This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad

by Ngontang Mba, Danielle-Claude

  “I’d be lying if I said it was an old family recipe,” she responds, picking up hers and Dad’s plates. “I’m sorry. I thought Luce was our guest not our maid,” she tells a very comfortable Patrick and me.

  “I really don’t mind,” Luce says, taking our plates and heading to the kitchen. She has been spoiling me all week and with the look Mum is giving now, I’d better get up and help them. I take the tiramisu plates and follow them to the kitchen.

  “My mother-in-law, Marcus and Patrick’s grandmother, a real witch, gave me an Italian recipe book on my wedding day,” I hear Mum say.

  “You’re joking?” Luce asks her. She sits back down.

  Grandma Grant, or Puddy, and Mum are like oil and vinegar (which, by the way, tasted fantastic together earlier with the homemade bread Mum made for supper).

  “Why would she do that?” she asks.

  “Because I couldn’t cook a bloody pasta dish! The Millers don’t really let their daughters in the kitchen. We’re the scientists with noble blood,” she laughs. She sits across Lucia while Patrick and I take over the kitchen’s clean-up like the good sons we are. “My parents were more concerned about my grades and science fairs than anything else.”

  “Mum, give her the whole story,” Patrick says.

  “Stanford loves Italian cuisine. He was born and raised there until they moved back to Manchester when he was ten,” she starts.

  “Mum gave Dad a very serious case of food poisoning about a month before the wedding,” I blurt out while putting dishes in the dishwasher.

  “Oh my God! That must have been terrifying!” Lucia says, taking Mum’s hands. Not the reaction I was expecting.

  “You’re a sweetheart, Luce; not like my boy over there,” she says. “It was, and Puddy, Stanford’s mother, made me feel so guilty. Anyway, she gave me the book and told me that, at least, with that, any future attempts on her precious son’s life would be intentional,” she says.

  “No freaking way!” Luce shrieks and adjusts her red cardigan dress. She changed just before supper. We keep the house warm in order to preserve it so she kept her lovely legs bare. “She sounded a little like Suzanne Georgia Riddell, my late grandmother. She passed away before I was born but from the stories I’ve heard, she wasn’t about making other people’s lives easier,” she says.

  “They were one and the same!” Mum says before bursting out laughing. “I knew your grandma, Suzanne. No wonder her daughter got pregnant at fifteen with a drill sergeant like that in her home.” She gets up and leaves the room.

  “Isn’t Noor named after her?” I tease Luce. The kitchen is now spotless. I take Luce in my arms; in her guitar-inspired flip-flops, she is almost a whole foot shorter than I am. I haven’t really kissed her all day and, God help me, I’ve missed her lips and my arms around her. I miss being lost in her wonderful, natural, exotic fragrances, vanilla and cocoa butter. I take her lips for just a quick one but it’s never a quick anything when she’s involved.

  “Broken-hearted man in the room,” Patrick says.

  “Let’s join Dad in the study,” I moan after breaking the kiss. “You’re not jealous?” I ask Patrick while we’re walking, my arm still around her hips. The three bottles of red wine we drank during dinner are helping us all to relax and enjoy the night even better.

  “Why should I be? Just because the only woman you’ve brought home since Mary has completely enchanted our parents!” he sneers.

  “And it doesn’t help that she’s enchanted you too,” I mock before we enter the study.

  “And you have enchanted her as well, Patrick,” Lucia tells him and hit me. “Stop smirking.”

  We find Dad in the study already on his iPad, sitting close to the fire place. He’s already poured five glasses of brandy.

  “You have a beautiful home, Stanford,” Lucia says after sitting down close to the fire and taking a glass of brandy. “A very beautiful family home.” I gave her a tour of my five-bedroom, childhood home earlier today. She particularly liked all the baby pictures of Patrick and me across the walls. They have now been outshined by Patrick’s daughters’ pictures and a few from his wedding, but the study is strictly Stanford and Doranda Grant’s territory; their pre- and post-wedding pictures are everywhere.

  “Thank you, dear,” Dad says. “We bought it when we were expecting Marcus,” he adds.

