Chapter 17
PIA
“Are we going to talk about it?” Jon asks as he shakes his scotch on the rocks. I’m sure the ice makes a noise against the glass but I don’t catch it, not with the plane’s engines roaring.
“About what?” I ask, not looking up from my notebook where I’m pretending to work on lyrics, but in reality I’m doodling roses in various stages of bloom.
He says something else, but I don’t hear him.
“Pardon?” I look up.
“What’s going on with you?” He raises his voice.
“I’m trying to write our next best-selling album,” I tell him.
“Not that,” he takes a swig and then raises his glass. “You’re not drinking. In fact, you’ve hardly drunk in weeks. And everybody knows drinking at thirty-thousand feet is always more fun than at sea level.”
“And that’s a problem because…?”
“It’s … not like you.”
“A girl can change.”
“She can.” He leans a little closer. Thank God for business class still keeping him and his scotch-laced breath a safe distance away. “But normally there’s a reason for such a big change.”
I slam my pencil down on my pad. “No reason. Maybe I just want to give my liver a hard-earned rest.”
“It’s got nothing to do with the roses?”
I flip the pad over. “What?”
“The roses you planted in my garden.”
“Well, I don’t have a garden so—”
“No, I mean, even having rose bulbs or seeds or whatever they are … Like, why? Who are you?”
I roll my eyes and wish some turbulence could hit to distract both of us from this conversation. “I’m allowed to develop new interests.”
“Sure, you are.” Jon nods in agreement, his eyes half-lidded in that way I used to find a little bit adorable, but now I just think it makes him look permanently drunk or stoned. “I’m just curious what exactly that new interest is.”
“I’m thinking about taking up gardening,” I offer. “Planting the roses was a test.”
“But why gardening? Why roses?”
Because the most famous blonde-haired English woman in the world sent me them. Because she told me to plant my own rose garden and watch it bloom. Because that felt like a metaphor for something else entirely.
“Why not?”
Visibly unsatisfied with my answer, Jon turns away and reclines his seat. Across the aisle, Jakob is snoring with an eye mask on and next to him, Geert is flirting with an older woman on his right.
“Looks like Geert is going to win today’s mile-high challenge,” I say with a nod, relieved to have something to redirect Jon’s attention towards.
He follows my gaze before settling back in his chair, eyes closed. “It’s easy to win when you’re the only one playing.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed you’ve … slowed down a bit recently.”
He pops one eye open. “A girl can change.”
I chuckle at that and flip my pad over. There are words bouncing around my mind, poetry and lyrics and a song, or ten new songs, maybe more.
I’ve never felt so creative, so bursting with ideas and feelings and a strong need to share them with others, but still I don’t write any new words or notes.
Instead, I go back to drawing roses and wondering if Cassie feels the same way.
If she also has albums of songs inside her bursting to get out, but she chooses to keep them there because this way, they stay safe.
“Listen up,” Martin barks in the hotel lobby. “Two nights. That’s all you’ve got for yourselves. Your last hurrah. After that, I own you.”
He points his index finger at each one of us in turn. Jon blows him an air kiss. Jakob yawns. Geert burps.
“I mean it,” Martin adds. “Two nights to drink, fuck, smoke, snort – whatever and whoever you want – but after that, best behaviour.”
“Sure, Martin,” Jon scoffs. “Why bring us to New York two nights early? You’re asking for trouble.”
Martin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Because … Look, do you want two nights of freedom or not?”
None of us responds. I’m itching to get up to my hotel room, kick my boots off, smoke half a packet of cigarettes and work more on the songs in my head.
“Let me get your room keys,” Martin says with an exasperated huff and heads to the reception desk.
“Find me in the bar,” Geert says, and he skulks off, leaving all his luggage with us.
“We all know why we’re here,” Jakob says, crossing his arms over his leather jacket and tight tee.
“We do?” Jon asks. I’m only half-listening as I rummage around in my bag for my Marlboro Reds and a lighter.
“Kevin Briggs,” Jakob says. That grabs my attention. “Evergreene’s tour opens at Madison Square Garden tomorrow night.”
I knew this, have known this for weeks. Just like I know the next ten stops on their tour and how none of them coincide with our locations as we jump on a plane to Europe in forty-eight hours.
“So, Martin’s a secret fan.” Jon shrugs. “We can’t all have good taste in music.”
“No, Martin’s fucking Kevin,” I explain.
“Is he?” Jon swings his head my way with a mischievous grin. “That’s … interesting.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “Two polyester suits rubbing up against each other. They’ll start a damn fire if they’re not careful.”
