Later, in an odd calibration intended as a rebuke but softened by doe-eyed expressionism, Siobhan fought off all the EMI suitors and opened up a new can of wurms.
"Girl dun gut" etc only, this time, the faint embryonic clothes-horse that followed her dutifully (face like a scorched child) spoke up:
"I'll live for longer if you love me."
And this changed her mind for the split-second they needed to sow more weeds into the fillers and start spiking the ballads with off-centre pall-bearing Greek hype.
Siobhan thought longer.
"They'll make a whine out of all of you," they heard her say as she skipped a beat onto the conference table and then belted out her new demixture.
"I... heard something that didn't sound... right," mumbled one of them, his face already greasy from smearing £50 notes across his cheeks and eyes.
She spotted the flaw, managed it. Breaths caught a little; tuberculosis temporarily tickled it's way through the room and down the halls, getting in the throats of one of the T-girls, specially brought in to fend off the Haters and The Hives.
Siobhan held firm, refused to cave and went immediately into the Scorpion Attack Position, awaiting orders from above.
A Yousssendit Sssurproduction via Zeon