Dear Neighbor

by River Laurent

  ‘I lent her the money.’

  I look at her in amazement. ‘You did?’

  ‘It was worth it to get your cute little butt out of my way,’ she says with a smile.

  My aunt and I go to the airport to meet Leah. She doesn’t say a word. Just envelops me in a big, silent hug and lets me cry my guts out. Never once does she say, ‘I told you so.’

  Afterwards, bless her, she takes total charge. She is like a whirlwind. In two days we are in St Pancras International. As we pass a newsstand I see the screaming headlines in one of the tabloids.

  Alkaline Break Up

  I can’t help but read the subtitle.

  Sources close to Cash Hunter say that he is the reason the band is dissolving. He wants to pursue a solo career in music.

  Then, before I know it, I am sitting on the high-speed train to Paris. I stare out of the window. Cash Hunter is leaving. He’s going to pursue his dream of making the kind of music he wants, and I won’t be there to see it.

  I feel my heart sigh deeply. It’s over. The party’s truly over. I’ve drawn the line in the sand. I’m hurt and shattered and I am filled with regret for the things I did, but I don’t regret coming to England. I don’t regret meeting Cash, loving him, giving my body to him.

  If I had my time over I would make the same decision again today, only the execution would be different. I would tell him the truth on the first day. I’d say. ‘Wow, do you know, Cash Hunter, I’m your biggest fan?’ Who knows what he’d say. One thing for sure it’d be crude and funny. Maybe I’d laugh. Maybe we’d have dinner. Maybe …

  Maybe my aunt is right. One day I will forget. One day I will stop being so crazy over him. I will glue all the broken pieces of my heart together and I’ll find someone else. In the glass I see my reflection. My face is pale and my eyes red-rimmed and blotchy.

  ‘Look, the white cliffs of Dover,’ Leah cries, her voice full of excitement.

  I turn my eyes towards the majestic sight. ‘Goodbye, Cash. Goodbye.’

  Cash

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NwIZdh6MqIo

  It’s been a long, but good day. I think I did my best work today, but it is good to leave the studio for a bit and spend some time at my father’s house. Cora has made chicken pie for dinner. It’s delicious and both my father and I polish our plates. Afterwards my father asks if I want to join him for a drink in his study.

  ‘I’ll just sit here for a bit on my own and …’ I lift my beer bottle, ‘finish this.’ I smile and take a swig.

  ‘Right,’ my father mumbles, and disappears into his study to wait for Britney to come back. She is out on a date with a guy called Liam Foxgrove. He’s probably a good kid, but my father and I treated him to the Hunter interrogation welcome routine anyway. His hands were shaking by the time Britney floated down the stairs.

  After a while, strains of music float out of the study. I recognize it. Nick Cave is singing Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne. It suits my mood and I sit back and gaze through the window at the garden. I watch the neighbor’s ginger cat climb over the wall and crouch by a hole in the ground. I see her get bored of stalking an empty hole and walk away, her tail swishing. I stay staring out until the solar lights come on.

  Cora pops her head around the door. ‘I’m off. Can I get you anything else before I leave?’

  ‘Nah, you go on. I know you can’t wait to get home and jump your husband’s bones.’

  ‘Oh you,’ she scolds, but her eyes twinkle.

  I finish my beer and go into the kitchen for another. I go to open the fridge and I suddenly see it and freeze. It’s a postcard from Italy. It has a picture of David wearing a fig leaf. It could have come from anyone, but I knew even without turning it over that it was from her. There was a time I couldn’t stop thinking of her. Now I don’t allow myself to think of her.

  Like a man in a trance I reach for the card and slip it out from under the magnet. I turn it over and the sight of her writing is like a knife in my heart. There is only one sentence written in purple ink, but I start bleeding again.

  He has a small dick. :)

  Love,

  Tori

  She has sent a card to Cora. I stroke the ink and just like that I am by her side. I try to think of her in Italy. Her hair bleached by the sun, her skin golden brown. Her perfect body encased in something summery. She was like a glass of bright yellow sunshine. I didn’t drink enough.

