Authors: Alice Severin
I closed my eyes.
The bathroom door swung open, and I made myself look up. And there he was. Slightly sweaty, disheveled, hair partially in his eyes, his long legs heading up to his torso, which was now adorned with a tank top that announced “XMM presents…” And there, at the very top, was his brilliant smile, making it all ok. I smiled back at him, feeling that strange bubble of warmth come over me.
“Hey love.” He bent down to kiss me like it was the most normal thing in the world, to come into a hotel suite and say hello to someone in the bath, when that someone was me, and I reached out a wet hand around his neck. We kissed, softly, friends saying hello, lovers reminiscing, the link completed. All that in a minute, his warm lips so much larger than mine, soothing rather than invading. How could this be the same person I’d been so frightened of just an hour before? It must be me, I thought. He’s fine, everyone’s fine, I’m the one who’s a bit off. He broke off the kiss and squatted down, stirring the bath water with long fingers.
“Hi.” I suddenly felt incredibly shy.
“Nice bath. I bet you thought you needed one. I hope you’re washing off Trevor and not me.” He laughed. “How’d you get on, anyway? He’s weird, isn’t he?”
I hoped Tristan would add something else, but he just waited for me to answer. I had to agree. “He is pretty strange. I guess it went well. A bit intense. But it was a two cigar interview, I hope that’s a good sign.”
“Two cigars, huh? Well, you must have gotten him talking.” He squinted at me, as though he was looking for something. “He and I have a lot of history.”
Oh god, here it was. Not yet. Deflect. “He’s invited us to lunch Sunday. Said he’d finalize it with you tomorrow night.” I tried to look as though that was fine.
“Did he now? Well he must like you—or he wants one more chance to scare you senseless.” My expression must have changed to one of horror, because he reached into the bath to hug me. “No, no, sweetheart. It’s fine. He did scare you, didn’t he? Never mind. Whatever he did, we can undo. It’s ok, shh.” I’d started to cry again, grabbing on to his shirt.
“No, Tristan, I’m sorry. It’s fine. I’m fine. I don’t want to get all emotional. You’ve got the concert tomorrow…” I untangled my arms from around his neck and submerged my head under the water and came up, dripping.
Now he looked worried. “You’re still coming, aren’t you? I want you to be there.”
I nodded. “Of course. I’ve got to be there to write it up anyway, or Dave will guillotine me.”
Tristan grimaced. “Oh fuck Dave. And the article. I know you’ve got the job, and I’m after publicity…” and he paused. “I want you there. We’ve got a lot to talk about, I can tell, but it can wait. Just trust me, ok?”
I looked at him. How did he come up with these things? “Trevor wants to watch me blow off Dave.”
“Ah, fuck both of them. Do what you want. I want you to watch just me, so I can look out and see just you. Somebody real. Somebody who doesn’t only want a piece of me.”
Was I real? Shit, he needed me. I had to pull it together. “Ah babe, you’re too much. Too much. I want all of you, not just pieces. I’m sorry I started crying. I guess I feel a little too real today.”
“What did Trevor tell you?” His eyes bore into mine.
I hesitated. Shit. What was I going to do now? I couldn’t lie, but I couldn’t get into this. Not now. I dipped down under the water again. When I came back up, Tristan was frowning.
“Lily, it’s ok. Really. I’ll ask him myself.”
“Don’t ask him before the concert,” I blurted out. “This is important to you. Deal with all the past shit after, ok? I’m fine. It’s fine.”
His smile became a little more dangerous. “Oh, we have ways of making you crack. Don’t worry. I’ll find out—all of it. But you’re right. I’ve got to be there for sound check. We’re doing a tape session tonight. I just wanted to make sure you were ok. Come down whenever you want. It won’t start until late anyway. Just like tomorrow. Make ‘em sweat.” He smirked. “There’s few desires that don’t improve upon a little waiting time.” He reached a hand between my legs and thrust up suddenly, making me gasp. “Even mine, love.” He moved against me, smoothly, slowly, and withdrew his fingers and licked them off. “Nice.” He leaned over and kissed me, laughing softly. “Shit, you’re fun, darling.” He stood up and went over to the sink and ran water over his face and ran his wet fingers through his hair. “There, I’m done. I’ll see you in few. Don’t be late or I’ll send Trevor,” he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the bathroom, humming.
