Page 55 of The Duet

Before I address the crowd, I find Cleo in the group of people to my right. She looks relaxed and ready to bring it at the same time. Our gazes lock and something shivers up my spine. I find it hard to look away, but we have a show to end—and a song to sing.

“Good news and bad news,” I say to the audience, flashing them my widest smile. Everything I say is followed by a burst of applause, regardless of what it is. “Isabel Adler won’t be singing with me tonight.”

There’s no applause for that statement, and I let the audience have their moment of obligatory disappointment before continuing.

“But…” The pregnant pause is one of my specialties. I let a silence fall while catching a quick glimpse of Cleo again. “Guess who’s back?”

A group of enthusiastic women in the front row jump up and down shouting, “Cleo! Cleo! Cleo!” The rest of the audience quickly joins in. Soon, the entire venue is shouting for Cleo. I wasn’t the only one wanting her back, then. I hope Izzy’s not too offended, but she’s the one who suggested this. She asked Cleo back to the stage. And Cleo said yes.

“Here she is.” I hold out my arm, welcoming Cleo and, as she walks on, all youthful bluster and supreme confidence, I have to swallow a sudden lump out of my throat. I shake it off. I’m just happy she’s back.

Cleo bows to the crowd. She plays them so well—I could tell from that first show they played for us at the Hollywood Bowl, where she won us all over within the first five minutes. Where, within the hour, I decided, purely on instinct, that we should sing this song together. Because I saw something in her and I wanted to see what would happen when we joined forces.

Cleo grabs hold of the mic and turns to me. Then, she winks at me, and I feel it all the way in the pit of my stomach. She hasn’t just come back to cater to the audience, or to please Izzy and Leila, she’s here to prove a point as well—to me.

“Ready?” I whisper to her.

“Fuck yeah,” she says, with such poised cool, it reminds me of myself back in the day.

I start the first verse and I can’t look away from her. I can’t sing it to anyone but her. I have to address the words “I Should Have Kissed You” to her, even though I’ve already kissed her. We’ve done much more than kiss, yet us being reunited on stage feels like starting all over again. Like a clean slate. A new starting point from which a different outcome might be possible.

Although I’m getting way ahead of myself. Cleo coming back to duet with me doesn’t necessarily mean she wants to do other things with me again. All I know is what I feel when our voices blend together. While our lips are not touching—they’re not even near each other—the harmony our voices create is akin to kissing. It’s the two of us coming together in a soft, beautiful collision that creates something out of the ordinary. Because when we kissed, it was the direct consequence of us singing together. That’s when it all started. That’s how I know it’s still going on.

It’s also why I don’t wait for the final chorus to walk over to her. I need to be closer. I want to feel Cleo’s breath on my cheek as she belts out the final verse. I want to revel in her presence when she is at her most gorgeous, when she’s singing with that beguiling voice of hers, that she should have kissed me long ago.

If Cleo’s surprised by my sudden presence by her side, she doesn’t give that away. She’s a pro, used to dealing with all the surprises a life on stage will throw at you.

I’m aware of the crowd because their energy is impossible to ignore, but all my attention is focused on Cleo. On how her lips move as she forms the words. On how her fingers steal up and down the microphone stand—and the memory of how they can undo me. On her top sliding off her right shoulder, exposing her skin. On her impossibly blue eyes fixed on me.

As we gear up to sing the final chorus together, I do something I’ve never done before either. I reach for her hand and thread my fingers through hers. The women at the front are screaming so loud, I fear their vocal cords may never recover, but this is our moment—mine and Cleo’s. She squeezes her fingers around mine and, gaze locked on mine, sings with me.

Singing will always make me feel like a million bucks, but singing this song with Cleo, in front of Izzy, and this crowd who is sending so much love our way, makes me feel like I can fly. Like I can do anything. Like this life without Joan is still worth living. Like there might, perhaps, be someone else out there for me who makes me feel the same way she did. Like a person can have more than one big love in their life, even if the first one was the legendary Joan Miller.

As we hold the final note together, it dawns on me that the person I have in mind, the person whose hand I’m holding, might not exactly feel the same way about that as I do.

Chapter 32

Cleo

Lana’s all over me tonight and I love it, for now. I hold on tight to her fingers. Of course, I do. I wish we could stay up here forever, under the crowd’s adoring gaze, and Izzy’s nods of approval, in this perfect moment of musical bliss.

But I know that it will all end soon. Lana will drop my hand the way she did at the beginning of the tour, casually, stripping it of any meaning instantly. Although, the way she’s looking into my eyes, and how she walked up to me much earlier than usual, she’s unpredictable tonight. Is she putting on an extra show because of Izzy and Leila? Because it’s our last night in New York? All I know is the last five minutes were spectacular, and I can’t wait for our next show. Although all the reasons I had for no longer wanting to do this will soon come crashing down on me again, when my bandmates surround me, and Jess looks at me with those big sad puppy dog eyes of hers, because I’m the one who gets to go out there with Lana and she’s not.

Ever since Izzy asked me to sing with Lana tonight, I’ve been trying to come up with ways to protect myself and while I now know, after tonight’s performance, that’s it’s impossible to shelter from the hurricane of feelings Lana sets off inside me, my pre-show strategy relied entirely on the friendship of my bandmates. It’s my only defense because it’s also the reason why Lana and I can’t do anything else but sing together. In my head, before I walked on, before Lana started singing to me the way she has just done, it made perfect sense. Right now, nothing makes sense anymore.

Without letting go of my hand, Lana hugs me, before we bow to the crowd. This New York audience has been unbelievable. The entire night has been a fairy tale. But now, Lana and I walk off, and I expect her to drop my hand at any moment, but she doesn’t. She holds on to it as we accept praise from Izzy and Leila, as she takes a towel to wipe her forehead, as our bandmates surround us, and we all bask in the triumphant, joyful vibe of the night.

“Oh, Cleo,” she whispers, before she, inevitably, lets go of my hand. She has water to drink. Other hands to shake. People to talk to. A shower to take. She huffs out some air and shakes her head. “You rocked,” is all she says before she saunters off.

My bandmates are hot on my heels. Instead of looking at me with sadness in her eyes, Jess is jumping up and down. Tim slings his arm around my shoulders as we make our way to the dressing rooms.

“Fucking epic,” he says. “Can you believe this tour?”

“Can you believe this life,” Daphne says.

“Cleo,” Jess says. “Please, do us all a big favor and do whatever Lana wants you to do from now on.”

I chuckle because she must be joking or speaking in general terms, riding that communal wave of elation we’re all trapped in a little longer.

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