14. Cassie
CASSIE
From: ab.assistant@
Subject: Summer Itinerary | LA Rebels
Hello Cassandra,
Please see attached the itinerary for the calendar months of April to June.
Please can you confirm you will be in attendance for all dates.
Regards,
Adam Brown
From: l.wilder@
To: ab.assistant@
cc: cassocean18@, michael@
Subject: Summer Itinerary | LA Rebels
Hi Adam,
Hope all is well.
Cassie has further commitments over these dates in NYC so will not be able to attend. Please see the attached for specifics.
Kind regards,
Lane
From: michael@
To: l.wilder@
cc: cassocean18@; ab.assistant@
Subject: Summer Itinerary | LA Rebels
Cass will make it work.
Sent from my iPhone
“Tell him you’re spending time with your mother and put your phone away,” Mom snaps from across the table.
We’re at Bon Bon, the Michelin star restaurant in New York that my mother dines at four times a month.
The ceilings are high, and the table cloth beneath our plates is pristine and white, with black tie liveried waiters waiting nearby to take our orders and refill our nearly empty wine glasses.
I place my phone face down and bite my tongue.
I’m already exhausted from the red eye I caught last night, the interview I had this morning, and the meeting about a brand deal straight after.
I barely had time to pick up the guitar I keep at my mom’s place before she ushered me out the door to the restaurant.
I don’t know why she insists on these lunches with just the two of us when I know she’d rather be mingling with every other person in the room.
But once she discovered how much time I was spending in my father’s box at the stadium, she insisted on these monthly lunches on the East Coast.
I’ve only been to four games so far, but ensuring I spend every weekend in LA has meant there’s very little time at home, very little time on the water, and even less time to think about Robbie King and how he turned me down. Again.
How many more times am I going to go for it before I take the hint? A part of me, the logical side of my brain, says right fucking now, but I can’t help myself. It’s like as soon as I’m in his vicinity, all logic falls out of my head and into my vagina.
“Have you ladies decided?” the waiter asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Yes,” Mom says, folding her menu in half. “We’ll have two kale salads.”
“I really wanted the chicken,” I feebly protest as the waiter sweeps the menu from my hands.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cassandra,” Mom says, glancing around the room with a wave. “That’s Magdalene over there, do you want her to think you have an appetite?”
I close my eyes so she doesn’t see them rolling into the back of my head.
My mother is the definition of a Momager.
While my dad took care of the business side of my career, my mom took care of the front.
Every stylist, nutritionist, or acting coach was approved by her.
I was only able to shake them off when I left my producing team three years ago.
My contract was up, and I begged my dad to intervene, to let me cut the nursing strings a little and figure it out for myself.
He let me on the stipulation that I prove I can do it, and the sold out tour that followed defied all our expectations.
“What’s the latest with your album?” Mom asks.
I glance around to spot any prying eyes.
It’s always the biggest question any artist is asked post-tour.
It doesn’t matter that I only managed to walk through my front door six months ago, finally able to sleep in my own bed after a fourteen-month-long worldwide tour.
I love touring, I love meeting new fans and seeing new places, but I also want to be home sometimes too.
Once, I calculated that I only averaged about ten nights a year in my own home. Ten.
Ten days where I could take my board out and surf the waves I bought the goddamn house for.
“It’s coming along…” Slowly. So, so slowly.
“Are you working with Daniel again?”
I take a deep breath. “I will be, yes.”
“So terrible what happened to that family. Charles was always—”
“Mom,” I hiss, leaning across the table as if I can slap a hand across her mouth. “Don’t bring that up here.”
My mother does admittedly look quite sheepish as she takes another sip of wine. “Well, when are you seeing him again?”
“Mom, he’s only just got back from his honeymoon.”
“Oh, did that go ahead in the end?”
“Yes.” I barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes.
“The wedding went ahead.” As if there was ever any doubt.
As soon as the news broke that Danny Covington was my duet partner for Wish I Could, there were rampant rumors that we were secret lovers writing songs about each other and conducting a wild love affair.
It was ridiculous and anyone who has ever been in the room with him and Anya knew there was absolutely zero truth to it.
Even though he’s happily married, and I see him more like a brother than a boyfriend, to this day we’re still bothered by fans desperate to uncover our passionate affair.
We all laugh it off for the most part, but it’s still fucking irritating.
“You should have capitalized on all that publicity, Cassandra.” My mother would have loved the extra attention that would come along with me being with a man like Danny.
Even before his father’s scandal—which has become something we do not discuss with the Covington siblings—he had a lot of attention for a long time. “It would have sold so many albums.”
I bite my tongue so hard I can taste copper. My parents were both instrumental in my career blossoming as a seventeen year old. They had the right connections to get me in the right rooms, had the money to propel me to unimaginable heights, and I owe them my whole life.
I still don’t want that to mean my mother can tell me who I should and shouldn’t date.
I dread to think what her reaction would be if she heard about me and Robbie.
There is no me and Robbie.
I don’t bother to reassure her—again—that there was never anything romantic with me and my best friend’s brother. Not even a hint of a spark. I’ve told her a dozen times before, but she insists it doesn’t matter about my feelings when it should be about sales.
“Now.” Mom moves aside my glass of wine before I have the chance to glug it, pushing a sleek portfolio into my hands. “Look at these designs.”
“What’s this?” I pull the cover back and my stomach sinks.
Cassandra’s Creations for your home.
“Mom.” I flick through the pages full of concept images and metrics and designs. “I don’t know what I’m looking at here.”
“It’s our new line, darling. Home decor. You know, throw blankets, rugs, that kind of stuff. It’s such a deep marketplace.” Mom sips her wine. “I’ve already got investors lined up. They just want to meet with you to go over some of the details.”
I spot a row of paisley curtains and firmly close the folder.
“Mom this is…” I trail off.
“Isn’t it brilliant?”
“It’s just not very…” I struggle to word my thoughts. “Me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous Cassandra,” Mom scoffs.” It doesn’t matter if it’s you or not. This is what is selling, so this is what we’ll sell.”
I blow out a breath. “I mean—”
“It’s not like soccer”—Mom spits the word—“is very you either, but you’re more than happy to go along with your father’s latest scheme.”
Of course. That’s what this is about. I knew as soon as word got out that I was attending the Rebels games that the other shoe would drop eventually and that said shoe would be a four-inch Prada pump.
I bite back a sigh and turn to the window.
The windows are high and long, covering the entire front wall of the restaurant.
Even though we’re in the centre of the bustling room, I can still see out onto the street.
It’s why I spot a family of four, two parents and two children, both wearing what I can tell are soccer tops.
They’re not Rebels jerseys, and I don’t know what the colors of Robbie’s old team are, but I find myself squinting to see if I can see his name on their tiny backs.
“Cassandra,” Mom hisses, pulling my attention back to the table. “Will you pay attention?”
I turn back to the portfolio and mentally count down the hours until Robbie’s next game.