This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad (36 page)

“It was about time you showed up!” I tell Marcus. “So, do you like this version of the song?”

“Hi, Luce.” he turns to Mary. “Bloody, are you responsible for all this?” he tells her.

“You gotta be kidding! That’s the best you can come up with?” I ask him. Bloody? Cute! He has a nickname for her. “Where have you been for the past five days? I’ve been here contributing to your album,” I tell him. I’m much angrier that I thought I was.

“Hi, Silly.
Lucia has been doing a fantastic job, sarcasm and personal opinions aside,” Mary says.

“Three wonderful songs,” Jean-Michel adds. “Ma chérie, you are fantastic!” He takes my hand and kisses it. I’ve been fen
ding off his advances all week
. Ces français!

“Thank you, both of you. The freedom you gave me really contributed to all this.” I’m looking straight at Marcus. Did she just call him Silly? I think I’m going to throw up!

“Right…so let me summarize this; you’ve been in Paris for…” he starts; he’s waiting for me to fill the blank.
As if!

“Noor called me over a week ago,” I say while resetting for a second take.

“Of course she did. All the best stories start with Noor. What was she up to this time?” he asks, half-serious, half-kidding. But the expression on my face reveals more than I intend it to. “Luce, is she alright?” he asks, completely serious this time.

“She’s Noor. Of course she’s fine.”  Please drop the subject…

He looks at me quietly for a few seconds. “And how did you get in here?” he asks very seriously.

“Cally and Mary sought me out. Sound familiar?” I tell him while Mary, Jean-Michel and Cally turn to look at him. “At least you didn’t have to go through a humiliating confront
ation,” I whisper to me and only him.

“I guess we need to have a chat then,” he whispers back.

I can’t help but laugh, at myself, at him, at the whole damn situation. “This time, Silly, we don’t,” I murmur. I turn to the others. “Let’s get a second take shall we?” I say. Everyone leaves the room except Mary. “Marcus, you should listen to the other tracks while we’re finishing here,” I tell him before signaling the crew to start playing.

A couple of hours later and we have all the takes we need for the fourth song. My work here is done and I’m in need of tea. I’ve been using my vocal cords a lot this week. I find Marcus waiting for me in my little guest office.

“Don’t worry; I’m leaving,” I tell him.

“Why are you so hostile with me?” he asks, comfortably sitting. “I came to tell you that the songs are great and thank you,” he says and he smiles… You smug dickhead!

“I didn’t do it for you! They paid me for that,” I bite back. I sip more of my tea. “I’m an independent contractor now.”

“So Jean-Michel told me. Why didn’t you tell me in London?” he asks.

“I don’t know. But does it really matter? Obviously there were a lot of things left unsaid in London.” I just come right out and say it. I have nothing to lose.

“Luce...”

“What? No really; what, Marcus?” I get up and close the door. “Your girl is lovely by the way. At least she knows what she wants and I think it has something to do with you.”

“I know I should have rung you, Luce. I’m sorry.” He holds up his hands as I’m trying to interrupt. “Please hear me out. I’ve been sorting a few things out while I’ve been here and I know it’s asking for a lot but –”

This has to stop now! “I told you I loved you, not once but many…many times and you, you just took me for fucking granted! So please shut up!” I’m so mad, I’m trembling. “Why are you doing this to me when I deserve so much better?”

“I know you do. I’m not a complete prick. I just can’t walk away from you,” he says so softly, so sweetly I almost cave…almost. He tries to take me in his arms; I say “try” because I push him away.

“No more, Marcus. Call it my R.E.S.P.E.C.T. moment. I’m done,” I tell him. I gather the few things I have on the desk.

“Just give me some time, Lucia,” he pleads almost as a whisper.

