The Engineer

By the spring of 2008 I was in a steady job that paid well, had a house of my own and was, generally speaking, in a 'good place'. And with some form of stability in my life, I decided to dip my toes back into the mirky waters of the music business, just to see if that first adventure was down to skill, to luck, or maybe a combination of the two.

I quit the music business in the summer of 2003. I was broken, a ship without a rudder and seriously adrift in dangerous waters. Fearing for my life, I waved good-bye to the rock-n-roll dream and hopped on the first plane back to the UK using a stolen credit card and my sister's passport. The game was up and it was time to quit the field.

Looking back to that painful, difficult period, I had very few options remaining. I either left Seoul under my own steam, using an assumed identity, or I embarked upon a similar journey involving a wooden box anonymously stashed away in the plane's cargo hold, just another drugged-up failure, another casualty in the war against mediocrity. That's not being overly dramatic. That's the truth. I was, to use a quaint colloquialism, "fucked up".

A spell in a rehab clinic followed and, once I'd gotten myself straight and properly grounded, I returned to my previous life albeit more world-weary and heavily battle-scarred. I could handle the personal stuff, the emotional baggage, the sense of loss, and lost opportunities. I'm tough. I'm resilient. I fight my own battles. However, there was one battle I couldn't win. Wouldn't win. This fight wasn't internal and neither was it a desire to fall back under the influence of a frenzy of narcotics. This battle was with the Tax Man.

I was carrying a truly monumental debt, of the order of several hundreds of thousands of pounds, largely because my record company had neglecting to pay VAT and, because I was now back in the UK, that amount was now due. Little did I know that as soon as the aircraft's wheels touched the tarmac at Heathrow, the Tax Man and I would become uneasy bedfellows for the next four years. I clearly remember that first consultation with my new UK-based accountant : "Well, Sarah, You're not a millionaire any more. In fact..."

So that's the background to this adventure. It took me four years to extract myself from that level of debt and another two before I could build any kind of credit history.

Let's skip forward to 2008. I'm in a better place but I still have a number of important questions lingering in the back of my mind. Could I still call myself a musician? Did I give up too soon? Maybe I was just another no-talent hack who got lucky? Did I have a future in music, perhaps working in TV or on film scores? I wanted to know.

I put together a modest studio in a spare bedroom - a couple of guitars, some synths, a drum machine, all linked together by a well-spec'd MacBook. After that, I set to work on writing a new album.

Six months later, I emerged from the spare bedroom with the core of that album in place. Twelve songs of a dark and gloomy tone that I thought sounded pretty good. However, I knew that this collection was a long way from being fully finished and a couple of trusted friends suggested that I should seek out the services of a good producer, someone with experience who could point out both the album's strengths and its weakness, as well as plug the gaps and fix the holes.

Dale came well recommended. He had the reputation, the experience and the knowledge to get the job done and, best of all, he agreed to work for a lower rate albeit with a share in any profits.

We began working on the collection in September of 2008 and the plan was to have the bulk of the album finished by just into the New Year. From there, I thought I'd be able to hitch a ride on one or two of the summer festivals and so on...

However, there was a problem. Unbeknownst to me, Dale had recently separated from his wife of thirty years and he was not in a good place, mentally or physically. Actually, he was pretty messed up. Worse, his former wife, Missy, was still living under the same roof, and she would remain so placed until she could afford to buy her way out of their mortgage. That wasn't going to happen any time soon given that her only source of income was a weekend job behind the tills at Bejams.

Dale and I worked on my album nearly every night for the next two months. We worked quickly and efficiently, and the finished collection of songs started to sound good, like a cohesive, solid body of work.

I hardly ever saw Missy in that time, which suited us both. All the same, there was an atmosphere about the house throughout, like you'd just accidentally stumbled into the tail end of a bad argument between your parents. A real air of tension sitting quietly, stage left, patiently awaiting its cue to enter the limelight.

A few weeks went by and I became very attached to Dale. He was fun and had a great sense of humour. He was working on an exercise programme to improve his overall fitness and had started to take a greater interest in his appearance. He was shaving and bathing on a regular basis too, which was a plus given that we were spending long periods together in a confined space. At that point, I didn't think of him as a potential mate because, and let's be brutally honest, I was just twenty six and he was well past fifty. Worse, he wore all the signs of a mid-life crisis proudly and defiantly upon his sleeve so, by and large, he was off limits.