I listened to the door open and close, and tried to ignore the feeling that all the air had left with him. He needed me. He wanted someone real, right? Not some idiot that was going to cry at the slightest problem. He wanted me. And for whatever reason, that was going to be on display. I’d deal. I’d be the only person in the room for him, if that’s what he was looking for. And he was right. Fuck ‘em. Maybe with him there, beaming down at me from the stage, me making notes, tomorrow I would be able to play a little game with Dave. One that would satisfy Trevor and get us through to lunch. Tonight—maybe we could just leave, and be together. Not on display. Not really. I shivered as I got out and wrapped myself in one of the towels and walked out, partially draped, to see if my luggage was out there somewhere. Yes, there it was. For a moment, I’d thought they had unpacked for us too, but fortunately, or not, that kind of luxury wasn’t on offer. Good. I pulled out some lace covered underwear and a bra, and debated what to wear. The bondage dress. Yes, why not? Oh, but maybe that was too close to home—bringing back the rumors. On the other hand, it looked good. No. Too much. Jeans. Boots. See through top. Vest. Better. Festival girl with sex appeal. Easier to run in boots than high heels, too.
I went through the whole ritual of makeup and teeth, feeling a sense of unreality. I debated my drug choices—painkillers? Alcohol? There’s always nothing, a voice in my head said. Yeah, right, I thought. Let’s not push it. I decided to leave the pills in my bag, just in case, but I didn’t take any. Keep it light. A beer, glass of champers when I got there. Simple. Easy. The star’s girlfriend. Jesus. I thought of the car ride to the airport back in New York. The sedan had stopped at a light, and I had looked over at the sidewalk, but my view was blocked by a large grey plastic garbage bin. Yet somebody had scrawled on it in felt tip marker “become your dream.” Maybe that was the scary part—you woke up in the middle of your dream and you’d put yourself there, in the lead. Then you had to make up the script as you went along.
Well, the curtain was about to go up, and there was no understudy and no cue cards. I hoped I’d like it once I was out there, in the spotlight. And then the door closed shut behind me. I didn’t think the click of the lock sounded as definite as it had done for Tristan.
Chapter 17
I wanted to take my time, so I waved off the offer of a black cab from the doorman, and headed out. I needed to walk, needed to clear my head, and give my body another exercise than being willing and pliant under or over Tristan. The thought made me laugh, like I was becoming complacent about the idea of him and his talented body at my disposal. No, not even close. But I had the feeling we needed to spend a bit more time on the vertical plane if this was really going to work out. I crossed over the Bayswater Road, into Kensington Gardens, walking along the narrow paths under the huge oaks, still bare in the very early English spring. It was quieter here, the light fading, the shadows lengthening as people strolled, either taking in the last of the day, or heading homewards. The sounds were longer, more attenuated, making it easier to hear the light breeze in the branches, the sudden flight and movement of two wood pigeons. I breathed in the smell of wet dirt coming off the cold grass. I wasn’t ready for a big talk about life, or what I learned from Trevor. In fact, I felt fairly calm now, the soothing bath and his relaxed attitude in the face of my anxiety resetting the levels. I knew we’d get there, I knew it’d be weird. It was already. But it was time to accept where we were and what needed to happen. I didn’t want to undo the magic, but magic has to be guarded and protected, and if we were going to have this, whatever the hell it was, we needed to make sure we were there for each other. Anyway, I had a plan for tonight. Me—calling the shots. Maybe Tristan was right. It was the air over here or something. But I couldn’t do the sub thing happily unless I was sure that it was a choice, not a rut. Something we could pop in and out of when we wanted. When I needed it. When he needed it. Maybe I just didn’t want to be a trendy lifestyle. I wanted that head space and going under control to mean something.
When I finally got to Selfridges, the huge and beautiful department store, where I intended on spending some of Dave’s walking around money, it was already dark, and the lights were glittering on the windows, and the whole building was a big present, wrapped up brightly against the night sky and the street lights. It was the best place to shop in London. I wasn’t a big fan of Harvey Nichols—too snooty, and Harrods was for tourists. I went straight to the men’s department, and found what I wanted, with a little help from the salesman, who seemed to warm to my quest with a few dropped hints as to who it might be for. Paul Smith fit the bill, even if the price made me stutter. But I left as the store was closing, happily swinging one of the iconic yellow bags, and managed to find a cab with its light on. Heading down Oxford Street, with the driver teasing me about what I’d bought, and shouldn’t I be thinking of spring now, and asking me where I was from and why I’d left, with Radio London a quiet murmur of news in the background, I didn’t think I could ever be happier than I was right then.
