90 Days in London

Chapter 2:Test Call

It’s still freezing in Madrid, the thin sheets of ice slowly melting away as the school year kicks off at the Madrid Music Conservatory. Clarence hasn’t heard from Susan yet, even though it’s been only a few days since they parted ways. She can’t help but think back to their last stop at the tapas bar and the dive karaoke joint where they belted out “It Must Have Been Love.”

“It must have been good, but it’s up, up right now!” Susan sings, clearly misremembering the lyrics, despite them being displayed in massive font size—about 200—on the screen.

“Yeah, it must have been love!” Clarence joins in, laughing as they both continue to butcher Roxette’s classic, their voices mingling in a delightful, slightly chaotic harmony.

Clarence is on a train with Mabel and her family, heading to Seville. She’s seated far enough away from the prying eyes of the Peralta clan, feeling a bit of relief. No one can overhear their conversation in Spanish or English—thankfully.

“So, a voice hooker?” Mabel raises an eyebrow, her grin practically oozing mischief.

“Where do you come up with these names for everything? Of course not,” Clarence replies, rolling her eyes.

“What makes someone sleepless, anyway?” Mabel presses, clearly loving the back-and-forth.

“Can’t think of a single reason,” Clarence shrugs. “There are tons of reasons, though. I didn’t ask much about her brother.”

Clarence strolls through the cobbled streets of Seville, the air crisp and carrying the sweet, irresistible scent of fresh churros from a nearby café. The buildings, all bright tiles and intricate designs, shimmer in the late afternoon sun, while the distant sound of flamenco music and bursts of laughter create a lively backdrop. The colors of the city are warm, vibrant, and inviting, but there's a shadow hanging over her mood—her phone call with Mori.

Her phone rings, and she answers without bothering to check the number. “¿Sí?”

“It’s me, Mori!” Her brother’s voice booms through the line, teasing as always.

“Mori! Seriously, what do you want?” Clarence rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she walks, her footsteps dancing with the play of sunlight on the pavement.

“You’re not returning my calls!” Mori complains, his tone light but full of mock indignation.

“I’m on a trip, you know that! Besides, stop bothering me!” She watches a couple pass by, hand in hand, laughter spilling into the air, reminding her of just how much she needs a break from her brother.

“Chill! Jesus! Just because you’re in another country doesn’t mean you can ignore your little brother,” Mori’s laughter echoes through the phone, and she can practically picture his goofy grin.

“You’re not little anymore! You’re 21 years old!” She can’t keep the smile from tugging at her lips, even as she tries to stay annoyed.

“Did you forget something?” Mori asks, his voice dripping with mischief.

“Yeah, and I’ll send it to you wrecked if you keep calling me!” she shoots back, the irritation bubbling up again, but she’s secretly amused.

“Okay, okay, I love you! Just don’t forget about your little brother while you’re off gallivanting in Spain!” Mori’s voice fades as he hangs up, leaving Clarence with a sigh, half-annoyed, half-amused.

She looks around, trying to shake off the lingering frustration. The buildings gleam in hues of orange and yellow, their balconies adorned with flowers gently swaying in the breeze. She takes a few more steps, spotting a local artist engrossed in painting the scene before her, capturing the magic of Seville with every brushstroke.

As she finishes her lunch, her phone rings again. She answers without checking the caller ID, already bracing for the inevitable.

“Call another time and say goodbye to your gaming setup! I’ll send it to you wrecked!” she snaps, her voice sharp, irritation flooding back.

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Hello? Mori! Seriously, stop calling me, you annoying freak!” Clarence barks into the phone, her patience wearing thinner than the soles of her shoes.

There’s a long, heavy silence. Then, a voice clears its throat—raspy but firm.

“I’m sorry, I must be disturbing you,” a man says, the words dripping with politeness that only heightens Clarence’s confusion.

She pauses mid-step, frowning down at her phone as her brain catches up. “Who is this?” she asks, glancing at the screen and realizing, with a jolt of surprise, it’s not Mori at all.

“My name is Albert Huang,” the man replies.

Clarence’s eyes narrow. “And what do you want?” she demands, irritation bubbling up faster than a shaken soda can.

“You met my niece, Susan,” he continues, his voice holding a touch of amusement. “She was right about your voice—even when you’re angry.”

Clarence freezes, her stomach doing a nervous little flip. “Oh, s**t,” she mutters under her breath. Suddenly, her face feels like it’s caught fire.

“I’m sorry, uhh—I thought you were—” she stammers, her cheeks turning a brilliant shade of red.

Albert chuckles, his voice laced with condescension, which only makes Clarence want to dive into the nearest fountain. “Are you still interested in the job?” he asks, the tone shifting to something more serious, more businesslike.

