Our popularity over in the US grew exponentially, literally overnight. It did not explode, or anything like that, but we had a foot in the door, for future breaking and entering.

After we had had our show, still in LA, Marla called, saying demand for us was growing, especially on the East Coast and that we should make an effort and play a few gigs there as well.

But I said no. There were plans to go in the studio and get Eris’ twisted and darker twin out into the world. The timing for it was just right. America could wait a little longer and the anticipation would be beneficial, I reckoned.

Besides, as I reminded her, I really thought there were laws against child labour and I was already falling behind on my studies. If I truly wanted to go for emancipation, the following year, I had to prove I had my life together, even if it was in utter shambles behind the painted scenario.

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Bear and I stood in front of a blue door, up a set of steps. The sturdy two-story stone house before us may have looked stark, anywhere else but there, on the coast of Scotland, it fit just right and felt cosy enough to be welcoming. It really called for a nice and warm cup of tea, even if it was somewhat late in the evening.

The door opened and a boy around Peter’s age found me. There was a moment of confusion in his eyes.

- Hi. Is Peter home? Peter Collins? - I asked, my hands warmly tucked away in my pockets.

- Do I know you? - he asked back, trying to remember when and where he had seen my face. He did not, indeed, look like the sort of person who would listen to my music.

- Most likely not – I smiled – Can you tell him his boss is here to see him?

- His what now?

- His boss, dear – I repeated – If you could make it quick, it’s sort of chilly out here.

He kept his eyes fixed on me, but shouted into the house – Collins! There’s a girl here for you. Says she’s your boss.

We heard a high-pitched What?! followed by a frantic race down the wooden stairs and then Peter showed up, in his PJs.

- What the hell are you doing here? - he asked, as he motioned us in – I thought you were in America.

- I needed to have a word – I said as I took my coat off and Peter hung it by the door – I had an idea that just couldn’t wait.

He just smiled, as he took both of us into the tiny kitchen and put the kettle on.

- What is it now? What are your megalomaniac plans this time?

The other boy also followed us in – Wait. I really do know you.

- You know her, mate. - Peter said, matter-of-factly, as he turned on the knob – Mark, this is Eleanora. Eleanora, this is Mark, my roommate.

- Are you a Business major as well, Mark? - Peter had never told me about his housemate, so I had no clue on what to bring up.

- Journalism – he said – And you’re all over the tabloids lately, yeah. The singing Duchess of Somerset.

I couldn’t help but laugh at how embarrassing that sounded. I’d read that too and had felt a pang of second-hand embarrassment for whoever had come up with such a cringy headline. I just hoped it was more of a temporary gag and would not stick.

- That sounds too preppy for me – I said – I’m more of a doomy sort of person.

- She is. Very doomy and very gloomy. – Peter nodded, but sounded annoyed – Now piss off, Mark. I’m, apparently, working in my pyjamas.

Mark said his goodbyes and left, closing the door behind him. Bear sat at the table, while Peter poured the hot water on the tea bags and handed us the piping hot mugs of manna.

- What are you up to?

- Remember the Circumlocution Office? - I asked and Peter laughed softly, nodding. That had been the nickname we had plucked directly from Dickens’ Little Dorritt and pasted on German bureaucracy, when we tried and failed to set up a free-for-all gig.

- How could I forget? It felt like hitting my head on a brick wall repeatedly for a couple of months.

- Well, I want you to go at it again. But this time, we need to think big.

His eyebrows travelled so high up his forehead that they disappeared under the mane of his dishevelled hair.

- How big?

- Big, big. - I beamed and explained what I was looking for. I had no details to my plan, only very general lines of thought, but I also did not know how any of those ideas could work.

Peter locked his eyes on the corner of the room, chewing on the inside of his cheek, as I laid out my fantasy.

- So… a show inside a show?

- Well, a show after a show. - I clarified – a surprise tiny show after a regular show. Like a stripper in a cake, you know? Ta-da! Here – I gave him my doodles and wild ramblings – I’ve written it all down.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

I handed him what I had idealized for what would be one of the boldest moves in my career.

- OK – he said, taking a sip of tea – The walls are thicker in Berlin, you know that?

- Berlin is also known for knocking them down, isn’t it?

- Alright, granted. I’ll see what I can do. Can I get Holly’s help, if I need it?

- Ask and it shall be yours, my friend.

- Good, good. - he locked his eyes on me again – But you didn’t come all the way up here just to tell me this, did you? I mean, your drawing skills are clearly subpar…

- Well, yes and no – I ignored his little remark and Bear handed me the bag he had set on the chair beside him – that was Bold move, first movement. This… is Insanity on a stick, prestissimo

I took out a thick folder that I put on the table. It only read The Mask of Madness, and had my initials and the date I had finished it, just a few days prior.

- What’s this? - he took it and slid the mountain of music scores from inside the folder – Jesus, Ellie. What are you up to?

- I have trouble sleeping – I lifted one shoulder, like it was no big deal – so I write.

- You wrote a whole musical because you have trouble sleeping? - Peter was gaping at me. He then turned his attention to Bear – Have you seen this shit? Can’t you like, I don’t know, slip her sleeping pills or something?

- I will supply the drugs when the drugs are asked for – Bear chuckled, turning his empty tea mug in his hands – So far, I’ve only been supplying chocolate.