  “And for almost nothing,” Mum says as she enters the room. “We’d just opened our medical practice and wanted a house we could grow old in with our four children.” She puts a book on Lucia’s lap. “I stopped at two; I got too busy and they were really a handful my sons.” She puts a bit of music on and sits next Dad. “The recipe is on page three hundred and twenty. I’ve had that book for thirty-four years now.”

  “The best gift Puddy ever gave you,” he tells Mum and gives a kiss on her cheeks, “The kids and I are living proof of that.”

  “And Puddy was full of love for me I’m sure,” she bites back. She looks at Lucia and they both laugh.

  I join Luce on the soft, champagne carpet and take her in my arms. In London after supper, I would have tried something and she would have mostly let me. I really have no self-control around her, but we’re in Manchester, under my parents’ watchful stare. I keep my urges in check and simply bury my nose in the back of her hair.

  “Your parents are adorable,” Luce mutters as she looks at them slow dancing. “He finally left his iPad alone,” she says with a smile.

  “Doranda Miller will have that effect on Stanford Grant,” I tell her. I’ve seen my parents dancing like this many times.

  “She is so pretty. You have her mouth, nose and eye sockets, and don’t even get me started on your dashingly charming Da. You and Patrick carry yourselves exactly like him. It’s wicked, very wicked,” she says.

  “I heard a lot of great hype about the Riddell women,” Dad says, offering his hand to Lucia. Seal is playing; Mum has a real crush on him and is still very saddened by his North American move. They’re dancing to “A Change Is Gonna Come” and a couple of other songs. “A Riddell in my home…finally.” He spins and twirls Luce around. When “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” starts he goes back to Mum. “My lady,” he tells her and kiss her.

  I take Lucia in my arms but she’s gently pushes me away. I think she’s about to cry. “We can’t dance to this one, honey, but they sure can.” She abruptly goes outside. I pick up a comforter and follow her there. She’s sitting on our bench and, yes, she’s crying. And the prize for the most insensitive prick goes to…

  “I’m sorry,” I says, standing in front of her.

  “So this is how it feels to have parents. Your family is wonderful, Marcus,” she saying between small sobs. “Why are you sorry? You have done nothing wrong,” she asks and I sit next to her.

  I haven’t said the words back. I’ve been taking you for granted. I’ve been feeding off of your beautiful soul. “I don’t know; you walked away from me. I figured I must have done something.” I wrap the comforter around us.

  “You’re doing your same old ‘routine’, Marcus; nothing to cry about really,” she says, putting her head on my shoulder. “Noor, Axelle and I don’t do the parent gatherings very well. Axelle prefers sleeping at my apartment if it means that she doesn’t have to go visit Paul’s parents. We’re our own parental units.”

  “I know,” I say. I don’t, but I can at least be supportive about it. What would I know about not having parents? Mine are dancing in their study.

  “We give each other away for Christ sake!” she says; it sounds more like a plea. “It’s just easier for us to stay away, easier not to remember what we lost or are losing by only being the Mpobo-Riddell sisters, the orphaned ones.”

  “I’m sorry, I really am.” I wipe the rest of her tears off her face with the comforter,“Is this why you brought Alfie?”

  Her response is a kiss. A sweet, soft one that tastes like brandy, tears and something else, something that my “routine” can’t walk away fr
om.

  “Luce…Luce… Luce…” I murmur against her luscious lips.

  “I know,” she whispers back and I’m pretty sure she does.

  Paris Paris… Paris ville de l’amour[14], Paris Paris…Paris ville de la mode[15]…Paris Paris is unusually cool today. That could explain why a lot of us are embracing the cliché and are sitting at a café. I even went as far as ordering a chocolat chaud and a warm croissant. I doubled up with a sweater and a jacket, choosing the fresh, outdoor breeze of des Champs Élysée to the quiet warmth of my hotel room or restaurant, Méridien Étoile. I’ve made Mary’s team pay for one of the best hotels in town and I know they can afford it.