Clarence takes a deep breath, trying to shake the embarrassment and get a grip. “Yeah,” she says, trying to sound composed, though she feels anything but. Her feet carry her past a fountain where children are splashing around, their laughter ringing in her ears, the sounds of Seville swirling around her.

“Am I calling at a bad time?” he asks, genuine curiosity threading through his words.

“No, no,” she says quickly, hoping she sounds more normal than she feels. “So, uhh, how do we—”

“Did Suzie give you the details?” Albert interrupts, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Not really. I’m still confused,” she admits, glancing around at the colorful ceramic shops and vibrant fabrics hanging in the windows of the stores nearby. It feels like she’s just stepped into an artisan’s dream.

“Alright,” Albert says, his voice suddenly dropping into a more straightforward tone, “Basically, make me fall asleep with your voice in my ears.”

Clarence stops in her tracks, blinking. “How?” she asks, eyebrows raised in complete disbelief as she pauses by a small plaza, where a street musician strums a soft tune on his guitar. It’s all so... surreal.

“Just talk to me or read to me. You don’t need to do much,” he explains, his voice soothing, like he’s handing her the most natural job in the world.

“What time?” she asks, still skeptical but intrigued.

“I usually try to sleep by 10; is that okay?” he asks, like this is a perfectly normal request. And for some reason, she doesn’t question it. Not yet, anyway.

Clarence stops walking, lost in thought. It’s an odd request, but she’s here in Seville with nothing particularly pressing on her agenda tonight. After living in Spain for over ten years, she feels more like a local than a tourist anyway.

“Right, sure,” she replies, surprising herself with how calm her voice sounds. There’s a flutter of excitement, though, stirring in her chest.

“Talk to you tonight, then,” Albert says, his voice steady. “Clarence.”

She gulps, her heart doing an awkward little leap. “Okay,” she says, her voice tight. It’s a strange mix of embarrassment, excitement, and anticipation. He sounds so... serious, carefully picking his words, like he’s choosing them like a masterful musician picking his notes. It’s... kind of captivating.

“Clarita!” Mabel calls out, waving energetically from a distance as she and her mother approach the Metropol Parasol.

Clarence quickly marks her calendar for her 10 PM appointment with Albert, double-checking the time difference. Well, there is no time difference. She’s already in the same time zone.

“Are you nuts?” Mabel asks, her eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “Tell him to call back tomorrow or some other day! We’re supposed to party, and you’re trying to make an old man sleep?”

Clarence winces. Mabel's arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and the disapproval radiating from her is almost palpable.

“I’m sorry!” Clarence exclaims, raising her hands in surrender, feeling the awkwardness of her tights clinging uncomfortably around her thighs. “I scrambled. I just— I felt bad about how our first interaction went.”

“You’re discounting your own comfort for someone else’s needs. That’s how we downgrade ourselves, Clarita,” Mabel says, her tone softening, though the concern is still there.

Clarence exhales slowly, knowing Mabel’s right. Her knee-jerk reaction always seems to be to prioritize others, especially when she feels she’s messed up. She smooths down her black cashmere turtleneck, the soft fabric brushing against her thick red glasses.

“It’s just for an hour,” she says, trying to defend her decision. “And, luckily, if I could get him to sleep in less than that—well, even better.”

“So, you can’t drink until he’s off to dreamland? That’s it?” Mabel raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

Clarence tries to put a positive spin on things. “Just... I’ll figure it out. We’ll still have fun.” She attempts to sound upbeat, but the doubt is still floating around in the air between them.

Mabel sighs, her expression softening as she considers her friend. “Alright, but don’t let him take away your night. You deserve to enjoy this too.”

“Trust me, I’ll be back in no time,” Clarence says, her voice firm with just a hint of determination as she tugs her tights into place, preparing herself for a night of celebration with her best friend.

“Fine. But if you come back a total buzzkill, I’m holding you responsible,” Mabel shoots back, her tone sharp but with a flicker of amusement.

“Whatever,” Clarence mutters, adjusting her tights with a little huff, then straightening up. She’s going to make this work.

Inside El Roncillo, the retro tapas bar buzzes with that kind of lively energy that makes you feel like you're in the middle of something exciting, even if you’re not quite sure what it is. The walls are covered in vintage posters of Spanish films and faded photographs of flamenco dancers frozen in time, and the dim lighting casts a cozy glow over the dark wooden tables. The mismatched chairs are so charmingly eclectic, you can almost imagine each one has a story to tell. The air smells of sizzling chorizo and garlic, and the sound of laughter and clinking glasses fills the room, making it all feel wonderfully alive. A jukebox in the corner is playing a mix of classic Spanish songs, giving the whole place a nostalgic vibe, like you’ve stepped back in time.

