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I shut my eyes for a moment. It was almost too much. Then the phone beeped again.
It was a text this time.

Your turn.

chapter two

New York

The tour bus was both smaller and larger than I had expected. Parked on a rancid street
of warehouses near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, the remnants of cobblestones
stuck out from the badly smoothed-on patches of tar. The warehouses that lined the
street looked deserted and desolate, the multi-paned windows gazing down blankly on
the empty street. It hardly seemed believable that a place could be this empty, only
a few hours after the rush hour blitz heading west through the tunnels, past the boundary
of the Hudson River, separating the city from the rest of the country. Like in that
old
New York
magazine poster, New York City seemed as big as the rest of the country, with only
the Hudson, that narrow strip of water in between it and all the rest. And even that
had been shrunk down, another obstacle to get across until you reached California.
Everything outside of the concrete and steel of the city seemed slightly unreal. But
we were about to head out, and see just how real it all was. Adventure. The thrill
of starting a trip at night, heading into the unknown.

Tristan and I got out of the car, and the driver turned off the engine. He quickly
came around to open the trunk, and pull out my suitcase. Tristan’s gear was already
on the bus. He had a messenger bag with him, slung over his shoulder. He shook his
head when the driver went to take it from him, and he left my suitcase by my side.
Tristan nodded. We stood there. There was something strange about it, after everything
that had happened, to be on this dirty street as a starting point, looking at our
rolling home for the immediate future. And we were sleeping on the bus tonight, then
waking up in Montreal, where the tour would begin for real.

I watched as Tristan shook his driver’s hand. “Keep in touch with Trevor. Let me know
the situation.” I frowned at the pair of them, but when Tristan turned back to me,
his face was calm.

“Trouble?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just keeping an eye on things. Cat’s away,” he waved a hand though the air.
“That kind of thing.” He fixed me with a stare. “Not to write about, in any way, Lily.
Not even as a metaphor. Understood?”

I nodded, again filled with a strange kind of fear before this man who did indeed
control his entire empire—yet never spoke of it, never mentioned the hours of work
that went into all of it. Again it struck me that no one really did get anywhere without
the secret effort, control, energy that had to be hidden, precious and guarded. “Understood,”
was all I said. No time for explanations.

We walked up to the bus, and he knocked on the door. He stepped back as it swung open,
and we could hear music and the sounds of people talking. Tristan shook hands with
this driver as well, and I gave a wave as we walked into the living room of the bus.
It was like an extended motor home, a trailer, a gypsy caravan with a flat screen,
a rolling picnic basket filled with beer and wine. The windows were large, but tinted,
and the world was sucked away as the door hissed shut. Despite the size, it was a
little claustrophobic. I took a deep breath. I’d get used to it. I had to. The sofa
was already filled with the three people in the band. There was Jack, the bassist,
who I’d met and spoken to in London. He raised a hand in greeting, as Tristan said
hello, and introduced me. “You all remember Lily, right?” At the end, legs extended
and covered in worn jeans, the skin visible through the slits in the thigh, one stretched
over the end of the sofa on top of the built in table, the other ending in a laced
up black boot firmly planted on the floor, was the drummer, Pete. His head was leaning
against Jack’s shoulder. And there, at the edge, was AC. He extracted himself from
under Jack, causing him to fall over and knock over the drummer. They all laughed.

AC launched himself at Tristan and wrapped him in a big hug. Tristan squeezed him
back, and ruffled his hair. I stood there, and AC looked up at me, a question in his
eyes. I wasn’t sure what he meant. Tristan clearly was relieved to have him there.
That much was obvious. I waved at AC, smiling. He flashed a big grin back and opened
his arm, leaving space for me to join in. He nodded his head up and down, a small
gesture of encouragement, and as I stepped in to the hug, Tristan moved and squeezed
us altogether. It felt quiet suddenly, then Tristan kissed the top of AC’s head, then
the top of mine, and moved away. “Structure and harmony,” was all he said, as he stepped
back, opening up our trio, my arm still around Tristan, AC’s arm still around him
on the other side, and stood like that, watching Jack and Pete who had started fake
punching each other. They stopped when they saw us watching.

