“You better,” Stephan says, and I turn to catch his eye. I hope and wait for a wink, for a smile, for something other than his glare. I thought we were in a better place than this. This morning we woke up together, made love, drank coffee in bed while listening to Free’s first album on the record player in my room. But he just drops my gaze and takes another drag on his cigarette. “From the top.”
Feeling my cheeks heat with rejection, I ruffle the pages that are laid out on the music stand in front of me. They’re the lyrics for the song we’re about to record – a B-side for our last single from our latest album – not that I need them. I can’t rely on my reading them right, so I always memorise all my lyrics.
“Okay. Let’s make some music!” I say it to reset the mood, to try and make the session count at the very least. But there are no whoops of enthusiasm like there used to be. Instead, all I hear are grunts of consent and another hiccup from George. I turn away from my fellow band members, close my eyes, and get ready to get lost in the one thing that never fails me: the music.
“That was a good take, Cass,” Freddie says as I return to the control room and my contract.
“Thanks,” I say. I’m about to ask him if he has some spare time, but Kevin bursts into the room, dressed, as always, in a suit that looks creased and crumpled, even first thing in the morning. The blazer’s sleeves are bunched up, revealing a flash of gold, which is one from his collection of Rolexes. Yeah, Kevin is not the right person to read my contract to me.
“Good, you’re still here,” he says, eyes on me.
Oh, no. Is he here to chase me for my signature on the deal too?
“Hi, Kev,” I say, and I roll up the contract, tucking it behind my back.
“Listen, Cassie, have you got five minutes?”
“Of course,” I say, and I let him lead me to a corner in the room.
“So,” he holds his hands out between us, palms down, fingers stretched wide. “I’ve just got off the phone with Martin Dowde, Femme Fatale’s manager.”
I blink. Of all the things, I wasn’t expecting that. “Okay.”
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” he says before a tentative smile creeps across his mouth. He’s not an unattractive man, Kevin, with his dark blond curls, chiselled jaw and bright blue eyes. He’s the same age as Stephan–thirty-one–and looks considerably younger, likely because he takes care of himself. Unlike Steph, he washes regularly, he goes to the hairdresser every four weeks, he swears by a diet that avoids sugar and carbohydrates. He never touches the three things that I suspect have ruined my bandmates: drugs, alcohol, and women. Of course, it’s not publicly talked about that Kevin is gay, but it’s an open secret among us and one that I think about more often than I’d like to admit. “And hear me out before you say no.”
This piques my interest and my defences. “I’m listening.”
“How do you feel about singing a duet?”
“A duet? With another band?” My eyes are wide with disbelief.
“Not exactly. It would just be you … and Pia Lindberg.”
In an instant, I’m aware of every hair follicle on my body because it feels like each one comes alive, standing up. Goosebumps, everywhere.
“What?” I ask, needing clarification or maybe just a second to pinch myself and discover that this is some weird, twisted dream.
“You heard me. A duet. You and Pia from Femme Fatale.”
“But, shehatesme,” I say slowly but with emphasis. This is not a secret. She slams me in interviews. She joined in a fight between our bandmates, willingly, not one month ago at a Grammys after-party. She has had her photo taken holding a defaced copy of our latest album – in which I discovered a moustache doesn’t lookthatbad on me – with her also displaying a scowl and a very erect middle finger.
“Exactly.” Kevin’s smile grows and there’s nothing tentative about it now.
“I’m not following.”
“Listen.” He holds his hands out again. His Brummy accent seems to get thicker the more authoritative he gets. “I know I bollocked you all for the Grammys incident?—”
“Which I had nothing to do with!” I interrupt.
“I know, I know. But the truth is, it actually helped boost our sales. And that prompted Haven to offer you another three-album deal. Have you signed the contract yet, by the way?”
“Not yet, but I will later today,” I mumble.
“Okay, great. But, listen, I got talking to Martin after the Grammys debacle, and we both agreed we could try and use the attention to our benefit.”
My eyes narrow on Kevin. Since when has he been talking with Martin Dowde? I thought they hated each other as much as Femme Fatale hated Evergreene.
“He suggested a duet between the two bands,” Kevin continues, “but honestly, I didn’t see that working. The lads need to rest up before the tour starts, and Martin’s been trying to get his boys sober for the last few weeks, although he knows he has no chance with Pia. Despite the Grammy win, their ticket sales for their world tour are still slow. They never got that number one album he was sure of. They need this boost, probably more than we do.”