November the fifth 2008, Bonfire Night. I remember the night clearly. Dale had suggested that we should talk about the album's artwork. To that end, he'd arranged a meeting with his friend, Martin, to walk through the actual process. Given that I already had a few pencil sketches for the layout in my studio book, as well as a reasonable collection of suitable images, the timing couldn't have been better.

Dale, Martin and I sat down around Dale's huge dining table and talked about all of the various permutations and what they might cost. Missy was there throughout and was actually both interested and helpful, so I encouraged her as much as I could because I felt that any kind of dialogue was better than no dialogue at all.

At some point, I pulled out a memory stick full of photographs. Now, I hadn't been particularly careful about how I'd selected those images. I simply grabbed a handful from one folder and then another, and then another, until I had around two hundred graphics covering my time with my first band, a bunch I'd had taken in a professional studio and a small selection from my time working as a model, both for a local New Age / hippy fashion outlet and as a Life Model (detailed in the piece The Model Life).

And... yeah.. You guessed it. I somehow managed to leave a couple of the more colourful images in there. Actually, I'm lying. I kinda, sorta, deliberately wanted Dale to see some of those images. I wanted to see his reaction. Truth be told, even though I'd decided he was off-limits, I genuinely had a bit of a crush on him. I wanted Dale to see the true 'me', the 'me' that lives beyond the guitars and the music and the career-bitch persona. I wanted to show him that I was more than just a client with a deep pocket.

Okay, so the images weren't at all dodgy. I think the best/worst (take your pick) was me standing naked in a field, my back to the camera, coyly looking over my shoulder with my bum on show. Hey, we were having fun that day. Then we opened up another folder, a collection of photos I'd genuinely forgotten about. I was posing for a photographer friend, on the steps of Old Durham Gardens. This time, I'm in long shot but you can see everything. Boobs, pubes, the lot. I just went bright red in the face and tried to skip past the image but no, the damage was done.

Martin thought these racier images were superb. We couldn't use them but he'd changed his perception of me. I wasn't some kind of prissy tight-ass. Dale just looked extremely uncomfortable, visibly sweating. Missy? She smiled and giggled and asked to see more. And, strangely, the more we talked, the more I got to like her. Yeah, you read that right. Missy was okay. A good person deep down.

Anyway, Martin found a couple of really gorgeous action shots that would form the cover art, as well as a series of professionally taken head and shoulders shots that would work well as the interiors. Before we could proceed, we had to get clearance from the copyright holders and that, he said, would take time and money so I wrote him a cheque and left him to it. We also started to put together a basic web site for the project although that's another story for another day.

Christmas came and went, and, alas, so did Missy. She moved out of Dale's house a couple of days into the New Year and filed for divorce almost immediately afterwards. Dale was, as you might imagine, pretty gutted. I called him several times and offered friendship and support, and, sadly, he never called me back. Not once.

Once the Christmas decorations had come down and we were back at work, I messaged Dale to say that I wanted to resume work on the album. The whole project, the music, packaging, the press packs and the digital media, looked like it might be finished on time and under budget, and I felt we were closing in on the target. Better still, half way through January, we received the news that the advance singles had picked up some airplay, mostly local but some national too. That was superb news so we needed to get the album finished, and soon, if we were to maintain the forward momentum.

I booked a couple of all day sessions, mostly at weekends, and, got down to work.

As January gave way to February, Dale became a different person. Finally free of Missy, he was happier, more confident and self-assured, and once again, started to enjoy his role as a Studio Producer.

Plain sailing? Nope, not at all. Missy quickly discovered that life on her own was more of a struggle than she'd bargained for. Worse, she'd argued with her new flatmates and they had, unanimously, invited her to leave though the reason why was never discussed. Missy moved back in almost immediately. However, she did find a decent, well paid job working at the local cinema so she was out nearly every night until at least midnight.

