Chapter 2
CASSIE
One Month Later
“Cass! We need you back in here!” Freddie’s voice carries over the internal speaker.
I glance up from the contract on my lap, over the sound deck and through the glass that divides the control room from the studio.
Vik, Steph, Clarence, and George are all plugged in and waiting in the studio with cigarettes in their mouths and various levels of patience, or rather, impatience on their faces.
“Right, sure, yes, on my way.” I carefully set down the stack of papers that is a draft of the record label’s proposed contract for another three albums, and I make my way into the recording studio.
I try not to think about how I only managed to read two pages of the nine-page document, and even that was only after skimming passages I really couldn’t make any sense of.
I wish I had more time. Time to send it to my brother.
Time to find a lawyer. Maybe even time to ask Steph to read it to me, if he can stay sober long enough.
Kevin would do it for me, but as our manager, it’s in his interest for me to sign this deal, and it’s not that I don’t trust him, I just don’t know if I should.
“Did you sign it?” Stephan calls out to me from his stand as I put on my headphones.
“Not yet,” I say with a smile that I hope will buy me some compassion.
“Jesus, Cassie.” He puts the lit cigarette he’s holding in one hand to his lips. “Ronnie’s been chasing us for weeks.”
“Leave her alone,” Clarence says from the organ, where he’s stretching his fingers and looking pretty pissed off with all of us. His dark eyes are kind when they meet mine, but still I can see he’s impatient to start too.
With ten years on all of us, Clarence was an addition the record label made last year to try and give the lads a more mature influence (which failed), so I don’t blame him for being pissed off. I can’t imagine still doing what I’m doing right now for another decade.
“Yeah, let’s just get on with it,” Vik says with a cigarette between his lips. He’s sitting behind his drums, looking restless, which is actually how he normally looks these days. Like he always has somewhere better to be. “Ronnie can wait. We’ve earned him enough money this last year.”
Ronnie is Ronald Hutchins, the owner of Haven Records, a label that pretty much only exists because of our success, but I am reluctant to draw people’s attention to that.
“Kev said they needed it signed a week ago, or they’re not going to pay for all of this.” With his cigarette still in his mouth, Steph gestures with the neck of his Gibson Les Paul guitar around the state-of-the-art studio. “God knows I can’t afford it right now. Can you?”
Too easily, I recall the kinds of studios we recorded our first demos in.
Converted garages and storage cupboards in student digs all over Oxford.
George’s parents’ cellar with egg boxes all over the walls and ceiling.
A tech college’s music studio where the fuses would blow if we had more than three guitars plugged in at once.
It was a constant struggle and so far from the luxury we are now surrounded by, but it was fun.
We had energy and enthusiasm, and so much potential.
Now, all I think the boys care about is money and drugs and getting laid.
“I know I can’t,” George pipes up and I resist the urge to tell him that he should try not drinking his money away or snorting it up his nose, but I’m the last person he’d want financial advice from.
“They’ll pay,” Vik says, doing a quick drum roll as if to punctuate the sentence. “Let’s start already. I’ve got somewhere to be later.”
“Yeah, me too,” George slurs before hiccupping.
He’s staggering on his feet even though he’s not actually moving.
My guess is that he hasn’t been to bed yet after last night, which tells me we really should get this show on the road and finish this recording before he falls asleep or does another line to stay awake.
“Guys…” Freddie’s voice comes through in all our headphones. “The clock is ticking.”
I look up and smile at Freddie Rogers, who is my favourite producer we’ve ever worked with.
He’s in his fifties, has grown-up kids that he talks about often, and he gave me his home telephone number after we first met, just in case I ever needed someone in LA.
Maybe I’ll ask him to read the contract out to me if he has time.
“I’ll sign it after this,” I say, and give each of my fellow band members a smile big enough to hurt my cheeks.
“You better,” Stephan says, and I turn to catch his eye.
I hope and wait for a wink, for a smile, for something other than his glare.
I thought we were in a better place than this.
This morning we woke up together, made love, drank coffee in bed while listening to Free’s first album on the record player in my room.
