This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad (35 page)

“Should we pick up a pregnancy test before that,
Piggy
?” I teased.

“No need; I took one this morning,” she admitted with a sad face.
“Maybe next time.” 

“Did I mention that Marcus’ dad’s name is Stanford, Sta
nford Grant: an older, better-looking version of Patrick. I told you it was a great name!” I told her. I didn’t know she wanted another baby.

“If you’re born in the bloody fifties,” she said before leaving me on my own.

We were right in the middle of
The Lion King
when my phone rang. It was Noor and from Paris, no less! In the middle of her honeymoon? She was crying hysterically on the phone. But one thing was very clear through all that sobbing: don’t tell Axelle. So I did what she said, except the part about not telling Axelle.

“The ink hasn’t even dried yet!” Axelle said, kissing me at St Pancras Station.

I didn’t tell her everything. I didn’t tell her that Noor might be pregnant. “She’s just having a small freak-out session, nothing much,” I lied. It wasn’t my news to share. I kissed her and got on the train. I found Noor three hours later, on her own, in Uncle Alphonse’s Trocadéro apartment. Andrew went South with new friends and left her behind because she wasn’t feeling well. “Why didn’t he stay with you? What about all that ‘in sickness and in health’ stuff? I remembered hearing him say yes,” I told her, bringing my homemade soup in bed.

“It’s our honeymoon; I didn’t want to spoil it for the both of us,” she weakly answered. She looked so pale. “I haven’t been able to keep my food down,” she added and tried a sip of my tomato soup. “This is good,” she whispered between sips.

I kissed her warm cheek. “I’ve missed you, Noora-Noora. We should really go see the doctor; could all just be a bad case food poisoning –”

“I’m pregnant, Luce,” she told me, looking at me straight in the eyes. She didn’t wait for me to take the test the after all.

“So you’re sure then.
How?
I mean, we’ve been on the pill since we were fifteen,” I told her. “What did Andrew say?” And why wasn’t he there? “Nooradine, why am
I
here?” She sat up slowly on the bed and tears started to roll down her cheeks. “What’s going on?”             

“He doesn’t know and he never needs to,” she declared, so calmly it gave me goose bumps.

“Noor?”

“We’re not ready, Lucia! Look at us! I was left behind b
ecause I had a fever. And for new friends – people we don’t even know!” she said. She looked so tired, two weeks ago was her wedding day and now we were sitting in bed talking about an abortion. “I’m not ready for this. I’m not as strong as you.” She’s wiping my tears. I didn’t even  realize that I was crying.

“Strong?
I love a man who may not love me back, so I’ve started sleeping with my giant teddy bear again. But that’s beside the point.” I cleaned my face up. “I own up to my actions; why can’t you?”

“Maybe Axelle would have been better –”

“Yes, maybe! And you could have told her about your plans while she told you that she’s been trying for number three,” I snapped back. She shuddered at the revelation. “Don’t expect non-judgment from me, Noor. I’ll go with you, stay afterwards and I’ll even keep your secret from your husband but –”

“I get it; you’re disappointed in me. Well, so am I,” she said.

We went to the hospital shortly after; Noor told Andrew that the doctor advised her to stay in bed for at least a week. To my amazement, Andrew decided to stay away, not wanting to catch anything. What about me? In sickness and in health? He couldn’t even make it through the honeymoon!

After a few days in bed, I got her out of the house for a pr
ivate fashion show; after all, it was fashion week. Our cousin, Hélène Mpobo, was having her first show in Paris and I wanted to show her my full support, even buy a piece or two straight off the runway before heading back to London. Now, how did Mary Gillis got in? I would never know. She wasn’t supposed to a guest. But there she was with her charming
madame à tout faire
of a sister, Cally.

“You’re much prettier, Luce,” Noor whispered as they both walked in. “Don’t even get me started on that hair.”
             

“Do you think Marcus is here?” I asked her. That would have just been the cherry on my Paris cake.

“No. Mary Gillis is a star; she can sneak in, but him? Please,” she said and  took my hand.

And she didn’t waste any time after the show either. She came backstage on her own to congratulate Hélène. It was a real success and Noor and I already ordered a few models.

“Miss Mpobo, your show was splendid,” she told her with a sincere smile.

“Miss Gillis,” Hélène said before looking at me. I shrugged. “What a surprise and thank you,” she responded with a smile.

“What a nice accent you have. It’s –” Mary said.

“Italian,” I told her. What was that entire charade about? Noor looked as skeptical as I was but for once, let me run the show. “Hélène was raised in Rome where she and her sister have a prêt à porter. It was listed in the handout,” I told her.

“You must be Lucia Riddell and you Noor Riddell. Congratulation on your wedding!”

“News travels fast,” Noor said. “Thank you,” she added b
efore looking at me with a “should-I-take-this-or...” look. I gave her an “I-got-this” look.

“A few acquaintances of mine were present. It was the event of the summer! A Riddell wedding!” she laughed.

“It was the event alright.” I offered my hand. “Lucia Cassidy Ann
Mpobo
-Riddell, nice to finally meet you,” I told her. Noor took Hélène away from us and to mingle with her guests.

“Mary Gillis. Lucita in the flesh; the honor is all mine,” she said. I never said it was an honor to meet her. It’s actually quite disconcerting. “I’ve heard so much about you over the years. We thought you were an urban legend. But then you worked with Beesly & Matt.” She firmly shook my hand. “I want you to work for me too.”

“I don’t understand. I thought Marcus was doing your album.” What this his idea? He’s not about teamwork.

“He’s not into it as much as he used to be and he’s not a fan of my new direction,” she said uneasily.

“Patrick and Doddy say that he can get lost sometimes, but always finds his way back. Give him time,” I told her.

Her face turned white.
“Doddy?”

