Page 4 of The Duet

“I wasn’t talking to you, Roy. Someone’s here. I have to go.”

The door opens, and my assistant, Logan, appears. I hold up a finger to signal that my phone conversation will be over in a minute.

“Take the script on tour with you. Read it to relax before you go to bed.”

“I prefer to read fiction.” My life is not fiction to me, nor will reading some Hollywood version of it calm me down after a show.

“We’ll talk later.” Without further ado, Roy ends the call.

“Cleo Palmer’s here.” Logan’s voice is much more high-pitched than usual.

“Great.” I wave them in. A bit of singing will set me right—will take my mind off this movie, which is the quintessential Hollywood way of capitalizing on my grief. But I won’t let anyone turn Joan’s death into a spectacle, into just another way to make a buck. All the Faye Flemings in the world won’t be able to change my mind about that—although, admittedly, the thought of someone like Faye playing me is rather flattering.

“Hey.” Cleo gives me a shy wave. “Thank you so much for inviting me into your lovely home.”

Is this the same woman who rocked the stage so hard last night, every person watching was bowled over?

“Are you all right, Cleo?” I examine her face. Her eyes are a little red with dark half-moons underneath them—a look I know well from my reflection in the mirror throughout the nineties. “Rough night?”

“We went on an unexpected bender last night, but I’m perfectly fine.”

“Logan,” I say to my assistant, who is still lingering, “Can you get us a large quantity of water, please?”

“Coming right up.”

“To say Logan’s a fan of The Other Women would be an understatement.” I shoot Cleo a smile as he hurries away. “Thanks for coming, by the way. I appreciate it can be a little intimidating to turn up at my house alone.”

“And try to sing that song with you.” Cleo giggles like a nervous schoolgirl. If she’s anything like me, her nerves will melt like ice under the sun as soon as she has a microphone in her hands.

“Shall we get to it then?” The tour starts in two days. There’s not much time left for fooling about. “I’m not expecting perfection, okay? Not by a long shot. We’ll get better as the tour progresses.” Isabel Adler’s part in the song is not a vocal tour de force—she can no longer sing like she used to. It’s all about the intention, the tone, and the breath. The pure musicality of less is more. The way she doesn’t strain to match the power of my voice. The contrast between the two of us. If anything, Cleo’s going to have to tone it down considerably.

“I was surprised you asked me. My voice is nothing like Isabel Adler’s.”

“Hm.” I nod. Joan would have been perfect to sing Isabel’s part. But Joan’s not here. “Don’t even try to sound like her. You’re right. Your voice is different from hers. But it’s also very different from mine, which is why I think this might work beautifully.” I walk her to the corner of the room where a bunch of instruments are set up, although we won’t be needing those today.

Logan returns with five bottles of water. “This should do the trick. If you need anything else, let me know. I’m here for you,” he says to Cleo.

Cleo grins at him, already showing more of her stage persona than a few minutes before. “Thanks, Logan. I appreciate it.”

“I think we’re good.” With a wink, I send Logan away. “I have the lyrics printed here.” I hand her a sheet of paper and a bottle of water.

“I know them by heart, but it’s always good to have a reminder.”

Cleo’s wearing a pair of denim dungarees that I could swear went out of fashion decades ago. It must be one of those things that came back in style without me noticing. Underneath, she’s wearing a light pink top that, oddly, doesn’t clash with the color of her hair, which is somewhere between blond and ginger. Head tilted back, throat exposed, she drinks greedily from the bottle of water, and she couldn’t look less like a rock star—more like one of those pop starlets whose image and music is completely manufactured by a record company hoping to score big by combining the right kind of person with a catchy, over-produced tune.

“You were great last night. I look forward to going on the road with your band.” I perch on a stool next to one of the microphone stands.

“Thank you. That means so much coming from you.” Cleo’s cheeks flush the tiniest bit, as though her blush is contained to a small circle just beneath her cheekbones. It gives her that wholesome look again. Maybe that’s how rock bands portray themselves these days, full of virtue and good vibes. Times sure are different than in our heyday. Audiences value different things these days.

“Are you okay with doing a few a cappella run throughs? Just to get each other’s vibe a little?”

“Anything you want.” There it is. The glint in her eyes piercing through the shy-girl facade. Another glimpse of the woman on stage last night. Cleo’s also here without her band, without her back-up. “Can I ask you something?” She slants her head.

“Of course.”

“Were you nervous about recording this song with Isabel Adler?”

“Nervous?” I blurt out. “No.” When it comes to singing, to performing, nerves have never been a part of it for me. I’ve encountered many a performer sick with anxiety before a gig, but I’m not one of them. “Not about the singing bit, anyway,” I correct myself. “I was apprehensive about meeting her, though. With all she’s been through.”

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