Chapter 38
CASSIE
Idon’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want the note Clarence just played to end. I don’t want to be blinded by the studio lights and bothered by an influx of voices. I don’t want to be pulled out of the reverie in my mind where I am singing to Pia and she is in my arms and there’s no-one else.
But the final note does eventually end. And a voice crackles in my headphones. I open my eyes and see three people moving around, and not one of them is Pia.
“Excellent work, Cassie,” Freddie says. “We’re going to take a break now. Go get a drink or whatever.”
I nod acknowledgement in the direction of the sound desk before removing and hanging my headphones up. Clarence is also on the move, and he meets me at the exit, holding the door open for me.
“Thank you.” I half-curtsey before walking through.
“A pleasure, as always,” he says, and then follows me. Once in the corridor, we fall into step together. “Coffee?”
I shake my head. “Tea.”
“Of course. You can take the girl out of England…”
“Something like that,” I say. We walk to the hot drinks vending machine in silence. I dive my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, searching for some coins.
“Allow me,” Clarence says and puts a couple of quarters in the slot. He presses a button and a plastic cup appears, followed by a stream of brown liquid.
The tea is awful here, and there’s no milk – only creamer – and I’m not really that thirsty, but I wanted to get out of the studio, away from Lisette, my new manager.
As a former road manager for Evergreene, she has long impressed me with her confident presence, take-no-shit attitude and the way she clashed with Kevin, which ultimately resulted in them parting ways.
She stood up for herself and what she thought was right – better wages for her team – and that’s the kind of philosophy I need in my life.
And she has been mostly great so far. Sure, she’s been less enthusiastic about my new material and recording today’s demo than I would have liked, but I’m confident once she hears it, she’ll approve.
Also, the last time we spoke about touring next year, she immediately dismissed my request to keep it limited to just a few months, but I’m hoping they’re teething problems we can work through.
Regardless, right now I need some space, and I also want to talk to Clarence.
“Thank you,” I say as Clarence presents my cup like it’s a chalice. “And thank you, Clarence, for the last few weeks. I always enjoy making music with you.”
“Making music,” he repeats thoughtfully as he watches his own plastic cup fill with coffee that I daresay isn’t much more flavourful than my tea. “Yes, that is what we’re doing, isn’t it?”
I smile and frown at the same time. “Isn’t that what we’ve always done?”
“Oh, not exactly,” he says, like that answer is obvious. He takes his cup and adds sugar and creamer. “One of my musical heroes, Miles Davis, once said that you shouldn’t play what’s there, written down in front of you, the score; you should play what’s not there.”
“I’m not following,” I say, confused but intrigued.
“I think what he meant by that was that the best music is not about creating what you think should be created or what is predictable or easy. It’s about finding a melody, a harmony, a kickass lyric where you least expect it. It’s about being wild and free. Unlimited. Unrestrained.”
“And you think that’s what we’re doing now?”
“I think that’s what you’re doing now.” He nods at me before taking a sip of coffee, all while holding my gaze.
“But I didn’t with Evergreene?”
He shrugs and leans against the wall beside the coffee machine. “You wrote some great songs with Evergreene. Really brilliant pop songs. Catchy. Cute. And you performed them with your whole heart. But was it playing what’s not there? What wasn’t expected of you? I’m not so sure.”
I’m blushing and feeling a little lightheaded, but I push Clarence a little more. “Why do you think that is?”
Much to my puzzlement and frustration, Clarence laughs softly. “Oh, Cassie, you know why.”
“I … I don’t,” I say, suddenly worried I’ve completely missed the point of this conversation.
“Yes, you do,” he says, continuing to chuckle.
“I really don’t, Clarence, and I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t understand why you’re laughing at me!” I don’t raise my voice as much as find an edge to it that I’ve never heard before.
“I’m sorry.” He covers his hand with his mouth, as if to move his lips back to a neutral position. “Really, I am. I just … Cassie, I’m laughing because I’m happy for you.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “And also, because I can’t believe you can’t see what I see.”
I blink several times before responding. “Maybe you have to explain it to me like I’m a child because—”
“You’re in love, Cassie Everard,” he says, his hand still on my shoulder. “You’re deeply and madly in love. And it shines through in every note you hit, in every breath you take to sing the notes, and in the poetry wrapped up in your new songs.”
Words fail me. Even inhaling takes conscious effort.
“Don’t look so surprised, Cassie.” He leans back again, sips his coffee. “It’s a joy to be a part of.”
“But I’ve always written love songs,” I try to explain it away. Not because I disagree with him, but because I can’t deny it. And I’m terrified that if Clarence knows this much, what will everyone else think?
