I’d hoped today would be better, especially given that Aaron has had a makeover. I glance across at him. The guy looks incredible, model worthy in his black T that shows off his muscles and tatts, his hair roughly styled around his jaw. As for his brooding mood, it should have worked perfectly on film. The problem: off camera his brooding continues.
Aaron has ignored every contestant we’ve met so far. Our rehearsal next door was our only high point. Our usual chemistry was back, our guitars and voices instinctively bouncing off the other’s. He seemed happy for a moment. Not so in our meeting with the two executives of Original Star, Emma and Jane. All he’d managed to verbalize was hello, thank you, and goodbye. Me? I feel like I’ve been talking non-stop.
Aaron isn’t doing so well.
“Aaron?” I whisper, spying Jack and Emma talking on set.
I wave him over.
He sighs and closes the distance.
“I’m beginning to think we should pull out of the competition,” I whisper.
“Why?”
“Why? Because we’re terrible at this stuff. Sure, the music part is passable, but the rest of it, the photos, the stylists, this isn’t us.”
“I didn’t think it was that bad. Your shots were great. That dress you’re wearing…”
His gaze rakes over my long lace gown with a cut-out back.
“I look like some gothic bride!” I say through gritted teeth. “And my hair, it’s so straight it looks like black ink has spilled from my head all the way down to my waist. As for the eye make-up, it’s so smoky I keep getting flakes of mascara in my eyes. I can’t stop blinking.”
“Do you like anything about the way you look?”
I shrug. “The red lipstick is fine. The dress would be fine if it were black. But white? White implies were getting married or something.”
He grunts lightly. “I never knew you were so contrary to marrying me.” He steps closer, picks up my hands and draws them against his chest. I sway back against the crates, sure he’s about to kiss me. “I think we should buy this dress.”
“And why would we do that?”
“You might need it one day.”
Okay, now I have no idea what he’s implying. Does he mean for a music event, or as a bridal dress? I don’t know whether to smile, jump for joy, or faint. I imagine the fantasy for a moment: Quinn walking me down a rose strewn aisle. My friends are there. My family is not. If I marry I will be alone on my wedding day. I look back to the altar. Tasha should be standing next to Penny as a bridesmaid. Penny whispers to the groom and it’s hard to meet his eyes—I’m that nervous. The way in which he wears his tux is effortlessly handsome, and those strong arms that have held me many times call to me, telling me to come running. My eyes travel upwards. His face is blurry, and I’m not sure if it is Aaron or someone else. I am so stunned that I trip on my gown.
“Eve?” Aaron asks.
I shake off the strange fantasy. “Sorry.”
“How was it?”
“How was what?”
“I’m guessing there was a wedding. Right?”
“Oh, that.” My cheeks warm. “Unexpected, actually.”
He eyes me skeptically, then guides me ninety-degrees and stops when my back is tilted toward the blue set. “Unexpected, huh?”
His lips and nose skim the side of my neck. That’s when I hear the twist of a camera lens behind me. Aaron is hovering by my neck when I look over my shoulder. Jack is clicking shot after shot. The last photo must have me looking simultaneously petrified and angry. I step back from Aaron.
“Stop!” I hiss. “They’re photographing us.”
He grunts.
Then something occurs to me. “You didn’t know that, did you?”
“No.”
“Okay, that’s a wrap,” says Jack, striding towards us. “That was seriously an improvement to when you two were on set. And here I was thinking that your chemistry levels had evaporated into the stratosphere, but clearly you’re both camera shy.”
Aaron grunts, then walks off toward the exit, bumping shoulders with Rayne on the way out.
Rayne shouts after him, “Hey, man, what’s your problem?”
Aaron looks back at him with distain, speaks to executive producer Jane, and leaves the studio. Emma, Jack, and Rayne look to me for answers. I have no way of explaining Aaron’s brooding. I can’t very well tell them his brother died—Aaron would never talk to me again.
