2. Cassie
CASSIE
When I first bought my house by the beach, I fell in love with the huge windows that overlook the sea. I would spend all my time standing against the glass, watching the rhythmic crashing of the waves as I drank coffee or a glass of wine.
Or stare woodenly at my reflection whilst my mother complains in my ear.
“I don’t understand why you had to use your house for the party. If your father wants to host all of his business guests, he should do it at his own house. Or the country club. He spends enough money there. They should keep a permanent ballroom prepared for him.”
I sigh heavily as I turn away from the window.
It’s been the same way since my parents divorced when I was a kid.
They both love nothing more than venting to me about how the other one is selfish, or making bad choices, or wearing the wrong season’s boat shoes to the club.
As a child, I learned pretty quickly that the best way to handle it is to just listen and keep my mouth shut, lest I get dragged into an even longer conversation that ends with me wanting to bash my head into a brick wall.
“I didn’t mind, Mom.” I tug at the keyring hanging from the locked door, the mini green surfboard a souvenir from my one and only surfing trip to Hawaii. “You know I love hosting.”
The catering staff did a good job, the furniture is back in its correct place, the glassware and catering trays have been returned to the warehouse, and the surfaces are polished to perfection.
There’s no evidence that there ever was a party.
Apart from the two cliffside chairs slightly in disarray.
After the guests had left and I was alone in my home again that night, I crept back down to the secret spot, searching for the underwear I had left behind.
It was incredibly unpleasant heading back into a party with my father and all his friends with my wetness clinging to my thighs and my panties hiding in the yard.
It was dark, so I had to use my phone torch, flipping the cushion that had been righted over in my attempt to find them.
In the end, I gave up, expecting that they’d been carried off in the breeze and I just couldn’t see them in the early hours of the morning.
Although, when I went back to check in the light of day… still no underwear.
I almost hope the wind did blow them away and they’re somewhere in the Pacific ocean strangling a poor turtle, instead of with him.
Robbie.
The mystery man with the gorgeous British accent. I still can’t shake the memory of the crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he laughed at my jokes, of his dirty words as he pressed kisses to my skin and made me forget I was at my father’s party.
I would say I don’t usually let strange men eat me out in public.
And I don’t. Usually. But sometimes I just want to live a little.
To do something that’s just for me and not have to worry about the consequences or how it will look to my reputation if it got out.
What’s the point of life if you don’t chase the exciting moments when you can?
“When I’m back from St Tropez next month, you can throw me a party and we’ll be even.”
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts of Robbie, I bite back another sigh. Everything with my parents has to be even, fair, divided, sliced straight down the middle like I’m sure they wanted me to be as a teenager, each parent gets an arm and a leg. “Sure, Mom. What kind of party do you want?”
“Garden. I’ll invite everyone from the club. It can be in the daytime, instead of a den of iniquity like I’m sure your father wanted.”
“Mom, please. Do you think Dad would ask me to host a party for him if he wanted it to be rock’n’roll?”
My mother harrumphs on the other line. “I know the man better than you, Cassandra. Any excuse for loose morals and he’ll take it.”
I grimace at the words. They’ve been divorced for over half of my life, but this has always been the way it is. My father buys my affection, a new car, a record label, a beach house with private access to some of the best waves on the West Coast, and my mother guilts me for accepting them.
We had some family therapy back in the early days, but even the therapist gave up on us.
I bite my tongue. Thankfully, my phone buzzes again in my ear. “Sorry Mom, someone’s calling, I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll send you an initial guest list and my catering company.”
“Sounds great, okay, bye!”
I hang up and answer my best friend with a long groan.
“Let me guess,” Pip laughs. “Claudia Hamilton.”
I flop on my couch with a thump. From here, I can still see the sea through the windows. Usually it relaxes me, the gentle motion of the waves that I swear I can hear if I listen hard enough.
“Why did I ever agree to host my Dad’s party? Now I’ve got to plan one for her too.”
Pip snorts. “Couldn’t be me.”
I sober slightly. Three years ago, Pip was swept up in a horrific scandal caused by her father’s sexual misconduct.
Her dad was a successful film producer, with hundreds of blockbusters under his belt, but he also couldn’t keep said belt closed.
I always thought he was a creep. Whenever I met him, his eyes would linger on my body like slime.
I never brought it up, but since the news came out, I wonder if I should have.
Pip and her brother Danny have completely cut their father out of their lives, releasing press statements condemning him and publicly shunning him, but neither of them like to talk about it.
“Have you heard from the newlyweds?” I ask Pip, moving the conversation firmly away from dysfunctional parents. I’ve seen Danny often over the last two years, working on his debut album.
Danny is still relatively new to the music industry but I’ve been doing this since I was a teenager.
I had some talent, sure, but I was a kid dropped in a studio with grown ups who knew what they were doing.