“Yes, you have,” Clarence agrees. “But love songs written by someone who’s in love and someone who isn’t are two very different pieces of art. Take it from an old man who knows.”
I smile at this sentiment and the way he poignantly says, “old man,” a nod to the way Vik and Stephan and George would tease him.
“I’m so sorry Evergreene wasn’t a positive experience for you,” I say as I lean against the wall next to him. This is what I wanted to talk to him about. Not how obvious it apparently is that I’ve fallen for my arch-rival.
“Who says it wasn’t?”
“The boys, Vik and Stephan, they were awful. And George was worse most days…”
“Ha! You think three preppy white boys from England can bother me.” Clarence turns his mouth down and shakes his head. “No, I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up. And I got what I wanted. It paid my bills. Let me tour. Visit a lover or two along the way.”
“Oh?” I smile, pleased to be talking about his love life and not my own. “Who are the lucky ladies?”
Clarence’s eyes have never shone so brightly as he smiles. “One lucky lady and a few lucky men.”
And there I go again, breathless and startled and feeling as helpless as a fish out of water. “Really?” I say as I clear my throat.
“You’re not the only one lucky enough to feel the pull to both men and women,” Clarence says so casually I almost convince myself I’ve misheard him. But then he gives me this wide, knowing grin, and I can’t do anything but return it while laughing shyly into my terrible tea.
“Please tell me you’re just very observant,” I half-ask, half-beg. “I’ve tried so hard to keep it all … contained.”
“Why?” He surprises me by asking.
“Well, because…” I look at him, expecting him to fill in the blank himself, but his eyes are wide and expectant. “I mean, can you imagine?”
“Imagine what?”
“What people would say,” I hiss.
“Spoken like a sweet white girl who has never rocked the boat by just existing,” he mutters, mostly to himself, I believe. But I hear him, and for some reason it makes me square my shoulders and harden my jaw and think very carefully about my response.
“You keep it a secret too.” I lift my cup towards him. “I never knew you liked men as well as women.”
“You didn’t ask,” he says, and he is absolutely right. It’s funny how we all make so many assumptions about other people and so many of them are likely wrong.
Silence lands between us, but that doesn’t mean I feel quiet. If anything, my mind has never been noisier.
“The timing is terrible,” I tell him eventually, and, I suspect, myself. “I’m about to launch my solo career. Pia really wants their next album to be the one that gets them the recognition she deserves. We will both spend a lot of next year touring.”
“Ah, Pia Lindberg,” he says, and that has me lifting my gaze to him quickly, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“You didn’t know?”
“I had my suspicions.” Clarence winks.
I can’t help but laugh now, almost as loudly and freely as Clarence did earlier. “I thought you knew. God, I was so worried if you knew, that would mean everyone else does too, and that’s…” I stop chuckling to find my breath. “Well, it just can’t happen.”
“If you say so,” Clarence says, and he laughs when he sees my frustrated pout. “Oh, Cassie, you need to relax and enjoy what you have.”
That’s when the reality of this situation hits me. Like the final chord in a crescendo. Like the key change in a bridge. Like the final chorus of a duet, when two voices perfectly harmonise.
“But I can’t,” I almost whisper. “I can’t. Not fully. Because she is … somewhere else and I am here. And even when we are together, it’s a secret. It’s hidden. And that’s how it always has to be. We will always have to hide our love, no matter what we want.”
For once, Clarence doesn’t have a quick, quippy retort. He’s silent, and he’s staring at me so intently, I feel like he can see the part of my soul where those words tumbled from.
“And what is it that you want?”
“It doesn’t matter—” I begin, but Clarence cuts me off immediately and sharply.
“What do you want, Cassie?”
I take a deep breath and let my soul speak.
“I want to be able to dedicate my album to Pia. I want to sing all these love songs to her. I want to perform ‘What I Want’ with her on stage and for everyone to know we wrote that about women who love women. I want to sing that song at the Grammys and kiss her at the end. I want to bring our love out of the shadows and into the spotlight. I want to be brave enough to do that. I want everyone to know I love her and…”
I stop then because I was about to say “and she loves me” but I don’t have any authority to say so.
Even if I was convinced of it during our week together when I was recovering.
Even if the postcards she sends me from each of her tour destinations feel like love notes.
Even if I feel it during every one of our sporadic and rushed but precious, precious late-night phone calls. She still hasn’t said it.
But also, neither have I.
Clarence downs the last of his coffee and tosses it in the waste bin near the machine. “Sounds to me like what you want matters a whole lot.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but something stops me.
Whatever it is, I choose to listen to it.