‘Ice cream,’ said Topaz, honestly. She smiled lazily at her lover, and added, ‘Coffee ice cream.’
‘If I go get you some coffee ice cream, what will you do for me then?’ asked Nathan, looking down at her, wonder-‘
23I
ing how he’d ever got this damn lucky. God, she was so beautiful.
‘I’ll marry you twice.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Topaz lay in bed and thought how gorgeous he was, and how smart, and played naming their kids again: Nate and Louise and Nick and Rosie, she thought. After he’d been gone a quarter of an hour she started to worry, so when the
bell buzzed she was relieved.
She opened the door.
There was a cop in the porch.
‘Do you live here, ma’am?’
‘Yes I do,’ she said, clutching her robe around her. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Are you any relation to Nate Rosen?’
Topaz went cold. ‘I’m his fiancee,’ she whispered. ‘I’mvery sorry, ma’am,’ the cop said.
Musica Records issued a press statement. The whole thing was an exaggeration. Mark Thomas, drummer for Atomic Mass, had been convicted of possession of two joints of marijuana at the age of sixteen and let offwith a fine. Alex Sexton, the bassist, had borrowed his dad’s car without permission, but that had been a mistake and no charges had ever been brought. Yes, it was true that the head of security hired for the tour had a criminal record for grievous bodily harm, but the band and their representatives had not been aware of it until now. The man had been dismissed and deported.
Rowena had rarely enjoyed a press conference so much.
‘But dope is still a drug …’ protested one journalist, desperate to keep some controversy alive.
‘What can I tell you?’ shrugged Rowena. ‘He didn’t inhale.’
There was laughter and applause.
The Heat Street launch was back on.
‘I’m not risking more delay in New York,’ Oberman
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insisted. ‘You saved your ass this time, but who knows what that goddamn magazine will come up with next?’
‘Nothing at all,’ she assured him. ‘We’re closing them
down. ‘
‘Yeah, well. I heard you and Krebs were stirring things up for them.’
‘I still think we should have it here or in LA.’
‘I said London, and I was still your boss last time I looked,’
snarled Oberman. ‘The subject is closed. Oh, and kid - ‘ ‘Yes, commander?’ ‘Wear something nice.’
Two days later, a thick, stiff, expensive-looking cream envelope arrived for Richard Gibson at the White Light offices on Seventh Avenue, sent registered delivery and marked ‘Personal’. Inside, to Gibson’s blinding fury, were two invitations to the launch of the Atomic Mass album Heat Street at the Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre in London, and a short handwritten note from the Managing Director
of Luther Records.
Dear Mr Gibson,
I have great pleasure in enclosing an invitation to our launch party, and hope that your doubtless enormous advertising revenue will enable you to afford the air fare. You will be most welcome, although regrettably, due to the sheer volume of interview requests from TV, radio and major magazines -
Fuck you, thought Gibson furiously
- we will not be able togive interview time to White Light on this occasion. I also enclose an invitation for Ms Topaz Rossi, who I gather has been advising you on your editorial policy. I’m sure her advice has greatly benefited ,our magazine. I am quite sure that you, as editor, are aware how useffl she has been to you
and will therefore want to pass on our invitation to her yourself. With best wishes. Rowena Gordon.
Yeah. She’s been real useful, Gibson thought bitterly. He tore the envelope up.
r
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‘I love it! I think it’s fantastic,’ Michael said. ‘You’re really coming on. I never knew you had this kind of a vindictive streak in you.’
‘Normally I don’t,’ Rowena said, ‘but Topaz Rossi and I have a long history. This was the closest she’s come to screwing up my career. I want the guy we’re putting out of business to know exactly who’s responsible for this. I want her management to see she’s unreliable, shortotermist, lets personal stuffaffect her business decisions.’
Krebs was not used to the edge in her voice.
‘You look good,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled, instinctively tossing back her long blonde hair. It was an adolescent gesture, totally appealing. She’s a hot little thing, he thought, pleased.
‘I wanted to look good for the band,’ she said. ‘You should too. It’s a moment of triumph for you. It’s such a great record.’
‘Thanks, babe,’ Krebs said.
He wasn’t listening; his eyes were still fixed on her dress.
