I go home to Camden and make a phone call and talk to an old friend for about ten minutes. I give him my email address, and hang up. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll help. Not now, but sometime in the future. Striker insurance.
Then I sleep, or try to, anyway. This was supposed to be a relaxing break from working on the album and it’s turned into a disaster. Still, I’m thankful I was there last night. A ball of white-hot fury rolls through me every time I think of what might have happened to Dree if I hadn’t been.
I close my eyes, and fall into a doze.
After a few hours, I get up and use the gym in the building, sweating out for two hours on the machines and then the treadmill makes me feel slightly better. Then I sit cross-legged on the rug in the afternoon sunshine with my acoustic guitar on my lap. I strum for a while, playing chord progressions and humming to myself.
An hour later, I put the guitar aside. I think I can drive now without putting my fist through the windshield.
The Sunday evening traffic is a nightmare and it takes me forever to get on the M1. I listen to music for a while but then turn it off. I hum the chords I was playing, thinking about Dree and that almost-kiss I gave her earlier.
At a motorway rest stop, I get myself a coffee and lean against my car as I type an email to her.
Hey. How are you feeling? Don’t come up to Shropshire tomorrow. Take the day off and come Tuesday.
And what’s your number?
My thumb hovers over the send button for a moment. There’s no reason I shouldn’t have her number for professional reasons, but I don’t want it for strictly professional reasons, do I? I want it so I can get it touch with her whenever I want.
I push send. She’s the one who asked me to punish her. I can ask for her number, at least.
The house is dark and peaceful when I arrive just after nine. I go to the studio, but just sit in a chair, turn on the voice recorder on my phone and play my way through the chords that have been wandering through my mind, closing my eyes and letting my body relax. I see a slender girl in a lemon yellow tutu, and she’s dancing.
By eleven I’m exhausted. As I head to bed I check my email, hoping that Dree might have replied to my email so that I can text her. She hasn’t sent me anything. I hope that just means she’s asleep.
I’m in the soundproof booth the next morning when Dree walks in. The pick I’m strumming with flicks out of my fingers and nearly hits me in the eye, and I wince. Motherfucker.
Through the headphones hugging one of my ears, I hear her.
“Morning,” she says to the room in general with a tense smile, and slips into the chair next to Wes. Her hair’s in a high ponytail and she’s wearing a tight cream-colored top with jeans and sneakers.
Dree’s asking Wes about setting up a meeting between her and the costume designer to go over some ideas. What ideas? I want to hear her ideas. Fuck this booth.
“Rush? Rush!”
I realize the sound engineer is trying to get my attention. I dig another pick out of my pocket and hit the mic. “Yeah. Sorry. Go again.”
I play through the track three times over, while watching Dree and Wes talking. I can’t hear a word they’re saying but I try and read their lips. Unsuccessfully. I catch the sound engineer’s eye. He’s got one incredulous brow raised, wondering why I suddenly sound like shit.
I pull off my guitar. “Give me thirty minutes, okay?”
Dree jumps up from her seat as if this is her cue to leave. It takes me a moment to untangle the cords and lay my guitar aside, and she uses that time to escape.
Not so fast, little girl.
I follow her down the hall. “Dree? Wait up.”
She can’t pretend not to hear me, and slows down. I catch up with her by the stairs.
“Hey. Are you all right?”
Dree pulls her sleeves over her hands and glances around us like she’s afraid of someone overhearing. I push open the nearest door and she heads into a sitting room. I close the door behind us and study Dree’s face. Her makeup is perfectly applied, and I wonder if she’s trying to cover up the fact that she’s pale and peaky.
My eyes narrow. “I told you not to come in today.”
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her hand trembling slightly. “I’m fine. I’ve been thinking about…”
My heart does a double-thump in my chest. I’ve been thinking about you too, baby.