We turned up past Euston Station, heading up to Camden. It was a street of B&B accommodations, council flats, a stripper bar. It hadn’t been that long ago that I’d been living in a place not a lot better, and had come down here to visit a friend living in one of the bedsits. Against the backdrop of ugly green paint and a gas fire that took ten pence pieces far too often, we sat on cushions on the floor and fixed the world. We’d had beans on toast and a couple of cans of lager, and it wasn’t paradise, but we were warm and safe. Now I was speeding up the road, having spent what used to be my rent on a present for my rock star—what? Boyfriend? I didn’t know what he was. But I didn’t want to forget what I’d been through to get here. What I’d rejected, what I’d chosen.
The cab pulled up by Camden Lock, and I got out, and paid the driver. He waved as he drove off, and screeched to a halt a hundred feet away to pick up another fare. I watched as five girls, all in amazingly short skirts and high heels squealed their way in. I laughed at both of us—their eagerness and mine. But maybe I’d finally figured out there was more than one way to live. I walked away from the road, stepping on the uneven cobblestones. The shops were either closed, or shutting up, but there were still a lot of people around. I tried to slip through them, invisibly, realizing that my bright yellow Selfridges bag didn’t really fit in here, too much of a class marker, drawing attention to me. It was all right. I planned on losing the bag in a little while anyway.
I found the big wooden door, and showed the bouncer my pass. He let me in right away. My heartbeat sped up as I pushed through the inner door, and confirmed that the rumble of amplified voice speaking that I could hear as I came in was Tristan. He was being interviewed by a DJ for a show that was going to go out when the album was released. I knew Tristan had approved the guy in advance, one of the long-standing people at the station who had interviewed the band right at the beginning, had always been a good person¸ not asking asshole questions just to get a hot quote. I stood at the back and watched. It wasn’t full—just some people from the station, some of the execs, some invites, and winners from the radio station’s competition to find the biggest fan. Christ, I thought, I should really interview some of these people. Maybe I could ask a few questions later. I didn’t feel like interrupting the whole thing with a lot of intrusive questions. And Tristan had said he’d play and do the interview, but he wanted it to be intimate—just some fans, unlike the big show tomorrow, which was going to be taped as well, but it was a proper concert—electric guitar, lights, special guests, friends of the record company, the whole thing. This was a little different.
He was sitting on a little school chair, a mike on a bent stand in front of him, an acoustic guitar sitting comfortably on his thighs, his left hand wrapped around the neck with alarming ease. It was only next to objects that you could really get a sense of how big he was, otherwise he only looked perfectly proportioned, maybe a bit taller. He was laughing now, answering a question on how the recording had gone, and did he ever miss Devised? Tristan fielded the question like the pro he was, making a quick joke about never missing trouble, laughing darkly, his hand going to the back of his neck, pulling at his shirt, exposing more cream colored skin, then going into specs and the guitarist he had on board for one song, how lucky and grateful he was to be able to work with people who really loved their craft. He said so many of the tropes of the successful rock interview, but he managed to make the answer sound new, like he’d really just thought of it, and what a good question it was.
I watched them go back and forth for a couple of minutes, the camera guy moving in front of them, trying for different angles. Then the interviewer asked him if he was ready to do a song. Tristan smiled, then looked around. I didn’t know how I knew, but I felt like that was my cue to step up, be there for him. Except there was no way I could run to the front holding a big bourgeois shopping bag. So I grabbed the small tissue paper wrapped bundle inside, and stuffed it down my jacket and zipped it back up, kicking the bag back to the wall. And I started to make my way down front, trying to be polite, but moving people out of the way when I needed to get in front of them. And when I was about ten feet from the stage, I looked up. There he was, his eyes locked with mine, a small smile on his face. In about two seconds, people were going to notice the look on his face wasn’t some distant appreciation of the crowd. So I wasn’t prepared for Tristan giving me a wink, and running his hand through his messy dark hair, a small smile, like an invitation to crawl up there. I wanted to blow him a kiss. Anything involving blowing actually would do just fine. I made a half-hearted attempt to look somewhat less dazed, figuring anyone who was looking had already seen my giant ridiculous smile. But when Tristan raised his arm to the air, and brought it down hard for the first chord, I wasn’t the only one who was holding their breath. He didn’t usually do this, accompany himself while he sang. He had always said he wrote everything on guitar, but had never taken the time to really learn how to play properly. He wasn’t an expert, but there was a certain raw quality to the chords and the way they fit into the rhythm he was building up with his voice, chopping along the beat, over it, next to it, on it suddenly with a feeling that you’d locked in and fit. Who could explain what made someone have something? But with his eyes squeezed shut, and his hands pulling out the notes, we were all watching a genius at work. He just knew where the notes should go, and he was so clearly getting off on the whole thing, his voice soft, then gritty, ripping through his throat. It was magic, and no one was breathing.