“I’m going to ask him to find out Cassie Everard’s hotel room number,” Jakob tells us.
“No, you’re fucking not,” I snap before I can stop myself. I feel Jon’s stare on me intensify.
“Why not?” Jakob says to me in Swedish. “She’s single, I’m single. She’s hot. I’m Swedish.”
I roll my eyes at him. “She's not interested,” I say in English.
“I don’t know,” Jon remarks. “She was with Stephan Greene. Maybe drunken guitarists with bad teeth are her thing?”
“I don’t have bad teeth!” Jakob brings a hand to his mouth.
“Not as bad as Stephan Greene now, thanks to Pia.” Jon slaps me on the back, and I move forward more than I should. I’m still trying to figure out how to stop Jakob from making a move on Cassie.
“Here you go.” Martin pops up and hands out room keys. “Where’s G?”
“Bar, of course,” Jon says, and he snatches a second key. “I’ll go fetch.”
“Listen, Martin,” I step closer and grab his elbow. I pull him away from Jakob, who mouths a Swedish curse at me. “I hear Evergreene is in town and that you might know where they’re staying.”
Martin’s eyes dart around us, presumably for prying eyes or ears. “I might.”
“I need to know where they’re staying,” I say. “Or specifically, where Cassie Everard is staying. Her room number.”
A series of emotions flicker over Martin’s face: shock, confusion, and then tentative understanding.
“I might know,” he says. “But Pia, you have to promise me—”
“Best behaviour,” I say, placing a hand on my chest. “I promise.”
“They’re at the Astoria. All the penthouse suites.”
“Fucking hell, Martin,” I say and gesture around at the admittedly nice, but certainly not Astoria-level opulence of our surroundings.
“You sell out a tour, get a number one album and then we’ll talk,” he says, and then he’s grabbing his luggage and walking towards the elevators.
I don’t mean to fall asleep, I really don’t.
But I barely slept last night, and our flight was an early departure, and apparently, lying on a bed, strumming love songs about a people-pleasing, blonde English rose is some kind of sedative for me, so when I wake, the only light in the room is the city lights outside.
It takes me many minutes to realise where I am, to establish what time it is –5:40am – and to realise that I’ve slept for more than twelve hours.
Parched and with a growling stomach, I go to the bathroom and drink three glasses of awful-tasting water – it’s one of the few things I miss about Sweden – and then quickly brush my teeth. As I do, I walk to the hotel room’s door and see a piece of paper has been pushed under.
I pick it up, open the door and look around. There’s nobody there, but a stack of the day’s newspapers is piled up on the mustard-yellow carpet. I gather them up and then return to my room. Once inside, I dump the papers on the bed and open up the folded piece of hotel notepad paper.
1622
That’s all it says, but that’s all I need. I smile and make a mental note to not be a total bitch to Martin for the next five months.
After rinsing out my mouth and drinking another glass of water, I call room service and order everything they’ve got for breakfast. I’m told it won’t be ready for another hour, so I ask for coffee in the meantime.
I strip, put on the hotel dressing gown and then get back in bed, with my cigarettes and the newspapers.
I flick through the headlines half-heartedly.
The Iranian Revolution continues. Hurricane David has claimed more lives in Dominica and the Dominican Republic.
Bjorn Borg is still pissed off about being knocked out of the US Open, which maybe I could call my brother about, but I don’t, telling myself that it’s because it’s already working hours in Stockholm and he won’t be home.
I’m lighting my second cigarette when I turn a page in the New York Times and see five figures that stop me in my tracks. No, that’s a lie. Only one of the people in the black-and-white image halts my breathing and has the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
It’s Cassie. Wearing the smock-style dress she’s famous for, the way the wind blows leaves no part of her body to the imagination.
The material clings to her curves like they’re shelter in a storm.
Her hair is also blown back by the breeze, making the heart-shape of her face more noticeable than usual, pronouncing the lines of her jaw and the set of her brow.
She’s standing in the middle of the five men, hands on her hips, stance wide, looking strong and proud and defiant.
But it’s not her pose or her stance that makes me freeze in place.
She’s not standing alone. There are arms wrapped around her waist, and a man’s head towers above her halo of blonde hair.
Stephan Greene has Cassie Everard in his arms.
The other Evergreene men fade into the background of both the photo and my focus. I can’t take my eyes off the way Stephan Greene has his hands on Cassie.
The article’s headline says it all: “Evergreene Back on Tour … and Back in Love?”