Work Text:
Karen Sirko likes her life in Hampstead. The shops on the main road, the heath with its shrubs and ponds and hills, the tube connecting her to Central London, her neighbors. It is predictable. Homely. Everything she has struggled with all her life but has grown fonder of with time. That’s why, on a morning in May 1999, she’s expecting an elderly neighbor to be standing on her front steps with fresh flowers in her hands. Karen thanks the heavens she doesn’t believe in that she’s already dressed, with her hair in a ponytail and a faint trace of make-up. She prepares her best smile for Mrs. Williams or Mrs. Patel, her closest neighbors. But instead, it’s Graham.
Graham. Curly hair, now salt-and-pepper, shorter. Shaved side burns. Same guarded smile. Graham. Damn it.
*
“Would tea be ok?” Karen asks, once she has shepherded him into the kitchen, her favorite room, with its big windows facing the tiny back garden. She has hung his coat by the front door. He has removed his shoes and followed her. He is wearing matching blue socks. Graham.
“Tea is fine. No sugar. Milk if you have it,” Graham replies. He has washed his hands at the sink, the metal of his wedding ring catching the light, and is now sitting at her kitchen table. As if they did this every Saturday.
“I came here to ask you to join the reunion tour,” Graham states after taking a sip from his mug of tea. They are now sitting across from each other. “Daisy and Billy got this huge offer for a 25-stadiums tour. Next year. Maybe an album too. If we’re up for it.”
“Of Daisy Jones and The Six?” Karen asks. Her years as a producer have taught her to expect surprising news but she is unable to fully control her tone.
Graham lifts an eyebrow. “The best rock band of the seventies.”
Karen guffaws before stopping herself. She won’t pretend she never imagined this scenario. Crazy record labels. Big budget producers. But in her mind, Camila would have been the one sitting in her kitchen, shaking her shiny dark hair, sweet-talking her into crossing the Atlantic one more time, convincing her to become part of the circus. Camila was the heart of their little group, the element that made all the other pieces fit.
Graham turns pensive and adds “Think about it.”
*
“How’s everybody?” Karen wonders after a while. “Julia gave me some news when she came to interview me for her documentary,” she stops herself. “But it’s not the same thing.”
“Molly’s fine. Still growing her business.” Graham looks serious but kind. “Kids are… not really kids anymore. The oldest is headed to college. The second is a junior in high school-” He pauses. “Let’s just say that those bills won’t pay themselves,” he chuckles.
She appreciates that, contrarily to what many people do, he doesn’t mirror her question with something that could be the equivalent. Like asking about her pets, her parents, her nieces or nephews, her house’s furnishings. She has remained unattached and childless. He respects that.
“Good,” she beams. “I know you’ll negotiate the best contracts for us.”
*
“Paris was great,” Graham sighs. “And coming here by train, truly fantastic.” He stops. “Have you been?”
“To Paris? Yes, of course,” Karen smiles. “I haven’t taken the train there yet, though.”
Graham has been telling her about the trip he has just taken with his wife. A few days in Rome, then Paris. How Molly flew back directly from the French capital. How Graham is stopping in London to meet with her.
“What do you think of London?” Karen asks, eager to change the topic of conversation. She has never been very good at discussing Graham’s wife.
Graham begins to tap a melody on the kitchen table, something fast and loose. Maybe his way of describing London’s rhythm, the big city vibe. It is almost hypnotic, watching his fingers move on the wood, agile and precise. And suddenly, Karen is taken back to another kitchen, a quarter of century earlier. Graham’s arms holding her close, the touch of his lips on her skin. His hands. His hands. She can feel the blood rushing to her face.
*
Karen never pays much attention to it but she has the radio on, some rock station, playing in the background.
Graham stands, reaches the small set and turns up the volume. “This guy can play,” he grins. “Have you met him?” He asks, eyes widening, as if he was talking of some supernatural being and not a British musician.
“A few times,” Karen replies. “Mostly at those grand events that I wish to avoid but my publicists insist I attend.”
“Shall we?” Graham says, holding his hand.
Karen is taken aback but she meets him in the center of the room.
“I thought you didn’t dance,” Graham jokes, as he swings her around the room.
Karen laughs. “You caught me in my slippers at 9 am. How could I say ‘no’?”
It is so easy, swaying in Graham’s arms. As if their bodies had never forgotten how to move in sync. She breathes in his familiar scent, the mix of his aftershave, the basic soap he always bought at the drugstore, and something underneath, him.
“We rarely danced together, back then,” Karen adds, wistful, suddenly glad he cannot see her face. Earlier, she was blushing, but she could have deflected. But she knows that Graham would read her like a book now. “We were too young to appreciate this.”
*
“I’ll join the tour,” Karen says matter-of-factly, once they are back in their seats, across the tiny kitchen table.
Graham’s face lights up and for a second, they are in their early twenties again, kids almost, excited and happy to have signed with a record label.
“On one condition,” she adds, looking him straight in the eyes. “You sing ‘One night in Pittsburgh’”.
Graham flushes but doesn’t glance away. “It’s from my solo career... well, if I dare call it that-”
“-Don’t tell me Daisy won’t sing some of her hits… Nor Billy...” Karen cuts in. “The producers must be expecting at least a spattering of newer songs.”
Graham nods slowly.
“I’ll sing the backup vocals,” Karen pursues. “I like this song.”
“Okay,” Graham says. And she sees in his eyes that he understands what goes unsaid. That she knows this song is about them. About how he loved her and always will. About how she loved him and always will. About how it wasn’t meant to be.
“Did I ever tell you why we formed a rock band in the first place?” Graham asks.
“To get the hell out of Pittsburgh?” Karen chuckles, a hint of curiosity laced through her question.
“I wanted to get over a girl. And Billy suggested that launching a rock band with my best friends was a good idea. To keep my mind off things.”
“Did it work?”
“For a while. Maybe. I ended leaving the band for the same reason.”
Hook, line, and sinker. Karen shakes her head and laughs. People don’t believe her but Billy is not the most charming of the Dunne brothers.
*
On her front steps, Karen kisses Graham’s cheek. “Safe travels.”
“Billy will send you the dates,” he stammers.
“The first night is in Pittsburgh, isn’t it?” Karen teases, but she knows, right as rain, that it must be.
“Absolutely,” Graham grins, his kind eyes shining.
She remains on her front porch, watching him walk towards the tube and his airplane home, until he makes it left unto the main road.
*
“One night in Pittsburgh” is the first song of the encore.
Karen and Graham return to the stage, alone. The lights are turned low. She begins at the keyboard. He adds his guitar and his voice, invoking a woman in a summer dress, the thrill of cicadas and the sweet summer air. She joins him for the chorus. The melody is yearning and soft like a lost love. The crowds’ lighters recreate the starry sky. And if tears fill Karen’s eyes when she sings, she lets them.