“What is with your bandmate?” Rayne says.
“Um...” I step back, bumping into the crates again.
Again, Emma and Jack approach, and I’m compelled to say something.
“Rayne,” Emma says, looking a tad wary. If it wasn’t for the mass of red curls she’d look tiny against the burly singer. “Let’s not take Aaron’s behavior out on Evangeline, okay? She’s just his bandmate.”
His anger wanes as he turns to me. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I mumble.
“Can I say that Rayne does make a good point, though,” Jack says.
Emma and I look at him in surprise.
Annoyingly, Rayne nods as if he was right all along.
“What point would that be Jack?” Emma snaps.
“Aaron is difficult to work with. The guy doesn’t give an inch. It might be a problem if he doesn’t get his attitude right.”
Crap. Aaron would die if he knew what they were saying. He’s so assured in everything he does.
“Is he normally like this?” Jack asks.
I wince. “Um. He’s—”
“How would she know?” interrupts Rayne. “She’s only known him a few days, hasn’t she?”
“Evangeline was speaking, Rayne,” says Emma. His eyes narrow, but she nods at me to continue.
“All I know is that Aaron’s going through a rough time at the moment,” I say.
“How so?”
I wince. “A member of his family died last week. Someone close. I guess that’s why he wanted to do the competition so much. He needed the distraction, and music has always been a dream of his. When we first entered he seemed happier having the music to concentrate on, but the last two days he’s barely spoken. Honestly, I don’t know if we’ll survive the competition with the way things are going.” I look to a sympathetic Emma. “Sorry, we should have told you, but Aaron isn’t one for speaking about personal things.” I wipe my eyes and see a smudge of mascara on the back of my hand.
“You poor girl,” Emma says, rubbing my arm.
I blink up at her. “Me?”
“If he’s not speaking to anyone but you that means you must be dealing with this all on your own. You’ve known each other less than a week and he’s expecting you to keep him afloat, and the band, too. That’s a lot of pressure for one person. Have you considered arranging a counsellor to visit Aaron?”
He’d hate that. “I…” I wipe at more tears, annoyed that I’m crying again. Maybe Emma’s right. I’m trying to be everything for Aaron and I’m beginning to crack, too. “I’ll mention it to him.”
Emma throws me into an embrace, rubbing my back in a soothing way. I never realized how much I needed a hug until now—from someone who is not Aaron. I hold back a sob, but all I want to do is bawl my eyes out. I don’t. I have no idea how many people are watching this from the shadows of the studio. There were at least twenty crew members working in the background of the studio when I’d walked in, along with several castmates being escorted between photoshoots and the stage set for rehearsals.
Jack passes me a tissue. I must miss some mascara, because he uses another tissue to rub under my eyes and cheeks.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Anytime, Evie.” He glances between Rayne and me. “You know, I have just had a brilliant idea.”
“Care to share, Jackson?” Emma says.
“A new shoot. A musical standoff between Rayne and Evie. It could make a good magazine spread. The top two and three players at war. We could have Rayne at the piano—” he p
oints at the black grand piano, which must have been rolled onto the blue set while I was having my meltdown, “and Evie with her back turned, looking over her shoulder at Rayne as they battle it out on their instruments.”
Emma wags her finger. “I like it. Nice work, Jack.” She turns to Rayne and me. “What do you think? Shall we give it a go?”
Rayne smooths his hair. “Definitely.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Aaron will be waiting for me.”
“Let him wait,” says Jack. “He chose to leave, and we haven’t finished with you, yet.”
Rayne jerks his chin, as if daring me to do so. “Go on, Eve. It‘ll be fun.”
“Oh, fine.” I let out a strangled laugh.
Emma claps twice, signaling it’s time to get back to work. Five minutes later, Jack has all the shots he’d envisioned, and by the end I can barely keep a straight face as Rayne attempts to send me another dirty look from across the piano.