But he just drops my gaze and takes another drag on his cigarette. “From the top.”
Feeling my cheeks heat with rejection, I ruffle the pages that are laid out on the music stand in front of me.
They’re the lyrics for the song we’re about to record – a B-side for our last single from our latest album – not that I need them.
I can’t rely on my reading them right, so I always memorise all my lyrics.
“Okay. Let’s make some music!” I say it to reset the mood, to try and make the session count at the very least. But there are no whoops of enthusiasm like there used to be.
Instead, all I hear are grunts of consent and another hiccup from George.
I turn away from my fellow band members, close my eyes, and get ready to get lost in the one thing that never fails me: the music.
“That was a good take, Cass,” Freddie says as I return to the control room and my contract.
“Thanks,” I say. I’m about to ask him if he has some spare time, but Kevin bursts into the room, dressed, as always, in a suit that looks creased and crumpled, even first thing in the morning.
The blazer’s sleeves are bunched up, revealing a flash of gold, which is one from his collection of Rolexes.
Yeah, Kevin is not the right person to read my contract to me.
“Good, you’re still here,” he says, eyes on me.
Oh, no. Is he here to chase me for my signature on the deal too?
“Hi, Kev,” I say, and I roll up the contract, tucking it behind my back.
“Listen, Cassie, have you got five minutes?”
“Of course,” I say, and I let him lead me to a corner in the room.
“So,” he holds his hands out between us, palms down, fingers stretched wide. “I’ve just got off the phone with Martin Dowde, Femme Fatale’s manager.”
I blink. Of all the things, I wasn’t expecting that. “Okay.”
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” he says before a tentative smile creeps across his mouth.
He’s not an unattractive man, Kevin, with his dark blond curls, chiselled jaw and bright blue eyes.
He’s the same age as Stephan–thirty-one–and looks considerably younger, likely because he takes care of himself.
Unlike Steph, he washes regularly, he goes to the hairdresser every four weeks, he swears by a diet that avoids sugar and carbohydrates.
He never touches the three things that I suspect have ruined my bandmates: drugs, alcohol, and women.
Of course, it’s not publicly talked about that Kevin is gay, but it’s an open secret among us and one that I think about more often than I’d like to admit. “And hear me out before you say no.”
This piques my interest and my defences. “I’m listening.”
“How do you feel about singing a duet?”
“A duet? With another band?” My eyes are wide with disbelief.
“Not exactly. It would just be you … and Pia Lindberg.”
In an instant, I’m aware of every hair follicle on my body because it feels like each one comes alive, standing up. Goosebumps, everywhere.
“What?” I ask, needing clarification or maybe just a second to pinch myself and discover that this is some weird, twisted dream.
“You heard me. A duet. You and Pia from Femme Fatale.”
“But, she hates me,” I say slowly but with emphasis.
This is not a secret. She slams me in interviews.
She joined in a fight between our bandmates, willingly, not one month ago at a Grammys after-party.
She has had her photo taken holding a defaced copy of our latest album – in which I discovered a moustache doesn’t look that bad on me – with her also displaying a scowl and a very erect middle finger.
“Exactly.” Kevin’s smile grows and there’s nothing tentative about it now.
“I’m not following.”
“Listen.” He holds his hands out again. His Brummy accent seems to get thicker the more authoritative he gets. “I know I bollocked you all for the Grammys incident—”
“Which I had nothing to do with!” I interrupt.
“I know, I know. But the truth is, it actually helped boost our sales. And that prompted Haven to offer you another three-album deal. Have you signed the contract yet, by the way?”
“Not yet, but I will later today,” I mumble.
“Okay, great. But, listen, I got talking to Martin after the Grammys debacle, and we both agreed we could try and use the attention to our benefit.”
My eyes narrow on Kevin. Since when has he been talking with Martin Dowde? I thought they hated each other as much as Femme Fatale hated Evergreene.
“He suggested a duet between the two bands,” Kevin continues, “but honestly, I didn’t see that working.
The lads need to rest up before the tour starts, and Martin’s been trying to get his boys sober for the last few weeks, although he knows he has no chance with Pia.