Of course, in that time, I became incredibly attached to Dale. In love? Yeah, I think so. In lust? Yes, definitely. There was something about him that I found incredibly attractive, some kind of inner warmth perhaps. I had to fight the urge to hump him on a daily basis.

The first week in March. I remember it well. I'd booked another day-long session but, somehow, I got caught up in a traffic jam and then couldn't find anywhere to park and so had to walk around two hundred meters to his house in the middle of an utterly torrential downpour. I was soaked from head to toe and looked like the proverbial drowned rat when I arrived at Dale's front door.

Dale led me to Missy's bathroom, fetched a bunch of towels and then went to Missy's wardrobe to find something dry. He handed me a low-cut, full length black velveteen dress that was around six sizes too big but would do until my own stuff had dried out. I spent twenty minutes padding around Missy's bedroom waving an underpowered hairdryer over my head whilst attempting to clutch a towel to my skinny chest. What I remember most about that episode was that I was wearing a scruffy bra-top thing, old and frayed bikini briefs and a truly hideous pair of thigh length self support stockings that were a vivid pea green in colour. How and why Dale didn't just laugh his arse off is a mystery to this day.

March came around and the album was, to all intents and purposes, complete. One final listen through and we were finished. I'd brought along a bottle of Champagne as a celebration and, when that final sustained chord rang out of the speakers and then faded into silence, I pulled out two glasses and popped the cork. We'd done it.

Shortly afterwards, I was drunk. Not blind drunk. Not falling over drunk but pleasantly intoxicated. I certainly wasn't fit to drive, of that I am sure.

I remember sitting in a corner of the studio, laughing like an idiot, the relief on my face plain to see. I'd enjoyed the process. We had an album to be proud of. Even if it tanked, we'd made something halfway good. And, best of all, I was finally free of my old band, and my old band mates. I'd moved on. Shame they obviously hadn't. Reading through their recent newspaper articles, they were still lurching from one High Court Action to the next. I'm glad I got out when I did. I felt vindicated.

And the more Dale and I drank, the merrier we became.

And then...

Somehow, Dale twisted the conversation around to my photo set. In retrospect, this wasn't accidental. It was deliberate. He asked if I still had the memory stick. I hauled it out of my studio bag and dumped it on the mixing desk, a big, big smile resting on my soppy, stupid face.

"Go on," I said. "You want to take a peak, don't you?"

And he did.

He opened the first folder and began to click through. A curious frown soon morphed into a delighted grin, and then a big, big, open-jawed smile.

Then came the icing on the cake.

Dale started to ask about the poses and the locations, who took the pictures, and their reach, a sure sign that he was trying to ascertain if these images (and me!) came with any unwanted baggage.

The poses were a mix of clothed, partially clothed and full nude. Those that were not clothed were non-sexual. Erotic but not at all explicit.

He found the fashion-shoots first. My friend Pat took most of them in a field not far from her house in Hexham, Northumberland. Their reach? The naked ones were never used on the shop's web site (obviously) but I know Pat posted a few to her various photographic web sites and to her closest friends. I had copies but never did anything with them.

Dale also asked about Patricia.

I decided to be bold and upfront. No sense in being anything else, I thought. Yeah, Pat and I were lovers, once, some years before although nothing ever came of it. All the same, we remained close. Dale was curious about my time as a bi-sexual. I said I wasn't a bi-sexual, or sexual anything. I was, if anything, a pan-sexual. Gender wasn't and still isn't important. Either someone is attractive or they aren't.

Dale sat back in his seat and smiled. "I just find it curious," he said. "I've always been completely straight..."

"Completely straight?" I replied. "You sure? Never been tempted to experiment with the Dark Side?"

Dale frowned. "By the Dark Side, you mean... knobs and stuff?"

I nodded and smiled.

"Well, a friend once stuck his cock in my face and invited me to... Err... perform fellatio on him," said Dale. "I declined, forcefully if memory serves. Not into dicks or anything. I have one of my own and I don't feel the urge to ... you know... "

Dale asked if there were more images and, because I was a little drunk, I said yes. I even told him which folders to look in.

I showed him the photos from the Life Model sessions.

"How and why did you become a Life Model?" he asked. I told him how my sister had found me the gig, and that I'd worked as a Life Model for a couple of months, both before and after University. It paid the bills. Nothing more.

