by Karen Booth
“Aside from lyrics, was there anything about the process of writing that contributed to the personal nature of the record?”
He scratched his head. “I had a lot of ‘aha’ moments. They weren’t always thoughts that went into lyrics, but they were part of my state of mind. You can say it any way you want, but the record is the documentary of my mid-life crisis, in feeling and in substance.” He stood and headed back into the dressing room. “This is the last one. Thanks for being such a good sport.”
“Of course,” I called. “Thanks for the private fashion show,” I mumbled under my breath, disbelieving the words.
Mr. Perfect exited his dressing room, remarkable in his own black t-shirt and a mind-blowing pair of jeans. He peered down at me and swept his floppy hair from his forehead. The only thing that could’ve kept me from holding an impolite stare was his question about the pants, “What about these?”
I sat, dumbfounded. If it was all a distraction technique, it was working.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’m starving. I know a great place.”
Chapter Four
To say the interview had diverged from what I’d anticipated was like saying it’s fun to drink beer. I’d imagined us sitting in a generic hotel meeting room with a pitcher of ice water and wallpaper as far as the eye could see. I would’ve asked my questions, he likely would have skirted many of them, and I would have flown home, the recipient of three antiseptic hours with the captivating Christopher Penman. There wasn’t a single reason to expect anything more.
The subject of my interview was what had really shattered my preconceptions. Sure, he was charming. That was to be expected. What I hadn’t counted on was his seeming candor. I was supposed to be the enemy. The media had made much of his unhappiness a public matter and although I still didn’t know what had been exaggerated, several missteps had been made to look as bad as possible.
More than a year ago, I’d seen tabloid photos of Chris and his then wife in front of an LA restaurant, looking as if they’d had the spat of the century. The pictures were unflattering at best, splotchy faces, scowls and wrinkled foreheads. I hadn’t bothered to open the magazine and read the article. I did what most people do—I paid for my groceries and went about my day, with a horrible image of two people I didn’t know burned into my brain.
Now I wondered where the real Chris was. I found it difficult to believe he was on the cover of that magazine, but I’d only known him for an hour. Maybe that was the way he used to be, when he was married and unhappy. I glanced at him, trying to stay under the radar. He grinned, making a motion with his hand to suggest he had a big talker on the line. I smirked and rolled my eyes in sympathy, thinking that he was such a lethal package.
A mass of faces crossed the street, likely rushing off to lunch. You could still see their breath—even with the sun at its highest point, the day hadn’t warmed at all. Lou slowed through the intersection, eventually forced to stop for pedestrians crossing against the signal on the other side. We were headed to a place in Little Italy and we could’ve walked there faster, but I was thankful to have the time away from the cold.
Lou pulled up to the curb and Chris was at the restaurant door before me, raising his face to the glow of the mid-day sun. “I hope you’re hungry.” Now his lips were distracting me with all words, not just the ones that started with particular letters.
Twenty or so tables and booths filled the dining room, covered with red and white-checkered tablecloths, all of them empty. A round, gray-haired man materialized and he and Chris exchanged hugs and handshakes.
“Claire, please meet Marco. This is his restaurant.”
“Ah, Miss Claire. Happy to meet you.” He looked at Chris and then at me. “Christopher always brings the pretty ladies with him. Such beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair. If we went to Italy, you would have to beat the men with a big stick.”
“Thank you.” I blushed, taken aback by the newly planted image of Marco and me in Italy with a man-beating stick. “Did we miss the lunch rush?”
“Oh, no,” he chuckled. “We opened for Christopher. Our favorite customer.”
Marco saw us to our table, a half-round booth with red leather upholstery on a raised platform, providing a view of the street through the requisite white lace café curtains.
I took a sip of water and discovered how thirsty I was, finishing in as lady-like a gulp as possible before the ice collapsed against my upper lip. I wiped away the watery moustache with the white linen napkin, only to see Chris watching me.
“Thirsty?”
“I guess so.” I smiled, sheepishly.
“Stay hydrated. Wouldn’t want a dead writer on my hands,” he said, laughing to himself.
Funny. Dead writer—I get it.
Marco brought a bottle of red wine and Chris checked the label. All I could think was that it must be nice to have someone open his restaurant for you. It was probably a normal Monday for Chris.
“Ah, so Christopher, how did you meet the lovely Claire?” Marco uncorked the bottle and poured a splash of wine in Chris’s glass.
“Excellent question. How did I meet the lovely Claire?” Chris grinned at me and took a sip. “This is perfect, Marco. Thank you.”
I tried to shake the image of Chris’s lips on the wine glass. “I’m a writer. We’re doing an interview for his new album.” I placed my recorder and notes on the table.
“Fantastic. He’s a wonderful man, you know,” Marco said as he filled my glass. “Make sure you say how wonderful he is.” He smiled playfully, which made my cheeks flush again.
“We’ll have to see how the rest of the interview goes,” I said, without thinking.
Chris shifted his weight, then sat back and took a lengthy drink of his wine. He straightened his knife and fork, drawing to light the beauty of his hands for the first time.
I started my recorder. “So, you said that the record is a documentation of your mid-life crisis. Can you tell me more about that?” As soon as I’d asked, I was sure that was what he hated about writers—having your own words thrown back at you in the form of a question.
He took another sip of his wine, never taking his eyes off me. I sensed he was making a careful assessment of me, possibly a final decision on how much information to share. “Claire, do you have anything else you need to do today? Any other appointments or meetings?”
