by Karen Booth
“I know Banks Forest! Leah made me an ‘80s mix CD with some of their songs on it. Is he, like, really old now?”
“No,” I huffed. “He’s only five years older than me. I think he’s even better looking now than when he was younger.”
“So, that’s who you were drooling over on the computer.”
“I wasn’t drooling.” I crinkled my lips. “It’s called research.”
She pretended to stick her finger down her throat. “You’re such a bad liar.”
* * *
After hours at the computer that night, leftovers seemed appropriate while I suffered through the last half of a mindless romantic comedy on cable, all about a scatterbrained woman finding true love with the bookish, yet ruggedly handsome, guy working in the next cubicle.
It had been six months since the end of my most recent romantic comedy, with Kevin, a fellow music writer who lived in LA. I should have recognized that we were doomed from the start. I’d never been able to make the long-distance thing work, especially not with a daughter at home.
I hated myself for being drawn to him at all—he was hopelessly cocky about his writing ability, which he tempered by falsely dismissing his good looks. My only excuse was that he’d had a soft spot for me and that had been hard to resist. There were even times when I wondered if being with Kevin was what being in love felt like. Not that it mattered. Love or not, I fell out of it after learning he had a soft spot for several other women, too.
I’d tried and failed at love so many times that I’d often wondered if I was too picky, but my boyfriend wish-list was only designed to weed out the really bad ones. I didn’t need the world. All I ever wanted was funny, smart, tall, employed, patient, non-judgmental, good kisser, able dishwasher, music fan, reader, and a healthy libido. Maybe I would never find a man who could send flowers and be monogamous, but I had to keep trying.
The movie credits rolled and I stretched and turned off the TV. I stalked up the stairs to my room, still reeling from the idea of what was going to happen on Monday. Of course, meeting Christopher Penman wasn’t going to play out as I’d once imagined. We were not being brought together by some magical, romantic set of events. This assignment was more about dumb luck, even if I’d worked my butt off for years for a cover story this big.
Perhaps my luck wouldn’t end up being dumb—maybe I’d nail the interview and still manage to nab a stolen moment with Christopher. I’d dreamt of the latter countless times—a laugh or a smile, a blissful instant of flirtation—it wouldn’t need to be much to last me a lifetime. Although, no matter what happened on Monday, I’d surely be left wanting more.
Chapter Two
Patrick’s assistant had arranged for a car to pick me up at LaGuardia airport and the driver greeted me with a funny brush of a moustache and a dry-erase sign with my name on it. I focused on the one positive thing I could come up with to keep my mind from settling on the idiotic enormity of what I was about to do. At least I was on the ground.
I’d planned to use the time in the car to go over my notes but found myself hopelessly distracted by the city—the commotion, a busy tempo unlike any other place. I used to say that I wished I lived in New York, but that seemed like an empty statement now. I’d never really wished it; I’d only thought it sounded like something a music writer should do.
Forcing myself to return to interview preparation, all I could do was agonize over the sequence of my questions. Three hours was a very small window in which to earn Christopher’s trust and get him to do the improbable—betray his biggest secrets, on the record. I had to ease him into things carefully, but quickly.
The car arrived at The Hotel Rivington on the Lower East Side before I could complete my last minute cramming. It was a bizarre looking building—a modern grid of steel and glass, a colorless Mondrian skirted by Brownstones, the site of the interview and my home for the next twenty-four hours.
The driver held my door open and I slipped him a five. “Thank you, Ms. Abby,” he said, as I nearly tripped over the curb.
Bitter cold whipped between the buildings, gripping my shoulders and sending a chill through me as the doorman rushed to let me in. There was no time for my eyes to adjust from late morning on the street to the softly lit lobby before my surroundings faded and my vision focused on a point. The image ahead left me considering an abrupt turn on my heel and a swift escape.
There he sat, no more than ten yards away, reading the New York Times while wearing silvery sunglasses. I decided he must be napping because he didn’t strike me as the type to read the Times.
He wore an artfully distressed pair of jeans and a black t-shirt under a tan canvas jacket, much too light for such a cold day. His short, chestnut brown hair was arranged into a tousled mess.
I mulled over my best approach and then he confounded me a second time by looking up and making eye contact, through the sunglasses no less, folding his paper and striding toward me. I looked behind me assuming he must recognize someone else.
“You must be Ms. Abby.” He held out his hand. “Chris Penman.”
Countless thoughts and questions erupted in my head. Wow. I’m glad I wore heels. He’s tall. His accent is different in person. It’s like butter. British butter. Did I remember perfume this morning? Oh crap. My breath. I should have had a piece of gum in the car. Are my hands clammy? Why do they always get that way when I’m nervous?
“Yes. Oh, Claire.” I offered my sweaty hand. “Please. Thank you. Hi.” Cotton candy had graciously stepped in to take over for my saddled brain.
“Oh great, uh, it’s Claire then.” He cocked his head to the side. “Please, call me Chris. I Googled you this morning and found a photo. I like to know what I’m up against.” He chuckled, removed his sunglasses and shook my hand in one seamless movement.
