Chapter 27
PIA
“Three more nights,” Jon sighs. “Three more nights and then back to sunshine and blue skies and surf.”
I shoot Jon a piercing look from the other side of the taxi’s back seat. “We’re in Madrid, dickhead. It’s pretty sunny here too.”
“But there’s no surf, no waves,” He gazes longingly out at the crowded pavements of Gran Via. It’s just us in the car, the others in another taxi ahead of us, possibly already at the hotel.
“Look at you, London boy,” I tease, poking his leg. “Missing the beach and the fresh air.”
“I miss my own bed,” he grumbles before looking over at me. “Fuck, am I getting old and boring like you?”
“Maybe,” I shrug with a very contented smile on my face. Not that I have much to be contented about; I’ve not spoken to Cassie in weeks, and I don’t know when I’ll next see her or how we’ll make it happen. I don’t even know if she got the postcard I sent mere minutes after she left my hotel room.
But the European leg of our tour ends in three nights, and we’ll be back in Los Angeles for a week’s break.
I know that Cassie is already in LA. But I also know she flies to Mexico City next week for the final leg of their tour.
I don’t know if she’s busy or resting, writing or recording, or if she even plans to stay in California for that time.
I don’t know, and I haven’t dared to ask. Yes, it’s true. I, a woman who isn’t afraid to punch men twice my weight or pull the hair of racist wannabes in New York nightclubs, am too afraid to find out if the woman I’ve been fucking wants to see me again.
Even if I don’t see her, just going back to LA makes me feel like I’ll be closer to her, and I choose to take pleasure in that.
“Three more nights,” I tell Jon. “And then we’ll be on our way home.”
“Home? You never call LA home. You haven’t called anywhere home since London, and we left there four years ago.”
“Well, things can change,” I say, and because he’s looking at me like he’s trying to read a book in a foreign language, I look back out the window.
“You know,” he says after a few minutes of silence. “I would have done it.”
“You would have done what?” I turn back to him, confused.
“I would have pretended to be fucking her.” He shifts in his seat. “Cassie Everard. And not just because that would have gotten me a lot of street cred. But because it would have helped you.”
My mouth goes dry as the full implications of what he’s saying, what he knows, settle inside me. But then I notice his kind eyes and annoyingly handsome smile, and I relax.
“I know you would have,” I say. “But she didn’t want to. And I don’t blame her.”
“But you would have?”
“I … I would have done whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes for what?”
I curse Jon for asking such a direct question, and I curse myself for knowing the answer, for having it both on the tip of my tongue and buried deep in my heart.
“Just whatever it takes,” I say, and I find his hand and hold it for the rest of the journey, because suddenly I feel like I need to hold someone’s hand.
We all declare that we’re hungry when we get to the hotel, so after dumping luggage in our rooms, we reconvene in the hotel’s restaurant, which is mercifully empty and mostly quiet.
Restaurants have become harder and harder for me with my hearing.
All the background noise, the chiming of glasses, cutlery and china, the overlapping conversations.
But maybe when I see an ear doctor in LA next week, he will confirm that a hearing aid could help, and maybe I won’t have to spend the rest of my life hoping for empty restaurants.
It wasn’t easy making that appointment. I don’t mean logistically. That took one phone call. I mean the emotional journey I had to go on to decide to do so.
The hardest part of losing my hearing isn’t necessarily what’s already happened, what I’ve already lost. It’s what I still have left to lose, knowing I could lose music completely.
That thought has literally paralysed me.
It’s had me reach for the bottle, or a bump or a bad lover too many times.
It’s had me feeling the kind of fear I truly am too terrified to face.
Because who am I without music? Who am I if I can’t hear the one thing that, at times, has made life worth living?
And now it’s not just music, it’s also Cassie. The idea of one day no longer being able to hear her voice, her moans, her singing … it feels like I could lose music twice over.
But I did it, because I know that’s what Cassie would tell me to do. I know that she would want me to try and help myself. I know that she would think it foolish to not find out what’s happening. And to not to try and keep what hearing I have, and she’s right.
Once assembled at a round table, all five of us – Geert, Jakob, Martin, Jon and I – order burgers and an array of drinks.
I sip my Coke when it comes and barely have an envious thought when I see Geert and Jakob clink their beers. Martin and, more surprisingly, Jon, have joined me with soft drinks.
“So,” Martin says, all business. I catch Jakob rolling his eyes at the same time I do. “Two more nights and then we’re done in Europe.”
“Thank fuck,” Jon says.
“He’s missing his surfboard,” I explain.
“Oh, is she a good lay?” Geert jokes, badly.
“Better than you, G,” Jon calls out across the table. “And better looking than most of your recent shags.”
“That’s true,” Jakob says, laughing.
“You do realise you just insulted yourself,” I tell him in Swedish, and he promptly stops chuckling. I know what Geert and Jakob have been up to recently. What they always get up to on tour.
“Settle down,” Martin says, before lighting a cigarette and passing his lighter on to Jakob to do the same. “I have a few things to discuss while we’re all here and mostly sober.”
It’s somewhat refreshing that his pointed stare doesn’t land on me.
“So, first order of business.” He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Just got some listener numbers from the BBC. Their Radio 1 recording of your Amsterdam show did very well. Over six hundred thousand listeners, which for a ten o’clock slot on a Sunday night isn’t bad at all.