  I find myself not wanting to go the studio today; I just want to sit here looking at the tourists and locals walking by. I’ve been here for almost a week now and Mary has driven me close to pure madness a hundred times already. I almost forgot the stress of being the sole producer. I can’t just walk away; I have a reputation. Stuck between a rock and a hard place again, the second time this year and this time there is no Luce to tilt the balance. There it is; I said it – I bloody, fucking miss her! I miss her laugh, I miss her smile, her eyes, the way they looked at me, her sweetness, her insanity, the wanting warmth of her body, her natural scent…the way she used to say I love you and the terrible fact that I’ve never say it back. Not even when we said goodbye back in London.

  Something changed in her after I found her crying in Manchester that night; maybe an old wound that never really healed was reopened. We went back inside and she danced with Patrick and waltzed with Dad. We drank more brandy and smoked cigars before she went upstairs to sleep with Alfie.

  “You’re so lucky to have such a loving family, Marcus,” she said before closing her eyes and reaching out for me.

  “I met most of your family, Luce. They’re alright,” I teased. I laid next to her, took her in my arms and stayed there until we both fell asleep. I woke up about thirty minutes later and went back downstairs in my pajamas. Mum and Patrick beat me to it. I found them having tea in the kitchen with leftover tiramisu; an empty cup was waiting for me. I poured myself one and sat next to them.

  “Dad went to bed?”

  “You know him. With that much brandy, as soon as his head touched the pillow he was as good as gone,” Mum said. “How’s Luce?” she asked, eating the tiramisu.

  “Sleeping soundly with Alfie; I’ve been kicked out of my own bed,” I told her.

  “Been there, done that,” Patrick teased.

  “Must have been a long and strange day for her.” Mum was cutting herself another piece. She really loved Lucia’s dessert. “And all things considered, she handled it well.”

  “All things considered, Mum? She’s sleeping with a giant teddy bear,” Patrick said, cutting himself another piece. I took his plate away and gave Mum the tiramisu dish. “Hey!”

  “And what would be more acceptable for your high standard, Patrick? Mind-shattering drunkenness? A heavy dose of anti-panic disorder or sleeping pills? Let me guess: depriving herself and all her loved ones of meat protein!” Mum said. Well played Mum! I overheard Lucia and Mum talking about Alfie and its therapeutic effect on her.

  “That was below the belt, Mother,” Patrick said, taking his plate back. “We all know making others miserable is Sally’s way of handling things, especially lately.” He turned to me. “I’ve got shared custody of the girls. I’m going to Sydney next week and will stay until the end of the year before bringing them back with me,” he said with a big smile.

  “This is great, Pat!” I said. The lawyer firm he had been using had an office in Sydney, so they were able to handle the case there. “I miss my nieces. Please bring them back for Christmas,” I told him.

  “I will. I miss my little angels; they would have loved meeting Lucia,” he sincerely told us.

  “My three lovely princesses, Gemma, Donna and Patty; your soon to be ex-wife is heartless to have done that to us. I’d take sleeping with a giant teddy to deal with deep abandonment issues any day. Arthur Riddell must have consulted a professional about that,” she told Patrick. That sounded like that something he would have done.

  Patrick kissed Mum goodbye shortly after and went back to bed. I was about to leave too and go back to Luce when she stopped me.

  “I’m always on your side. You and Patrick are my best accomplishments,” she choked up a little. “After a couple of miscarriages, I realized that I would only have boys and you too made this…‘punishment’ so much worth it,” she continued.

  “Mum…” She was almost five months’ pregnant before losing one of them; it was a baby girl.

  “Well, your evil of a Puddy always reminded me how much less of the woman I was. She had seven successful pregnancies!”

  “Wow! You really didn’t like Grandma!”

  “No, I didn’t. She was a vile woman, like Sally, Suzanne and Eleanor Riddell,” she said very seriously. Too seriously. “But vile people tend to have wonderful children: your dad, my granddaughters, Lucia. She’s the bee’s knees, Cushion.”

  “You really think so?” I asked her. I really asked her; I just needed someone else’s opinion.