“Yo! Tristan!” Pete called out. “Fucking come sit down and have a beer. Grab me one
too while you’re at it.” Tristan laughed, and went over to him and gave him a big
hug as well. “Get your own you lazy fuck,” he said, smiling, and I watched as AC pulled
out a six pack of Heineken from the cooler, and open them one by one and hand them
around.

“Dude, you’re here. Excellent! Let the show begin,” said Jack. Tristan began to speak
and he interrupted him. “Yeah, I remember Lily from London. Lily from London!” He
reached out and clinked beer bottles with me. “Nice to see you. Maybe you’ll be a
stabilizing force on this bunch. It can’t just be me all the time.” The drummer and
AC snorted with laughter. “Shut up you two. I’m extremely stable.”

“Yeah, and we won’t tell Lily you were just watching porn with us,” Pete murmured,
then shouted, “Whoops! What have I said?” And they all started laughing again.

“You two are assholes.” AC looked at me. “Night one on tour Lily. Where anticipation
still fuels the party.”

“Instead of being tired,” Jack said.

“Or wasted,” added the drummer.

“Or bored.”

“Or sick.”

“Yo, shut up you lot. It’s a bus, not a resort. And the last time I checked, you all
liked depositing the checks from life in music. I’m sure the call center misses you
fuckers. ‘How can I service you today?’” Pete punched Tristan on the arm.

Tristan laughed, and drank some of his beer. “Keeping them in check. Thankless task.”

“I’ve got to see what they’re up to. Otherwise I won’t be able to feel their pain,”
AC smirked.

Jack thrust his hips up. “Come over and feel my pain. Check out how deep it goes.”

AC shook his head. “Oh man. Just like the old days.” He leaned down and whispered
to me. “It’s not their first tour, but they’re always like this. Don’t let it get
to you.”

I laughed. “Not yet, anyway.”

Tristan glanced around. “How many weeks of the circus?” He gestured to us. “Come see
what passes for paradise on the bus.”

Pete pretended to whisper. “Oh good, they’re leaving. Turn the porn back on.”

Jack said, “Where’d you put the remote, you fucker?” Then his voice went lower. “Can’t
we just listen in? It’ll be live.”

I wondered if Tristan had heard. I wondered if they cared.

We started walking towards the back of the bus, but Pete called Tristan and AC back.
I turned around to see the driver going out. I guessed he was doing a final check
around the bus. It must be time to go, I thought. Driving through the night. The Tour.
Really beginning. I was examining the bunks, when I heard the bus start up and a loud
cheer came from the front. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. As a kid, I had
always dreamed of being rootless, driving around the country. Different day, different
town. And now we were about to do it.

Tristan and AC came back—apparently the guys had wanted to apologize for being a little
rowdy—and we made it to the end of the skinny corridor, past the bunks with their
curtains, looking a little like an old fashioned train. The modern mirror and glass
effect, trimmed with little fairy lights, distracted the mind away from the reality
that it really wasn’t a huge living space. Tristan turned the handle of the door to
the back of the bus, and we entered a room that had a queen size bed, a flat screen
TV, and a lot of mirrors. I took a deep breath. No wonder people looked forward to
the hotel part. This was like camping, with glitter. I looked down at my small suitcase,
wishing I had brought a backpack and a Swiss Army knife.

AC seemed happier though. “Hey man, this is pretty nice. Did you request that they
kit it out like this?” He stretched out on the bed, his arms behind his head, taking
up space like a dog being allowed on the couch.

Tristan sat down on the bed, and shoved AC and his legs over. “Yeah, I did make some
requests. Experience tells.” He laughed. “Remember that tour up the California coast?
When we stopped at that winery?”

AC winced. “I remember some of it.”

