Call Me, Maybe Read online

  ‘Perfecto,’ she says, taking a bite of toast and rubbing the crumbs between her fingers.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t be bored? We can do something else.’

  She smiles and shakes her head whilst chewing.

  ‘Okay, good.’

  We continue working our way through the mountain of toast and when we’re done she jumps off the stool, and starts to clear everything away.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I say.

  ‘It’s done now,’ she says, stacking the dishwasher and closing the door. ‘No biggie.’ She shrugs and it’s cute.

  ‘Hey, Cass, you got something on your face.’

  ‘Where?’ she asks, rubbing her fingers over her mouth. ‘Peanut butter?’

  ‘No. Just here,’ I say, tapping the corner of her bottom lip and kissing her.

  ‘Oh, ha ha,’ she says. ‘I’m going to sort my face out and then shall we go?’

  ‘Yeah. No rush though. We have all day… Hey,’ I call up the stairs, after her. ‘So if I ever visit you will you show me all the places you love in London?’

  She leans over the banister. ‘Of course. We won’t get through all of it in one go, though. You might have to come back.’

  * * *

  Amoeba isn’t particularly busy. There are a few people milling around; a couple of tourists, some scene kids with brightly colored hair and heavy eye make-up, and a grungy-looking dude wearing a muddy green sweater and headphones around his neck. He’s trying to sell some old cassette tapes at the trade counter but isn’t getting too far.

  ‘But, they’re vintage,’ he argues.

  ‘Sir, they’re not in the greatest of condition. And cassettes aren’t in high demand. Also, this is a mixtape. We can’t sell that.’

  ‘How do you know it’s not a compilation?’

  ‘Because you’ve written out the track listing on a generic inlay card.’

  Cassie giggles and nudges my arm. ‘Are you hearing this? I’ll take his mixtape,’ she whispers. ‘Who doesn’t love a mixtape?’

  ‘I kind of want to know what’s on it. I mean, he thinks it’s good enough to sell.’

  ‘Definitely some Nirvana,’ she says. ‘And Soundgarden. What do you reckon?’

  ‘I’d bet the world on both of those,’ I say. ‘See also anything that came out of Seattle circa the early nineties with a whole lotta distortion.’

  We watch the exchange over the top of one of the racks of CDs. He wants more than the store are willing to give him. In the end he stacks up his tapes and sweeps them back into his bag. Dramatic motherfucker.

  ‘Now we’ll never know,’ Cassie says.

  ‘Did you ever make mixtapes?’

  ‘Yeah, Rachel and I used to make them when we were teenagers. Did you?’

  ‘Still do. Not tapes though, but sort of similar. For my car mainly. It’s kind of a thing… that I do. Sometimes. When I want to remember something. Or a feeling, or, like, a specific time. I dunno, maybe it’s dumb.’

  ‘It’s not dumb. Can we listen to one on the way home? Or are they just for you?’

  ‘We can listen.’ We carry on up the aisles, stopping here and there, poking around.

  ‘This place is very cool.’

  ‘I thought you’d like it. They have live music in here sometimes, too.’

  ‘I feel like I’ve stepped into some kind of Empire Records experience or something.’

  ‘Ha, yeah it definitely has that vibe to it,’ I say, opening my record bag and rummaging around inside for a notebook.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A shopping list of sorts. Rare stuff, though they don’t often have any of it. Still, I live in hope.’

  She looks over the list. ‘I have never heard of any of those bands.’

  Honestly, I’m not surprised. None of it’s mainstream and she definitely seems like a mainstream kind of girl.

  ‘No? Well, these guys,’ I say, pointing to one of the bands on my list, ‘are especially great. In fact, if we find this, be prepared to hear it a lot whilst you’re here. In fact, even if we don’t, I have other albums of theirs. So you can’t leave here without listening to them.’

  ‘Okay,’ she laughs, and it occurs to me that I know next to nothing about her music taste, aside that she knows almost all the lyrics to Boys of Summer and she once told me on chat that she quite liked Maroon 5.

  ‘Sooo, name me some bands you’re into, but ones that I was never a part of.’