“For what?
For you to decide if you really want to be with me or not? And you are such a prize? So what do I do if you chose no?” I’m so ready to leave Paris. I’ve already said my goodbyes here. I’ll meet Noor with my bags at the station. “Bye, Marcus, for good this time,” I say as convincingly as I can ever be. Now’s the time to say something, Marcus…anything! Why do I even bother? He’s just standing by the door giving me his best puppy-eyed look and I have to walk through that door. God, he’s so handsome.

“Give my best to your family.” I stand in front of him for the last time, open the door but he closes it. Now I’m in the middle of
Pretty Woman
…again!

“Just give me some time, please,” he whispers again.

I open the door. “Not this time, Marcus,” I say, not looking at him. I walk right out and straight to the elevator, no looking back. I know he’s not going to follow me but deep inside I’m so wishing he will. But I enter the elevator alone, get out of it alone and get in the cab without any interruption.

Kathie brings our drinks back, wiggling through the crowd. “One merlot for me and one beer for you,” she says, handing me my drink.

I look around. We’re in the middle of an underground club off the entertainment district, with surprisingly good live music but sketchy customers. Why on earth does she want to drink a merlot here? Stick to beer.

“Thank you, honey.”

She drinks her wine and spits it out right away. “Oh my God!” she muffles and gags at the same time.

“We’re here for the lead singer, Kathie, not the non-existent wine selection,” I say, taking her drink away. I give her my beer. “Wash the taste off,” I tease.

“How did you hear about him anyway?” she asks me. “You’ve been more than a little busy since you came back from the wedding.”

I have been a busy bee, finalizing Second Coming and setting up my home office in my den with the proper equipment. I even officially registered my new business and named it My Guitars Production. I’m finally using my den for something other than storage. This space is almost as big as the dining room area but nothing like a real music room. I’ve put my gu
itars and violins in there; the rest is all digital.

“Your brother,” I tell her.

“Greg? When? He hasn’t been in town in weeks,” she says or screams as the band we came to see finally start to play.

“He knows I’m scouting for new talent and thought this M
ichael Holland with his sexy voice would be an excellent choice,” I tell her. I stop and listen to Michael and his band for a few songs. He’s just sensational.

“He was right,” Kathie drools. “He’s also as yummy as hell. What? Did you call dibs on him?”

“Just professionally,” I smile. We both applaud at the end of their first set.

“So, you and my brother?” she asks me. I know what she’s thinking. I’ve been a terrible friend to him these past few months. And to thank me, he has been a real emotional rock. I finally returned his calls last month when I returned to Toro
nto; he called me a couple of times in London but I hadn’t called him back since the wedding…then Marcus. “You know why I’m asking right?”

“Yes I do,” I tell her. It wasn’t the same this time. I didn’t call Greg and wallow in self-pity; I called to apologize for not calling and checking up on him. “I’m in a great place now and we’ve just been talking, nothing else. His show is coming to Toronto next week.” No vivid dreams or binge baking; som
ething changed that day in Paris.
I
changed that day in Paris.

“He’s my brother, Luce. I know,” she laughs. “He’s also cr
azy about you, so please take it easy on him.”

“I’ve never led him on, Kathie. You know it’s not my style,” I tell her. I really never did; Greg is one of the rare men in my life I trust completely after Granddaddy, Paul and Lloyd.

“Thus, him being so crazy about you,” she says and finishes my beer. Is she going to get me another one? “I’ve done my sisterly duties. Now, do you need any help with your new venture?”

“That’s sweet, Kathie, but right now I’m not busy enough for an assistant yet. Don’t you like being at Noël-Sarrow an
ymore?”

“I need the growth…and that bitch Jenny has been gunning for my job,” she says.

Jenny has been gunning for everyone’s everything since before I met her. “She wouldn’t be able to fit in your shoes,” I tell her. “It does involve actual work.” I get up quickly before the next set starts to get more drinks. “I’ll bring you a beer this time.” I find my way toward the bar and order two domestics. Anything would do, anything but wine. On my way back, I suddenly feel my phone buzzing in my blazer pocket. I put the beers on our table and check. It’s a message from Greg.

