Page 7 of Strum Me

Chapter Four

Brad

Present Day

Two hundred eyes turn toward me.

Pens poised higher and audio recorders stretched just that little bit further in my direction, waiting for an answer. I clear my throat. It echoes in the silent room, dancing back and forth on the waves of tension.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” I need the extra moment to compose myself, my thoughts.

I can just make out her silhouette as she pulls herself up taller and straightens her shoulders. It’s definitely her. I haven’t seen her for eight years, but I’d recognize her anywhere, from any angle. There’s no lack of confidence in her figure and she doesn’t need to clear her throat. She knows exactly what she wants to say.

“I said, ‘do you guys ever intend on doing anything but ripping off other musicians’ work?’ I mean, this is your fourth album now, the last one you won you two Grammys for Best New Artist and Best Contemporary Instrumental. But really, when you break it down, aren’t you nothing but a glorified cover band?”

The two hundred eyes turn back to me again.

In the corner of my eye I can see the guys trying to fight back grins and guffaws. I’m sure they’ve recognized her by now too and are probably picturing a hundred different times we’ve played out this very same argument. Of course, then it was just us, two stubborn music students trying to one up each other for fun. Now it was in front of every influential music journalist in England. And I wasn’t going to let her win.

“Well, um, I’m sorry, what was your name?” I play dumb, buying time as my mind ticks over, still trying to process that it’s her. Here.

“Emily,” comes the one-word curt reply.

“What a lovely name. I once had a best friend called that.”

“Poor girl,” she fires back.

Jez, on the far end of the table, chokes on his water and I kinda think he deserves it for enjoying my pain.

“Yes, well. She was a bit of a hag anyway. Huge Dumbo ears. And um, you know, that awkward, really long second toe. That’s weird.”

A light smattering of chuckles travels through the crowd. I’m not sure they know what’s going on, but they’re enjoying it anyway.

“Back to your question—it’s a doozy by the way. I might need a second to ponder it. While I’m doing that, can I ask you a question?”

She shrugs one shoulder in response.

“Hmm yes, chatty one, aren’t you, not at all like my old friend, Emily. Couldn’t shut that one up. Anyway, what’s your favorite song, Emily?”

I can just see her open her mouth, pausing, and then closing again before answering. “I don’t…”

“Nawww, come on, you’re here, reporting on us. You must be a music journalist of some sort. Are you trying to tell me that you don’t have a favorite song? And I don’t mean the one you think your music snob listeners want to hear is your favorite song. I mean the one that when it comes on the car radio, you turn it up and forget all traffic, red lights, pedestrians, and gets you singing and dancing in the street. The one that makes the whole world make sense for just three minutes and completely turns your day—no matter how shitty it was—around. What song is that?”

I know what it is, and she knows I know.

“’Tainted Love.’” She gives it up, reluctantly.

“By?” I prod her.

“The original, Soft Cell.”

“Good choice. Except that…of course, it’s not the original. The Soft Cell version.”

I can’t see it, but I can picture her, that little furrow of the brow, and how her whole face curls in confusion, not just her forehead. Her lips kinda purse and her eyes dart side to side as her brain churns in her head. It’s adorable.

“Yeah, would you believe Soft Cell’s version of ‘Tainted Love’ is in fact a cover. A rockin’ singer by the name of Gloria Jones actually released the original in the ‘60s, way before her time of course. It flopped, giving Soft Cell the chance to give it a second life in the ‘80s. So, anyway. In answer to your question…no.

“No what?” she replies.