“Yes.
Marcus’ mum, Doranda.” I grabbed a flute from one of the trays. Looked like a perfect time to start drinking.

“I know who that is. You met her?”

“Yes. She’s a long-time family friend, being from the Miller family,” I explained to her. Did I say something?

“Of course the Riddells are very well connected,” she whi
spered then her sister arrived and joined us. “Lucia, this is my sister, Cally O’Connell, my manager,” she absently said.

They looked nothing alike. Are the Mpobo-Riddell sisters the only ones forged from the same mold? Cally had a good inch over Mary and her light blonde to orange-looking hair color was natural. Like me, she opted for small, rectangular glasses but her frame was matching her hair. She was also much more voluptuous than Mary ever was. Mary was more of a size zero
figure: no breast, a tiny ass and even smaller waist. Let’s put aside the fact that she couldn’t tan if her life depended on it; they were that type of Irish. And it would have been totally fine with me if we were not so different. Marcus didn’t have a type, did he?

“Mary, stop wandering like that. We’re here for some French exposure, so please go mingle and let me do my job,” she told her.
Big sister talk. I couldn’t help smiling as Mary walked away and joined the crowd for the small after party.

“I’ll be short. Our new production company wants to try a new approach and I think you’re it,” Cally said with a small smile. I liked her instantly; she reminded of Axelle: always straight to the point.

“And Marcus?” I asked her.

“He’s the heart of this album, but not its soul, not this time. He…changed.” She looked at her sister, “She doesn’t inspire him anymore, at least not the way she used to.” I really didn’t want to hear about Marcus and Mary but that didn’t stop her. “We have a few songs ready. You can take a second look at them. It will just be for a few days. I already called your lawyer and negotiated a rate.”

“I don’t want to work with Marcus. I’ve been there and I’ve done that,” I told her.

“Think about it. Next year you will have two major artists’ albums out with your name on them. You can’t buy better pu
blicity than that,” she said.

And she was right. I’m on my own now; I need the exposure. “I would need to speak to Marcus first. I was on my way back to London.”

“That could be arranged,” I heard Mary saying behind me. “Why does that…girl have to have the best album out anyway?” she said with a smile. “American bitch!”

“Beesly?”
I asked her and she nodded. “I see. The answer is no then.” I started walking away.

“Seriously, Mary, fuck off!” Cally yelled at her sister. She fo
llowed me, “Those two don’t like each other.”

“And Beesly is my friend, therefore I’m on her side,” I told her.

“I respect that. There will be no Beesly trash talk as they call it,” she said.” Do we have a deal?”

I would get to see Marcus and kick him in the…chin. He still hadn’t called me. “We have a deal.” I shook her hand. “You came here for me?”

“Not really; we came for the show and you just happened to be here,” she said. Right… and it has nothing to do with “Pazza” being number one in the European charts. “Beesly & Matt’s single is this fall’s revelation.”

I knew it! “Marcus wrote that one, not me,” I advised her.

“I know, featuring Lucita and the G Band,” she added. Mary was walking toward us. “We know about you and Marcus.”

I was doubtful. How could they know when I myself
didn’t. “Not sure what you mean,” I told her.

“What happened in Toronto and
here. You think you would be able to work together?”

I
didn’t respond, because I honestly had no idea and thankfully, Mary and Noor joined us at that moment.

“So what’s going on?” Noor asked.

“I’m going to work on Mary’s upcoming album,” I told both of them. It seemed to satisfy Mary.

“You’re hijacking Marcus’ album? Oh,
I’m liking that twist!” Noor gloated before pushing me aside. “Are you going to be okay?” she whispered.

We were still among strangers and family; I didn’t want to talk about it there. I nodded back.

“Okay, because you’ve had a bad case of anger for the past few days and I don’t want you to sabotage her album,” she said.

“That’s not my style, Noor,” I said more defensively than I wanted to. “It’s just for a few days. It will give the opportunity to get to know her,” I said more comfortably.

“She’s a stick!” Noor laughed.

“I know right! Thanks for worrying about me, Noora-Noora.”

“I’m still your big sister, Lucia,” she said. “Let’s go back to Hélène and her party. You can deal with them tomorrow,” she said, taking me further away from the O’Connell sisters and toward the rest of the guests.

And that’s what I have been doing for past four days, dealing with the O’Connell sisters. It turned out that Eclipse Records wanted Mary to go retro for her next album – eighties retro. They landed me a small office and I had been working on mi
xing original songs with a few classics. No more than three songs; it would be enough to spice up the album. No trace of Marcus during that time; apparently he had been in some kind of the weird funk since he got to Paris. Guilt maybe? He can’t be missing me all that much because, as I mentioned many, many times before, he hasn’t called me!

Working with Mary has been surprisingly enjoyable. She lets me do my own thing or just likes what I’m doing; I can’t really tell. What I can understand are the endless Marcus innuendos, about their past relationship, their engagement, how they met,
their total fucking history! I wrote “Determinate Bitch” just for that. Spain hasn’t been enough for her; she needs him back. Well, she can have him back if she wants to. After two weeks of silence, I think they both deserve each other.

“Good luck, Mary,” I told her as I was getting ready to re
cord a remixed version of “Don’t Stop Believin’”.

“Thank you! For what?” she asked me.

“That’s what Doddy told me in Manchester about Marcus and I feel that I have to pass it along to you.” I test the guitar. It wasn’t my Lucita, but it would do. “My flight back to Toronto is tomorrow afternoon, so I thought this was as good a time as any to…wish you good luck. You’re going to need it.”

“You don’t say! What makes you feel that?” she asked in front of her microphone.

“Really? Mary, you
broke
him and I was healing him. His word not mine. So, good luck, Mary. You’re going to need it if you really want him back,” I said just before the music started.