“I think we look cute,” he says with a heavy bottom lip and fluttering eyelashes.
“I specifically told the photographer to delete that one!” I yell, not caring who can hear me.
“And I called them up and told them it was the one we wanted to have,” Stephan says with a cadence so innocent and unassuming, I feel like I need steam to come out of my ears or something for him to fully understand how angry I am about that fact. Because of course he did that. Of course, he chose to override me. And of course, he thinks absolutely nothing of it.
“Stephan, I swear to God, I?—”
“Now, now, Cass!” He gets up and moves towards me. “Calm down. It’s not a big deal.”
“It looks like a fucking wedding photograph!” I point at it, and I actually wouldn’t be surprised if there actuallywassteam coming out of my ears.
“Nah.” He wrinkles his nose at the newspaper and then takes another step closer. “We’ll do much better when we do get married.”
“We are never getting married, Stephan!” I yell. “Never ever. If we do, it will be over my dead body!”
Finally, I seem to have said something that shocks him. “I can see you’re a bit upset,” he begins and wisely stops a yard or so away from me. “But when you calm down, you’ll realise that A, this is not a big deal, and B, this will be good for us. If the fans think they’re going to see us rekindle on stage, there will be even more hype. Even more noise for us. And then more album sales.”
“I don’t care about album sales!” I blurt. “I care what people think of me.”
“And what would they think of you?” Stephan’s frown suggests he’s in genuine need of an answer.
“I don’t want people out there to think that you and I are back on. That we’lleverbe back on. You got Melissa pregnant. A baby, Stephan! You promised to stick by her, but then you barely lasted two months. I spoke to her, you know. She told me all about your false promises and all the lies you spun her about our thing being just for the press, just to sell records. And now you expect me to simply pick up where we left off! Don’t you see what it looks like? Don’t you see how pathetic and foolish it all makes me look?”
“Well, at least I didn’t getyoupregnant,” he mutters, and I wonder if it’s a joke or an authentic attempt at defending his character. “Not for want of trying.”
“God, you make me feel sick.” I spin around, for fear that looking at him for another second will actually make me vomit.
I used to find him so attractive, so endearing, with his shoulder-length, strawberry-blond hair. His broad shoulders, barrel chest, and thick thighs from his teenage years playing rugby. Even the slightly wonky nose he got from the sport once had me literally swooning for him, like he has so many fans all over the world pinning posters of him on their bedroom walls.
But now, I’m disgusted. It’s been a long time since I felt attraction for him, and now I’m not even sure I respect him–if I even want to do this godforsaken tour with him.
Not that I have a choice.
“Cass, sweetheart,” he says, and he’s crept closer still. I edge away, towards the window. Outside, New York traffic chugs slowly along – most of it yellow taxi cabs–and pedestrians flood the pavements in shorts and T-shirts and summer dresses. It’s a hot early September day, and I can think of a hundred different places I’d rather be right now.
I wonder what Sweden is like at this time of year?
“Stephan, if you have any … fondness for me, you’ll please leave,” I say without turning around. “We have a show to do tonight. An important one. And if I’m going to share a stage with you, I need to have a lot of space from you right now.”
The silence that stretches out between us has me questioning if he’ll even honour my request. I exhale when I finally hear his voice come from the opposite side of the room.
“Fine,” he says. “But this isn’t over, Cassie. You and me, weareEvergreene. It’s only ever been about us. Half the songs we wrote together. They’reourlove songs, for fuck’s sake! You can’t get away from that, and you’ll realise it again soon enough. And I’ll be ready and waiting when you do.”
I don’t say anything, don’t move, only close my eyes when I feel the click of my door closing.
I wish I could talk about this in interviews. I wish I could tell a journalist, just once in my life, how hard it is to get all made up–hair, make-up, clothes–and then stand in the wings of one of the most famous stages in the world. I wish I could confess to somebody just how difficult it is to be the person everyone wants, rather than the person you want to be. Because that is now the reality, I realise as I stand and wait next to Clarence. I don’t want to share a stage with Stephan. I can barely tolerate Vik right now. It shouldn’t be such a relief that they are with George, standing in the wings opposite us, also waiting.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through tonight. After the photo. After everything Stephan has done this year. I don’t know how I’m going to pretend tonight, let alone for the next three months.
“You okay?” Clarence’s hand lands on my shoulder.
I turn to him. “Yeah, thanks,” I say with a smile that isn’t fake but isn’t all that real either. “Just nervous.”
“That’s good. Nervous energy. Use it.” He nods and lifts his hand. “The crowd is going to love you.”
It’s only then that I’m fully aware of the roar of the fans on the other side of the curtain. It’s loud. They’re excited. They’re hungry.
And I feel empty. I feel like I have nothing to give them but lies.