  She looks contemplative for a few seconds. ‘I feel like you’re going to judge me for my obvious commercial radio style taste in music. Basically, I tend to like what’s popular at the time.’

  ‘I knew it.’

  ‘Alright, music snob,’ she says, and it’s jokey but there’s a touch of defensiveness there, too. ‘How did you know it? That’s a bit stereotypical; I could be into some obscure Siberian drumming collective for all you know.’

  ‘Are you? Because, I mean, that’d be pretty cool, and I daresay Trav would be especially interested to hear about it.’

  ‘No. But that’s beside the point.’

  ‘It’s just… a vibe I got from you.’

  She’s staring at me blankly. I don’t think she’s impressed.

  ‘It’s not a bad thing,’ I shrug.

  ‘I know it isn’t. There are bands I’ve liked for years too, but unless I really want to listen to them, I just put on the radio.’

  ‘Right, but isn’t it then always just almost in your subconscious? Like it’s just background noise. If you listen to what’s popular at the time, as soon as it’s not anymore, don’t you just forget about it?’

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes not. Sometimes I’ll really like a song and then not hear it for months, and when I do, it’s incredible. It takes me right back. Like magic.’

  ‘Okay, that I totally get.’ That’s the reason I make the playlists. Entirely for that feeling she just described.

  She leans in and slides her arm around me, so I don’t think she’s really mad.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I continue. ‘Mainstream pop music just feels so disposable.’

  ‘Oh, does it really? Jesse, don’t you make your living from mainstream pop music?’

  ‘Touché. Yeah, okay. Good point.’

  ‘So what else have you got in your notebook?’ she asks.

  ‘Random things. Just, you know, scribbles, lists…’ I flick through it to show her. ‘Tab. Notes I’ve made in various sessions. Et cetera, et cetera.’

  ‘Tab?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a very basic way of writing out what you’re playing.’

  She looks at the page with the tab scribbled on it.

  ‘Looks complicated,’ she says.

  ‘It’s not really. To be honest I don’t use it much because it’s kind of restrictive and there’s almost always more than one way to play a bassline, but it’s good if I need to remember something quickly. The numbers represent where you fret, and the lines represent each string. Remind me at home. I’ll show you.’

  ‘I’d like that. Are there any songs in there? Do you do that?’

  ‘Nah. Not really my forte. I haven’t written anything since… well probably since Franko. And to be honest I wasn’t even all that into writing lyrics even then. I’ve never been very good at the words. I cared more about making it sound cool rather than what Adam was singing, you know?’

  ‘Mmhmm,’ she says.

  We stay at Amoeba for another hour or so. They don’t have any of the records on my list and it’s just about lunchtime when we’re back in the car.

  ‘So, these playlists of yours.’

  ‘In the glove compartment. You choose.’

  She rummages around for a few seconds, finds the CD wallet and holds it up.

  ‘In here?’ she says.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘CDs? I thought you meant on your phone or an iPod or what have you.’

  ‘There’s a reason!’ I laugh, starting the engine. ‘It’s because they are specific to
something. Like, a feeling or a memory. If I commit a bunch of songs to disc, I can’t easily change them, so, when I listen to it, it’s like the memory stays true to the actual event.’

  She flicks through the wallet. She can’t tell much from the discs and the titles won’t mean anything to her. Some are numbered; some just have a word scrawled on with a Sharpie.

  ‘Gosh, this is like an insight into your mind. This one okay?’ She picks one out and waves it in my direction.

  ‘Sure, whatever you like,’ I say, not really looking at it. She slots it into the disc drive.

  But the minute the song starts to play I wish I had looked at it. Because instantly I recognize the beat. And the synthy chords. And the sexy little riff. And the sort of bizarre lyrics about baking bread and the night train. Oh my god, no, Cassie’s picked out a playlist I made for Nicole. One we put on when we were together.

  I stare straight ahead and concentrate on the road, but I can sense Cassie’s looking at me. It’s so awkward. It’s such a fuck song. Has she figured that out yet? She has ears, she must have done. And if so, she’s got to be wondering why I have this song on a CD in my car. She’s got to be wondering who else I’ve listened to it with. She’s got to be wondering, at this very second, what I wanted to remember and what feelings I wanted to recapture when I’m listening to it, and if that’s happening now.

