Page 12 of The Duet

“Wonderful.” I make sure to sound a little sarcastic. All Andy had to say before he started spouting movie star names was that our set was great. “What did you think of the show?”

“A-game, as usual, Lana. You rocked. The crowd was ecstatic. Black market tickets for the rest of the tour are going for thousands of dollars.” We round the corner. Logan is waiting for me and hands me a bottle of water.

“Elisa’s here without her dreamboat of a husband,” Andy says, as though Elisa flying solo tonight magically gives him a chance with her. “Her people got in touch. She’s dying to meet you. Permission to bring her and Nora backstage after you’ve showered?”

“Don’t we have a meet and greet with some fans who paid a ludicrous amount of money to shake our hands?”

“They can wait. Their night’s made already, anyway. Meeting Elisa and Nora won’t take very long.”

Elisa Fox’s TV show, Underground, has made a sleeper hit out of one of The Lady Kings’ more obscure songs by using it as the theme tune, so I guess we owe her something—although she personally had nothing to do with our song being picked for the show she stars in. But of course I’ll play ball. In this world we live in, this parallel universe where fame is important and notions like A-list and B-list are actual things, this is what you do. You play the game, hoping for some reward at the end. But ever since Joan died and I received a crash course on what is important in life—being alive—I see through it all so easily.

“I do like Underground a lot,” I say to Andy. It’s a kick-ass show full of the hottest lesbian spies. Maybe I should rewatch it on this tour. “And like most people on this planet, I’ve binged Nora’s show about a dozen times.”

“Great. I’ll make it happen. Thanks, Lana.”

“Did you check with the rest of the band?” I shout after Andy, but he’s already disappeared around the next corner. I get a feeling it won’t just be The Lady Kings and Elisa and Nora in the room later.

Shaking Elisa Fox’s elegant hand sends a jolt of pure electricity into my system. The woman oozes confident elegance from every single pore. We exchange the usual pleasantries and express our mutual admiration—mine for her increasing with every second I stand close to her. As I stare into her beguiling brown eyes, I consider throwing an impromptu after-party, but we hit the road tomorrow and I’m no longer in my twenties—nor in my thirties or forties, for that matter. And Elisa Fox is happily married to a man.

“The opening act was amazing,” Nora says. “That last song you did together. Wow.” I can tell she means it.

“The Other Women are a class act. Cleo Palmer’s got that thing, you know. I think they call it the X factor these days.”

“She’s a star,” Nora says.

“Would you like to meet The Other Women?” Andy offers. “They’re next door and I’m sure they’re dying to be in this room right now.”

Elisa and Nora agree and some hustle and bustle ensues. I hang back a bit and drink some more water. Roy hired me a personal trainer so I could get in shape for this tour, but I still feel shattered and as though all of my muscles could do with a minimum of two weeks rest, as though my body completely lost the hang of what it used to do on stage so effortlessly.

As is often the case, my gaze is drawn to Cleo. She seems to get a massive kick out of meeting Nora Levine. Elisa is being hogged by Andy.

Fifteen minutes pass before we say goodbye to each other as though we are now best friends and we’ll do brunch together every other Sunday from now on.

“Fuck me.” Cleo sinks into the couch, looking a little dazed. “Someone please pinch me.”

“When Cleo and I met, she still had posters of Nora Levine on her dorm wall,” Tim says.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Cleo asks. Tim crashes down next to Cleo and puts an arm around her. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I just met Nora Levine.” She holds up one hand and strokes the fingers of her other hand over it gingerly. “She shook my hand.”

“Jesus, Cleo,” Daphne seats herself on the other side of her. It’s like watching a fun, impromptu little play. Clearly, they’ve forgotten they’re in my dressing room. The Lady Kings’ shine has washed off already. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Well, yes, but, I mean… It’s not every day Nora Levine tells us she loved our show.”

“Someone will have extra sweet dreams tonight,” Sam says.

Meanwhile, Jess has sidled up to me. “Hey, um, Lana, can we talk about something? When you have a second?”

“Sure, Jess. What’s on your mind?”

“Can we, um…” She looks around the room. “Can we go in there for a minute?”

It doesn’t take a master's degree in the science of deduction to conclude what she wants to talk to me about. Maybe she just wants to get it off her chest before we go on the road. Perhaps it’s the smart thing to do. “Sure.” I follow her into the adjoining shower room, where the sweaty outfit I wore on stage still hangs from the back of the door.

“This is kind of embarrassing,” Jess starts as soon as I close the door behind us. “But I figured if Cleo can be starstruck like that, so can I.” Her glance skitters from here to there. “The way Cleo feels about Nora Levine, that’s, um, how I feel about you. I’m just… Half the time, I don’t know what to do with myself around you, which is becoming a bit of a nuisance if I’m being perfectly honest. Seeing you perform every night isn’t helping. And that song you do with Cleo.” She huffs out some air. “I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. I’m not asking you to do anything about it.” A nervous chuckle escapes her throat. “I’m not that silly, I’m just… I just wanted to tell you, because we’ll be in close quarters for the next two months and I wanted to reassure you I will always be respectful toward you, but, um, in case you ever wonder why I’m acting so strangely, that’s why. I have such a huge fucking crush on you, Lana.”

I’ve had countless people, women and men alike, profess various degrees of infatuation with me, simply because I’m a singer in a rock band. But this is different. Jess is sort of my co-worker now. She’s young and vulnerable and pouring her heart out to me and I wish I had a clue how to deal with this. I knew this was coming. I should have given it some thought ahead of time—instead of shooting her naughty winks just because I can.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Jess. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough there’s nothing special about me at all.” This used to be easier. I used to care a whole lot less. When Joan was alive, having her around all the time was a natural barrier against spontaneous confessions like this. “It was very brave of you to tell me. I can’t reciprocate. Not because you aren’t a great person. Getting to know you and your bandmates is great and I think we’ll have a blast on tour, but I don’t… I’m still grieving Joan, really.” Way to go, Lana. But maybe this is good. At least now she’ll know once and for all that ultra-cool Lana is just part of my stage persona and it will help with taking the edge off her celebrity crush.

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