“Brilliant.” Jack looks at the shots on his camera, smiling.
“How about we try something different?” suggests Emma. “Swap the standoff positions. Eve, you play piano, if I remember rightly?”
“Huh?” I hope I misheard.
“It said so on your entry form.”
“Oh. Aaron filled that out.” I will have words with him about this later.
“Do you intend to play on the show? Because we could get a few shots of you playing now. Rayne can take the guitar.”
Before I can agree, Rayne is relieving me of the guitar and Jack is guiding me to the piano and draping my dress over the stool. I sit tall, just as my piano-teacher-mother had drilled into me every day after school. Jack swishes my hair so it falls over one shoulder, then lifts my chin higher. Jack’s attention to detail is exactly like my mother’s piano lessons. What am I going to play? The only thing I remember is exam music. Way too classical for this show.
“Okay, Rayne. Play us a song,” instructs Jack.
Rayne is halfway through some pop song when he’s told to stop and the camera’s emphasis falls more to me.
Emma points my way. “Okay, Evangeline. Your turn.”
“Um…” I look down at the black and white keys and gulp. I almost expect my mother to click her tongue for my lack of focus. The last time I’d played the piano she’d clicked her tongue at least a dozen times.
When I look up Rayne is grinning, waiting to see what I’ve got up my sleeve. I don’t have anything! Not even one of my original songs I’d written in my teens springs to mind. I rub my eyes, hating this. Then I play the first thing that comes into my head, the song so ingrained into my psyche that I can still feel my mother’s need for perfection breathing down my neck. I take a breath and strike three bass notes, each note more somber than the last…
A, G sharp, C sharp…
It’s so simple that anybody could play it, and that’s exactly the expression I see on Rayne’s face as he smirks at me.
Rolling my eyes, I spread my fingers above the keys and softly press down three ominous chords. The chords are played again, higher, interspersed with deep jumping notes that leap around the keyboard. I feel like I’m drowning in them, playing them so excruciatingly soft that my mind begins to float away with the sound. I wake up for a second, realizing that I’ve been staring at the shine of ebony across the piano since I began. I don’t dare look anywhere else, in case I stop, in case I can’t go on. The music shifts—one beautiful chord to the next. It’s like playing a daydream that soon peaks and crashes into an avalanche of notes—like a man falling from a bridge and crashing into the water, lying still. It never ended that way. (But it could have.)
I sniff back tears and pause between moods, preparing myself for the finale. All of my anger from this disastrous week pours forth from my fingertips as I pound the returning theme. They are soul-breaking chords, as gut-wrenching as the look on Aaron’s face when he’d held that time capsule yesterday. The chords wind down and I am left with the depths of the piano resonating through my hands, seeing a blur of black and white keys until there is silence.
Clapping. And not just a few handclaps.
How many people were listening to that?
I dare myself to look up.
Rayne seems quietly impressed as he leans on the guitar. Emma is smiling. Jack is still snapping his damned camera. (I really need to break that thing.) At the sides of the privacy screen the crew who had been working on the stage next door are hovering wherever there’s a free spot. And behind them, at the edge of a curtain, a certain billionaire politely bows his head my way.
My stomach flips. My heart flutters. I look down at the keys and contemplate the various means of escape without coming into contact with Nathaniel Blake.
That stupid contract!
Emma comes over to the piano. “Eve, that was incredible.”
“I don’t know about that,” I mumble. “There are countless pianists all over the world who can play that better than me.”
“Well, they’re not in my show.” She pats the piano. “Do you have any piano songs of your own?”
“I might have a few.” If I can find them.
“What other secrets are you hiding from us, Evie?” Jack smiles.
Secrets? My gaze immediately goes to Nathaniel in the background.
Nathaniel rubs the stubble on his chin. Eventually he smiles, but it’s not at all convincing.
“I should get going,” I say huskily.
