“Back where it all began,” Jakob says to me in Swedish as he comes to stand beside me. He smells of cigarettes, sweat and last night.
“God, you stink.” I wrinkle my nose at him.
“And here I was thinking we were having a moment.” He points to the building we stand in front of. Het Roadhuis. The place we met. And the first venue we played as a band.
There are so many memories wrapped up in this building: the first time I met Jon, who was a session musician; the night I introduced Jon to Jakob, who was in my course at the Conservatorium and hated it just as much as I did; and the night Geert kicked us all out because he was the bouncer there.
“Eleven years ago,” I say. “It feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.”
“We’ve come a long way, baby,” he says in English and shoves his arm over my shoulders. I immediately step away from the embrace.
“Seriously, man,” I say, also in English. “Go have a shower.”
“You used to be fun,” he says, back in Swedish, but he walks away, hopefully towards our hotel. And I step inside the building that changed my life.
Once inside, I’m flooded with nostalgia. The entrance foyer is almost exactly the same – poorly looked after art deco features left over from its original purpose as a cinema in the twenties, red linoleum underfoot, dusty candelabras on the wall, a stuffy smell I can’t identify – but I don’t ever remember standing here completelyon my own. Even without the crowds, once we were a band, we were always here together, the four of us, lugging equipment in or out, chatting up fans who’d snuck in early or stayed late, Geert’s whole family filling the space at our final gig in Amsterdam before we left for London to record our first album.
I wonder where Evergreene’s first show was. None of the articles I’ve read have mentioned that. I only know that they met in Oxford, the men all university drop-outs and Cassie a barmaid who sang in a pub on Friday and Saturday nights. I know that Stephan was an opportunistic fucker when he approached her and invited her to join their band. I know that if he hadn’t, someone else would have, and so I try not to resent him too much because I have spent more than enough energy being angry with thatjävla idiotand his brother. His brother, who finally got extradited to California last week where he will face federal drug charges and a possible hefty jail term. Every day, I scour the newspapers to see if Stephan is going down with him. Because then Cassie would have no choice but to launch the solo career I know she is so very capable of.
I wonder how she is. I wonder if she thinks about me as much as I think about her. I wonder if she’s thought about asking Kevin to return the favour and orchestrate another phone call between us. I can only assume that because it hasn’t happened, she hasn’t.
And that hurts more than I would ever admit to anyone.
“Walking down memory lane?” a familiar voice says. I turn around to see Jon walk in.
“Something like that,” I say, smiling at him as he approaches me. He holds out his Lucky Strikes and I take one. I have been trying to cut down, but it hasn’t been going well. Our heads almost touch as I accept the light he flicks on.
“I sort of miss it, you know,” Jon says after his first drag. “I sometimes wish we could go back to that time.”
“What? When we were squatting and penniless and unknown,” I scoff.
“No, I mean the nights we had here. All the fun. You remember that night when Lars nearly set the whole damn place on fire?” Jon laughs raspily.
“You mean when he set off fireworks inside the fucking auditorium. Such a fucking loose cannon.”
“Yeah, he was,” Jon says before clearing his throat. “Maybe he still is.”
“Nah, I’m glad we’ve moved on from that,” I say with something that could be pride.
“Maybe,” he says with a fondness I don’t expect. “But we were also … happy. And you…” He nudges me with his shoulder, but then returns to standing a small distance away. “You and me, we were in a good place.”
“You mean, we were fucking all the time?”
“Yeah, that was good. I liked fucking you all the time,” he says, and it’s almost worse that he doesn’t meet my eye contact.
“Jon,” I say, and that turns his head. “We were a mess.”
“I like messy,” he says, and his blue eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“Fan, Jon, I?—”
“Don’t say anything, please. Spare me the indignity.” He presses a hand to his chest and feigns pain. “I know there’s someone else.”
My mouth opens, but I’m too stunned to say anything.
“And I’m happy for you,” he continues. “I really am. It’s about time one of us had something,someone, who really means something.”
“I don’t have someone,” I finally manage.