Tristan looked at me. “We had a big concert—well, not that big. In a vineyard. Complete
with hotel. Really nice place. People go up for the outdoors, the tastings. It usually
turns into a kind of party. Always a few extra rooms available in case people thought
they’d really be spitting it out, and planned to leave afterwards.” Tristan laughed,
and looked over at AC, a slight indulgent smile tracing across his face. “Some of
the ticket holders had big rooms as part of the package plan. They were good people,
really. And a couple of the nice ladies had invited AC here back to their room. They
got some of the staff to carry him back to the bus when he finally passed out. 4 a.m.
I hear this banging on the door. They won’t go away. I finally open the door to the
bus, and there are these two guys, in hotel uniform, with AC trussed up between them.
They carried him in the room—it was a bit like this one—and dumped him there. He lay
there like the dead for 12 hours. But we woke him up in time for the next show—still
hungover as shit.” He looked over at AC. “What were those ladies’ names again?”

AC looked sheepish. “Fuck knows, man. They exhausted me, what can I say?”

Tristan smiled. “I hope they named their first borns after you.” He laughed. “After
all, they’d all be related.”

“Hey, I’m careful. Any accidents weren’t mine, man.” AC winked at him. “Don’t worry
Lily. Shouldn’t be any mothers chasing us in Montreal.” He rolled over on his side,
and looked up at Tristan. “So here we are, again. Are you glad to have me? I’ve missed
it. Missed you.”

Tristan looked over at me, his eyes still and wary.

AC laughed. “She’s cool. We had a long chat in London.” Tristan frowned.

I finally spoke up. “True enough. We did talk for quite a while. Not sure what we
said though.”

They both watched me for a moment. I didn’t say anything else. Tristan sighed and
came to stand by my side. Then I felt Tristan’s warm lips on my cheek.

“That’s what is so perfect about you Lils. You notice everything and say nothing.
Well, except what you’re going to write for the magazine.”

I kissed him back, gently. I looked Tristan in the eye, then walked over and gave
AC a kiss on the cheek. Tristan let out a deep breath. I didn’t think he realized
it. “Yeah, well, again, like I said before. What you want out there. With extra sparkly
fan girl sprinkles.” I looked around. “Bathroom?”

“Outside. No, kidding. One door is a closet, the other is a bathroom. Water only,
doll. Unless you’re desperate.” Tristan grimaced. “Not to be crass, but…”

“No, that’s cool. I’ve been camping. This is just like a mirrored tent.” I went out
shutting the door gently behind me, but just in time to hear AC saying, “You trust
her, Tristan? Are you sure?”

Then Tristan’s voice, warning, “She never even told me you two talked. So she kept
your secrets. She’s kept mine. Now she’ll have to keep ours.”

I moved away from the door. Whatever their secrets were, I had a feeling that after
a couple of weeks in this gilded tin can, I’d know them all.

chapter three

New York to Montreal

The bus had stopped for a break at the truck stop before the border, so we wouldn’t
have to all wake up in the middle of the night for the passport check. As it was,
5 a.m. seemed painfully early. But the Canadian border patrol apparently liked to
put a face with the ID, especially for a rock band in a tour bus. The local promoter
in Montreal had faxed them the paperwork. No emails for this. The officer in charge
of our passage had already accused us of being incompetent, and Tristan had called
James, who had woken up the promoter, who had given us the details. They had all the
paperwork for the permits, it had been confirmed by an A. Antoine. That name was enough
to get the guy to go back inside to hunt down the passenger manifest. So we all stood
there in the early light of the morning, outside the bus, while the guards walked
around the bus with a tired looking German Shepherd, who sniffed hopefully, while
the one of them examined our passports, looking for errors. A third one, without dogs
or passports, had asked for Tristan’s autograph.

After he’d moved away, Tristan whispered in my ear. “Do you think it’s a technique?
Or just poor social skills?” He laughed. The guards glared at us. I gave Tristan a
sudden passionate kiss. Let them think we were giggling over sex. Better than thinking
we were taking the piss.

