Call Me, Maybe Read online

  I’m still very single. But, full disclosure; I am meant to be having a drink with someone (who I did not meet on DMM) on Friday. I’d say wish me luck, but it would probably be better for you if it all went to shit.

  So, I’ll just say, talk to you on the flip!

  Cassie

  * * *

  To: CassieB83

  From: FredTed49

  I didn’t shag Tyler’s sister, and that’s why he went mad, which I thought was weird to be honest. Asked why she wasn’t good enough for me. You can’t win with some people.

  Anyway, good luck, Cassie. Knock him dead.

  Not literally. Maybe literally? Too much?

  Fred

  * * *

  Definitely a bit much, Fred.

  Chapter Nine

  Jesse

  The plane touches down in London just after midday on Thursday, and Cassie seems to be up for meeting. At least, I think she is. She asked a bunch of questions in reply to my message and then went quiet, but I’ve had no time to dwell on it; I took a taxi straight to the hotel, checked in and dumped my bags, before going on to the venue. The driver clocked the flight cases and talked all the way there. His daughter, he told me, was going to go mad when she heard about him driving me to the gig.

  ‘Is she a fan then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yeah. Mega. She’ll be there tonight. Loves them, and that boy band. You know the one? Five of them. Girly-looking fellas. All about seventeen. Too young really. The fame, it can go to their heads, can’t it? They’ll be spat out by the industry in no time flat.’

  I have no idea which boy band he means, but I nod at him through the glass partition and he catches my eye in the rearview mirror. You’re preaching to the choir there, I think.

  ‘And then what?’ he continues. ‘They’ll be cutting keys in Soho by the time they’re twenty-five. They need time to be normal teenagers. Let kids be kids, I say. Plenty of time for all that.’

  ‘There definitely is,’ I agree. ‘Still, I hope she enjoys it tonight.’

  You can never see much of the audience when you’re on stage because of the lights. It’s just a mass of darkness interspersed with pinpricks of light from people’s phones, but Kitten Tricks are definitely popular. I wasn’t sure what to expect but they are slick and polished with their jokes and engagement with the audience and their spot-on vocals.

  An assistant is hanging around backstage and she ushers us all together for a photo. We’re all tired and sweaty, and she’d have been better off taking the photo before the gig.

  ‘It’s going on Twitter,’ she says, chirpily. ‘The fans will love it.’ She shows us the tweet.

  Thanks to our amazing band. We couldn’t do it without you guys! #KittenTricksLDN.

  In the photo, Ryan, the drummer, is spinning his drum sticks like batons. Within seconds it’s been retweeted and replied to over and over.

  ‘I quite fancy a beer,’ he says, once we’re packed up and ready to go. ‘Anyone feel like going to the pub?’

  I’m exhausted but still buzzing from the show, and it can’t hurt to network a bit so fuck it, I’m going.

  We go to a pub he knows around the corner. It’s dark and quiet and we sit at the back, huddled over our drinks.

  ‘Long way for you to come for two gigs,’ he says.

  ‘Ah, yeah. Well, Mick said my name came up, though, I have no idea how.’

  ‘Mick knows everyone,’ he shrugs. ‘Have you worked for the label before?’

  ‘Subsidiaries of, yeah. I get a lot of sessions from Trajectory back in LA.’

  ‘It’s probably that then. He was relieved you could make it. You sticking around after Saturday?’

  ‘Not this time, it’s a bit of a flying visit. I’m in the studio on Tuesday.’

  ‘Session musician life. I hear you. What are you doing tomorrow? Sleeping off the jet lag?’

  ‘Ha. Well, I won’t be setting an alarm, that’s for sure. Though, I’m supposed to be meeting someone at some point. But, I don’t know…’

  ‘Supposed to be?’

  ‘Yeah, she seemed pretty down, but that was at the beginning of the week and,’ I check my phone for anything from Cassie. ‘Nope, nothing. So… Maybe not.’

  ‘Oh I see, mate. You’re talking about meeting someone. In the Biblical sense. I like your style.’