It was a long, sleeveless figure-hugging Dior creation in moss-green velvet, a classic, but cut to emphasize the small, inviting swell 0fher breasts, the soft, delicate line of her bare shoulders and her long, slim legs. Her hair, normally tied back in a ponytail for convenience, spilled down her shoulders and the bare skin of her back. Long diamond drop earrings dangled and glittered against it. She looked aristocratic, unattainable.
‘How are you getting there?’
‘I’m going on Concorde, tomorrow morning.’
Tm flying out this evening, so I’ll see you there,’ he said. ‘Make sure you wear this outfit. And don’t wear panties.’
‘Why? Are you going to fuck me?’ she asked, getting excited.
‘Yes, I think so,’ he said, getting up and coming behind
her. He put one hand on the small of her back,just above the fabric of the skirt, and laid the other open on her stomach. ‘I always want to fuck you when you look like this. Just to remind you that you belong to me.’
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He could feel the heat begin to stir under her skin. She moved slightly under his hands.
‘You can be as much of a hard-nosed bitch as you want with everyone else,’ he said, speaking low and close to her ear, ‘as long as you remember your place with me. On your knees, at my feet. Or bent over a flight case. Or
spreadeagled on my bed…’
She gasped with desire.
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Krebs pressed her. ‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes!’ she whispered. His hands were still on her. ‘Now. Please, Michael. Now.’
He turned her head to face him, her pupils dilated with wanting.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’ll wait my pleasure. Tomorrow.’ ‘OK,’ she murmured, fighting to control herself.
He smiled and kissed her, a luxurious, possessive kiss, letting her press herself against his erection.
Tm sorry, miss,’ said the policeman. ‘All the roads to Earl’s Court are blocked. It’s pandemonium down here.’
She leant out of the driving seat window. He was right. A mob of fans and photographers was blocking the way.
Tm with Musica Records,’ she said, showing him her company ID. ‘Can you get me through to the reserved parking?’
‘Certainly, madam,’ said the policeman, with a friendly smile.
That’s one thing I don’t miss about New York, Rowena thought, grinning.
A police escort guided her through a crowd comprised mostly of screaming, hysterical girls to the backstage door.
‘The pop group is going to play live, miss,’ one of them explained, ‘and Capital Radio gave tickets away on the air, so those as didn’t manage to get in are going mad.’
‘Sorry,’ she sympathized. This was great; she’d had no idea the boys were so popular back home. She’d get a number one album on both sides of the Atlantic.
‘Oh, I seen it before,’ the policeman said with a worldly
235
air. ‘I done security at a U2 concert.’
This guy is equating my band with Ue? she thought, delighted. Oh my God!
‘This is worse, though,’ he added.
‘Rowena! Come over here,’ Josh Oberman said as she stepped backstage, threading her way through a jungle undergrowth of camera leads, lighting cables and microphones. ‘Come meet my head of Press, Rachel Robinson,’ he added, without drawing pause for breath. ‘She’s desperate for someone to say something about Atomic Mass to a bunch of important press people who’ve having to wait th6ir turn with the band - everyone’s working flat out, we still can’t meet demand. And make sure you shout,’ he bellowed unnecessarily, waving a wrinkled hand at the auditorium behind them, which was packed out with yelling, whistling, clapping kids waiting for the band to come on.
‘Did you have to have them play? I thought we were just going to put the CD on,’ said Rowena.
‘They wanted to play,’ Oberman shrugged.
‘Artists!’ she said, using the same tone of voice women
normally reserve for ThenI’
Her boss laughed.
‘Is Michael Krebs here?’ Rowena asked casually.
‘Yeah. He arrived four hours ago; Rachel’s been setting
him up for interviews with Guitar World, Bassist Magazine, Drums Unlimited, et cetera, et cetera.’
She looked to her right and saw Krebs standing against
the stage scaffolding, surrounded by reporters, greatly enjoying himself.
‘… so by the time we got to the drum fills stage, we had about seventy-five fills on this one song, and Mark also wanted a different sound on the hi,hat, so we …’
‘Rowena? I’m Rachel,’ said an incredibly slim woman
who looked about nineteen.