The driver looked bored. He’d mentioned briefly last night before we left that if
anyone was carrying he’d leave them at the border, so anything better get used up.
I saw Jack poke around his shower kit, and triumphantly pull out what looked like
a Xanax, and swallow it down with a gulp of beer. Apart from him, I wasn’t sure if
anyone else had been listening. His pronouncement seemed too serious for the start
of tour party atmosphere, but standing here, in the cold grey light, my sneakered
feet very small against the freshly poured black tar parking lot, surrounded by broad
men in uniform, holstered and booted, I realized what he was talking about.

Finally, the papers were found, and luckily the spelling matched our passports. Tristan
had an American and a British passport, due to his American mother and British father,
but all the paperwork was for the American one. The permits were granted. It seemed
a lot to go through for what was going to be only two nights in Canada, but I’d been
through enough crossings to know this wasn’t the time to start questioning the politics
of it all. Especially the border patrol, who were there to do a job, rely on the easy
power a uniform and a gun gave them, then go home. Not there to question the system.
I’m sure they missed the days of waving through Americans on a driver’s license and
a smile. It had probably always been tougher for musicians though, those irregular
leather-clad creatures making a mockery of everything decent. I jogged in place to
keep alert. I felt like I could drift off. But the surreal sensation of feeling like
we were under arrest even though we had done nothing wrong was unpleasant enough to
keep me awake.

After a check which involved another series of questions on the merchandise we had
brought to sell, and an examination and count of the t-shirts and posters and CDs,
with a tax form to fill out if they were sold, and one more mirror check under the
chassis, we were free to go. Canada. As with so many land borders, the landscape had
changed. We had left the mountainous forests leading down to the lake, to a long flat
plain. The horizon was blocked from a clear view with round European-style road signs
and long stretches of farmland. The bright colors of the houses and the billboards
in French and English felt weirdly foreign, as though we’d left New York City on another
planet somewhere, rather than mere hours away down a highway. Then the land began
to fill in, more houses closer together, more signs, the highway widening. The first
bridge over the river seemed longer than usual, held up in the middle by an island
that held the remnants of a distant world fair. The highway curved around, and we
were there—following the river, past the Molson Beer Factory, the uneven skyline of
small modern buildings scattered among the older factories and houses.

Finally we turned off, and there were traffic lights. Streets. Apartment buildings.
Shops. One café raising its metal bars over the windows. It looked quiet. Too early
for much activity on a Sunday, except for a few people who could be going home, or
going to work. I was the only one on the bus who was up. The driver expertly pulled
into a large parking lot, and stopped. The lack of motion and background sounds echoed
in my ears, and I felt a little dizzy. I stood up and suddenly the bus seemed very
small, even for someone my height. I sat down again, breathing.

The bus driver climbed out and stretched quickly, then patted his pocket for his wallet.
He nodded to me. “What’s your name again?” I told him. “Lily, that’s right. Look,
Lily, I’m going out to pick up a coffee, something to eat. Can you stay with the bus
please? I’ll be 20 minutes, maximum. I appreciate it. Thank you.” And he was already
opening the door.

I was just quick enough to follow him down the stairs, a Canadian five dollar bill
in my hand. “Sure, fine. You’re Hank, right? Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand.
He shook it, quickly. “Listen, can you leave the door open? I won’t go anywhere. Bit
claustrophobic. And would you bring me back a coffee? Milk sugar? I’d really appreciate
it. Cheers.” He took the money, shrugging, and turned towards the exit. I watched
him walk away, and turn past the metal chain link fence, and disappear down the strip
of beige sidewalk that bordered the lot.

I stood there, looking at the collection of cars and buses, then back down at my feet
on the dusty ground. I kicked a pebble. The milky sky meant it was full daylight but
it was like a ceiling over the city. There was a bright spot that was the sun trying
to break through, but mostly the no-color sky matched the concrete buildings. The
bus stood out—silver and black, an energetic stripe of metal that promised a lot.
Sound check was at 3 p.m. I looked up at the sky again. The color of very milky coffee.
I shut my eyes, and leaned back against the bus to wait for mine.