  ‘Well, I probably wouldn’t put it that way,’ I say, but I’m not really sure if I believe myself. I think I definitely would put it that way, if the opportunity presented itself.

  Ryan picks up his pint glass and swirls it, and the beer sloshes around inside. ‘I’m sure it’ll happen. Women love a musician. Even a bass player.’

  ‘Says the drummer!’ We both smirk. We’ve heard the jokes before.

  ‘Touché, mate. All I’m saying is, I bet she shows up and I bet she won’t look like a sack of shit.’

  I don’t think Cassie could look like a sack of shit if she tried.

  Back in my room I lie awake for ages, exhausted but unable to fall asleep because of the jet lag and the niggling feeling that Cassie’s gone cold on me. It’s gone two a.m. when I decide to send her a final message.

  Hey you. One show down, it was great to be back on stage, such a cool vibe. So, like I said, I have tomorrow night free. I’m staying at the Bellborough. Do you know it? It’s probably easiest to meet there, is that OK? I haven’t heard back from you so I get it if you want to take a rain check and that’s cool, too – no worries!

  If she doesn’t reply to this… well then there’s really nothing I can do. It’d be nice to meet the woman I’ve been chatting to for the last couple of months, since the opportunity landed so serendipitously into my lap, and I definitely hope she is up for hanging out, especially after what Ryan said.

  * * *

  It’s lunchtime when I wake up. Hardly surprising after my exhausting day yesterday, and besides, I’m still running on Pacific time. Thank fuck I remembered to hang that ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door. I order room service and eat it in bed as I catch up on emails and invoices with the TV on in the background. I don’t like to admit it, even to myself, but I’m sort of afraid to check Facebook; the last thing I want is the ego-bruising indifference of a greyed out message icon.

  But eventually, I’m all caught up. I’ve procrastinated over life admin for long enough. There are no more unread messages in my inbox. My accounts are up to date. My calendar is now organized into tidy blocks of color depending on the type of work, and it all looks kind of neat, but I really can’t put off checking Facebook any longer and the relief I feel when I see she’s responded is so momentarily overwhelming that it gives me a rush.

  I’ll be there at 7ish. You gonna be somewhere or shall I tell the concierge when I arrive? And if so, is there some kind of rock star alias I need to know about? ;-)

  How cute and how funny. I don’t think we even did that with Franko. Also, she’s coming here at seven, which is only five hours from now. So I guess we’re really doing this. But why wouldn’t we be doing this? Why does it feel like a big deal? Why am I so nervous? Because it’s unfamiliar and I’m out of my comfort zone? That must be it. So I downplay what was already pretty mediocre fame in reply and tell her I’ll catch her later.

  I may be maintaining my cool over the internet but inside I am full of worries that mainly revolve around what will happen if I am a huge let-down to her. What if, after everything, we have nothing to talk about face to face? What if she stays for one drink and then makes her excuses and leaves?

  Other worries creep in, too, and they are just as irrational. What if she just doesn’t show? Or she’s not at all who she says she is? What if after all this, she’s little more than a bored housewife with a penchant for the nostalgic? What will I do if despite that photo, she’s somehow managed to construct some elaborate online persona and she’s not the hot girl with the blonde wavy hair who used to like Franko at all? What if, after everything I joked about in the beginning about how she should be careful a
bout getting catfished, I am the one who’s been misled? Disappointment wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

  Because I’ve come to realize that I’ve relied on this set up between the two of us far more than I have been able to admit until now. I’ve needed the random conversations about TV shows and pizza toppings and our jobs and our families and friends. I’ve had a burst of… something… on those occasions when those chats have taken a turn and gotten a little suggestive, and I can’t explain it, but it feels a whole lot like dopamine. And it’s as if everything lined up perfectly, even the Franko thing sort of made it easier. If I’d had to explain it all I don’t think I’d have been in the right frame of mind to bother, because at some point, it would have come up. After all, you can’t keep my sort of past a secret. You can’t hang a platinum disc on the wall and expect people to ignore it.