  ‘So this is a song and a half,’ she says, eventually.

  ‘Hmm. I guess,’ I say. I’m trying to be nonchalant. It’s not working. Never have I been so desperate for an outro. Because now I’m thinking about Nicole. Her dimples, and her auburn hair. Nicole peeling off her clothes, and how now she’s about to have a baby, and I still don’t know if… Jesus. I don’t want to look back on this day and remember that I thought about this. Actually, I don't want to think about this at all. I don’t want my memories of her to combine and jar with the ones I’ll have of today. I want them to be clear and distinct. I want to throw the disc out of the window; to see it shatter on the asphalt, or get crunched under someone else’s wheels. ‘Aw crap, you know what?’ I say. ‘I just remembered this CD skips.’

  She’s still looking at me. ‘Ugh, that is the worst,’ she says, eventually and flatly, stopping it and ejecting. I don’t think she’s buying it. She puts it back in the wallet without looking for a scratch or a smudge or anything on the disc, and I’m relieved because that isn’t even remotely true. Nicole’s having a kid that could be mine, and that CD plays just fine.

  I am expecting her to pick another but she re-tunes the radio instead and settles back into her seat. She opens the window and leans her arm out of the car. She re-adjusts her sunglasses and her hair flies around her face. ‘Call Me Maybe’ by Carly Rae Jepsen is playing. Of course it is; it’s all that’s ever played at the moment, and despite what I said earlier on about mainstream pop it’s catchy and I like it. I start to sing along and almost immediately Cassie giggles.

  ‘What’s funny? My singing?’

  ‘No, that’s actually very nice. But remember how Rachel sent my first message to you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, when I confronted her about that she admitted she was actually going to send the lyrics to this song.’

  ‘Yeah? Was she going to type your number and be like, “call me”?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she shrugs.

  ‘I see what you did there,’ I say, laughing, and Nicole fades out of my head. For now.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Cassie

  By the time we get to the restaurant, Jesse’s weird reaction to the CD has ebbed, and as I put it back in the case I made a mental note not to pick it again because something felt unresolved. He perked right up when I switched on the radio and we sang along to pop music all the way here. It was goofy and cute and couply. We’re so couply, and I like how that feels. When I leave here, will I be able to call us that? Does he even see me like that? Could he? The distance might prove to be too much. He might just see us as friends with benefits. Although I doubt he’d need to cross the Atlantic to get a shag. But that plane ticket felt like a bit of an investment. You don’t invite someone you’re just interested in having sex with halfway across the world to stay for two weeks. You don’t open up to them the way he did to me yesterday. You don’t take them to your favourite places and tell them your secrets. We’re more than that, I know we are. I’m sure of it.

  We park up and head inside. It’s heaving. The queue is almost out the door. There’s sawdust on the floor and service is quick and efficient.

  ‘So, it’s a sandwich, dipped in meat juices?’ I ask, feeling slightly dubious about the whole thing as we wait in line to order.

  ‘That’s right,’ he says, earnestly. ‘Don’t look so incredulous. You’ll like it, you can’t not. This place is legendary.’ He looks distinctly excited about it.

  ‘Doesn’t it go all soggy?’

  ‘I mean, the sandwich isn’t saturated. Just nicely moist, for lack of a better word. Look, there are thousands of places to eat in LA; do you think the line would be this long if they weren’t good? Be prepared for an education.’

  We’re shuffling towards the front now, and I’m completely confused.

  ‘Alright. Can you order for me, though? I don’t know what to get.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says.

  We carry our food over to a table, and he’s right; it’s a good sandwich. In fact, it’s a great sandwich. I feel silly for doubting him.

  ‘On these grounds alone,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to go home.’

  He stops eating, and wipes his mouth with a napkin before speaking.

  ‘What other grounds might there be?’ he asks.