She reluctantly dragged her gaze away from her lover.
‘Could you come and talk to Kerrang!? They want the
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‘Of course, I’ll talk to Kerrang!. It’s an honour to talk to Kerrang!!’ she exclaimed, laughing. ‘But why do people want to interview backroom boys?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Rachel exclaimed. ‘The band is so hot right now their dustman could sell an exclusive to the News of the World on what they ate for breakfast this morning!’ The scandal in the States was pretty good for them, too.’ She looked slyly at Rowena. ‘Did you plant it?’
An hour later, she was finally allowed out of the press tent, if only because Atomic would be hitting the stage in fifteen minutes. They would play a four-song mini-concert, and then the Heat Street playback would start. Some teenage girls in the front row had become hysterical with anticipation and were being given first aid by medics. She wanted to go and say h,i to Barbara and the boys, but waswarned away from the dressing rooms by a burly security guard, and felt
too exhausted from the flight and the interviews to argue. ‘Where am I supposed to go now?’ she asked him.
He examined her perfectly valid all-access laminate sourly.
‘Well,’ he conceded, ‘it says here that you can go up on the stage. ‘
‘Good,’ she snapped, and stalked up the ramps to the wings of the stage, finding an amp she could hide behind to watch the show. Out in front of her, the exhibition centre stretched out, brilliant with lights and banners of Heat Street and the blue and gold Atomic Mass logo. Oh, Jesus, this was exciting. This was her little barid that she’d found a few years ago in a Yorkshire club. All those pople, just banks of people, kids all crushed and sweating and unbearably excited, fields of them right in front of her, jamming every inch of space in the arena until it had to shut the gates
because of the fire risk - all these kids here fo Atomic.
She was Mistress of the Universe tonight.
‘Like the view?’ Michael Krebs murmured in her ear,
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standing directly behind her.
He ran his hands over her ass, and smiled, satisfied. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I won’t have to waste time taking your panties off.’
She blushed. He was feeling her naked under the dress, enjoying her obedience. ‘We can’t really do anything,’ she objected softly. ‘The whole record business is here.’
‘I keep telling you, Rowena,’ he said, ‘that I will have you wherever I want, whenever I want. iF i tell you to march out there and do it for the cameras, you will.’
He had pushed her legs apart, and was stroking her gently at the top of her thighs. She pressed slightly backwards, into his hands, staring straight ahead of her, trying to look as
though she were having a normal conversation.
‘Please don’t do this,’ she said.
‘Don’t do what? Don’t get you hot? Don’t turn you on?’ he teased.
The arena lights dimmed. There was a huge roar of anticipation from the crowd, waves of sound sweeping over the stage.
‘We did this, you and me,’ he said in her ear, leaning in towards her to counteract the noise. ‘This gig. This record. This launch. Your enemy, what’s her name - Rossi? - we had total victory over her.’
As the boys hit the stage running, to screams ofjoy from the arena, Rowena Gordon felt a light, sweet, spontaneous orgasm rush across her groin. Krebs felt it, and thrust up the velvet of her dress in the darkness, brushing his thumb firmly against the slick nub of her clitoris.
She cried out, the noise drowned in howling guitars, and came again instantly, against his hand.
He spun her round to face him, tugging her dress back down. ‘Come with me,’ he said, hardly .able to control himself. ‘I told you you’d wait my pleasure. It’s my pleasure right now.’
He led her to centre backstage, behind the drum riser, above a little stairway going downwards.
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‘There’s a room under the riser,’ he said. ‘It’s got a trapdoor which locks.’
‘Right here?’ she whispered.
‘Right here,’ he said. She put her hand on his cock, rock-solid through his jeans, and he grabbed it and held it there.
‘Do you think I can wait?’ he asked.’
‘NO. ‘
‘Can you wait?’
‘No!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Michael! Oh!’
He practically threw her down the stairs before they were interrupted by a stagehand, slamming the trapdoor under the base of the drumkit and bolting it. The little room was crammed with clean towels for the band, two guitars and a bass, flight cases, bottles of Gatorade and other musician clutter. They were swamped by music and the audience out front going crazy. The dull boom-boom-boom of the drums pulsed loudly above them.