  I slip the postcard back under the magnet and walk out of the house …

  But I come back often. To look for her cards. I tell myself that I’m just curious, but any fool can tell that’s a fucking lie. Every two days once I make the journey to my father’s house. Full of anticipation.

  They are always funny or cute. I travel with her through Europe staring up at cathedrals and palaces and great monuments, down to Turkey, then Egypt where she sends more postcards than any of the other countries before. Pyramids, obelisks, statues of Pharaohs.

  She leads me to India where I watch her break her heart when she is swarmed by a gaggle of baying child beggars. They grab her clothing and clutch her body, and she has no choice but to beat them with a stick to dislodge their clinging hands. She takes me by the hand into the Golden Temple of Amritsar and feeds me round sweets called Ladhu.

  I follow her down the Ganges River to see the Aghori, the mysterious cannibal monks of Varanasi. They paint their unclothed bodies in ash, drink from human skulls, and live their entire lives in cemeteries. Their eyes are red and wild. I’ll send pictures when I get back, she writes.

  I am filled with longing to be on the same journey.

  From India they take the South East Asia route. In Thailand they visit a Buddhist temple where the girls shake a container of sticks until one of the sticks falls out and a monk reads their fortune according to the number on the stick.

  ‘Your Prince Charming is coming,’ the monk tells her.

  I feel it like a punch in the gut.

  But she is mine.

  Next stop, Malaysia. She sets out to enjoy the fantastic variety of food, that is, until they get dysentery. It puts both girls out of action for four days. They lie in their cheap hostel room groaning and rushing to the toilet. Weakened, lighter, and wiser, they reluctantly cancel their trip to Indonesia and catch a flight out of Singapore to the last destination of their journey. Australia.

  There are three more cards while she tours Australia. From the postcards I know they spent a few days on a friend’s farm helping to pick cherries. Then comes the final card. It has the picture of a mother kangaroo with its baby peeking out of its belly.

  The holiday is over. We’re flying back home tomorrow. A bit sad.

  Tori

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I went on this trip. I’ve seen so much and learned a lot about the world. Leah and I have witnessed and done things very few people do in their lifetimes. I know it has developed me as a person.

  Before this trip someone would have had a very hard time convincing me that there is a dying breed of wild-eyed monks who exist in a state of intoxication and believe that they can reach enlightenment by the very act of turning away from all earthly pleasure and partaking in everything that is disgusting and taboo. Even eating dead human flesh or human waste.

  Now I know better.

  When we were in Australia I met a cute Australian surfer who chased me relentlessly. Probably because I didn’t turn him down flat as I had all the others. In some small way he reminded me of Cash. It wasn’t his looks. Maybe the curve of his mouth, but it was enough to endear him to me. Still, in the end I didn’t want him. Even drunk on Fosters I couldn’t bring myself to go with him.

  Leah and I made a pact never to discuss Cash. We never bought a gossip magazine or watched E-news. She is of the opinion that the more you obsess and think of something the more it embeds itself into your heart. She thinks the solution to a broken heart is to never talk or think about that person.

  We were on a strict Cash free diet.

>   I fell off the wagon once. Just once when Leah went into a shop to get us a couple of cans of coke. It was in India. I was standing beside a wooden stall selling magazines and sweets and cigarettes and my eyes fell on a magazine cover. He was on it. My heart slammed into my ribs.

  I looked away quickly and then, like an addict, I looked back at his face. There was something different about it. I would have stared more, but Leah was coming back and I hurriedly turned away and smiled at her.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing. Bit too hot I think,’ I said.

  She looked at me strangely, then at the Newsstand, and sighed. ‘Come on. Let’s go find a cool bottle of beer.’