I had a folder of songs to choose from, adding the occasional creative change, but working with a team of songwriters and producers.
For my last album, I decided to try to write my own.
A complete album full of my own songs and my own words. And Danny helped me.
“Yes,” Pip sighs. “It’s adorable. Anya keeps sending me the worst candid pics of Danny. It’s cracking me up. How was the party?”
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Good. Good. Nothing happened.”
Silence.
“Why did you say it like that?”
“What do you mean?” I try to laugh it off, but I know she’s not going to let that go.
“Nothing happened. I didn’t ask if anything happened. What happened?”
“Nothing!” I protest, running my hand through my hair and remembering how Robbie tugged at the strands.
“Cassandra Hamilton, you slut!”
“What!” I gasp. “How did you know?”
“I knew it! You got some. Who was it? One of your dad’s friends? I can’t tell if I like that or not. Older guys can be very sexy.”
“Who’s the slut now?” I laugh. “He wasn’t old. Well I mean, I don’t know how old he was. Older than me, but not like my dad’s age. Jesus, Pip.”
“Hot?”
I nod before remembering she can’t see me.
And then I tell her. How I was relaxing in my favorite spot until I was interrupted by a British sex god, who literally charmed the panties off me and gave me an orgasm without finding out my last name.
He didn’t seem to recognize me, and I had zero interest in telling him.
“Wow,” Pip says after I’m finished.
“Yeah,” I say, on a sigh.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“I didn’t get his number. I don’t even know his full name.”
“Surely your dad will know. He would have invited him.”
“Yeah, great idea. ‘Hi Daddy, you don’t happen to know the last name of the hot English guy who came to your party? He ravished your daughter in the garden.’” I make a dramatic heaving noise at the thought.
Pip’s laugh rings in my ear. “Fine, don’t ask him. Just spend the rest of your life desperately trying to find your mystery man again.”
“I’ll think about it.” I say. “I’m seeing him tomorrow. He wants me to come to the first training session for the team.”
“I thought your only plans this week were to surf and write.”
I close my eyes. “It was, but Dad asked me at the party to come watch practice.”
“What are you going to do? Help run the workouts? You don’t know anything about football.”
I snicker. “I’m sure he’s not going to ask me to play.”
Pip laughs and we chat for a few more minutes before we hang up. I let my phone fall on my stomach and glance at the windows again, the sun glinting on the sparkling waves
There’s so much I could do now. I could finish the book that’s been on my nightstand for two weeks, I could bake the cookies I’ve been meaning to make, I could go down to my studio and work on the album my fans have been begging me for.
The thought twists my stomach. I’ve already released four chart-topping studio albums. To some, it’s a lot and to other’s, it’s barely any, but it doesn’t stop the pressure that builds behind my sternum.
As soon as my last album released, I started politely deflecting the questions of ‘what’s next?
’. As if it’s that easy. As if every song doesn’t need tugging out of my ribcage like a surgical procedure.
It’s not that writer’s block hasn’t affected me before, but the longer I go without a melody in my head or a lyric in my mind, the more I feel like a failure. Maybe those four albums, and those forty-five songs, are all I have in me. Is it enough? Can it be enough?
I turn on my side and bury my head in the back of the sofa, letting it swallow my groan of frustration. I take a few muffled breaths before sitting up.
“Come on, Cassie,” I chastise myself.
I swing my legs off the sofa and rise, storming down the hall and to my basement studio.
I flick the light on, the empty chair and warm leather sofa greeting me.
As far as studios go, it’s on the small side, barely enough for five people, but it’s all I need in my house.
When I need a bigger team, I have contacts with bigger houses who can fit us all in, but typically it’s just me.
And occasionally Danny, when he’s not rightfully enjoying his newlywed status.
I slowly cross to the booth, any sound as I walk in completely muffled.
It’s so silent I can hear my own heart beating as I approach the grand piano.
I pull back the cover, exposing the black and white keys, and let my hands rest on a C chord.
I don’t press down, instead letting my indecisive fingers mime each chord I know without a sound.
With a frustrated sigh, I slam the cover closed and then I’m out of the room, self loathing pooling in my stomach. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just start?
The walls are hung with my platinum album covers, but I shield my eyes as I sneak past them, and take the stairs two at a time until I’m standing on my porch, letting the sea breeze rustle through my hair.
I gather my hair in my hands and let the cool breeze glide against my neck, taking a deep breath.
Then I let my hair fall back down, pivot on my heels and grab my surfboard from my shed. I kitted it out a few years ago, a DIY project that I had no reason to do myself but loved every second of. Now I have a fully equipped shed with my five boards resting on only slightly wonky brackets.
I grab one of my wetsuits from the drawers and strip my leggings into a pile on the floor. By the time I’ve yanked my wetsuit on, grabbed my favorite yellow board and ran the path to the foamy water, I’ve left all thoughts of what I have to do and my empty studio on the shore.