Page 7 of The Duet

“Fuck me,” Sam says. “That Cleo is something else.”

“Hm.” It’s my standard reply to many an obvious statement.

The drummer kicks off the next song and even though our set will start soon and I should begin my pre-show ritual, I’m glued to the spot. I’m entranced by Cleo and her band. Fuck me, indeed, because they will be a damn hard act to follow. But one thing I will not allow, no matter how talented and phenomenal The Other Women are, is for The Lady Kings to be outplayed by our opening act. Especially on our very first night back. If anything, though, The Other Women being so outstanding spurs me on to match them, to continue the night with the amazing energy they’ve created for us. I also get the feeling the audience will be delighted when I bring Cleo back on stage at the end of the show.

I take a few deep breaths and conjure up the image of Joan when she played the intro to “Like No One Else”, all bravado and rock-goddess swagger.

“Come on,” I say to Sam. “Time for a pre-show pep talk.”

I needn’t have worried. Billie’s playing like the spirit of Joan has settled somewhere deep within her. Sam’s bass is as percussively seductive as ever. And Deb’s drums thump as though in sync with my own heart. And me, I do what I’ve always done. I let myself be carried by the warmth of the audience, by the way they scream my name as though I’m much more than just a woman who can rock the hell out of a pair of leather pants while belting out a tune. I sing my heart out while I strut across the stage as though it was a catwalk constructed only for me. I play the crowd like puppets on a string. I give them all I have, and they give me back so much more.

By the time we get to “Like No One Else”, I’m confident not many people in the audience remember The Other Women’s version. I also wonder why we stopped playing live for such a long time. Although I’ll be reminded of that soon enough, when I go home to an empty house. Losing Joan so abruptly wasn’t only a shock to our systems. Her sudden absence changed our lives and our perspective on everything. It floored us as people and as a band. For me, personally, it killed my love of music for years. It muted everything, as though life was suddenly in black and white instead of all the colors of the rainbow. I didn’t lose my voice, but, for the longest time, I felt like I no longer had any right to use it—not the way I had before, with Joan always by my side. Like Isabel Adler, I had to find my voice all over again. In that way, it’s fitting that the duet we recorded meant the comeback of The Lady Kings without Joan.

After the raucous applause for our biggest hit has subsided, I pause. I stand still and look at the crowd. I let my gaze sweep over all those people who’ve come to see us play tonight.

“The next song is called “The Better Part of Me”.” My voice does something it never does on stage. It trembles. “And it’s for Joan Miller.” I don’t like this trembling one little bit, so I cover it up the only way I know how. I add some theatrics. I hold up two fingers, kiss the tips, and blow the kiss toward the sky—as though Joan is up there watching us. If I’ve learned one thing in my long music career, it’s that the audience loves a big, emotional gesture. They respond with a loud but surprisingly serene round of applause.

“We miss you, Joan,” someone screams from the crowd.

You and me both, I think.

Deb counts us down and despite the supreme flow of our gig so far, despite the enthusiasm of the crowd, despite my bandmates playing as though their life depends on it, as I start the first verse, everything suddenly feels off-kilter. Not quite right. Billie sidles up to me and I play along, but I don’t feel it. I know I can’t hold it against her that she’s not Joan, and I don’t, but it’s not the same without her. Joan and I knew each other so well, I could anticipate every last one of her moves.

I try to do better because I’m singing this song for her, but it reminds me too much of that place in my heart that was hers and that will forever be cold without her.

When I look away, my glance skittering to the side, I spot Cleo and her bandmates. Cleo’s smile is accompanied by the slightest of nods, as though we have some secret understanding between us. Instead of letting it tick me off, I let it fill me with a little warmth. Just like, after years without the band and without making music, I knew that, if I wanted to have the life that Joan would have wished for me, I had to let it all back in. I did, and now here I am. My rendition of this song for Joan is far from perfect, but it will get better as time passes—just like the pain of losing her has gotten softer around the edges.

After the song ends, we are rewarded with the biggest round of applause of the night so far, and it’s as though I can feel every single clap of the audience’s hands reverberate deep in my soul.

Chapter 6

Cleo

All I can think when I see how Lana plays the crowd, how she effortlessly delivers an unforgettable show, is that I’m witnessing the one and only master giving a master class.

The Lady Kings are in their second round of encores. I’m about to go on. I feel more thrilled than nervous. I’m about to sing at the master’s side in front of eighteen thousand people, in front of a crowd so warm, they’re about to melt, that’s how expertly Lana has played them.

The floor beneath me shakes as the audience stamps their feet, demanding more. I fully support their wish. I want more of Lana too. I want this night to never end. But first, time to do my part.

“Break a leg,” Jess whispers next to me.

“Can’t wait to see this,” Tim says. My own band haven’t seen me do this, haven’t seen me sing alongside Lana Lynch.

As we agreed, Lana will go back on stage first, without her band members. She walks past me without looking at me. She must still be high on the buzz of performing, that ecstatic feeling you can’t compare to anything else.

With her hand on her heart, Lana thanks the crowd. “We have one last song for you tonight,” she says.

“I Should Have Kissed You,” someone shouts, because it’s a dead giveaway.

“Correct,” Lana responds. “But I’m going to need some help singing it.”

The audience shrieks. Oh, great. Only now does it dawn on me they’re probably expecting a surprise guest appearance by Isabel Adler.

“While Isabel Adler could not be here tonight, I have found someone very special to sing our song with.”

Someone very special? For a split second, I wonder if Lana has enlisted someone other than me to duet with, but then she turns to me, our eyes lock, and all my doubts fade away.

“Please welcome Cleo Palmer back to the stage.”

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