So,
Lulu, how is he?

I type back,
He’s fantastic. THANK YOU!

“Who are you chatting with?” Kathie asks me whiling chec
king out Michael on the stage. “Noor?”

I haven’t spoken to her much since we got back from Europe. She resumed her honeymoon in Naples and returned a couple of weeks after I did. She made me part of a secret and nearly six weeks later I’m still having a hard time with it.

“No, your brother,” I tell her with a smile as I receive a second message.

Told ya, lol.
I like your argyle blazer and the matching pumps. Very sexy with that tight mini dress.

Is he here? He’s not due back in Toronto for another few days. Another message:

Very sexy prep school librarian…

“Is your brother here?” I ask Kathie as the band starts their second set.

“Well, he is now,” she says with a conspiring smile, when out of nowhere Greg sits next to her. “Now hush; my husband-to-be is singing.”

“
Dalkomhan
[16]
!” Greg says.

“You’re actually here!” I shriek and get up to hug him.

“Happy to see you too, honey,” he says directly in my ear before kissing the tip of my nose; just like old times…

Our warmer-than-usual November weather has been giving Torontonians the impression that they can leave their homes without jackets and sometimes pants. Today we’re almost reaching twenty degrees and I’m treating myself to a venti vanilla Frappuccino; I have another one with extra whip and chocolate chips for Greg next to me on the bench. To keep warm I’m wearing a light cardigan with a wide-pants jumpsuit, a scarf and bonnet; it’s still really windy outside.

Between his rehearsals and my own very demanding profe
ssional life, Greg and I haven’t hung out much since he’s been back in Toronto. Granted, it has only been a week and the Canadian premiere of his show is in two days, but I’ve missed our talks, our dances together, everything. Thank heavens for Beesly; she’s back in LA, reaping the rewards of Second Coming, which has been out for three weeks now and is climbing the charts. From Skype yoga to wine-tasting, we’ve been there a lot for one another. But things with Noor are complicated; we really only speak if and when Axelle is with us. Yesterday, during our Sunday morning brunch, she dropped the best news of the year.

“No mimosa for me,” she said after Noor ordered three.

“It’s fine; I’ll drink both,” Noor told the waitress before she left. “What? You quit drinking?”

“Please! Even on my worst day, I can still drink your skinny self under the table,” she said, laughing. “Miss Mpobo-Riddell, Mrs Burton, you’re going to be aunts again!”

Noor and I both got off our chairs to kiss and hug her. I knew how much they wanted another one.

“Annie and Mitch are over the moon. And Paul cried,” she said, tearing a little.

When she got up to go to the bathroom, Noor and I were left alone and she spoke first. “How’s the production company’s going?”

“It’s going fine.” I just wanted to close the subject more than anything else.

“I heard Greg is in town for his show. You must me so excited,” she added with her best, fake enthusiasm to date.

“We don’t have to do this right now, Noor,” I told her. I wasn’t ready to do this.

“Yes we do!” she said louder than she intended. “We were fine when you left Paris. I come back and I find…this strange
you
,” she added, lowering her voice.

“We were not fine in Paris, Noor. You could have kept me in the dark and not a part of this but you chose not to,” I told her.

“Luce, at some point you have to forgive me,” she said while Axelle was approaching.

“No I don’t…but I will. Just not today,” I told her just before Axelle sat back down.

“You heard her, Noor. Give her some time to forgive whatever you did,” she declared after looking at the both of us. “To baby Anderson number three!” she said, raising her orange juice.

“To baby Anderson number three!” Noor and I repeated.

I’m almost halfway down my Frappuccino when I see Greg coming out of the theatre. He’s late and he isn’t wearing his workout outfit but a loose pair of jeans and a dark, thin hoodie. By the time he reaches me across the street, he’s made at least ten heads turned, men and women alike.