The show’s producer also contacted me wanting to interview you when you’re all in London next.
Aaaand”–he pauses, waiting for my eye contact–“he says they’ve had hundreds of people calling and writing in, wanting to know when ‘Trying to Forget You’ will be released. ”
“Never,” I say with a smug grin that absolutely hides how much this information makes me feel.
“We’ll see,” Martin says nonchalantly. “Right, next up, Grammy nominations.”
“Shit, really?” Jon leans in closer, and I do the same. “But our new album isn’t even finalised yet. I thought—”
“Not for you fuckers.” Martin takes a drag. “But for Pia.”
“Me?”
“Yep. ‘What I Want’ is nominated for Best Single.”
“Oh,” I say, sitting back in my chair. I reach for Martin’s cigarettes and steal one. He barely grumbles, which is all thanks to that producer’s report and the Grammy nomination, no doubt. “Does Cassie know?”
I feel all their eyes on me as soon as her name leaves my mouth.
“I assume so. Kevin would have gotten a call, too.”
“Right,” I say, and my whole body is buzzing. I itch with the need to talk to her, to share this moment with her.
“And that’s not all,” Martin says. “They want you to perform. You and Cassie.”
“What?” My mouth hangs open like a fool.
“They want a live performance.”
“Well, fuck,” Jon says, and his foot finds mine under the table, gives me a gentle nudge.
“Yeah, fuck,” I agree.
“Are you going to do it?” Jakob asks, and I turn to him.
“Well, yeah, I mean…” I trail off. What if Cassie doesn’t want to? “I need to speak to Cassie.”
“Pia…” Martin says with a slight edge to his tone.
“I need to know if she wants to. I’ll only do it if she wants to,” I say firmly.
“Noted,” he says with a nod. “I’ll make contact with Kev … I mean, Kevin.”
Our food arrives, and there are more drink orders, requests for mustard (me), ketchup (Jon) and mayonnaise (Geert), and then we start to eat.
“Next order of business,” Martin says with his mouth full. “The next album.”
Geert and Jakob groan, which is ridiculous because they contribute the least to our songwriting process.
“We need to talk about this, whether you like it or not. I need to book the studio and Dylan and his team.”
“We have enough songs,” Jon says. “Or Pia does.”
“But they’re not our … usual style,” I add.
“Go on,” Martin takes another bite.
“There are more … slow tempo numbers,” I explain. “And Jon’s been doing more with synths and the keyboard.”
“Synths? What are we, a fucking disco band now?” Geert asks, laughing in borderline disgust.
“No.” Jon pushes him hard enough to knock him into Jakob, who pushes him back against Jon, like a ping-pong ball. “But disco is doing well right now.”
“It’s been doing well for years,” Martin chimes in. “But is it Femme Fatale?”
Once more, I feel all their eyes on me.
“I think … it’s okay for us to…change. To not only move with the times but also innovate. We can evolve, and we can come up with something new and fresh in the process.”
Geert points his knife at me across the table. “Who are you, and what have you done with Pia?”
“Fuck off, Geert,” I say before blowing him a kiss.
“Play me some of the songs,” Martin says. “We’ll do a demo next week, and then I’ll take it to Silver Waters.”
I roll my eyes again. “So that they can call it all crap, great.”
“And there she is,” Geert says. “Our lieve pessimistic Pia!”
Jon rubs his fist on my hair, messing it up as the others chatter and laugh. I dig into my food, and Martin is distracted when the man from the reception desk brings him a stack of newspapers. Martin is quick to create space so he can flick through them.
Relieved that he’s distracted, the boys and I start to talk about the set list for tonight, considering a last-minute change as we eat and drink, and I feel better than I have in weeks.
That is, until Martin says, “Holy fuckballs.”
He lifts up an open copy of The Times, from the UK. Jakob leans over and looks at whatever Martin is staring at.
“Herregud…” he says slowly, face wide with shock.
“What is it?” I ask before sticking a fry in my mouth.
“Godverdomme,” Geert says because he’s snatched the magazine out of Martin’s hands, and then Jon’s leaning over and looking at it, before looking at me, his face suddenly very pale.
“What?” I demand, grabbing hold of the publication.
I stop chewing as soon as I see the black-and-white photo. My stomach lurches, once, twice. It doesn’t stop.
Because there is Cassie, her face swollen with bruises and a jagged line of stitches crossing her forehead. She’s lying in a hospital bed, asleep or unconscious, and what the fuck, what the fuck…
“What the fuck?” I look at the men sitting with me, literally begging them for answers. They don’t have any. They just stare back at me blankly in various stages of worry and shock.
I try to read the article, but my eyes go quicker than my brain, so I start again, slow down. I read out loud.
“Sources at the hospital told reporters, Ms Everard was brought in at 3:50 pm on Sunday 4 November, unconscious. She is now recovering while being monitored, and her condition has been described as non-critical and stable. A source close to Evergreene reports that the ambulance was called to Chateau Marmont, where Stephan Greene has been staying…”
I stand up so abruptly, it rocks the whole table and tips over my Coke, but I don’t give a shit.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, and I leave as quickly as I can, Martin and Jon’s shouts nothing but fuzzy words I don’t even try to hear.