I dragged up the appropriate folder and let him peruse through the portfolio I'd held on to for old times. The majority were harmless life studies but there were a few that featured full-frontal nudity, nipples and pubes and all...

"And you don't get at all bashful about these?" he asked.

"Not at all," I said. "I'm very comfortable with my body. I take a lot of care of it and try to keep myself in good condition, so that it'll last as long as possible. That said, it's just a body. Same as any other woman's..."

He smiled. A big, huge smile. "Not Missy, that's for sure. Well, you've met her. She wasn't into the whole 'My Body is a Temple' concept. More like 'My body is a storage facility for Pork fucking Pies. I don't think I've seen her naked for maybe five or six years. I don't think I would want to anyhow, though someone did."

That was the first time I'd ever heard him say a word against Missy, or even made a personal comment about her appearance. It kinda shocked me, frankly.

"But, hey," he said, flicking through the slideshow. "Let's not go down that route, shall we? These are... remarkable. And you're not at all bothered by some dirty old pervert like me staring at your bits and pieces, and getting all... you know?"

"What?" I asked.

"You know... aroused 'n' stuff?"

"I'm flattered, frankly," I said. "It means I'm doing something right... But these are art pictures. They're not supposed to be sexual..."

"Well, yes. Certainly..."

"You want to see it, right?" I asked, openly flirting with him.

"What?" said Dale.

"This..." I pointed at my torso in a rather theatrical swoop.

Dale smiled and nodded. "Well, yeah. Who wouldn't?"

"All of it or some of it?" I asked.

"All of it..."

"All of it? Really?"

He nodded.

"You sure?"

He nodded again.

"No going back," I whispered.

He smiled.

"Okay..."

So, ever-so-slightly drunk, I stood up, kicked my trainers into the far corner and unbuttoned my jeans.

Dale was watching. Intently...

"You wanna turn around?" I whispered. "Give a girl some privacy..."

Dale turned his head slightly to the right and pretended to check out his mixing desk although I suspect he was watching whatever he could in the reflections on his monitor.

I stopped when I was down to my knickers and a pair of crap knee socks. Rock 'n' roll, eh? I figured that was enough for the time being.

And I flopped down in the other studio chair and just sat, arms up behind my head, awaiting his indulgence.

"Fuckin' 'ell," he whispered as soon as he clapped eyes on me.

"You like?" I asked.

"Of course I like!" he shouted. "Amazing. Completely amazing! And a first, too!"

I laughed. "First what?"

"First time anyone has ever sat in that chair naked..."

"Even you?"

"Even me..."

"Well, there you go," I said. "You did ask. Now, where's the Champagne?"

Dale reached over and picked up the bottle although, alas, it was empty.

"Shame," I said. "Still, I don't want to get hammered. I have to drive home after all."

"Well, hopefully not straight away..." said Dale.

By now, I was feeling horny. I mean deeply, deeply horny. And, slut that I am, I decided to mess with him a little more.

I slouched further down in the chair and then drew my legs up under my thighs so that the poor guy could do little but stare at the well-rounded mound of thin fabric that covered my pubis and, logically, the tiny damp patch that was spreading across my gusset.

"Fuck," he whispered under his breath.

"I'm sick of listening to my own shit," I said. "Lemme hear some of your stuff."

"Really?"

"Yeah..."

Sad to say, I didn't really like Dale's compositions. Not even a little. Too drifty. Too ethereal. Too... peaceful for want of a better word. And also too stuck in the late 60's and early 70's. Not my kind of energy at all.

Time for some plain, decent, upright honesty. All I really wanted was this guy to fill my pussy up with a big lump of cock. That's all. Nothing more. I hadn't had sex in more than a year and was starting to feel like a celibate old Nun.

"I need a piss," said Dale, which I think was his polite way of saying "I reckon I'm on a promise here. I need to go change my underwear, wash my dick and get a couple of condoms from the bedside cabinet..."

He returned a minute or so later, certainly smelling sweeter.

I'd been busy. Although I kept my crappy socks on, my knickers were now sitting on the studio floor, my hands jammed between my thighs.