Old Town Symphony PAPERBACK

Kezia Blair closed her eyes and let the music swallow her whole. The cool leather of the studio headphones pressed gently against her ears, sealing out the world until only the song remained. Layered instrumentation wrapped around her, but she was listening for something deeper: pockets of space where her voice could slip in, weaving light through shadow.

“Higher Ground” would be pop star Verity James’s next single. But for now, the only vocals on the track were Kezia’s—a clean, steady guideline bathed in the textured harmonies she’d already recorded.

When Verity finally bothered to show up to the studio and do her part, her voice would replace Kezia’s lead. But the backing vocals would stay. Kezia’s voice—every rise, every blend—would still be there, propping up the final product.

She didn’t mind. This was the kind of work she loved. Art and arithmetic fused into one—calculating intervals, sculpting tone, shaping emotion without stealing focus. She could do this all day—build exquisite cathedrals out of sound, then hand someone else the spotlight.

Head tilted, she swayed slightly, fingers tapping in time. There—in the pre-chorus—a tiny pocket of air. If she added a high descant right there, it would catch the melody’s light and throw it back like stained glass.
She signaled to producer Sam Crawford that she was ready, her reflection ghosting in the control room glass. Inhaling on cue, she added the new harmony with practiced precision.

A glance at the booth clock confirmed it was nearly two. Verity was almost two hours late, even by London standards. Sam was too professional to grumble out loud, but Kezia knew every minute of studio time cost him money. He was paying for Verity to keep them all waiting, and the label expected the completed track tonight.

“One more for insurance? If your voice is feeling good?” Sam asked. “That last run was gorgeous, but it’s always nice to have options.”

She nodded. Her throat still felt strong. Three hours in, and her special throat coat tea was holding up its end of the bargain. The warm licorice and slippery elm had kept her voice supple.

“From the bridge?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“You read my mind. Rolling in three, two...”

Kezia let the main vocal track wash over her, waiting for her entrance. Her fingertips tapped lightly against her thigh, keeping time with the click track in her left ear. On cue, she opened her mouth and let the new harmony slip into the mix—clean, precise, threading beneath the melody like silk.

The red light blinked off. Sam’s voice returned. “Perfect. Want to try that alternate bridge harmony? The one where the third drops out on the second repeat? No pressure. We’ve got everything we need from you, but since we’ve got the time…”

“Copy that,” Kezia said. “Just the fifth and octave, light on the vibrato.”

She was halfway through the variation when the studio door burst open.

A petite woman stumbled in, sunglasses still on despite the dim lighting, clutching an oversized coffee like a life preserver.

“Why isn’t my booth ready?” Her voice sliced through Kezia’s harmony line. “We’re already behind schedule.”

Kezia had only seen her on magazine covers and in music videos. So this was Verity James in the flesh, somehow both smaller and louder than expected.

Sam’s diplomatic tone crackled through the headphones. “Good to see you, Verity. We’re just wrapping up with Kezia. She’s been laying down some beautiful—”

“Whatever.” Verity waved a manicured hand and marched into the booth, invading Kezia’s space in a cloud of designer perfume. Jasmine, patchouli…and vodka?

Verity’s complexion had a sickly gray undertone beneath her makeup, and sweat dotted her hairline despite the air conditioning. She shoved her sunglasses onto her forehead and winced at the lights with bloodshot eyes.

She didn’t bother with introductions. Just scanned Kezia from head to toe like she was part of the furniture.

Then she pushed in front of Kezia, reaching for the mic stand. “Can someone fix this? It’s set up for a giraffe.”

Kezia tucked her session notes into a folder, packing up slowly. Looked like her work here was done. She’d built Verity’s backing vocals for weeks, but this was the first time they’d shared a room. Funny how you could know someone’s voice so intimately—its breaks and its sweet spots—without knowing the person at all.

She reached for her thermos and her package of premium throat coat tea—just as Verity’s hand shot out toward the box.

“Oh good,” Verity said, “I need this.”

Kezia got there first, pulling the box of tea toward her. “I’m sorry, this is my personal supply.”

“Are you serious?” Verity’s voice rose. “I need that for my session. My throat is killing me.” She turned toward the glass. “Sam!”

Sam winced behind the console. “Kezia, would you mind leaving a few teabags? We’ll make sure you’re compensated.”

Kezia frowned. The specialty tea from Harrod’s wasn’t cheap, and she had just enough to last the week. But Sam’s eyes held a silent plea—the look of a man trying to keep the peace.

She sighed and pulled three bags from the box, setting them on a napkin.

As she stepped out of the booth, Sam leaned toward her. “I hate to ask, but would you mind making the tea for her? You know how long to steep it and…” He nodded toward the glass, where Verity was complaining again about the mic stand, which had been adjusted for Kezia’s 5’10” frame. “We really need as little friction as possible.”

Irritation flared. Apparently, tea service was now part of her job. But Sam had given her steady work for three years. He never lowballed her rates or haggled over hours. In a career stitched together from zero-hours contracts and last-minute gigs across London’s studios, his loyalty mattered. Especially with her housing situation hanging by a thread.
She’d do it for him. Not for Verity.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll bring it right in.”

“Thanks. And—would you mind sticking around a while longer? I have a feeling we might need you.”

The sound engineer entered the booth with Verity and cranked the mic stand down several notches. “Would you like to warm up before we check levels?”

Verity scowled. “Warm up? I’ve been ready for hours. Not my fault everyone else is behind. Where are my lyrics, Sam?”

He slid the lyric sheet through the window. “We’ve highlighted the changes from the demo.”

Verity frowned. “You changed the second verse? I thought the original was better.”

“The label wanted the new lyrics. They tested better in focus groups,” Sam said, calm as ever. “And remember, there’s a quick turnaround in the pre-chorus. We struggled with that timing in rehearsals.”

“Whatever,” Verity muttered, scanning the lyrics.

Sam pressed the talkback button. “Let’s do a quick level check, and then we’ll get started.”

“I need that tea first.”

“On it,” Kezia said, moving toward the door.

But before she could exit, a studio assistant stepped in. “Sam, Zach Falconer is here for your two o’clock.”

Sam cursed softly. “Already? Please tell him I apologize for the delay. Ask him to give us a few minutes.”

Wow. Working with Verity James was already a feather in Sam’s cap. But he had enough pull to keep an industry powerhouse like Zach Falconer waiting?

Kezia slipped out and headed for the break room. After all her training at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama, here she was...fetching tea for a singer who couldn’t be bothered to show up on time to record a track due tonight.

All that education. All that talent. And she was still invisible—the ghost in the machine, making stars like Verity sound better than they were.

She’d better get that tea before the star imploded.

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