- Well, yeah. Nazi chocolate, by the looks of it – he kept going through the scores, just passing his eyes through them. - what are you gonna do next? March to Moscow?

- I’m sorry, boss – Bear grinned at me – I didn’t realise I was giving you panzerschokolade.

I just shook my head. I was used to the banter, after all. Having an all-boy band was prone to make you immune to it, eventually.

- What do you want to do with this? - he asked me.

- Get it on stage, of course. - what else could I want to do?

- Hum… OK. I mean, I think there may be a market to sell such a thing, but I’m no expert…

- No, no, no – I cut him off – You got it all wrong. I want to get it on stage.

Peter blinked at me, blankly, as if his mind was trying to run all the process that such a feat would undertake.

- Are you serious?…

I nodded, but was becoming embarrassed with his reaction alone. That was one of my music babies in his hands, he’d better not insult it.

- This is probably a very expensive endeavour, El. Are we looking at sponsors or anything?

- Just keep it as independent as possible. I don’t want brands taking over and making it about them.

- You’re making a harder case for yourself at every word that comes out of your mouth, my dear.

- Just figure it out – I asked – And we’ll go from there, alright?

- Sure – he said – just make sure you keep selling out shows and we’re golden.

I went back home for a week. I really needed a mini-holiday, even if I did not leave the house and just spent my time trying and failing miserably at lounging about. The stiller I was, the louder my mind became and I did not want to go down that LA rabbit hole again. Just thinking about it, made me sick to my stomach.

So I just kept refining the arrangements and polishing the skeleton of Snake-haired Gorgon, my third studio album. Reading through it, it was all there, all that had happened. I was the snake-haired gorgon, Medusa.

I asked Collins if he felt like the House called for more help and he told me that a couple of more hands could never hurt, so I told him to use all of his savoir-faire and make do at finding suitable people to fill the positions he thought would be needed. When I told Mason about it, so he could write down the contracts, he advised me to set up NDAs for the new employees, which showed just how naïve I could be, that I was willing to get strangers into my house and not think they could be blabbing to the press at the highest offer.

The question of the wall and the secured perimeter was also dealt with. Most of the property would be walled, but there would be special passageways for the wild animals to still roam as they pleased. Those passageways, especially the deer ones, would be monitored by cameras and we would set up surveillance and codes by the gate. It almost seemed like I was setting up my own prison ward. At least the view was nice. And I had two lakes, so there was that.

The following week was filled to the brim with meetings. At the label, with consultants from every walk of life, with people and brands that wanted to work with me and, it was about this time of my career that I realised I was hearing far fewer noes than usual. In fact, they were so far and in between that I almost forgot what a no was. It was as if people were starting to treat me differently just because my name was starting to make headlines in the outside world and I found it terribly annoying and sickeningly sycophantic.

If any given famous person claims that there was never a phase in which the whole thing just went up to their heads, then I can assure you they are lying. Because there really comes a time when people are bowing so much at your mere presence, that you start to believe yourself to be God’s gift to Mankind. You can get drunk on fame, all the yesses can make you a tyrant and the constant adulation, sometimes akin to pure old boot licking, can and will disconnect you from reality.

And, when people find themselves going up the ladders of fame, there is a lot of toxicity that latches on, be it in the form of people, substances or your own inflated ego. It is up to the climber to surround him or herself with the right people, who have no qualms in saying how much of an idiot you are or in pulling you back down and telling you how you should be ashamed of impersonating the Sun King himself.

I had those people in my life. And naturally isolating myself also helped. But it does try and get to you. Because everything just revolves around you, so much that the tendency is to only look in. Constantly.

We picked up Rockfield Studios to record Snake-haired Gorgon. We had already been there, earlier in the year, and were now just going over everything we had recorded already, and adding the few tracks that were missing, alongside dubs, chorus, re-recordings, extra details… For me, it was close to home and, for the boys, it felt like a retreat. Or it should have.

The sessions did not go as smoothly as the previous two records, mainly because of how tired everyone was. There were some fights amongst us, especially when the subject of new tours came up.

Some of them thought we should give it a rest. I wanted to just pack up my things and go and be on the move at all times, constantly on the brink of sheer exhaustion, even if I realised it was taking me on a very dark path, if I kept at it for too long. Others, like Si and Martin, just said they would go with me if I asked them to, but were really wary of this whole rift that was forming in the band.

Freddie felt aloof and bickering with everyone most of the time, except when he was dragging himself around or barely moving for hours, lost in his own inner world. Martin said that they had suspected for a long time, but were now completely sure, that Freddie was hooked on heroin and it was starting to show its ugly colours. I asked him what could we do about it and he just shrugged, telling me that was Freddie’s call, not ours. That apathy shocked me, probably more than realising there were hard drugs in circulation nearby. I mean, wasn’t that what musicians did? It was almost expected of them to have an addiction or two, right?

In the end, and despite the chasm on the question of touring, the album as a whole did surpass my expectations and it felt good to perceive each new work as a magnum opus. Even if it ended up being considered the worst of my first three works.

It was said it felt claustrophobic and menacing, that some people felt a terrible sense of unease, even if they did not realise why.

But it was, after all, a conceptual work, so I was already somehow expecting it even if, deep down, I loved it all the same.