Chapter 16
CASSIE
“Good morning, Miss Everard,” Nora says as I walk into the kitchen. I note that I’m only slightly surprised to see her there. She’s been my assistant for only a week now, but maybe I’m finally getting used to having her here at certain times.
“Morning, Nora,” I say with a yawn. The terracotta tile is cool under my bare feet, which I’ll appreciate after lunch today when it’s all hot and sticky outside, but right now, it’s a little uncomfortable. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you,” she says. Before I can reach up to the cabinet where my mugs are, she’s handing me a cup of tea.
“You’re not supposed to be making me tea,” I say, but I take it all the same because somehow she knows just how I like it–strong with a dash of milk and honey.
She shrugs and then heads to the dining nook in the corner of the room.
It’s possibly my favourite space in the whole house with its view over my gardens and the hills in the background.
If you squint, all the rooftops of surrounding houses and mansions become part of the scenery, and I could almost be back in the Cotswolds, if I just ignore the palm trees.
I join her so I can enjoy the view while she begins our usual Monday morning meeting.
A make-up artist suggested I hire a PA a long time ago, but I didn’t see the need.
However, my conversation with Pia changed my view on a lot of things, not least asking for help when you need it.
It was easy to find Nora, an efficient and industrious New Yorker in her thirties who had spent ten years as a PA in A&R at Motown Records.
A photographer had recommended her–they were distant cousins, two Puerto Rican girls climbing high behind the scenes in the music industry–and I’d warmed to Nora immediately at our first meeting.
She quickly took management of my diary and didn’t blink once when I explained my issues with reading and writing, my dyslexia.
The relief I now feel knowing somebody is reading my correspondence and communicating to me every single word has surprised me.
Unopened letters no longer terrify me. Meetings flow more easily knowing I have Nora taking notes.
And she has been essential in my preparation for the North American tour, which is fast approaching.
That’s what most of our morning meeting is about as I sip my tea and slowly wake up.
It wasn’t a late night, per se, but I was tossing and turning much of the night, thinking about Pia.
As I have been every night since I last saw her a week ago.
But last night, the night our song ‘What I Want’ hit the top of both the Billboard Hot 100 in the US and the UK Top 40, she was inescapable.
I know Martin will have called her sometime yesterday afternoon with the news, and I’d very naively sat close to my phone most of the rest of the day, waiting for it to ring in case she wanted to talk about it, but the only calls that came were from Nora and Clarence congratulating me, which was very sweet, but neither was the call I was hoping for.
“I’ve booked your hair and make-up for the re-scheduled pre-tour shoot next week,” Nora is saying, and I suspect I’ve missed some key information.
“What day is that?”
“Wednesday. Hopefully,” she adds with an unimpressed pout as she refers to the cancelled shoot last week.
“Did we get to the bottom of whose fault it was this time?”
“According to Vik, it was George’s fault, and according to George, it was because Stephan passed out after being on a red eye back from England.”
“And what did Stephan say?”
“I don’t know, but I do have it pencilled in here that you said you would call him today.”
“Did I?” I say absent-mindedly.
“Yes, he wants to talk to you about the tour setlist.”
“Already?” I sigh. “We have weeks to argue about that yet.”
“Or maybe it’s something else.” Nora’s tone changes and her voice lowers. “I’m not one to gossip, but apparently it’s off with Melissa.”
That has my sudden and full attention. “What?”
“I go to aerobics with his hairdresser, Kim,” Nora explains.
“She told me, and half the class, that Melissa never came out like she was supposed to the other week. And then he rushed home to see her, but came back alone after just two days. Stephan told her it was over and that he was hoping to make amends with you.”
“Are you…” I scoff, unable to finish that sentence from the shock and disgust pulsing through my body. “He’s left his pregnant girlfriend? And he thinks that that will be appealing to me?”
“I mean, it’s unlikely he was sober when he told Kim this,” Nora points out.
“Oh, no doubt,” I say and shake my head as I drink more tea. “I’ll call him. I need to tell him to stop talking like that. Immediately. I wonder…”
“Yes?” Nora prompts when I trail off in thought.
“Could you also try and find out Melissa’s phone number? Perhaps it’s time she and I had a proper conversation.”
“I can do that,” she nods, and I feel something settle inside me. I don’t know why I didn’t think to reach out to Melissa directly before. What was I afraid of?
“Just a reminder, Patricia will be over later today to finalise the tour wardrobe,” Nora is saying as she taps the tip of her pen against her lips.
She’s not an unattractive woman–warm olive skin, dark wavy hair and long lashes framing hazel eyes–but I find it hard to translate that into something else.
I’ve found it hard to think about anybody in those terms, but Pia.
Those rushed moments in my car last weekend.
Her gasps and moans. Her weight on my body.
The way I didn’t wash my hands that night, licking my fingers like a cat for traces of her when I went to bed…
“One other thing.” Nora’s voice snaps me out of my memories.
“Yes?” I sit up straighter, adjusting my robe, hoping that my hard nipples aren’t too obvious.
“Did you want me to make that appointment with your lawyer? You told me to wait last week, to revisit it today, and so I was wondering where you’re at with that now?”
I take another sip of tea, checking in with myself. “Yes,” I say. “Make the appointment. And Nora?”
“Yes, Miss Cassie.” She’s writing in her Filofax, and I know the appointment will be made within the next ten minutes.
“I wonder if you could look up if there are any … doctors or therapists, I suppose, who specialise in dyslexia here in LA. Or anywhere. In any of the cities on the tour–that could work.”
“Very well. I will get a list to you by the end of the day.”
“Wonderful, thank you.” There’s a churning in my stomach that threatens to climb up my chest. I could call it anxiety, but perhaps it’s something else. Something like hope or optimism. In that moment, all I want to do is tell Pia about how brave I feel. And thank her. But that would be ridiculous.
“Oh, and these came for you,” Cassie says from somewhere behind me in the living room, which is separated from the kitchen by an archway in the same terracotta tile as the floor.
Spanish Mission Revival was the term used to describe the style of my house, my little casita, as Nora calls it, and I love how different it is from the stuffy Victorian semi-detached house I grew up in.
I love the white walls and the big windows and all the flowers that seem to bloom year-round.
Speaking of flowers, when I turn towards Nora, I see her returning, carrying a large vase of baby pink single-stem roses.
“Oh, really? Who are they from?” I take the vase, but it’s heavy, so I place it on the table while I inhale the soft scent.
“I don’t know,” Nora says, her eyes back on her Filofax. “I didn’t open the envelope. Should I have?”
“No, no,” I say, retrieving it and opening it myself. “I will try and read it. They’re probably from Haven so…”
The words blur as I study the card. It’s impossible to read coherently at first, but the last letter tells me everything.
P.
They’re from Pia.
I read the note a few more times, and finally it makes sense, especially when I see the doodled roses decorating the text.
Roses for an English rose.
Congratulations on another boring number one. P
I know I’m sitting there staring at the white card like a gormless statue, mouth open and eyes unblinking. But I can’t tear my gaze away from it. I’m half-scared that if I do, it will disappear.
“Are you okay?” Nora asks from my side. I press the card to my chest, hiding Pia’s words.
“Yes, yes, from the label, like I said.”
“Would you like me to put them back in the lounge on my way to the office?”
“No, no need,” I say, and I smell the roses once more. “I’d like to keep them here with me a moment longer.”