“Oh. I’d forgotten all about Aaron. Sorry, Eve. Go. Please.” Emma waves me from the piano and in the direction of the dispersing crowd.
Relieved, I dart through the shadowy room. Then trip over a cable. I’m falling when somebody catches me by the arm and swings me out of the way of moving people. The curtain flutters behind me as I catch my breath. I look up—into the eyes of Nathaniel Blake.
“Are you alright?” he asks, holding out my arm and checking me for injuries.
I almost whimper from the need to speak. Stupid, stupid contract.
“Might I say that Emma was right.” He shakes his head, smiling. “Incredible.”
Not for the first time today, I roll my eyes.
“Still not speaking to me?”
He goes to take my other hand, but I hide it behind my back. For some reason, I leave my right hand in his grasp.
“About that, Evangeline.” His brow knots together in a pensive way that is oddly compelling to me. Somehow, he has become more attractive in the moments we’ve been standing here, which baffles me further. “We really need to talk.”
“No. We don’t,” I say, even though I shouldn’t be talking to him at all. Maybe Laura was right. He’s better off without me. He’ll see that in time.
The knot in his brow deepens. “I disagree.”
I gulp back every reason I have to stay. Doing the right thing by Nathaniel and Aaron is nearly killing me. Then something niggles at my mind. How is it that the very man who is trying to track me down is in the same building at the very same time I am? Jeremy orchestrated things like that, finding out where I’d be and turning up as if it was a chance of fate. I soon learned the truth.
“The contract you signed, it’s been—”
“I know you found me through the hotline yesterday and sought me out. But today… Are you following me?”
He blinks down at me. “No. Never. Sending you messages through the media is one thing, but following you? I’m not that unhinged.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that,” I reply, throwing the contract out the window.
“In my defense, I was exiting one of the conference rooms when I heard Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C sharp minor, opus 3, No.2.”
“You knew what I was playing?” I ask in astonishment.
He shrugs and smiles. “I also know you missed the E sharp and D natural in one of the left-hand runs, but you covered it seamlessly. It was beautiful. Much like you in that dress, angel.”
“You’ve played it?” I say, recalling the mistake
s.
He leans forward. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Okay.”
“I learnt that piece during my final year at school. Although, never with the same polish as your performance.”
I scoff. “I have a feeling you’re being modest. No one could recall those notes off the top of their head without being a little gifted.”
“Another secret?”
I nod with a cringe-worthy amount of enthusiasm for Mr. Blake, which seems to please him greatly. “Go on…”
His mouth twists to the side. “I can still see the music pages in my head, along with my teacher’s thumb print smudged in ink.”
“You’ve got a photographic memory?”
He gives another shrug. As if it’s nothing at all!
“Do you still play?” I ask.
“Not as often as I’d like. My father preferred me to follow the academic path, and piano practice, that wasn’t high on his schedule for me.”
“Schedule? That sounds harsh.”
“You have no idea,” he mumbles before smiling again.
What schedule was he made to follow? I smile as if nothing’s amiss, watching as he tucks blond strands behind his ear—another habit.
Nathaniel steps closer, leaving hardly a gap between us. He reaches for my face, and I’m not sure what he’s about to do, but my heart is pounding so loudly that I think everyone can hear it. His hand lifts higher and he brushes away the hair in my eyes. “Evangeline,” he begins. “About the other night in the hospital room, had you meant what you said?”
I eye him dubiously. The hospital room? We never spoke.
“You don’t remember what we talked about?” he asks.
“We talked? Really?” Oh no, what did he say? Or more to the point, what did I say?
“You don’t remember any of it?”
I shake my head.
“I suppose your memory loss does makes sense. Doctor Brown had a feeling you were in a state of shock after dealing with the night’s events. When I finally saw you in my room, you looked thoroughly exhausted. But I couldn’t resist talking to you, even though you were half asleep.”
Ardent Strangers Page 12
