Page 30 of A Country Kind Of Love
The ninety-seat intimate venue, the Bluebird, is a sacred space for singer-songwriters. Getting a reservation is unlikely; luckily Cleo hasa plus one.
Is that what Peyton is now? Cleo’s plus one?
They’ve spoken a lot since their first date, and a repeat of the rain-soaked sexually charged events of that same date happened again two days later—minus the rain.
It is the famous “in the round” night at the Bluebird. Singer-songwriters take it in turns to sit in the middle of the room in a tight circle and play the songs of their choice. Peyton’s heard of the event, and occasionally she dreams of playing such a prestigious venue.
The first artist to take the circle stage is a young man; he has a shaved head, a trimmed beard, and a sun-kissed southern tan. The first three buttons of his linen shirt are open revealing the majority of his torso, he can’t be much older than twenty, but he has a real charisma. He takes a moment to compose himself and picks uphis guitar.
“This song is about my first love. I made a mistake, and I hope to be given the chance to correct it one day. Thank you for having me, Bluebird. I hope you like it.”
The song is beautiful. His voice is gritty. Peyton thinks he must have deep country roots because his southern twang is extremely strong; she likes it. There’s one verse in particular that evokes emotion.
“If the world falls apart, will you call out for me? If the sea drowns you out, will you swim to me? If your heart breaks again, and you forbid a second chance, will you change that decision for me? Will you let me be...the man that you need.”
He has audience members in tears by the end of the song. Peyton doesn’t feel the same emotional pull, but she understands it.
The room is cosy, and the physical proximity to others adds to the ambience. Peyton touches elbows with the people next to her, but she doesn’t mind. Her eyes scan the room as she waits for Cleo to make her way over.
The white lights of the Bluebird set the mood. The walls are covered in signed photos of famous musicians. She can feel the energy as it radiates through, being in a place that regularly makes history is thrilling.
A man to her right sits further back with sunglasses on, a thick head of dark hair, and his phone glued to his hand. He doesn’t look to be there purely as a spectator. He has a corporate feel about him; maybe he’s a manager or a record producer. The artists playing have no idea who’s watching or who could stop by, and that is the beauty of it.
Cleo appears and takes her seat in the centre of the room. There’s a girl to her left with a guitar in hand. She adjusts the microphone and begins by introducing her song.
“It’s great to be here again, Bluebird. This song is a new original. It’s about the unpredictability of life and never losing your way. Chase your dreams until they become a reality. Thank you,” Cleo says sincerely.
The audience falls eerily quiet. Peyton can sense the anticipation. She’s nervous and she isn’t the one about to be judged.
The second Cleo opens her mouth Peyton is mesmerised. The audience is quiet and respectful. Cleo makes eye contact with Peyton and smiles. Her heart pounds and her leg jumps up and down to the rhythm of the guitar, she’s nervous for Cleo.
She scans the room. The executive type isn’t paying attention to Cleo. Several members of the audience are chatting amongst themselves. Some are engaged with the performance, but most are restless. Their body language is fidgety; they’re not connecting with the song. Peyton watches Cleo’s face crinkle. She lowers her head, expression rigid—she can sense it too.
The song ends, and the audience breaks into a round of applause, but the show of approval is significantly less than the previous singers. They strike their hands together two, maybe three times, and the applause fades.
After the final artist has performed, there is no sign of Cleo. Peyton searches for her in and amongst the crowd. A bartender notices the worried look on her face and points to the side of the bar. “She’s over there, sweetie.”
Cleo is deep in conversation with the corporate looking male Peyton noticed earlier. He waves his arms around like a beetle thrown on its back. The expensive watch on his wrist slides back and forth. His sunglasses are in his hair. He’s got stubble and a bit of a beer belly, but his shirt and trousers are neatly ironed and tucked in. Their conversation looks too intense for Peyton to interrupt. She stands to the side of the bar and turns her back to the exchange. Her intention isn’t to intrude, but she overhears every word. The man isn’t being discreet.
“You won’t be a star, Cleo, unless you start writing better music. That’s the harsh reality. You lost the audienceout there.”
There is no response from Cleo.
“I took a chance on you. I saw the potential, but right now you’re supposed to be a singer/songwriter and you’re not writing any songs. People want raw, they want passionate, or they want sexy. Figure out a category and stick to it.” His tone is harsh. Peyton doesn’t like his approach.
“I can’t get you this opportunity or the chance to meet with the record label again unless you start producing something worth taking achance on.”
“You didn’t get me this opportunity,” Cleo replies. There is no conviction in her response.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
Peyton refuses to sit and listen; she turns the corner and comes face to face with the chauvinistic asshole. He barely glances her way. Cleo is visibly upset; her eyes are glazed, but she isn’t crying. Peyton thinks this must be a regularoccurrence.
“Hey, you! You did amazing out there.” Peyton grins.
The man scoffs. Rude.
