Chapter 11
PIA
Fine, so maybe I overreacted earlier. Maybe Cassie wasn’t flirting with Ramona.
And Ramona certainly wasn’t flirting with her because fifteen minutes into this dull interview, and she has asked far too many questions about Stephan fucking Greene and the rumours that they’ve broken up and blah blah blah.
Only a very heterosexual person would be that interested in such a clearly doomed relationship.
“And how about you?” Ramona turns to me. “Several publications over the years have linked you romantically to most, if not all, of your band members. Any truth in those rumours?”
I flinch, managing to avoid the deep scowl my face wants to mould into instinctively.
I cannot imagine she would ever ask any of my bandmates about these rumours–or indeed any male musician.
However, if I play nice, this will be over far quicker than if I cause trouble.
“There were also rumours that I sucked Ronald Reagan off during the Oscars last year while Nancy watched. What do you think?”
Ramona’s cheeks flush instantly, and it reminds me of the way I made Cassie blush. How can rosy-pink cheeks be so fucking tantalising on one woman and so pathetic on another.
“Well, moving on to the song.” Ramona clears her throat. “It sounds great! And I understand that you wrote some of the lyrics yourself. How was it writing a song together?”
I yawn, not giving a shit how rude that makes me look.
I know my reputation precedes me, and at least I’m being consistent.
But then I feel the softest nudge of Cassie’s knee against mine from where she sits next to me on the couch, and I look her way.
She’s not looking at me. She’s responding to Ramona’s question with a lifted chin and an earnest expression on her face.
“It was actually a very easy process,” she says in her cheeriest voice.
“There’s a lot of press about how we’re rivals, or even enemies, but that’s not the case.
We’ve actually just never spent much time together before this, and once we were in the same room together, well, we realised we had more in common than we thought.
And working together was … a lot of fun. ”
I smother my laugh at the last moment, and it makes me sound like a strangled cat. Both Cassie and Ramona shoot looks my way.
“Sorry, just a hiccup.” I busy myself, lighting another cigarette.
“Can you talk a bit more about it? About writing the lyrics together?”
There’s a beat of silence, and I know Ramona directed the question at me, and Cassie expects me to respond, as it is technically my turn, but I frankly can’t be bothered.
This whole interview is bullshit. It was enough of a struggle to sing the song with Cassie in the next-door booth, hearing her angelic voice singing words that I could pretend were directed at me.
Every time I felt a warmth bloom in my stomach or my chest, I had to remind myself that this is all a performance. Even when we harmonised together – her melodic birdsong and my gravelly alto blending surprisingly well – I felt a physical ache from knowing that this was all going to be over soon.
Cassie Everard may think she wants to keep having these …
dalliances with me, but after a few days back in her Hollywood Hills house, she’ll realise how foolish that is.
A few days with those toxic Greene boys and bossy Kevin Briggs, and she’ll have remembered how much easier life is when she plays it safe.
I admit, I felt chastised when she warned me about dropping hints. I felt abandoned when she didn’t play along. I felt rejected when she didn’t – wouldn’t – touch me, not once since we left the hotel. But that’s because Cassie is not ready for this. Cassie is not ready for me.
No one is.
This conclusion is echoing in my mind as her knee touches mine again, and just that tiny touch somehow upends everything. It has my mind flipping back on itself. It has me finding something I am normally highly suspicious and distrustful of: hope.
So I decide not to jump to conclusions. I’ll try and give her the benefit of the doubt. I’ll be patient and survive this interview so we can then go somewhere, just the two of us, and talk, really talk about what we want. Or fuck some more. I’d be more than happy with that outcome too.
“Well, first we had to agree on what we wanted the song to achieve,” Cassie begins when I’m too busy in my own head to formulate a reply.
“And then after that, it was quite simple. We worked on our own separate verses, and we sang it back to each other to see what we thought. And then we worked on the chorus together, which was actually a lot more fun than I think we both expected.”
Cassie’s leg against mine is firm and constant, and her words could have a double meaning, but she’s so stoic, so focused on Ramona, I daren’t read into them any more than that.
“It sounds fantastic. And I love the lyrics,” Ramona gushes, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I can hear the parallels with Dolly Parton’s ‘Jolene.’ Do you think that will help or hinder its success?”
That piques my interest. “What exactly do you mean?” I challenge her, leaning forward.
“Well, I mean … the song’s lyrics,” she stutters. “They’re clearly about two women who are involved with the same man. Just like ‘Jolene.’”
“Clearly,” I deadpan, settling back again.
Ramona doesn’t get it. Not at all. I open my mouth to invite Ramona to look at that song and ours in a different light.
I want to plant a seed of doubt, just a tiny poppy seed, but like such a seed, I want it to be potentially potent and powerful.
But before I can think how best to do this, Cassie is speaking.