I glance at my square Hermes watch, the one my dad gave me for graduation. The brown strap is a little worn, definitely in need of a clean, but it’s a treasure. As I adjust it on my wrist, I feel the weight of my thoughts tugging at me from all directions. Mabel is talking a mile a minute, her excitement practically bubbling over as she discusses her plans to get a PhD, and her thoughts on moving to Germany or New York next year. She’s all fired up, waving her arms around as she paints this picture of her ambitious future.

“Maybe I’ll go to Asia—Singapore?” Mabel throws out, her eyes practically glowing with possibility.

I nod, half-listening, my mind still tangled with a hundred other things. The song from the jukebox is catchy, and I can’t help but hum along while Mabel carries on, her words and the music blending into this chaotic melody inside my head. Now and then, some guy at the bar glances our way, flashing a charming smile and offering us drinks. But both of us are like programmed robots, shaking our heads in unison, silently rejecting the advances without even thinking about it.

And then, the clock strikes 9:50, and it’s like someone just turned up the volume on my anxiety. My heart starts racing, and I slap the table, startling Mabel so much that she frowns at me.

“Stay here,” I say quickly, my voice firm but with a little edge of panic.

She looks at me, narrowing her eyes. “I’m really sorry! The next drinks are on me, okay?” she says, her tone a little defensive, but I can see her trying to make light of it.

I don’t wait for her to finish. I push my chair back, stand up, and head for the door, my mind already scrambling to prepare for what’s coming. The noise from the bar fades away behind me as I step into the cool night air, and suddenly, I’m alone with my racing thoughts, the weight of the job meeting pressing down on my shoulders.

Clarence checks the time again, her nerves kicking up a notch as the clock ticks closer to 9:59. She quickly dials the w******p number one more time, her fingers fumbling just a bit.

“Hello, Albert?” she says, trying to sound casual, but there’s this slight tremor in her voice—probably from the cold night air biting at her skin.

There’s a long silence. So long, in fact, that just as she’s about to repeat herself, he finally answers, his voice smooth and cool.

“Good evening.”

She blinks, her heart doing a little flip. “Hi, uh, so—I’m really sorry, but I don’t really know how to do this. Also, if you have insomnia, shouldn’t you be seeing a doctor or something?”

And then, before he can say anything, she hastily adds, “Sorry, didn’t mean to be too forward.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Albert replies quickly, his tone oddly reassuring. “Let me give you a bit of context. I’ve already been to the doctor—it’s not insomnia, but yeah, I do have trouble sleeping. I’m trying to avoid meds, so I’ve been experimenting with different things. I’ve tried two other people already, not counting Suzie, but there’s just something about their voices. They’re kind of... screechy. You know what I mean?”

Clarence blinks, trying to process. “So, we’re just testing this out?”

He pauses for a second. “Yeah, let’s call it a trial run for three days. You’ll still get paid, don’t worry. And, if I manage to fall asleep a bit quicker, there’s a bonus in it for you. I just want to listen to your voice. I don’t care what you say, just—don’t say it too fast. Keep it slow, like you’re reading me a bedtime story, yeah?”

Clarence inhales deeply, her heart thumping a little harder than before. His accent is this strange mix of British and unmistakably Hong Kong, and it’s oddly comforting, but also unfamiliar in the most intriguing way.

“Okay,” she starts, gathering her thoughts. “The Greeks believed that music was governed by mathematical principles. One of the key figures in this was Pythagoras. He discovered that the relationship between the lengths of strings on a lyre could produce harmonious sounds. This led to the concept of intervals, specifically the octave, which is a doubling of frequency. The Greeks categorized these intervals into modes—scales that evoke different emotions. For example, the Dorian mode—like our modern minor scale—has a more somber tone, while the Lydian mode, with its raised fourth, feels more uplifting…”

She continues, slipping into autopilot as she talks about the Phrygian and Mixolydian modes, hoping her voice will work its magic. But as she trails off, she suddenly realizes something’s wrong.

“Hello?” she calls out, a little louder this time. Her voice has this uncertain quiver, like she's not sure whether to keep going or not.

She glances at her phone. The call timer is still ticking away, but the silence is becoming unbearable, stretching longer than it should.

“Hello?” she whispers now, straining to hear even the faintest sound on the other end. But—nothing. Just silence. Empty, heavy silence.

She waits for what feels like forever, her heart pounding in her chest, each second dragging on with the kind of tension that makes your skin prickle. But no sound comes.

Just as she’s about to hang up, she hears it. A breath. Or maybe it’s just the wind. Her curiosity spikes, and she hesitates, unsure whether she should break the silence again or not.

“Albert?” she tries again, her voice almost a whisper now. “Are you there?”

But once again, there’s nothing. A void that feels both comforting and… unsettling. It’s like he's there, but not really. And Clarence can’t decide if it’s okay or if she should just hang up and pretend this never happened.