Revenant Rising (31 page)
“I see.”
“There you go again with the ‘I see’ thing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, I love it.”
“Very well,” she says, drawing his laughter before her second-most-overused phrase has completely left her mouth.
“What a delight you are, Laurel . . . what a fantastic day you gave me today.”
“You said that when I dropped you off and I reminded you—”
“Yeh, I’m not forgetting what you said about confusing your solicitude for something else, but bein’ the sort of bloke I am, I’m not letting it slow me down.”
So I’ve noticed, she says to herself and steers the conversation in another direction. “Did I ever think to tell you I saw a tape of your unscheduled performance at the Institute Awards presentation? I missed the telecast, so my assistant got a copy from your record label.”
“Must have been a day or two ago because the Pinnacle people wouldn’t be so obliging now.”
“Why is that?”
“I ended negotiations with them this morning. I’m done there.”
“I see. Weren’t those negotiations the primary reason for your presence in New York?”
“Yeh, that and the related business you were witness to the day we met. I’ve either scrapped or suspended everything in favor of the new priority.”
“And that is?”
“You . . . uh . . . the project with you . . . this thing we’re workin’ on together.”
“And the time being is?”
“The length of time you’re willing to give me . . . till Easter weekend, you said at the start. Didn’t I confirm that I’ve extended my stay till then?”
“I read it in the paper, but no, you never gave me direct confirmation—which is entirely understandable. There are more loose conversational threads between us than I know what to do with.”
“You too? I have the same feeling. Any one topic seems to generate six more. For example, just now I meant to ask your opinion of what I did at the award show and tripped myself up with the subject of the record label.”
“For the record—pun intended—I applaud what you did at the Icon award show. I have to be considered biased, though, because you told me why you did it before I saw the footage.”
“What would your reaction have been if you hadn’t known my motives?”
“That’s hard to say. Without knowing anything about you, I most likely would’ve written off your behavior as grandstanding with bias again a factor because as recently as Monday, I had fairly inflexible beliefs about people in your business, and they were neither fair nor flattering.”
“Thank you for the opening. You’re makin’ it easier for me to ask about the case involving the roadies.”
“You don’t have to ask. Yes, of course that case colored my overall opinion of the music industry, even though I was less than professional for allowing it to do so.”
“If I may say . . . you were only being human. We all tend to judge by lowest common denominator and you solicitors would have to know that better than most. I’m guessing there’re more jokes about your kind than any other profession.”
“No argument there.” She laughs on cue. “Now, before I sail off on another tangent, I asked while we were in the park this afternoon—right after you phoned home—how your boys are, and I think your answer was lost in the talk about food.”
“It wasn’t lost. I never got round to answering because there was nothing to tell over, actually. Everyone there’s a bit pissed at me because I’ll be away from home longer than planned. Anthony minds most because he remembers a time when I said I’d be back soon and didn’t return for months. Anticipating your next question, yeh, as I was telling David just this morning, I did consider bringing the lads over for a week or so and that prospect dried up because Simon has an ear infection that’ll keep him off airplanes and Anthony’s schooling’s not going so well. He can’t afford to miss any.”
“Perhaps you should find another biographer . . . someone free to travel to the UK and better accommodate your—”
“No! Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it. You are it. You’re the only one for the job and that’s the way it stays unless it’s you wanting out.”
“Colin . . . because of what I told you about my background today, I think you can understand why I’m uncomfortable about keeping you away from your children.”
“I was rather expecting you might say that and you needn’t be uncomfortable. It’s not you keeping me from my children, it’s me. And I would never deprive either one without good reason. I wouldn’t stay away unless I thought I was going to accomplish something to benefit them in the long run.”
“Are you saying that telling your life story—if you ever do supply anything concrete—is seen as a long-term benefit for your boys? Is that what you’re asking me to believe?”
“Yeh. Please. And I promise to get on with the telling as soon as I can. I could give you a load of concrete right now if it wouldn’t make you late for your dinner date. I wasn’t mindin’ the clock and I’ve only just noticed I’m probly keeping you from—”
“Wait. What dinner date? I didn’t say I had a dinner date, I said—”
“This afternoon when I asked you to have dinner with me you said ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’ That’s what you said. Word for word, and I took it as your mannered way of saying you had another engagement. Don’t you?”
“I have things . . . I have things I need to do tonight.”
“Uh-oh. Am I gettin’ the message there’s some sort of prohibition against your seeing me socially? Some set of rules I don’t know about?”
Laurel shifts her weight on the unyielding floor without finding a more comfortable position; she repositions the phone against her ear without relieving the pressure.
“Is that your own policy or one of the rules of the profession I’ve not run into before?” he continues. “It can’t be the policy of your law firm because David cheered me on this morning when he misunderstood something I said and thought you and I were only gettin’ better acquainted when we went to the Oyster Bar and to the museum.”
“Wait. Are you saying David
openly
encouraged a social relationship between us? Is that correct?”
“Yes, definitely. That a problem?”
“It doesn’t have to be. Listen, I have to go. I have a lot of things to take care of this evening.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“Is it possible for you to see me socially?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Whose ethics will I be offending if I make it my mission in life to convince you it is a good idea?”
“There are too many technicalities and . . . and I’m afraid I don’t see the situation the way David apparently does.”