  Other than that one time I never thought about him, well, during the day at least, but when I got into my sleeping bag, or into my hostel bed for the night, my mind would replay that scene when he looked at me as if I had stabbed him in the back. With such hurt.

  Hurt always turns to hate.

  Sometimes I cried silent, bitter tears, thinking of him in England hating me and other times other memories would come back. The ants in his pants, being on the roof, laughing together under the sheets, going to The Ministry Of Sound, our unforgettable time in Milan, having sex, having sex, and having sex.

  Tori

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o358xut_JBE

  I look around the dinner table. My mom, my dad, even Brad has come home tonight for our family dinner. They listen to my tales with wide eyes. We laugh, we drink, and we talk late into the night. It is past midnight when Brad leaves. My mother kisses me on my head.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re home, darling. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I love you, Mom.’

  My parents go into their bedroom and I go into my room and close the door. I don’t switch on the light. I walk to the window and look down at our yard. The silver glow of the moon peeks through the trees and illuminates the old tire swing. The metal on the gate gleams and the air is still. Everything is exactly as it was. I look up at the sky dotted with stars and tears gather in my eyes.

  I can’t do this. I just can’t.

  I take my phone out of my bag and scroll through my photos until I come to the one of Cash in his disguise. I was so happy that night. I know I said I wouldn’t follow Cash’s career, but tonight, just this once, because I am feeling extra vulnerable, I will go on the net and see how he is doing.

  I won’t check his personal life. I won’t look to see what new woman he is with. I just want to see how he looks. It will soothe my aching heart.

  Sitting in the dark, I navigate to YouTube and type in his name. I scroll down results and see that he has recently, just last week in fact, done an interview on a German TV program. I click into it. An advert for Adidas comes on and I realize I am holding my breath. I make it full screen. The advert finishes and a man in his late forties or fifties with a red/blond scruff on his face appears. He is wearing a grey suit and holding a sheaf of papers. He raps the edges of it on the table ala Jon Stewart, and calls out in a very strong German accent, ‘Cash Hunter.’

  The in-house band starts playing and the camera cuts to Cash coming into the studio. He is dressed completely in black, suit, shirt with three buttons undone, and shoes. His hair looks lighter and his face more mature. As if it is not months since I saw him, but years. He stops at the top of a white staircase, smiles, and waves to the audience before he walks down it.

  I pause the video, my face moving closer to the computer screen.

  Wow! He looks like a stranger.

  I hit pause again and the video resumes playing. Cash continues walking towards the host. They shake hands and the guy shows him to a plush armchair.

  ‘Cash Hunter, ladies and gentlemen,’ the host repeats.

  The camera pans to the audience who are all on their feet clapping and cheering. There are a few wolf whistles and Cash smiles and nods towards them.

  ‘Welcome,’ the host says.

  ‘Thank you. It’s always good to be in Germany. I love the autobahn.’

  ‘Ah, you like having no speed limit while you are driving?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So this is a new look for you?’ the host comments, his hand waving down Cash’s body.

  ‘You gotta look sharp. Take care of those shoes,’ Cash drawls, and the audience erupts into cheering and clapping.

  ‘So,’ the host says, ‘some people are comparing you to Prince, Bob Dylan and Lou Reed. They say the songs you have written for your new album are nothing short of genius.’

  ‘I’ll take the comparisons, but there is only one Prince, one Bob Dylan, and one Lou Reed. I grew up listening to their music. They were some of my idols, but maybe one day someone will say there will be only one Cash Hunter.’ He smiles.

  ‘Before you started on your solo career you were with one of the most successful bands, Alkaline. Why did you leave? Was it the music? Did you guys fall out?’

  Cash shrugs casually. ‘I was with the band for close to eight years. That’s a long time in this business. It was time to try something new. As someone once told me, “Don’t wait any more, reach for the stars, Cash.” So I did.’

  Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. He remembered what I told him on the roof. He actually used me to inspire him to write his own music. I feel a rush of happiness that in some small way I helped his career.

