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I can’t do this. I just can’t.
I take my phone out of my bag and scroll through my photos until I come to the one of Cash in his disguise. I was so happy that night. I know I said I wouldn’t follow Cash’s career, but tonight, just this once, because I am feeling extra vulnerable, I will go on the net and see how he is doing.
I won’t check his personal life. I won’t look to see what new woman he is with. I just want to see how he looks. It will soothe my aching heart.
Sitting in the dark, I navigate to YouTube and type in his name. I scroll down results and see that he has recently, just last week in fact, done an interview on a German TV program. I click into it. An advert for Adidas comes on and I realize I am holding my breath. I make it full screen. The advert finishes and a man in his late forties or fifties with a red/blond scruff on his face appears. He is wearing a grey suit and holding a sheaf of papers. He raps the edges of it on the table ala Jon Stewart, and calls out in a very strong German accent, ‘Cash Hunter.’
The in-house band starts playing and the camera cuts to Cash coming into the studio. He is dressed completely in black, suit, shirt with three buttons undone, and shoes. His hair looks lighter and his face more mature. As if it is not months since I saw him, but years. He stops at the top of a white staircase, smiles, and waves to the audience before he walks down it.
I pause the video, my face moving closer to the computer screen.
Wow! He looks like a stranger.
I hit pause again and the video resumes playing. Cash continues walking towards the host. They shake hands and the guy shows him to a plush armchair.
‘Cash Hunter, ladies and gentlemen,’ the host repeats.
The camera pans to the audience who are all on their feet clapping and cheering. There are a few wolf whistles and Cash smiles and nods towards them.
‘Welcome,’ the host says.
‘Thank you. It’s always good to be in Germany. I love the autobahn.’
‘Ah, you like having no speed limit while you are driving?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So this is a new look for you?’ the host comments, his hand waving down Cash’s body.
‘You gotta look sharp. Take care of those shoes,’ Cash drawls, and the audience erupts into cheering and clapping.
‘So,’ the host says, ‘some people are comparing you to Prince, Bob Dylan and Lou Reed. They say the songs you have written for your new album are nothing short of genius.’
‘I’ll take the comparisons, but there is only one Prince, one Bob Dylan, and one Lou Reed. I grew up listening to their music. They were some of my idols, but maybe one day someone will say there will be only one Cash Hunter.’ He smiles.
‘Before you started on your solo career you were with one of the most successful bands, Alkaline. Why did you leave? Was it the music? Did you guys fall out?’
Cash shrugs casually. ‘I was with the band for close to eight years. That’s a long time in this business. It was time to try something new. As someone once told me, “Don’t wait any more, reach for the stars, Cash.” So I did.’
Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. He remembered what I told him on the roof. He actually used me to inspire him to write his own music. I feel a rush of happiness that in some small way I helped his career.
‘But this is a departure from the kind of music you were making with the band,’ the host prompts.
Cash laughs. ‘Yeah it is.’
‘That was boyband music.’
‘It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?
The host waggles his head as if to agree without agreeing. ‘What does it feel like to be writing and singing this kind of deep stuff compared to the light pop that you were making before?’
‘I was fifteen when I started in the music business. What could I really write about? I didn’t understand anything. I hadn’t lived yet. I had to figure out who I was. When the band broke up I went into my studio and wrote the songs that I really wanted to write, the kind of music that touched my soul. The way I felt hopefully came out in the album. It’s a mixture of the kind of music I grew up listening to and loved.’
The host brings out a CD and opens the jewel case. ‘So I have your new single here,’ he says showing the cover to the audience. The CD has a picture of a woman’s naked chest. Her long blonde hair covers her breasts.
‘Of course, not all songs are autobiographical, but judging from the two titles of your songs, She Passed Like A Cloud and I’d Like to Know How You Feel, it would seem these are love songs. Want to tell us who she is?’
Cash’s jaw tightens.
The host senses his reaction. ‘This is a very sexy cover. Who’s the blondie? Do you know her personally?’
‘Sure. She’s a model.’
‘Can I have her number?’ he guffaws.
Cash smiles. ‘You sure you can handle her?’
The host is still laughing as he reaches under his desk and produces a guitar. ‘How about a little song for us?’ he asks. The audience erupts into a roar of applause. He lays the guitar on his thigh and plucks experimentally at the strings. ‘She Passed Like a Cloud is written around a cord progression that is very similar to the ones the Beatles used, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
He passes the guitar to Cash and he plays it and sings.
I stop breathing. His voice, the words, the music. It is hauntingly beautiful.
The host shakes his head in awe. ‘You are the new star. Yeah, I think, yeah. You will see that in the next few years you will become bigger than ever.’
Cash shrugs modestly. ‘Thank you.’
‘No, I promise you. You are destined for big things. I saw you perform live once and it was great. You are not just a great composer, but you are also a good singer, a fantastic guitarist and a great dancer as well. The show was exhilarating.’
Cash smiles. ‘Welllll, I’m not one to brag, but …’
The host points at Cash. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Cash Hunter.’
The video ends there and I think about the way his jaw had tightened. Did Cash think of me sometimes? Was I the girl who passed like a cloud? Then I think of the blonde girl on the CD cover. He said he knew her. What if he’s slept with her? Oh my God, I can’t believe I’ve let myself go down this path. I switch off my laptop and lie in the darkness. Somehow. Somehow I’ve got to find a way to heal myself.
Chapter Forty-three
Tori
The sound of my phone buzzing wakes me up. With my eyes still shut, I fumble around and squint at the screen. It’s Leah.
‘Yeah,’ I mumble.
‘Are you feeling as bad as I am?’ she asks morosely.
‘I don’t know. I’m not awake yet.’
‘Well, wake up and tell me.’
I sit up. ‘Why are you up so early?’
‘My bed’s too comfortable. I couldn’t sleep.’
I manage half a laugh. ‘So sleep in your sleeping bag then.’
‘Might have to do that tonight.’
I yawn.
‘Want to meet for lunch or something?’
‘I don’t know if mom’s got something planned. I’ll call you later?’
‘OK, speak later.’
I close my eyes and fall back to bed. I never got to sleep until late. I had to creep downstairs and cut two cucumber slices to put on my eyelids because I didn’t want to wake up with swollen eyes and have everybody know I’d been crying all night. I push my bedclothes away and go to stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom. The cucumber trick worked. My eyes look normal.
As I stare at my own reflection a dream I had last night breaks. Weird. I dreamt Cash and I were sitting in a boat. It must have been a lake because the water was calm. There was no sadness or perpetual pain. In my dream he’d forgiven me. With a sigh I turn away from the mirror.
I use the toilet, wash quickly, and go downstairs in my PJ’s. The whole house smells of Italian roast coffee and bacon. My dad has already gone to work, but my mo
m has got her rubber gloves on and is busy cleaning out one of the shelves.
‘Good morning,’ she says brightly as she takes her gloves off.
‘Morning, Mom,’ I reply with fake brightness and a fake cheery smile.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, sit at the kitchen table, and yawn.
‘Awww, honey. You’re still jetlagged aren’t you?’
‘I guess so.’
‘I knew you’d be missing out on your Southern breakfast so I made the works. How about a nice plate of bacon, ham, sausages, grits and gravy with sunny side up eggs to dip your toast in?’
‘Oh no, Mom. I can’t today,’ I groan. ‘I just want cereal.’ I get up to take a bowl from the cupboard and my mom steers me back to the chair.
‘Bull puckey! You’ll do no such thing. I made you a good breakfast this morning and you’ll eat it and be grateful for it, young lady. Didn’t you say last night how those poor beggar children were starving?’