“Shit, you
still
haven’t answered the question. Whose ethics will I—”
“Colin . . . I really must go.”
“Yeh, yeh, I know, you’ve got
things
you need to do. What about tomorrow, then? Earlier you said we’d be gettin’ together at your office. That still on?”
“Yes, of course. It may have to be later in the day, though. I need to find a repairman willing to work on the weekend and that could take a good chunk out of my morning.”
“What needs repairing?”
“The garage door opener stopped working,” she blurts without thinking of the probable consequences. They argue for ten minutes before she’s able to convince him his immediate presence is not required.
“Laurel, please hear me out. If you won’t let me help, at least let me send someone. I can have someone there straightaway.”
“So can I if I’m willing to pay what you are to take care of a minor inconvenience!”
“Excuse me! I see a threat to your safety and well-being as a bit more than a minor inconvenience.”
“Since when is my safety and well-being any of your business? I’ve been managing without you for thirty years and I don’t know what makes you think I suddenly need your—”
“Be still a minute, will you? Your safety and well-being became my business the minute you were seen with me in public and assumed to be my love interest.
That
is what makes me think I should bloody well take responsibility for anything that could harm you.”
“I fail to see how the malfunction of a garage door opener is going to harm me if I don’t have it repaired right this instant.”
“Have you considered the good possibility some fuckbag with a camera has ferreted out your home address and will be trained on you when you back out of the garage and are forced to get out of the car in order to close the goddammed garage door? Do you think I’ll sleep tonight knowing that could happen?”
She’ll fix the goddammed garage door herself before she’ll admit he’s right. And she’ll let the silence between them grow ominous before she says another word.
“Laurel?”
“Are you just pleasing your tongue or have you something to add?”
“Both. You’ll have it repaired first thing, right?”
“Right.”
“And if there are any further problems you’ll let me know.”
“I’ll let you know what time I’m available tomorrow. I’ll leave word. Good night.”
“Wait! I’m not—”
Oh yes you are. Her ear is throbbing when she puts down the phone; her knees are stiff and her butt is numb when she gets up off the floor. For allowing the client to get to her, aggravation weighs her down as she returns to the garage for a final assessment of the overhead door mechanism. She takes pencil and paper along to record the make and model number of the unit in case a repairman should ask.
A stepladder is needed in order to read the model number and the height advantage allows her to see something missed earlier. The electrical plug for the opener is partially dislodged from the outlet in the ceiling, jarred loose, no doubt, by twice-daily quick reversals of the mechanism. As she reseats the plug she can place some of the blame on the receptacle itself; it’s an old one, installed in a time of want by someone more familiar with iambic pentameter than alternating current, and should have been replaced a decade ago.
From the wall switch she tries the door opener and it works smoothly. In deference to the questionable outlet and the potential for jarring the plug loose again, she waits a slow count of ten before reversing the action—a new habit she’ll have to practice until there’s time for a professional fix.
After downing a meager supper of picnic leftovers, she spends an hour at the kitchen desk going over the day’s notes. Closer inspection produces no revelations, nothing that can be expanded upon. Who is she trying to kid? Hers was the only significant biographical information released today, and that was a huge mistake—a mistake made glaringly obvious the minute the client attempted to enter her social life.
An urge to get in touch with David dwindles to nothing while she closes up the house for the night and heads upstairs. Too easy to imagine his amused reaction to this latest complaint. Too easy to imagine him reminding her that familiarity generates familiarity, and intimacy begets intimacy, a lesson she should have leaned by now.
Sprawled on her bed, Laurel squanders an hour turning the pages of a bible on contract law without retaining anything useful. Across the room, the tape of the Institute Awards show is on top of the TV. She pretends it’s not calling to her in a jeering nyah-nyah-gotcha kind of way.
She kills another hour in the bathroom, showering until the water runs cold, slathering on creams and lotions, blow-drying her hair, strand by strand. And it’s still too soon to leave word for the client without seeming overeager to comply with his wishes.
A little past eleven she exchanges a terrycloth robe for bikini briefs and an oversized T-shirt and gives in to the video. She replays the best song award portion over and over until she can no longer stand the sight of Colin Elliot’s commanding stage presence or tolerate the maddening appeal of his singing voice. Thus armed and resistant, leaving nothing to chance, she writes down what she’ll say in the phone message she plans to leave for him no earlier than midnight.
The witching hour comes and goes; she reads and rereads her script without acting on it. At twelve-fifteen it seems like a good idea to check activity on the street. She peeks through the drapes on the front window and is mildly surprised to see three vehicles parked at staggered intervals along the cul-de-sac. If she can believe one of them might contain a fuckbag photographer, she can as easily believe another might contain Colin Elliot himself, there to personally supervise her safety and well-being. Either premise is ridiculous; those cars belong to guests of other residents of the court. It is Friday night after all, and people do entertain.
At half past twelve, she dials The Plaza Hotel and asks for Boris Gudonov’s suite. She might be hoping he’ll answer; on the other hand, she might not.
There is no answer, which serves her right because she doesn’t deserve one. At the prompt, she leaves an unscripted message that includes the condition of the garage door opener and the time she plans to arrive at her office in the morning. The apology she’ll deliver in person.