I caught a glimpse of his eyes and everything turned syrupy. I began searching for words, an intelligent response, and it happened—I became tangled up in his eyes, drawn into them because my mind was convinced there was nowhere else to go. The color was so astounding it deserved its own name. Calling them “green” would have been flat-out dismissive. It couldn’t begin to capture the hypnotic nature of the hue. Apple, forest, grass, jade, emerald, moss, clover—somewhere, there had to be a name for his green.
Christopher duly noted my disorientation and nudged the day ahead. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning for the lobby door.
“I’m sorry. I thought we were doing the interview in the hotel,” I pleaded as I shuffled along with him.
“If it’s all the same to you, I was hoping to skip that. A bit contrived, isn’t it?”
“Uh, sure.” I stopped. “I need to check my bag…” My voice feathered away.
“Here.” He plucked my overnight bag from my hand and marched it to the front desk. “Please hold this for Ms. Abby. She’ll be checking in later.” He returned in a flash. “Better?” He towered over me, seeming annoyed.
“Yes. Thank you. Where are we going?”
He didn’t bother with an answer, but instead sent a profusion of warmth over me by hovering his hand near the small of my back as the doorman held the door.
“As planned, Mr. Penman?” the driver asked, as we climbed into his idling town car.
“Yes, Lou. Thank you.”
I did my best to get situated without fidgeting, but my long, black wool coat was bunched up under my butt. Like an idiot, I popped up from the seat over and over, trying to yank it out from under me. The instant I felt settled, he went and did it again, removing the damn sunglasses and looking at me as if it was the most innocent thing in the world. He had to know the effect he had on women. It had to be intentional.
“Now, don’t worry,” he said. “This won’t cut into your three hours. We’re just doing a bit of multi-tasking. I have to run by a friend’s shop. She’s ordered some trousers from England and I need to try them on in case they need to go to the tailor.”
It was difficult to imagine a world in which a garmen
t wouldn’t fall in line with Christopher Penman’s every wish. I dared to look him in the eye again and he began slathering on the charm with deliberate bats of his lashes, like basting a turkey with butter, priming me to toss out every good manner my mother had taught me. I knew then that if I wanted to make it to the end of the day, I should focus on breathing when possible.
I righted my brain and dug my digital recorder and notes from my bag. “We should probably get started,” I said, determined to play a meaningful role in the situation. I was on the clock, after all.
“Down to business.” He wagged an eyebrow.
You have got to stop doing that, buddy. I shuddered and focused on the floor mat, employing a new strategy: avoid eye contact.
“Are you cold? Lou, can we have a bit more heat back here?” he asked.
Right. Cold. That’s the problem. “Okay, then.” I smiled, forcing an air of relaxation with a flip of my hair, as if this sort of thing happened to me every day. “You have a new record coming out in a few months. How was it getting back into the studio?”
“It was great. I love being in the studio.” He smiled narrowly.
I waited, wondering if that was my sign that he’d concluded his answer. “You chose New Orleans this time. What was it like to work there?”
“It was brilliant. The city has a great atmosphere.” There was another twinkly, yet diminutive smile. Perhaps he thought he could hypnotize me.
“Anything else you liked about recording there?”
“The people, I suppose. I felt a connection with them. They’re re-building their city. I’m re-building my career.”
He paused and searched my face as if he was waiting for a response. There was no question I was on a two second delay, which undoubtedly made me seem like a ditz, but it was only because I was juggling too much in my head.
He continued, “Anyway, New Orleans was brilliant. Great studio. Wonderful people.”
My eyes darted back to my notes and I tugged on my lower lip. “Tell me about the musicians who played on the new record. You worked with friends on this one, but you used studio players on your first solo record. Why the new approach?”
“Well…” He turned toward me as if he was switching to a more serious interview mode. “This project is much more personal. I wanted to surround myself with people I know, people I could trust. And I was looking for collaboration. That’s something I miss about being in a band. The first solo record was made in a vacuum for all intents and purposes.” He glanced out the window. A delivery truck was blocking traffic in both directions and a chorus of car horns blared. “I’d show up and tell the hired guns what to do or even worse, I wouldn’t show up at all and the engineer would tell everyone what to do. It wasn’t a good idea for me to have free reign at that time.” He inched his eyes back to me. “This project has more meaning, so working with my friends made sense. Plus, New Orleans is too much fun to be there by yourself.”
He unleashed a knowing smile and I swallowed, hard. I gauged his words. He was being cooperative. His answers were stilted, but I was already getting more than I’d expected and he hadn’t been anything other than pleasant. Mostly, I was impressed with my ability to notice anything at all because his lips were tormenting me with words beginning with “p”.
“What do you mean when you say the new record is more personal?” I looked up to catch Chris and Lou exchanging secret signals.
“Sorry, dear. You’ll have to hold onto that thought. We’re here.”
Chapter Three
The shop his friend owned was a posh boutique in SoHo. Chris again put his hand close to the small of my back and gestured toward the entrance. I felt a tingle, which caused me to gawk at him as he opened the door for me.