  “Like I said, I’m always on your side. You and your brother always brought self-centered divas in my home and because you loved them, I accepted them. Look where we are now,” she said.

  “A divorce,” I said.

  “And two emotionally bruised men.” She’s caressing my cheeks. “She reminds me of you. Your beautiful artistic soul, your heart on your sleeve – at least you used to carry it there – your sensitivity.”

  “Beesly said the same thing; she’s the female me,” I said, completely taken aback.

  “Because it’s true, parental issues aside,” she said with a small laugh. “And if she’s half as bruised as you, and something tells me she is, Alfie won’t be any help. Be careful, Cushion,” She said and stood up. “You both deserve the best, together or apart, as long as you’re both sure and happy.” She kissed my forehead.

  “She loves me, Mum,” I told her as she was leaving the room. “She told me so.”

  “I know, you idiot; I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I also see the way you look at her. Do you love her?” she asked me.

  When I turned around I was alone in the kitchen.

  On Monday morning, when I drove Lucia back to her West End townhouse, at her request, she didn’t say a word in the car, just looked out the window. Axelle and Paul were still in Greece so the place was empty. We stood outside with Alfie, her bag and Belinda; she gave me the sweetest, deepest, loving kiss.

  “Here’s looking at you, Marcus,” she softly said. I said nothing; she looked me in the eyes, waiting for me to say something, to say anything.

  “Thank you for this week,” I finally managed to say and push her hair away from her face. “Thank you.” I cowardly walked back to my car and drove away. I would never forget the expression on her face as long as I live. As for now, I’m bloody, fucking missing her…

  After almost five days hiding away in my hotel room and all over the city, I finally decide to go back to the studio. And I’m not coming back empty handed; I have three songs I’m almost one hundred percent sure Mary will like. For reasons I’m not paid enough to comprehend, she decided that her next album should be a tribute to the eighties and I’m done fighting against it. This break away from her and the studio made me realized that. If she wants cheese, I’ll give her the best, cheesiest album I’ve ever written and produced, and it will be a smashing hit.

  I arrive at Éclipse around 10.00 a.m.; it’s a couple of stops up from my hotel when I take line six. Cally is not far behind me.

  “Ciggie break?”

  “Second one today,” she says. She’s joining me in front of the elevator. “Where the bloody hell have you been, Marcus?”

  “Nowhere, everywhere; I just didn’t want to deal with any of Mary’s requests,” I tell her. I take out my phone and send her the songs I’ve done. “I’ve wr
itten a few great one. You should check them out,” I say.

  The elevator arrives and we both get in. Cally presses four when the studio is on the seventh floor.

  “Let’s check this out,” she says with a smile. “Jean-Michel has a few versions of our previous recordings he wants you to listen to.”

  Mary’s “tribute” will be a two-disc album; one will be a collection of my best work with her but completely re-mastered. I still don’t know how they got Hollander Records to agree to that. The other disc will have eight to ten 1980s-inspired songs. In the past two weeks we already recorded two; this is much easier than with Beesly & Matt. I press the seventh floor.

  “Okay, but I need to drop by the studio first. I sent the songs to Charles earlier today and need to check in with him,” I tell her.

  “Okay…” She wasn’t very convincing.

  “Cally, what’s going on?” I ask. The door opens to the seventh floor.

  “Don’t be cross, Marcus,” she pleads, which of course makes me cross. “Mary thought it would be a great idea to have some ‘help’ for you.”

  “Help!” I have a bad feeling about this one.

  “More like a new perspective, Marcus. We know you’re the best –”

  “I don’t do partnerships, Cally,” I tell her before walking away. “This is not bloody news!” Wait a minute… “What do you mean by new perspective?” I say and stop walking halfway down the hall.

  Jean-Michel appears in the hall, “It means,we need du sang frais.”

  “Fresh blood? Am I doing a bad job, Jean-Michel? I never had any complaints before,” I tell him. And why am I only hearing about it now?

  “Marcus, it’s not that…” Cally starts to say, but Jean-Michel is apparently not done with me.

  “It’s exactly that. Four albums and they all almost sound the same,” he says.