“Oh, you do, do you?”
“Sure.”
“What’s the change that Sebastian made to the chorus to your duet?”
“Um…” Marius stalls, his face a complete blank.
“He’s decided not to change the key,” Dennis informs him.
“Yup. Got it, I was going to say that.”
“And you,” he points to me with this phone, “whose cue are you going to take, going into ‘Iris’?”
“That would be…yours?” I grin, hoping that will win me some points.
“Nice try, burger-breath. You’re taking Jez’s cue.”
“And you, what order have we moved the Bach to?”
“Ha. Trick question, we’re not playing it,” Sebastian answers proudly.
“Actually, last rehearsal we decided we were going to open with it,” Dennis says, whacking Sebastian over the head with his notebook.
“Ow! Well, same diff. No one listens to the beginning anyway,” Sebastian sulks.
“You’re going to rehearse. This is the biggest performance you’ve ever had. This is not the time to just ‘wing it.’ Do you have any idea how many people would kill to replace you? Everyone who’s ever been in a band, that’s how many. But somehow, someone wasn’t quite on the ball the day they made the decision, and thought you pansy-pissers should be the ones given the break!” He stops pacing and glares at us, his face glowing red, his lips pulled tight over his teeth.
“Whoa. Relax. Yes, Dennis, we know. We are not worthy.”
He takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not kidding, guys. This is the gig of the year. We’ve worked hard to get here. You worked hard. Let’s not waste it, okay?”
He leaves and the others go back to their phones and games.
But I can’t stop thinking about what he’s said. And it’s given me an idea. An idea that may just change everything, for everyone. Now it’s just a matter of convincing the guys to go along with it. And it might as well be asking them for a kidney.
But I guess if they were going to give up an internal organ to anyone, it would be me.
***
The charter plane ride back to London is the longest three hours of my life.
Being on the plane alone sucks, but it’s bad enough I’m not going to be at some of the shows and interviews, let alone the rest of the band going missing as well. There’s a clock above the door of the cockpit and I can’t stop watching the second hand tick tick ticking each torturous moment go by.
My legs jiggles as I try to envision what reception I’m going to get at the other end. Whether the door will slam in my face, or not open at all.
I’m giving up everything to be on this plane. I’m going to make the offer I have prepared, and if it doesn’t work, I may have nothing to return to. I’ve asked my very best friends to sacrifice for me. And they did it without hesitation. I can only hope that what we’re giving up isn’t going to be for nothing.
“Mr. Windsor, can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you, Angie. Just let me know when we’re almost there, and call the car to be ready to pick me up from Gatwick, okay? I don’t have a lot of time to lose.”
The truth is, I’ve lost too much time already.
***
The woman at reception calls up to the room to say that I’m coming.
I almost wish she hadn’t. Sometimes I think it’s best to catch people off guard. They have less time to think, to plan…to run.
The elevator ride to the fifth floor is interminably long. Like it’s on the same time warp as the plane, conspiring to make my life a waiting hell. It feels so long that by the time I arrive at the floor, the ding of the elevator startles me, as if I’ve forgotten I’ve been traveling in a metal box up the side of a building.
I step out, almost bumping into a group of women. There’s a gasp, and I hear her murmur the name of our band. She’s recognized me. I push on, and hope that by looking unapproachable, she’ll get the message. I don’t hear footsteps run after me, and I mouth a “Thank you, God.”
I scan the doors for the apartment number written on the paper.
508…510…512. 512, that’s the one.
I take a breath before I reach up, rapping my knuckles on the door. The music inside instantly stops and there are voices. Shit. I hadn’t expected company.
Loud footsteps come toward the door and I step back.
The door swings open and it takes some restraint to stay back.
“Brad. It’s good to see you.”
“Silas. We need to talk.”
Brad
He opens the door wider and moves aside for me to step inside the apartment. It’s actually the band’s rehearsal space and the room is set up with their equipment. There are two of the other members there, fiddling with their instruments, and I give them a wave.
“Hey,” one of them replies, and they take a hint and both stand up and leave the room.
“So, what can I do for you? Or are you just here to pick up some performing tips? I mean, I’m not saying you could use them, but hey, frankly? You could use them.”
His tone comforts rather than irritates, because now I know there’s no need for fake politeness, for false modesties. Which is good. I have no patience left for that.
“When you get your first, well, any award at all that we haven’t won yet? I’ll be the first one to sign up for lessons.”
“You’ll have to get in line.”
“From what I hear, you have a revolving door.”
“You see, that’s what I never liked about you Brad. You seem to think that being popular with women is an insult.”
“No, and you know better than to think that I’m some virginal saint. But I do think that the quality of the people going through your revolving door is an insult in itself.”
“I don’t know, we’ve had the same person go through our revolving doors-are you saying she’s a slut?”
His use of the harsh word temporarily surprises me. For all our talk of women, and hell, our experience with them, it’s always because we’ve loved them, found them beautiful, sexy, passionate. Never would we use the word “slut” to describe any of them. Jokingly or not.
“I don’t know who you mean, but it’s not someone I’ve ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with.”