  Suddenly, my room feels claustrophobic and stifling and I need to get some air, which means getting out of here because the windows don’t open. I need another coffee and a distraction. I need to find a Disney Store. I need to immerse myself in Disney princess gifts for Nancy, and right now I need to not think about this evening.

  Chapter Ten

  Cassie

  I’m so relieved when I wake up to his message that I’m almost hysterical. He’s right though. I’ve spent the last thirty-six hours in a state of panic over not hearing from him again and all the time I hadn’t even replied in the first place. Whoops! The Bellborough. Close to the river in Borough and definitely not a Holiday Inn. A rain check? I think not.

  And now, first things first: a day to night outfit that’s sexy as hell, but that I can still pull off at work without raising suspicion. The dress is probably out, but those jeans will work. With a black cami, and a cute summer jacket over the top. I fish out a fairly saucy and definitely sheer underwear set from my drawer and put it all on. It’s a nice result. Shoes: flats for work, chunky-heeled sandals for later. Make-up: rosy pink cheeks for the day, heavy black eyeliner and illuminating highlighter for the evening. Accessories: midi ring, necklace, and oversized hoop earrings. I scrunch my hair and paint my nails. I check myself out in the mirror and I’m pleased with who’s batting her eyelashes back at me. I definitely would not kick me out of bed.

  I try again with Rachel as I get off the tube at Oxford Circus:

  Rach! I know you’re busy but it’s genuinely imperative that I see you really quickly after work today. Will explain later and the drinks are on me.

  I push open the door to Starbucks, and that, at least, feels normal.

  All morning I try to press on with my work, really, I do, but I can’t concentrate and people are noticing. Sam tells me I’m away with the fairies, and when Rachel replies, I jump a mile.

  OK, I’ll meet you after work but it will need to be a quick one. Is everything OK? Rx

  I only have time for a quick one. I am meeting someone!

  OOHH! Date My Mate? Mine’s a G&T x

  By midday I’m on my third coffee, and now, whenever I think about this evening I get a rush down the entire length of my spine that isn’t just a caffeine high. Every vertebra tingles. I’m picturing it all in my head: the evening, and all the possible outcomes, bad outcomes as well as good because I feel like a little bit of realism is required. I imagine how disappointed I’ll be if, after all this time and all this build up, we have nothing to talk about and it doesn’t go well. How excited I’ll be if it does. How nervous I’ll be if it really does. How much effort I’ve poured into today, so it’d better bloody go well. And I think about how I know there’s a reason I picked out that bra and those knickers and it’s not so much about that secret confidence boost you get from wearing decent underwear, and almost entirely down to the fact that I want him to see them.

  I refresh my messages all through my lunch break, sitting at my desk, attempting, and failing to eat a salad. Nothing. I’m a fizzy bundle of fraught, pent-up energy. Who the hell do I ask for at the hotel? Probably just him, but I need to be sure.

  Mimi peers around the side of her iMac opposite me, and eyes me suspiciously.

  ‘You’re jumpy today,’ she says. ‘Everything alright?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Yes. I’m meeting someone for a drink after work. Just feeling a little nervous.’

  She doles out a raised eyebrow and a knowing look. ‘Why are you nervous? Is it a date?’

  ‘No. It’s just a drink with a friend, who I haven’t seen… in forever.’

  Technically it’s not a lie.

  ‘A male friend?’

  ‘He is male, yes.’

  ‘A platonic male friend?’

  ‘…Yes.’

  ‘You hesitated. So that’s a clear no.’

  Mimi has a nose for bullshit, and I can’t keep a straight face. My nostrils are flaring.

  ‘It really is just a drink.’ I say, looking back at my screen and randomly clicking my mouse so she thinks I’m working, and not checking my social media accounts.

  ‘I believe you, Cass. Thousands wouldn’t.’

  ‘Ah, well, I’m glad you do, Mimi.’

  She laughs. ‘Well, I hope you have a good time on your platonic date that isn’t a date.’

  Four forty-five rolls around at last and I check Facebook one last time, letting out an audible sigh of relief as I click open my messages, styling it out as a wheezy cough. Sam looks over and then pretends he hasn’t. He catches Mimi’s eye across the desks and smirks.

