“Trevor always wanted to visit South Africa. It’s on his bucket list,” I said wistfully, and my companion’s brows jumped high.
“Trevor Cross?” he asked, saying the name in the same way you might say ‘Brad Pitt’ or ‘Sylvester Stallone.’ Sometimes I forgot just how famous my friend had become.
I nodded. “The one and only.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Man, he’d stand out like a sore thumb in Joburg. No offence or anything.” He paused to eye me. “You, not so much, but still a little a bit.”
“Glad my tan has some uses,” I grinned. “What’s your name?”
“Isaac Hegebe.”
I smiled, thinking it cute how he offered both his first and last names like that. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Isaac Hegebe. I’m Reya Cabrera,” I said and held out my hand.
“Nice to meet you, too. You think they’re gonna come back up here? I’d love to get some autographs.”
“I don’t think so,” I answered, and saw his disappointment. I chewed on my lip, deciding if I should invite him to my gig. That way he’d be able to meet Trev. “Are you busy later? I’m playing a show down at L’Archiduc and Trev will be there. I could introduce you.”
His eyes lit up. “Are you serious? Man, that would make my day, no, my year.”
I grinned, his excitement infectious. “My gig starts at nine. Try get there around eight thirty, yeah?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he declared. “And you said you were only an assistant. Hidden depths.”
I laughed at that. “We’ve all got them. See you later, Isaac.”
Twelve.
When word spread that I was playing a show, people wanted to come. What was supposed to be just Trev turned into him, Leanne, Paul, James, Neil and two members of the film crew. Callum was either sulking that I was getting all the attention, or was trying to avoid Leanne after the drama of the other night. Probably the latter.
I had to admit though, I felt pretty special that they were all so interested. Sometimes I worried I irritated people with my perpetual humming and singing and tinkering around on my keyboard. At least, I knew it bothered my neighbours back home.
They were constantly banging on the wall to punctuate their unhappiness.
I headed to the venue a little earlier than everyone else to set up and do a quick sound check. I used tassels around my ankles that jingled like a tambourine when I stamped my feet for percussion during my songs, because when you were a one-woman show your hands were typically occupied with the keyboard. I’d invented them one day when I had some ribbon and a bunch of metal tassels and too much time at my disposal.
My phone buzzed with a text just as I was done. I picked it up and opened the message.
Trev: We’re all here. Nice place. Can’t wait to hear you sing. xxx
My heart stuttered and I rubbed at my chest, scolding the organ for its foolish optimism. He’s your friend, Reya. Just your friend. I sipped on my tequila sour, my favourite drink to have before a show, and started trying to psyche myself up.
I wore a long black dress with short lace sleeves. Using my requisite gold sharpie, I scribbled my stage name over my left forearm in swirling, elegant letters. Queenie.
It was what my next-door neighbour, Mrs. Finnegan, used to call me growing up. She said my name meant ‘Queen’, but because I was still little she’d called me Queenie. She had no idea I’d eventually grow to be a smidge over five-foot-nine. I smiled fondly, remembering her and how I used to sneak into her house for tea and scones, unbeknownst to both my parents.
She was the only one who believed me in the end, and she died not too many months afterward. Then there was no one left. No one who didn’t think I’d lied.
I stared at my reflection, the low bulb overhead catching the highlights in my brown hair. They matched the gold in my eyes that you could only see when the sun shone through them. Lifting my glass, I downed the rest of the tart liquid and stood. It was almost time for me to go on stage.
I waited off to the side while a woman introduced me in French, although I only had a vague idea what she was saying.
My keyboard and microphone were set up just to the left of the makeshift stage, but I’d given the sound guy a backing track for my first song. It was one I often opened with, a cover of “Blue Bayou” by Linda Ronstadt. I’d stand by the mic at the front of the stage as I sang directly to the audience. I used to perform it in English, but one day I fell down the rabbit hole of the Internet and discovered a Spanish version on YouTube. It was perfect. Almost better than the original. There was something about the lyrics in Spanish that just sounded so much more meaningful to me.
Cheers sounded and I walked out, spotting Trev and the gang at a large table in the centre of the club. The place was surprisingly packed, but I couldn’t tell if people were here to see me or if they were just regulars who’d be here anyway. Either way, it felt good to play to a full house.
I spoke into the microphone. “Thank you. My name is Queenie and this song is called ‘Lago Azul’.”
The track started and I closed my eyes, just like I always did. The music was low, the bass slow and sultry. I moved my hips, bent close to the mic and began to sing. When I reached the chorus I sang louder and tapped my left foot on the second and fourth beat, causing the metal tassels on my ankles to jingle in time to the music.
I was almost to the end of the song when I opened my eyes and found Trev staring at me. I wasn’t sure how he was the first person my attention landed on, but then again, his gaze always had a certain siren’s song of its own, luring me in.
When the song ended, I bowed deeply and retreated to my keyboard. My comfort zone. It worked as a barrier against the ferocity of Trev’s stare.
He wanted me.
He always wanted me . . . when I sang. Maybe it was because I was absorbed in a persona. I wasn’t Reya: insecure, worrisome, weak. I was Queenie: confident, bold, strong.
Was that why I wasn’t enough for him? Why he didn’t try to keep us?
I played a bunch of songs, chatting with the audience intermittently. Before I knew it, I had just a few minutes left of my set and I couldn’t decide whether to play the song Trev asked of me on our first night here. Our hushed conversation in the dark room, each of us in our separate beds, thinking we were protected by the linens, even though our emotions were spilling out all over the sheets. I tinkered with the keys, hesitating and shooting a glance in his direction before I finally played the opening notes and sang.
One day I’ll be that girl in the club who dances like no one’s watching
Dances like no one’s watching
Dances like no one’s watching
Because she’s high, high, high
On life’s supply
Of paper weights and paper clips and paper paper
That once was a tree
Because we’re all just something yearning to be something else
One day I’ll be that girl in the club who dances like no one’s watching
Dances like no one’s watching
Dances like no one’s watching
Because she’s happy, happy, happy
But really sad, sad, sad