Page 18 of Serenade Me

Even though I have an apartment in London, now that we’re only a few days from leaving to go on tour, Dennis has gathered us all up and holed us up in the penthouse of the Four Seasons so he can keep an eye on us, making sure we’re not roaming around causing mischief somewhere, and are available to rehearse 24/7.

Of course, I don’t mind. It’s better than the tour bus, and cleaner than my own apartment. And frankly, I like being around my friends and bandmates.

I look around me, taking the room in. I’m not sure of the interior design-y terms, but in layman Marius-y terms, this hotel is luxurious as shit. It’s like they went out and found the most expensive version they could of everything – carpet, bed linen, wall paper and crammed it into this room. I’ve wondered at times, if they get their toilet paper from a special millionaire’s bathroom store, ‘cos that stuff is soft on my ass. I chuckle at my own thoughts and lay back against the pillows for a moment, enjoying the satin smooth finish of the sheets and sigh. Bliss.

I slide out of bed, reaching for the pair of shorts I kicked off before falling asleep. At home, I might feel free to wander around naked, but I’ve been told under no uncertain terms that it is not welcome when we’re on tour and the guys are around. Not that I mind, but there’s nothing I can do if they’re all a bunch of prudes.

That floaty feeling, it’s still there. I still can’t quite make out what it is.

I scratch my stomach and wander over to the window and pull open the curtains to a typical London mid-morning.

Grey.

There’s a surprise.

But I don’t mind.

It’s the colour of my youth. My childhood. Sebastian’s always harping on about how much the weather is so much better in Paris where he’s from, and now Cadence is constantly mourning sunshine, coming from Australia.

But the sombre heaviness of the low hanging sky of London appeals to me.

I close my eyes and press my forehead against the window, bracing for the cold of the glass against my warm skin.

I breathe in. And out.

5 counts in and 5 counts out.

5 counts in and 5 counts out.

There it is again.

White smoke weaving in and out of my consciousness.

I keep my eyes closed and follow it. I use my fingers tracing against the wall to lead me to the door, the door that opens into the living area adjoining my room with Jez’s.

I open it, eyes still closed.

And freeze.

It’s music.

That blissful, untouchable something.

Soft, ambient, ethereal music.

The sound of one note being plucked and another and another. But never really revealing where one starts and the other ends. Cascading over one another into a glorious waterfall of sound.

The tune, it’s so familiar, what is it?

I can feel my brain cleaving to each note, trying to place it against the lifetime of musical phrases burned into my psyche.

Da da da da da daaaa, I hum under my breath.

Of course.

The Power of Love. But different. This has less of the 80’s ballad feeling of the Frankie Goes To Hollywood version. No, this is moody, sombre, utterly heart-breaking. A declaration of love… no matter the odds.

I open my eyes, not sure of what scene will greet me.