Despite the Grammy win, their ticket sales for their world tour are still slow.
They never got that number one album he was sure of.
They need this boost, probably more than we do. ”
I straighten my shoulders and suck in a breath. “Which begs the question: what’s in it for us?” I clear my throat and hate how my voice drops when I add, “for me?”
Kevin looks around the room. Freddie has headphones on and is busy mixing with a couple of other sound engineers. The Evergreene boys are nowhere to be seen, and I choose not to imagine what they’re up to.
“Can I be honest with you?” Kevin tilts his forehead down, a serious look on his face.
“I’d like that,” I say, wishing my tone had the edge I’m feeling as I wonder why Kevin wouldn’t be honest with me.
“I don’t know what the future holds for Evergreene.
I don’t imagine the label will want to renew again after the next three records, unless something changes.
The boys are getting harder and harder to control.
It seems the more success you all have, the more trouble they get into.
I had hoped you and Stephan having a relationship would calm him down—”
Discomfort bristles up my spine. “We’re not in a relationship. Not really.”
“Well, don’t end it yet. The media love it. Let’s string it out a little bit longer.”
My stomach flips, and not in a pleasant way. I think about Melissa, Stephan’s on-of girlfriend of ten years back in Windsor, who has stuck by him through all his fuck-ups and flings and now, a mostly fake relationship with me. “Fine,” I agree in a quiet voice.
“Anyway, you’ve got to think about your future, Cassie. You’ve got the talent to go far, even as a solo artist.”
“A solo artist?” I say and then hold my breath.
“Come on.” He gives me a slightly condescending look. “You must have thought about it.”
“I mean, yes, kind of. I just … I just thought it was a long way off yet.” My hands feel clammy as they grip the contract. Three more albums. That’s at least another three years with Evergreene, probably longer with the tour obligations.
“There’s nothing wrong with planning for the future. Don’t wait for it to all go horribly wrong before you have a plan for your own escape. This duet could be a perfect way to plant that seed.”
Escape. The word heightens something inside me, but I can’t tell if it’s interest or fear.
“But Pia hates me,” I say. “And we’ve never actually had a conversation.
She ignores me when I come within a three-yard radius of her.
She attacked the boys the last time we were all in the same room.
And last week, she told Rhythm & News that I looked like folk’s version of a Stepford Wife. There is no way she wants to do this.”
“Well, unlike you, she doesn’t have much choice. Femme Fatale needs some seriously good PR right now and a hit record. This will provide them with both.”
So, I’m being used to save her career? I can’t help but wonder, but I don’t vocalise it.
Instead, I add it to the list of the many things I think but never say.
“Who’s writing the song?” I ask aloud, because there’s no way in heaven or hell Pia Lindberg and I are going to be able to sit down and write one together.
“Theo Kalpiatis,” he says with confidence. “He’s already got something lined up, in fact.”
He’s one of the hottest songwriters working at the moment. Seven number ones in the last year or something just as wild, famous for more mainstream pop than either folk or rock. Perhaps this could work. He could create something where Pia and I meet in the middle.
That said, if I’m not writing it, I’m also not going to get the credit if it does blow up big.
“I need to think about it,” I say.
Kevin’s shoulders sink, and I feel myself shrink because I’ve disappointed him, and I hate disappointing people. “What’s there to think about?”
At first, I’m relieved when Stephan barges in looking like he’s ready to smash something.
He saves me from trying to come up with the bravery to stand up to Kevin’s negotiation tactics, which are famously slick and successful.
But then he looks at me, and I see that his pupils aren’t just constricted because of drugs or rage, but because of shock.
“What is it?” I say, stepping close to him. For all our ups and downs, our ons and our offs, Stephan is still the closest thing to a boyfriend that I’ve ever had.
“It’s Melissa,” he says, and he stares down at me. I can see his pulse thrumming quickly in his neck. He takes a deep breath, and his face cracks, like maybe he’s about to cry. “She’s pregnant.”
And that’s the exact moment I know I’m going to sing that duet with Pia.