Chapter 37
PIA
Two Weeks Later
“She sounds better than ever,” Jon says after I press pause on the cassette machine that was playing the demo tape Cassie sent me of her solo work.
“Agreed,” I nod and wait for the pang in my stomach to dissipate. Missing Cassie over the last few weeks has become a physical thing. It shows up as stomach aches, a tight ribcage, even a sore head that some of my worst hangovers couldn’t touch.
“And what’s happening with Vik and Steph?
” he asks as he lights a cigarette. I’m grateful when he passes it to me at the other side of the leather couch.
I’m also grateful that Geert and Jakob are sleeping further down the tour bus.
It feels like I’ve not been alone with Jon since the tour re-restarted.
“You mean you’re not checking the gossip rags for updates?” I tease.
“Am I fuck!” He laughs.
“Vik’s still locked up and not going anywhere for a long time, according to his lawyer. I have no clue about that other fuckwit. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care.”
“Rehab is the rumour I heard.”
“Again, don’t know, don’t care.”
“I hope wherever he is, he doesn’t cross your path anytime soon or…” Jon swipes his index finger across his throat.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t murder him?” I tap my cigarette into the ashtray that sits between us. “You who have swung for him more times than anyone.”
Jon shrugs. “He’s an easy fight. For someone who was once a rah-rah rugby boy, he has a weak uppercut and an even more pathetic block.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I say, already feeling the heat in my blood increase.
“What do you want to talk about then? Your girlfriend and how she’s probably recording next year’s top-selling album as we speak?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say instinctively. “And I still think we could give her a run for her money.”
“Only one of those statements is true,” Jon says, and he moves so his feet are pointing my way, the ashtray now lying on his shins.
“Jesus, your feet stink.” I move further back but don’t push him away. I like being close to him like this. It feels like we’re cementing a new chapter in our friendship.
“No, they don’t. It’s just my socks. Haven’t changed them in a few days.”
I blink at him. “Why not? That’s gross, man.”
Jon laughs like I’ve cracked the funniest joke.
“What?”
“Never did I ever think that Pia Lindberg would be bothered by smelly feet.” He clutches his belly.
“What are you saying?”
“Pia…” He leans closer to me. “I literally saw you snort cocaine off a backing singer’s tit when we played at Glastonbury Fayre. And she hadn’t showered in two days, minimum. You licked the sweat off her body, out of her fucking armpit, like it was honey.”
I find a blurry memory that corresponds with what he’s saying. “That was then.” I smile at the recollection but don’t feel anything like desire to go back to it or to recreate similar moments. “And this is now.”
“And now you’re in love,” he says, his laughter finally coming to a stop.
“Now I’m…” I start, confident I can find an alternative for whatever this situation is that I am in. But I can’t.
“Just say it, Pia.” He throws the packet of cigarettes at me.
I toss it back, then look out of the window on the opposite side of the bus.
It’s night, and all I can see are the passing lights of oncoming traffic.
We are somewhere between Chicago and Milwaukee, I believe, but we could be anywhere.
I don’t care. I’m only focused on doing what I have to do each day until we’re on our way back to LA.
“What does it matter to you?” I say, taking a final long drag on my cigarette.
“It matters because I care about you,” Jon replies. I study his face for any hint that that “care” is more than just platonic. It’s a great relief when I conclude it isn’t. “And I want you to be happy.”
“I’ll be happy when you stop being so nosey. Since when do you care about who I’m fucking?” I stub my cigarette out.
“I don’t know, maybe since the moment you abandoned our European tour to be with her? Since the moment you started writing love songs rather than rage anthems? Since the last few weeks when I can see you’re here, on this tour, in body but not in spirit?”
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off or to shut his ugly face. But I don’t do that. Instead, I let a little bit of the truth slip out.
“Am I that obvious?”
“Yes,” he says, and he nudges my leg with one of his smelly socks. “And it’s actually really fucking nice to see. Inspiring almost.”
“Inspiring?” I scoff. “You’re inspired by me?”
“Yeah,” he says, pulling another cigarette out with his lips. “You make this old man want to fall in love too. Or rather, again. With more success this time.”
“Jon.” I stretch closer to him, snatch the lighter and open it for him. As he leans into the flame, I hold his gaze. “May I recommend starting with wearing clean socks?”
“Noted,” he says as he exhales and relaxes back. “So, what are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do about what?”
“Miss Cassie Everard,” he says and points with his cigarette at the cassette player on the table next to us. “1980’s best-selling artist.”
I pull the demo cassette that she had couriered to our hotel in Chicago. I hold it like it’s her hand, delicately, warmly, wanting to squeeze it so hard, but also wanting to protect it from any kind of pain or threat.
“What can I do?”
“You can…” He comes up short, because of course he does. We don’t live in a world where Cassie and I can be what we want to be.
“Maybe things will be different in a few years,” I say, finally voicing a thought that’s been bouncing around my head since I left LA.
“Femme Fatale will be over and done with. We’ll have all fallen out and gone our separate ways.
She’ll be more popular than ever. Maybe I can just go on tour with her.
Maybe I can cook her meals, wash her socks.
” I flick Jon’s big toe before reaching for the cigarettes again.
So much for giving up smoking on this tour.
“It will be enough. Just to be with her.”
“That’s cute,” Jon says as he returns the favour and gives me a light. “But fucking bullshit. Pia, that is not you. You are no housewife. And you weren’t meant to stand in someone’s shadow. Even if you adore that person.”
“I don’t know, Jon,” I say, honesty now pouring out of me. “In case you haven’t already noticed, being in the spotlight isn’t all it’s supposed to be.”
Jon studies me with an assessing stare as he takes a long drag. “What are you afraid of? It’s common knowledge that you’ve fucked women. You’ve even hinted at it in our songs and in interviews. Why are you afraid now?”
He doesn’t get it. Nobody gets it.
“A girl can want too much,” I say, trying to sound philosophical, but to my ears, I just sound weak and pathetic.
“Bullshit, Pia, bullshit.”
“I’m serious, Jon,” I retort. Because I am.
As well as everything else, it’s still true that I feel like I already have more than I deserve right now in this moment where my heart aches to be close to hers, to fall into the same rhythm.
It still blows my mind that she feels the same. That she wants to be with me.
“And I’m serious about calling you out on this bullshit.
I’ll allow you your sobriety and that doe-eyed, loved-up look on your face.
I’ll let you spend half your time daydreaming about the sordid things you want to do to Cassie Everard.
I’ll even let you insult my hygiene habits.
What I will not permit is you shrinking yourself because of other people’s bigotry.
That is the very last thing the Pia Lindberg I know would ever do. ”
I flinch like I’ve been slapped across the face. Instead of replying, I suck on my cigarette. Once, then twice.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say eventually. “But what about Cassie Everard?”
Jon repositions himself again, bringing his feet closer to his body. He bends down to take a sniff. He looks as repulsed as he should. When he straightens up, he gives me a shrug and a gentle smile. “That, I guess, is up to Cassie Everard.”