“Yes, that’s exactly what the song is about,” says Cassie, and even though her knee is pressing against mine with more force, more warmth, her words are like a shard of ice stabbing into the back of my neck.
That’s exactly what the song is about.
So that is exactly what she wants the world to believe.
She doesn’t want anyone to know the alternative. That it’s a love song from one woman to another. That it’s about women like me and, I thought, like her. That, possibly, maybe, if last night wasn’t just a one-night thing, it’s a song about us.
“Do you agree, Pia?” Cassie is asking me
“With what?” I snap.
“That we wanted to put a twist on songs like ‘Jolene’ by having two women fight for what they want in the song, rather than beg the other woman to just disappear.”
I blink at Cassie, slowly, trying to determine what she’s saying–if there is any remote hidden meaning–and what she’s trying to communicate to me with her steady stare.
I can’t see it. I can’t see anything. I’m too busy feeling hurt and angry.
With her. With myself. With this whole fucking shitty situation.
I need a drink. A line. To be away from this fucking studio and this fucking interview.
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, looking around for my bag. “Any other questions?”
“Err, yes, sure.” Ramona flicks over a page in her notebook. “Pia, I wanted to ask more about how you felt following the disappointing sales of both your latest album and this year’s world tour, despite critical acclaim of your latest album.”
I move my knee away from Cassie’s and lean forward. “Fuck. Off. Ramona.”
“Pia!” Cassie exclaims.
“What kind of fucking question is that?” I bark at Cassie, pointing my cigarette in Ramona’s direction.
“I’m sorry, I’ll rephrase it—” Ramona stumbles, but I’ve had enough of her bumbling bookish performance. I stand up, making my intention to leave very clear.
“Listen, all you need to know for your article is that this song represents an impasse between Evergreene and Femme Fatale. A little interval. You know, like when England and Germany played a game of football on Christmas Day during the First World War or some fucking bullshit. We both wanted to show off our solo talents, show the world we don’t need barely sober, never-faithful, only occasionally competent men behind us to make good music.
Everyone knows Cassie is the brains and talent behind Evergreene, and we all know that without me, Femme Fatale would be nothing.
That’s what this song is about.” I pause when I see that Ramona is motionless, listening to me with her jaw hanging open. “Write this down!”
Ramona jolts into action, and Cassie leans closer to me. “Pia,” I’m pretty sure she says, along with something else. But her voice is too quiet and she’s sitting on my bad side, and I don’t even want to know what she has to say. She’s said enough.
“Did you get all that?” I ask Ramona, ignoring Cassie.
I suck hard enough on my cigarette that the drag hurts my throat, but I welcome it.
It’s a better feeling than the disappointment and the shame of that disappointment swirling together in my stomach.
“And write this down, too. Yes, our song is about two women fighting over a man. And maybe people will listen to the song and see two women, complete opposites, rockstar rivals, whatever, who have one thing in common, if nothing else. Yes, they’ll look at us and wonder how we could ever even attract the same man, let alone fight over him, but that’s not the point.
The point of the song is, we are two women standing up for what we want.
We’re fighting for what we feel in our hearts to be true, rightly or wrongly.
And frankly, not enough women are prepared to do that in this day and age.
They are too happy to just let life happen to them rather than going for what they really want. ”
I pause, letting my words land with Cassie. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move, but I can practically feel a heat radiating off her.
I know she hears me. I know she knows exactly what I’m saying.
Ramona is scribbling so fast I’m certain her writing or shorthand or whatever will be illegible when she returns to it when she’s sitting at her typewriter. But I don’t care. I’m not giving her a quote. I’m sending a message to Cassie, who I am determined I will never see again after today.
“You got that?” I ask Ramona as I stub out my cigarette.
“Yes, I think so, I just—”
“Great.” I stand up. “because I’m outta here.”
“Pia!” Cassie stands as I start to walk away. “Wait!”
One more chance. Those are the words my heart beats out. Give her one more chance. That is the rhythm of the blood pumping around my body. Find out what she wants to say. Find out what she wants.
At the door, I turn and look at her. A quick glance reveals Ramona is watching us keenly. Not so oblivious now.
Good, I think bitterly. This is the perfect opportunity. A perfect test.
“What?” I demand through gritted teeth. I feel torn right down the middle. One half of me wants to run to her, to wrap my arms around her. The other half of me is desperate to be far, far away.
“Don’t go,” she says simply. But it’s not enough.
“Why?”
“Because … because,” she mumbles, and it doesn’t suit her, nor does the way her eyes fill with moisture or the way her chin trembles.
“Because what?” I snap because if I stay here one more minute I’m going to run to her and do everything in my power to stop her crying. “What do you want, Cassie?”
“I … I…” she tries again, but there’s nothing else. She has nothing else to say to me.
“You don’t know what you want,” I say, and it sounds exactly like the insult I intend it to be.
And then I storm out of the room before she can see I’m just as close to tears as she is.