“But you would have?”
“I … I would have done whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes for what?”
I curse Jon for asking such a direct question, and I curse myself for knowing the answer, for having it both on the tip of my tongue and buried deep in my heart. “Just whatever it takes,” I say, and I find his hand and hold it for the rest of the journey, because suddenly I feel like I need to hold someone’s hand.
We all declare that we’re hungry when we get to the hotel, so after dumping luggage in our rooms, we reconvene in the hotel’s restaurant, which is mercifully empty and mostly quiet. Restaurants have become harder and harder for me with my hearing. All the background noise, the chiming of glasses, cutlery and china, the overlapping conversations. But maybe when I see an ear doctor in LA next week, he will confirm that a hearing aid could help, and maybe I won’t have to spend the rest of my life hoping for empty restaurants.
It wasn’t easy making that appointment. I don’t mean logistically. That took one phone call. I mean the emotional journey I had to go on to decide to do so.
The hardest part of losing my hearing isn’t necessarily what’s already happened, what I’ve already lost. It’s what I still have left to lose, knowing I could lose music completely. That thought has literally paralysed me. It’s had me reach for the bottle, or a bump or a bad lover too many times. It’s had me feeling the kind of fear I truly am too terrified to face. Because who am I without music? Who am I if I can’t hear the one thing that, at times, has made life worth living?
And now it’s not just music, it’s also Cassie. The idea of one day no longer being able to hear her voice, her moans, her singing … it feels like I could lose music twice over.
But I did it, because I know that’s what Cassie would tell me to do. I know that she would want me to try and help myself. I know that she would think it foolish to not find out what’s happening. And to not to try and keep what hearing I have, and she’s right.
Once assembled at a round table, all five of us – Geert, Jakob, Martin, Jon and I – order burgers and an array of drinks.
I sip my Coke when it comes and barely have an envious thought when I see Geert and Jakob clink their beers. Martin and, more surprisingly, Jon, have joined me with soft drinks.
“So,” Martin says, all business. I catch Jakob rolling his eyes at the same time I do. “Two more nights and then we’re done in Europe.”
“Thank fuck,” Jon says.
“He’s missing his surfboard,” I explain.
“Oh, is she a good lay?” Geert jokes, badly.
“Better than you, G,” Jon calls out across the table. “And better looking than most of your recent shags.”
“That’s true,” Jakob says, laughing.
“You do realise you just insulted yourself,” I tell him in Swedish, and he promptly stops chuckling. I know what Geert and Jakob have been up to recently. What they always get up to on tour.
“Settle down,” Martin says, before lighting a cigarette and passing his lighter on to Jakob to do the same. “I have a few things to discuss while we’re all here and mostly sober.”
It’s somewhat refreshing that his pointed stare doesn’t land on me.
“So, first order of business.” He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. “Just got some listener numbers from the BBC. Their Radio 1 recording of your Amsterdam show did very well. Over six hundred thousand listeners, which for a ten o’clock slot on a Sunday night isn’t bad at all. The show’s producer also contacted me wanting to interview you when you’re all in London next. Aaaand”–he pauses, waiting for my eye contact–“he says they’ve had hundreds of people calling and writing in, wanting to know when ‘Trying to Forget You’ will be released.”
“Never,” I say with a smug grin that absolutely hides how much this information makes me feel.
“We’ll see,” Martin says nonchalantly. “Right, next up, Grammy nominations.”
“Shit, really?” Jon leans in closer, and I do the same. “But our new album isn’t even finalised yet. I thought?—”
“Not for you fuckers.” Martin takes a drag. “But for Pia.”
“Me?”
“Yep. ‘What I Want’ is nominated for Best Single.”
“Oh,” I say, sitting back in my chair. I reach for Martin’s cigarettes and steal one. He barely grumbles, which is all thanks to that producer’s report and the Grammy nomination, no doubt. “Does Cassie know?”
I feel all their eyes on me as soon as her name leaves my mouth.
“I assume so. Kevin would have gotten a call, too.”
