‘No.’
‘Okay . . .so, Wolfie, how do you feel about winning?’
He sighed, accepting the journalist’s boorish nature. ‘I
feel great about it. But the other guys were fantastic, too.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ It was a different journalist speaking
now, but the arrogance remained the same. ‘Let’s forget
about those losers. What’s your first plan?’
Mozart began to reply, but Robert beat him to it, speaking in that
special managerial way that replies without actually answering the
question:
‘Gentlemen, let me tell you, winning Class Idol is just the
beginning. Believe me, the public have made the right choice this
time. Wolfgang is going to be around for a long, long time. Right,
Wolfgang?’
He nodded in agreement – but in his head he longed to be at
his piano, longed for a chance to be proving his worth with music
instead of mere words.
A few days later.
After a whirlwind of talk shows, celebrity exposes, and talk shows
about celebrity exposes, Mozart finally got a chance to sit
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down
and plan a new composition. But he found it hard to get rid of Robert,
who’d insisted on bringing three strange men into the studio
with them. Mozart tried to lose himself in the music, but the way
that these men kept looking at him and then huddling together in
quiet conference and then scribbling down notes, it all annoyed
him enough to force a confrontation.
‘Relax,’ Robert told him. ‘They’re just
your writers.’
‘My . . .what?’
‘Your writers. They’re whipping you up a number one
single as we speak, Wolfie baby.’
‘But I’m the writer. I write symphonies. That’s
why I won.’
A look of distaste ran over Robert’s face. ‘But symphonies
are so . . .old-fashioned, don’t you think? That’s why
I’ve got them working on a sure-fire pop hit for you. I’m
talking number one, baby.’
‘Pop?’ Mozart almost choked, spitting out the word.
‘Relax, relax. This is just to ease you into the public’s
heart, remember?’
‘Aren’t I already there? Didn’t I win the show?’
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