  Hahaha! I wasn’t that famous, kid. Real name all the way. Room 508, and yeah, have someone call up. Catch you later!

  ‘Okay,’ Mimi announces, standing up. ‘I know we all have better places than this to be, so I’m off for the weekend. You can go, too. Enjoy your evening. I’d get one inside you pronto.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A drink, Cassie. She means a drink.’ Sam laughs. ‘Gosh, your mind!’ He looks up at Mimi. ‘I reckon she’s on a promise,’ he says.

  ‘She’s not even denying it,’ Mimi agrees.

  ‘Details on Monday, bitch,’ Sam says.

  I hurriedly cut down the quieter back roads behind Oxford Street to meet Rachel and sip nervously at a white wine spritzer whilst I wait for her to arrive. If she doesn’t get here soon, I’ll drink her gin, too. Finally, she pushes the door open and I’m unable to contain myself. I throw myself at her, pulling at her arm and shaking it until she yanks it away.

  ‘I have a date that isn’t a date. In less than two hours. He’s here and I’m meeting him, and I’m actually terrified.’

  She rubs her wrist and looks around the pub.

  ‘I know it’s been a while but calm down. Who are you meeting? What’s his name? What does he look like? He’s not a dick pic man is he? You shouldn’t meet a man who sends you pictures of his penis before you’ve had sex. That’s advice for life, right there.’

  ‘Jesse!’ I squeal. ‘I’m meeting Jesse. No one off that stupid website, and obviously I haven’t seen his penis.’

  She holds up her hand and cuts me off. She’s still confused, but she’s getting there. Piecing the information together like a puzzle.

  ‘What? You’re meeting Jesse? As in Jesse Franklin Jesse?’

  ‘Yes!’ I say. It comes out like the hiss of a radiator being bled.

  ‘I’m so confused. Why do I only just know about this? You’ve got to stop keeping stuff from me, Cass. I thought all that had fizzled out. You haven’t mentioned him in a while.’

  ‘I did try to meet up with you on Tuesday. You were busy. And no, of course it hasn’t fizzled out.’

  As if I’d let it fizzle out. ‘Anyway, I didn’t think you approved.’

  ‘Christ. You make me sound like some kind of maiden aunt. I just told you not to get your hopes up but clearly you shouldn’t listen to me. Anyway, I’d have moved a phone call with Eloise the wedding planner for this. We could have had time to prepare. Though judging by your outfit, you’ve already done a fair bit of that.’

  ‘He’s doing some shows here,’ I
shrug, like this is a normal state of affairs. ‘It’s all very last minute. He asked the other day if I wanted to hang out.’

  Rachel snorts and rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, come on,’ she says. ‘He’s clearly trying to hit on you. He’s in town for a few days and he’s trying his luck.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure it’s like that. It’s probably just because he knows I live here and it’s nice to meet people you know, isn’t it?’

  The way her eyebrows slant suggests she thinks I am being dim.

  ‘I don’t think so. And neither do you, really. Also,’ she continues, ‘he’s a bassist, so he’s going to know exactly what he’s doing with his hands. And what’s more, you’ve thought about that, too, which is why you’ve gone to so much effort. I see you. And I see your sex bra. Are you wearing the matching knickers?’

  Foiled. One hundred percent. She knows me too well.

  ‘Possibly,’ I say.

  ‘There you have it then.’ She picks up her glass and takes a long drink. ‘Can’t you see how obvious this is? One kind-of famous pop star from the nineteen-nineties gets tracked down and befriended by a fan who still cares enough to get in contact, and who then jumps at the chance to meet up with him when he’s conveniently in town. I bet he’s got this entire rock star-groupie fantasy playing out in his head.’

  ‘Nooo,’ I protest. ‘We’ve had very wholesome chats… mostly. It’s probably not like that.’ But I know that’s exactly what it looks like, and maybe that’s because it’s exactly how it is. And maybe all this pretending I haven’t seen it is pointless because after all, I got the Veet out this morning, and put on my sex knickers, and you don’t wear see-through knickers unless you want somebody to see through them.