  ‘I dunno. Nothing,’ I say, and pick at my jus-soaked roll. I’m annoyed with myself. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I don’t know why I can’t seem to tell him how I feel about him. He told me he liked me the morning after we first met, and I didn’t say anything back until he was a safe distance away. He’s shown me, too. In all sorts of ways, big and small, like buying my flight out here and everything he said on the pier, and I’ve happily taken it all, grabbed it with both hands and basked in it. And yet, here we are, having a nice lunch and I’ve made a comment more loaded than a TGI Friday’s potato skin that I can’t even seem to expand on. He must know, though. As if a sandwich could affect someone that much. ‘Coleslaw’s nice, huh?’ I say, stiffly.

  ‘Sure is,’ he agrees. He finishes up his food and dusts off his hands. The time to say something has gone.

  In the evening, we go for a walk on the beach again, and I hope it will become something that we do every night. Jesse’s quiet, though. He’s been a little bit less like himself since lunchtime. Just quieter. Distracted, perhaps. I don’t like to think that it has something to do with what I did or didn’t say, or that bloody CD. We amble up over the dune and along the sand.

  ‘How would you feel about Trav stopping by at some point?’ he says.

  ‘Tonight?’ I look at my watch. It’s getting on a bit. I’m flagging.

  ‘Not tonight, but at some point whilst you’re here? He’s been calling…’

  ‘Is this a curiosity thing?’ I ask. ‘Because it is for me.’ Jesse laughs.

  ‘Probably. He’s called me a few times, asking if I’m intending to keep you to myself the entire time.’

  I squeeze his hand. ‘Are you?’

  ‘As much as I would love to, I think he believes I made you up.’

  ‘Been that long, has it?’

  ‘No,’ he says, slowly. ‘It’s more that you’re from the UK and ergo, all kinds of exotic. And I haven’t been with anyone British before.’

  The comment makes my mind race. Maybe that is where we are. Has he just implied we’re together? As in together together. Not just geographically or physically at this moment in time, but in a proper relationship sort of way. I want to ask him about it but something, again, stops me.

  ‘Well, we can’t have him thinking I’m a figme
nt of your imagination,’ I say instead.

  ‘He’ll probably just bring some drinks over and want to chill out. Maybe we’ll have some dinner. If you’re sure it won’t be weird, or too much.’

  ‘It will be fine. Probably, the hardest part will be remembering your cover story about how we met. What happened again? Our eyes met across the bar, and you thought I was the most beautiful creature you’d ever clapped eyes on. And as soon as we touched there was all this incredible electricity. Time slowed down, and, throughout the evening you couldn’t help yourself. You just fell more and more in love with me.’

  I’m saying all this because it’s true, at least, for me.

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ he says pushing his hair back. But now he won’t look at me, and there’s a slight tinge of awkwardness between us.

  ‘Okay, well, seems like we’re on the same page then,’ I say, too cheerfully. There’s silence for a minute or two. ‘You alright?’ I ask, eventually.

  ‘Uh huh,’ he says. He’s looking down at the sand now, flipping a shell over and over with the toe of his shoe.

  ‘Okay.’

  More silence. I squeeze his hand. The waves lap against the shore and slap against the pier, and there’s music coming from one of the houses behind us.

  ‘Are you really, though?’ I’m worried I’ve been too flippant. This isn’t the time now for me to try and be the cool girl, or jokey, breezy Cass who doesn’t take anything seriously and uses humour to cover up her emotions. He hesitates for a bit.

  ‘Let me ask you something,’ he says. ‘Why do you think I bought you that plane ticket out here?’

  I’m a little taken aback, to be honest, and not really sure of my answer. He doesn’t wait for it, anyway. ‘Because I liked you. That night in London… I did, I liked you. And I told you before that it came as a shock because I wasn’t expecting to, as much as that, anyway. So I just wanted to take a chance and see where it would go. And I know we talked about it yesterday, but all that stuff about Franko is hard for me. So it really is easier to just keep it vague.’

  A cool breeze blows around my bare arms. I rub them vigorously and wish I’d had the sense to grab a cardi before we left. I’ll never make a California girl, that’s for sure.