so faced with an ultimatum such as the one delivered so calmly by my wife, I chose to do what was necessary to save the marriage, and I set about finding a job that would help bolster it immediately.
Now, being a good writer means that I can string the odd word together, so I found work as a marketing advisor and promotional writer for a small design firm, and everything settled down nicely. The guitar went to the garage, the work clothes went to the dry cleaners, and the clock started ticking.
I was on the train six months into the job, when the words of my wife played back through my mind. It struck me as surreal that the very thing I feel I'm best at, no, the very thing I KNOW I'm best at - should put my marriage and all it stands for - at risk. I was smiling wryly to myself as I fell asleep, rocked gently by the train as it wound its way along the coastline and in to the city.
That night, there was a work function, the kind I usually sit out, but I had been advised strongly by my boss that this client was one which demanded all hands on deck. The client in question was an ad agency that we got work from, and apparently this necessitated the entire staff to turn up to this event, drink champagne and lick as much arse as we possibly could.
Checking my watch, I saw it was 8:40, which meant it was nearly the acceptable time for making my excuses and heading home. I was on my third champagne, and I was practising my departure lines in my head when a youngish blond woman touched my arm, getting my attention instantly.
"You're Dan, right?" (There, now I've introduced myself - better late than never.)
"Er, yes. And you are?" I left it hanging waiting for the pretty stranger to do the honours. And she was pretty. Sparkly blue eyes, medium height, and a smile that seemed ever so slightly dangerous.
"Mel." She said simply. And appeared happy to leave it at that, which I felt made things slightly awkward.
"Right." I said. "And you work for the agency?" I ventured.
"Yep. Writer." She replied, making the stilted conversation no less awkward.
"So how do you know my name?" I asked, genuinely interested in how she would know who I am considering I would not even feature on the agency's radar, let alone be someone worth knowing.
"I'm pretty sure you wrote a song for my sister's wedding. Her name's Emily, and she got married a couple of years ago..."
"Emily Chapple" I interrupted her. "Married a guy called Steve?"
"Dan, you're good." My memory impressed her.
"Not at all, I just do so few weddings, that I remember them all pretty well."
"So why are you doing this, when you're clearly a better singer?"
Ah, the age old question. The chestnut. The million dollar question. I responded in my time honoured fashion.
"Music's a great thing to do, and I'd like to earn from it, but when you look at it, years ago the musicians would play for food and shelter, or for sheer enjoyment after a hard day of graft. It's only in the last 70 years that money became a factor."
She thought this one over, and that naughty mouth twisted to show she wasn't buying it.
"Bullshit." She drained her glass. "Anyway, Dan - this is a dreadful little gathering which is fast approaching flatline. I took it upon myself to tell my boss that you just happen to be an outstanding musician, and you will see that the champagne glasses are all resting on a very nice looking grand piano."
I looked blankly at her, fear starting to worm its way inside me. I'm confident in my abilities, but there is a time and a place, and that night I was wearing another hat, and as far as I was concerned, I had left the music hat at home.
"Dan. Hate to do this to you, but...you're up."
"Mel, listen - this is really awkward, because, well, the people at work don't even know I play music, so -
"If you don't play, Dan, your little design firm may not have a contract any more!"
She was teasing, and I knew it, and I would have called her bluff it wasn't for the sound of a fork tapping on a champagne glass and silence filling the room. It was the head of the agency, Dave someone. He looked very happy with himself and his lot, and I was hoping to God he was doing a "thanks for coming, time to go" speech.
