I repeat the chords softly so I can hear what she says.
“Cozy,” Cassie begins, her lips lifting in a small smile. “We didn’t often have snow, but it was cold, of course. We always had a fire lit at home. And decorations up from the first Sunday of advent. Dad would be very busy–we hardly saw him once December began, and then there’d be multiple services on Christmas Day. But we always had the afternoon together, with Mum’s wonderful food, watching the Queen’s speech, and my brother and I would perform carols together … It wasn’t perfect, but it was lovely in its own way.”
“You had a good childhood?” I ask while silently begging for a very specific answer.
“Yes, I suppose you could say that. At least, I thought it was at the time. But now, when I look back on it, on the way my parents were about so many things, I suppose it wasn’t all good.”
“The religious shit?” I ask.
“Yes, that. But also the struggles I had at school. They … they didn’t seem to care very much. They were happy enough to explain it away as me not being smart. They called my brother the clever one, and I was the creative one. And at the time, I liked that. But now, I don’t think it was fair of them to say that. I don’t blame them, but I wish they’d maybe tried to help me more.”
“Do you speak to them much?”
Cassie shakes her head and tinkers around with the melody of our ‘What I Want’ verses as I continue repeating the chord sequence. “No,” she says. “I call at Christmas and birthdays. But they made their feelings very clear when I started gigging in pubs and bars because I struggled to get work anywhere else, and singing was always what I loved doing most. They didn’t think that was an appropriate use of my talents, so for me to be who I am now … I think they’re still ashamed.”
I probably should stop myself tutting this, but I don’t. I do, however, keep quiet about how it’s her parents who should be ashamed.
“What about you?” Cassie asks.
“Me?”
“Yes, your parents. Are you still in regular contact with them?”
I exhale deeply before replying. “I’ve not seen or heard from my dad since he left my mom when I was four. A few wankers have reached out to the label, claiming to be my dad, but I’ve told them to burn any letters like that. If he did ever get in touch, I know it would only be for money. My mom, she moved back to Thailand when my brother, Narin, left home at eighteen. I gave her enough money to buy her dream home a few years ago. I mean, it’s no mansion, but it’s comfortable. She’s comfortable. That’s all I ever wanted for her after she struggled for so long. We speak every month or so. I offer to pay for her to come and visit, but she says she’s become scared of flying in her old age. Honestly, I think she’s scared of being away from home again. I don’t think she really knows the toll that took on her.”
“You’ve never toured there?”
“No,” I say. “We’re not really big enough over there. But also, I have possibly been apprehensive about pursuing that.”
“Why?” Cassie’s voice is so soft and sweet with curiosity.
“Well, when we released our first album, there was so much attention on my … ethnicity. And all my life, really, I’ve felt like my heritage is the first thing people see and the first thing that informs their opinion of me. I have never liked that, and so I didn’t want to be known as that successful Asian or Thai rockstar, and maybe stupidly, I thought keeping away from Thailand would help.”
“I don’t think that’s stupid,” Cassie says, and she plays an ascending chord sequence that brings her fingers closer to mine. “But I do think it’s a bit sad and unfair for you.”
“I think it’s sad that if maybe Femme Fatale were bigger in Asia, in Thailand, I would have seen my mom a lot more over the last few years,” I realise out loud.
“Do you miss her?” Cassie asks, and it surprises me a little. So does my answer.
“Yes,” I say. “I miss her. And my brother. I miss being with people who knew me before … everything.”
Cassie nods, and I realise we’ve stopped playing our song together. “I miss my brother too. But he’s still close to my parents. Still going to church and…”
“Doing that religious shit.”
“Yes.” She huffs out a laugh. “I suppose so.”
I’m too scared to look her in the eye as I ask my next question. “What would he say if he knew about … me?”
Cassie’s head turns to me, and apparently, I’m that desperate to look at her freckles up close, to inspect the yellowing bruises around her eye, that I immediately give her my gaze. “I don’t know,” she replies. “What would your brother say? Your mum?”
“They wouldn’t be surprised,” I answer honestly. I’ve been kissing girls since high school. “But they would probably just add it to the list of crazy things I do. They wouldn’t take it seriously.”
Cassie’s voice wobbles when she speaks again. “But do you? Are you taking this seriously?”
I chicken out of giving her my truthful answer and play both parts of our song again. Louder this time. “Sing for me,” I say.
“Pia,” she says, and she grips my arm, stopping the music. Her determination surprises and, quite frankly, impresses me. “You said it yourself when we wrote this song. Or the lyrics. You said, we weren’t the only ones.”