“Cass.” He reaches out a hand, stopping me. “Just do me a favour and try to make sure you get some good photos with Pia tonight. The two of you, together. You don’t need to be touching or smiling – God knows she probably won’t be – but just the pair of you in a few pics, that would sell just as many records as a bar brawl and would have a lot less fallout for me.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say as I press a hand to my stomach that has not stopped swirling around on itself all damn day.
“They’re late. All of them,” Kevin says as he rushes past Clarence and me. We’re standing in a corner of the bar, specifically sectioned off for VIPs, apparently. I’m just grateful to have a bit of breathing space and the comfort of Clarence standing by my side.
“Oh, dear,” Clarence says slowly, and perhaps with a hint of mischief in his tone.
“It was probably a stupid idea in the first place,” I think out loud as I watch the crowd interact, many of them shooting looks my way. I suppose I’m expected to know who they are – actors, models, artists, musicians – but I only recognise a handful of faces. I spend too much time at home in my music room to claim to be part of this scene. A small army of photographers and journalists wait on the opposite wall of the bar, eyeing me with impatience. Not for the first time in my life, I wish I could melt away. Or I wish I drank hard liquor.
“Well, some stupid ideas work out, apparently.” Clarence takes a sip from his scotch, the two thick ice cubes knocking against the glass.
“What do you mean?”
“Your song. With Pia. It’s good. I like it.” I find the way Clarence talks very comforting. Short, sharp sentences. Direct meaning. Simple grammar and a soft, soothing cadence.
“You like it?”
“Yes. You’re both good lyricists.”
If you only knew,I think, and for the hundredth time in the last hour, my eyes travel to the bar’s entrance. A few more guests I don’t recognise trickle in, but there’s no sign of the remaining members of my band or any of Femme Fatale.
“You know,” Clarence says close to my ear, although he keeps his body from touching mine. “If they don’t show up, that could be a good thing.”
“Why?”
“One less scandal wouldn’t do us any harm.”
“But don’t you think it looks bad if the other person who sang on the song doesn’t come?” I ask, although that’s not the question I want answered.
Clarence shrugs, his velveteen jacket catching the lights strung all over the bar’s wall. The ruby red colour brings out the warm copper undertones of his Black skin. “It makesherlook bad, not you.”
“Maybe,” I say, and then I’m looking at the entrance again.
Just as I do, there’s a rush of people moving, but not into the bar, out of it. Shouting and some whistles reach my ears above the music, and others closer to us start moving in that direction. When I see Kevin and Martin run for the double doors, I immediately set off to follow them.
I’m not even outside when I realise what’s happening. I can hear Vik swearing, George yelling incoherently, and then a cacophony of screams, thumps, and glass smashing.
“Holy shit,” Clarence says as he comes to stand next to me, just in time to see Pia throw her hand back and land a perfect jab on the left side of Stephan’s chin.
“That’s for treating women like shit,” she says as he stumbles back.
Her face is contorted with determination and strength. She is so magnificent to look at. Even when she’s all rage and aggression; I can’t tear my eyes away.
That is until I remember Melissa. This is no place for a pregnant woman. But there’s no sign of her anywhere, and then I’m distracted by Geert, Femme Fatale’s drummer, rugby tackling George to the ground, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes.
“Fucking wanker!” Vik calls out, and then he’s on top of Geert, who’s on top of George. It seems Jakob Edvindsson also notices this and decides to pile on to even things up. I spare a brief crumb of sympathy for George being stuck under all three of them, but then I realise from their flailing limbs and slurred insults that they’re all too drunk to do any serious damage to one another.
“Alright, alright,” Kevin calls out, and he does his best to pull Vik off the pile.
“That’s enough!” Martin says, and he has his arms around Pia’s body, holding her back from going for Stephan again. He’s slumped on the floor and appears to be looking for something.
“You fucking bitch!” He spits out some blood, and I see then that he’s lost a tooth. One of his front teeth.
Camera bulbs continue to flash, and I do my best not to smile because that would not do in a photograph.
“Makes no fucking difference. You’re still a fucking ugly cunt!” Pia hurls at him as Martin manages to pull her closer to the doors.They pass Clarence and me in a blur as he shoves her inside, with help from Jon Davies, Femme Fatale’s bassist, who has somehow avoided this scuffle.
“Calm down, Pia,” I hear him say to her back with a laugh. “You’re giving me a hard-on over here.”