  ‘But this is a departure from the kind of music you were making with the band,’ the host prompts.

  Cash laughs. ‘Yeah it is.’

  ‘That was boyband music.’

  ‘It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?

  The host waggles his head as if to agree without agreeing. ‘What does it feel like to be writing and singing this kind of deep stuff compared to the light pop that you were making before?’

  ‘I was fifteen when I started in the music business. What could I really write about? I didn’t understand anything. I hadn’t lived yet. I had to figure out who I was. When the band broke up I went into my studio and wrote the songs that I really wanted to write, the kind of music that touched my soul. The way I felt hopefully came out in the album. It’s a mixture of the kind of music I grew up listening to and loved.’

  The host brings out a CD and opens the jewel case. ‘So I have your new single here,’ he says showing the cover to the audience. The CD has a picture of a woman’s naked chest. Her long blonde hair covers her breasts.

  ‘Of course, not all songs are autobiographical, but judging from the two titles of your songs, She Passed Like A Cloud and I’d Like to Know How You Feel, it would seem these are love songs. Want to tell us who she is?’

  Cash’s jaw tightens.

  The host senses his reaction. ‘This is a very sexy cover. Who’s the blondie? Do you know her personally?’

  ‘Sure. She’s a model.’

  ‘Can I have her number?’ he guffaws.

  Cash smiles. ‘You sure you can handle her?’

  The host is still laughing as he reaches under his desk and produces a guitar. ‘How about a little song for us?’ he asks. The audience erupts into a roar of applause. He lays the guitar on his thigh and plucks experimentally at the strings. ‘She Passed Like a Cloud is written around a cord progression that is very similar to the ones the Beatles used, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He passes the guitar to Cash and he plays it and sings.

  I stop breathing. His voice, the words, the music. It is hauntingly beautiful.

  The host shakes his head in awe. ‘You are the new star. Yeah, I think, yeah. You will see that in the next few years you will become bigger than ever.’

  Cash shrugs modestly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, I promise you. You are destined for big things. I saw you perform live once and it was great. You are not just a great composer, but you are also a good singer, a fantastic guitarist and a great dancer as well. The show was exhilarating.’

  Cash smiles. ‘Welllll, I’m not one to brag, but …
’

  The host points at Cash. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Cash Hunter.’

  The video ends there and I think about the way his jaw had tightened. Did Cash think of me sometimes? Was I the girl who passed like a cloud? Then I think of the blonde girl on the CD cover. He said he knew her. What if he’s slept with her? Oh my God, I can’t believe I’ve let myself go down this path. I switch off my laptop and lie in the darkness. Somehow. Somehow I’ve got to find a way to heal myself.

  Tori

  The sound of my phone buzzing wakes me up. With my eyes still shut, I fumble around and squint at the screen. It’s Leah.

  ‘Yeah,’ I mumble.

  ‘Are you feeling as bad as I am?’ she asks morosely.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not awake yet.’

  ‘Well, wake up and tell me.’

  I sit up. ‘Why are you up so early?’

  ‘My bed’s too comfortable. I couldn’t sleep.’

  I manage half a laugh. ‘So sleep in your sleeping bag then.’

  ‘Might have to do that tonight.’

  I yawn.

  ‘Want to meet for lunch or something?’

  ‘I don’t know if mom’s got something planned. I’ll call you later?’

  ‘Okay, bye.’

  I close my eyes and fall back to bed. I never got to sleep until late. I had to creep downstairs and cut two cucumber slices to put on my eyelids because I didn’t want to wake up with swollen eyes and have everybody know I’d been crying all night. I push my bedclothes away and go to stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom. The cucumber trick worked. My eyes look normal.

  As I stare at my own reflection a dream I had last night breaks. Weird. I dreamt Cash and I were sitting in a boat. It must have been a lake because the water was calm. There was no sadness or perpetual pain. In my dream he’d forgiven me. With a sigh I turn away from the mirror.