“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’snotthere.”
“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 thinkshouldbe 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 whatyou’redoing 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’mterrified 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.”