The late morning sun beamed through tall windows onto wide plank wood floors and there was perfume in the air, as if someone had been primping. Music played and although I knew the song, I blanked on the title and artist.
The boutique had perfect stacks of sweaters and jeans perched atop long, clear acrylic tables. There were racks of expensive looking clothing, men’s on one side and women’s on the other, a few of each style or color, hanging on precisely spaced wood and chrome hangers.
From the staircase that led to the second floor, a statuesque woman floated over, squealing and smiling at Chris. Her wavy, auburn mane swished behind her and she just so happened to be at the perfect height for Chris in her sky-high shoes.
“Christopher, love,” she purred. The two embraced with noisy kisses on each cheek. She stepped back with her enviable legs, bathed in chocolate brown tights beneath a short navy blue dress. The woman eyed him in a way that made me wonder if I should excuse myself.
Chris introduced me to Francesca and I knew at once that she was appraising both my clothes and me. She may have been stunning, but I doubted she could keep up with me intellectually and she had a bony butt. Mine might be better described as perky, thanks to a lot of hard work, but still, I was glad to be wearing good shoes.
“Your things are upstairs, darling,” Francesca said to Chris. I trailed behind after he made sure I knew to join them, the beautiful Amazon pair.
The second floor expanded into a loft-like space with white-curtained dressing rooms and a seating area outfitted with modern white leather sofas and chairs. A bottle on ice and a pair of champagne flutes sat at the ready, confirming my status as third wheel.
“Christopher, these are the pants I ordered and the others are just a few goodies I knew would look fabulous on you.” She lingered after he thanked her, before raising her chin and throwing back her shoulders. “I’ll leave you two alone.” She winked at me, a look that said she knew I was in over my head.
“Champagne?” Christopher asked, handing me the glass of pale gold bubbles. His warm fingers brushed my hand and I craved champagne like I never had before. He wore a light-hearted smile, which took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected any and I’d already had several. “I’ll try these on straight away. I know we’re on a tight schedule. Go back to your questions. I can do two things at once.”
I had no doubt about that.
He removed a few items from the rack while I settled in the chair closest to his dressing room and took the moment of relative privacy to compose myself. I patted my forehead with my fingers and took several deep breaths.
“Uh, so, back to what we were talking about earlier. Why was it important to make a personal record?” I asked, raising my voice even though there was only a fabric curtain separating us.
“Um, well…” He was quiet for a moment and I worried I’d touched a nerve already. He pulled back the curtain and strode out in unmistakably well-made black dress pants and his black leather shoes, untied. “What do you think?”
It took painful amounts of self-control to refrain from dropping my jaw to the floor or simply fainting. “Great. They look really, really great.” I stared. “Perfect length,” I added, so as not to dwell on how great they were or reveal what part of him I’d been ogling.
He checked out his butt in the mirror. “These don’t give me a square bottom, do they?” He wagged his hips and smiled at me again. “No, I think they’ll work bloody well.” He stepped back into the dressing room and zipped the curtain closed.
I considered re-phrasing my question, but he surprised me by returning to the topic.
“As you probably know, I’ve had some rough patches over the last few years. I really needed to clear my head, especially after my divorce. Writing music is my way of working through these things. I’m not the bloke who goes to a therapist.” He stopped and the quiet made me wonder what was happening behind the curtain. “I didn’t know that sorting through my personal issues would turn into a record. I didn’t plan it.”
“At what point did you realize that you had enough material to record?” The question was immediate and natural. It was such a relief to feel like I was getting into a groove. Although I loved to look at him, it was much easier when he was hidden from view,
when his physical presence wasn’t pulling me in seven different directions.
“It happened quickly. Once I reached the point where I was writing good music and exploring things on a personal level, I couldn’t stop. It was complete catharsis. It was only a few weeks before I had eight or nine songs.”
He emerged from behind the curtain again and turned to face me in a marine blue dress-shirt with a texture like superfine embroidery. He hadn’t bothered with most of the buttons and I could see more than a conciliatory patch of his chest. The lightweight gray wool pants he was wearing looked as if they’d already been to the tailor—the fit couldn’t have been better.
“How many songs did you actually record?” I had to glance away after the first few words. Talking to him while looking at him was a talent I didn’t possess.
“Let me think.” He stared at the ceiling, flaunting his jaw and rubbing his neck while his irresistible smell washed over me. “I went into the studio with easily twenty songs. We recorded fifteen and I believe twelve will end up on the record.” He eased into the chair next to me and finished off the final drops in his glass, setting it on the table between us.
This was all a brand new kind of weird, talking to Christopher Penman while he tried on clothes. I was even getting comfortable with his appearance, but it was more difficult when he’d been out of sight for a minute and reappeared. Then he knocked the breath right out of me.
“So, if many of the songs were about dealing with your divorce, what were the other songs about?”
“The other side of it was dealing with what was my fault. That was more difficult, because it felt horrible to think about what a prat I’d been, but it was ultimately the most rewarding part.”
I nodded, feeling better about my decision to focus on his record at the beginning. It was leading to the other topics and I felt sure it had helped me earn his confidence. The answers seemed to be coming easily now.
