Page 34 of Galata and Nutmeg
“This is the music I want to play, not that pop shite that the label keeps throwing at me.”
I look at him with interest. “Don’t you write your own?”
“With the band we had more control, mostly because we had the numbers, if you know what I mean. The four of us against the label. But now, as a solo artist, I’m really an unknown entity; don’t forget I wasn’t even the lead singer, I was the bass guitarist.”
“Paul McCartney was the bass guitarist of the Beatles. He went onto Wings and then a solo career.”
“I don’t think I can compare myself to Paul McCartney.”
“What about Sting?”
“You really think highly of my abilities, don’t you?”
“You don’t think highly enough of your abilities.”
“You’re the one who called me a ‘washed-up has-been’.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. You’re right.” He releases a heavy sigh. “Truth is I’ve got nothing, haven’t written anything decent in months, although some might say years. I’m tired and uninspired.”
“But you wrote all the songs for Seven of Crows! Great songs! Beautiful words.”
“That’s ancient history.” His tone hardens in frustration. “Doesn’t matter anyway. The blasted label insists I prove myself before I can dictate what kind music I record.”
“Wankers.”
“You’re finally beginning to understand the termwanker.”
Kaan hums along with Elvis sending shivers down my back. I reach for a meatball and take a dainty bite. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I mean, I spend most of my days with people, famous people, but this is different, partly because Kaan has invaded my home, but mostly because he swung his Full Monty around my sitting room only a few hours earlier. I glance over at him as he shifts in the tub chair uncomfortably before I change the subject. “These are some spicy meatballs.”
“Did you know you had no spices in your larder at all?”
“That’s positively disgraceful.” My tone is mocking though I am a little embarrassed by my, up until now, empty kitchen cupboard. “People don’t come to my place to eat. If you come to my place, then I call Uber Eats and Diego is on his way with our order.”
“It sounds like you and Diego spend way too much time together.”
“Are you implying something about me and my 52-year-old delivery guy? I’ll have you know that Diego has never let me down, and that’s more than I can say about a lot of men!”
“Okay, okay!” Kaan put’s his hands up in defeat. “I’ll change the subject.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you know nutmeg is said to be an aphrodisiac?”
“You don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“It’s a natural philter.” He passes me the plate but I’ve suddenly lost interest in food. “Perhaps you might like another meatball?”
An aphrodisiac is the last thing I need. The sight of Kaan cooking in my kitchenette, feeding me, offering me seconds, and swinging his penis around… has me so on edge right now that I feel like I’m on fire. I flash him a sour look. “No, thank you.”
A humourless laugh echoes in my tiny sitting room and I glance back at him, my eyebrows raised. “Don’t worry, there’s not enough nutmeg in them to make you throw yourself at me… unless you want to, that is.”
For someone who dislikes me so intensely, Kaan is undeniably flirting right now!
Another awkward silence fills the room while the first few notes of Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones starts. “Let’s talk about you.”
“Me?”