I wrinkled my brow. “No. I planned to go back to the hotel and start on the story, maybe get in a workout. I was hoping to meet with my editor at Rolling Stone, but his schedule was full. I fly home tomorrow morning.”
“Perfect. What do you say we finish the interview later and enjoy our lunch, like normal people? We won’t talk about me at all.”
I was more than a little deflated since I’d been hoping for a good answer to my question. “I guess that would be all right,” I said, shutting off the recorder. It all seemed very convenient for him. “When you say finish later, do you mean this afternoon or tonight?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get your interview.”
I tried to imagine a scenario in which our lunch was a good idea because I felt as though I was allowing him to put me off like a stupid girl.
My mom weighed in on the situation from inside my head, as she was apt to do whenever I was confused. She and I had been exceptionally close when she was alive and somehow our running conversation never ended when she was no longer among the living. She told me to stop being stupid, smile, and eat my lunch. She also thought I should show some leg, but I reminded her that I was wearing pants.
Marco and a waiter brought plates and platters of wonderful looking and smelling food—steaming bowls of homemade ravioli with tomato sauce, veal cutlets, seafood risotto.
“I’m definitely going to need that workout after this,” I said, reaching for the ravioli.
“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those women who doesn’t eat. I can’t stand that.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to eat. I
’m just going to pay for it later.” I dished the pasta onto my plate.
There was pleasant conversation during our marathon lunch, but all of it was about me so I found that aspect of things to be quite dull. Chris asked me all sorts of questions, about where I lived, my career and family. He even asked if there was a Mr. Abby. Sometimes I didn’t hear the answers come out of my own mouth because everything he did was so enthralling.
Over the course of the meal, I think we both sensed that it didn’t have to be controversial if we enjoyed each other’s company—we seemed to naturally warm to each other and we had fun, laughing more now that we were on our second bottle of wine. It even felt as if we could end up being friends, but perhaps that was the Merlot talking.
When we finished, Chris went to the kitchen to thank the chef and I scrolled through my messages, finding a text from Sam. She’d worn me down the night before and I’d spilled the story of my adolescent crush on Chris. Now that she was on her way home from school, she was dying to know what’d happened.
There was no sign of a bill and when I asked about it, Chris said, “It’s taken care of.” He seemed to catch the look on my face. “You’re my guest, Claire. Relax.”
Right. Relax.
Marco gave me a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek when we said our goodbyes.
“He likes you,” Chris said, outside the restaurant.
“Good. I like him too.” I’d definitely had one too many glasses of wine. “Where’s your car?” I asked, scanning the street.
“I called Lou and told him he could head back to the hotel.” He popped a mint from the restaurant in his mouth. “I thought we could do as New Yorkers do and walk.”
Several paces ahead, Chris strolled backwards, motioning me to catch up with him. It was still chilly, especially now that the sun was starting to duck behind the buildings.
“Aren’t you freezing?” I asked, certain he was about to turn into an ice cube in his thin canvas jacket.
“No, but if you’re concerned, you can keep me warm when it gets to be too much,” he replied, with another of his devastating grins.
My cheeks burned from the wind, but I lasted for several blocks without caring at all. The notion of a stroll down a busy Manhattan street with him was enough to warm me. But then the wind picked up and I tucked my chin inside my coat and shuddered, which he seemed to find funny.
“Look at you. I’m the one who doesn’t know how to dress himself and you’re shivering.” He was still laughing when he put his arm around my shoulders. “Come here. I can’t bear to see a damsel in distress.”
“I’m not in distress, nor am I a damsel. I’m cold.” I added in my defense, “I’m very temperature sensitive.” I looked up at him and he returned the look as we continued to walk, except he had his sunglasses on and the glare made it impossible to see his eyes.
Damn those glasses. I wasn’t sure how many more times I’d get to see that particular view, if ever.
Chapter Five
The ten-block walk may have been the best in my life, but the lobby was a merciful escape from the cold. The tops of my thighs and tips of my fingers stung like sunburn.
We stepped to the front desk and I checked in while Chris spoke with the concierge about dinner plans for tomorrow night. I wondered with whom he’d be dining. The young blonde helping him was radiant, openly flirting with him as he reciprocated. I fought a scowl, guessing that was how he was with all women.
Having finished his planning and flirting, Chris waited while I got my room key. “Share an elevator?” he asked.
“Sure.” We made our way with a sudden stiffness to everything. The air, our conversation, my whole body felt rigid. “When can you finish the interview?” I asked. I had to pin him down or he’d continue to delay. We’d already discussed the new record. He’d probably said everything he wanted to say.
He stared at the numbers above the elevator doors as we made a slow climb.
“How about five-thirty? Will that give you enough time?”
“That depends on how long you let me stay.”
“We’ll have to play it by ear, but in theory you can stay as long as you like.” He gave me an indecipherable look and held the elevator door when we reached the sixth floor. “I’m in 912.”
“Sounds good,” I said, doing my best to ignore his sudden troublesome mood.
Alone in my room, I tossed my bag onto the chair. It tipped over and tumbled to the floor, but I left it, too tired and preoccupied to care. I flopped back on to the bed and sank in the comforter as if I was preparing to make snow angels. I would’ve enjoyed the luxury of it if my brain hadn’t been in overdrive, going over the details of the day and to my detriment, dwelling on the change in his disposition. Surely he would’ve preferred a date with a firing squad rather than finish the interview.
A headache sprouted behind my eyes and I rolled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom to take something to soften the pain. I scrutinized my face in the fluorescent light while pouring a glass of water. I looked like I felt, tired and confused. I slugged down two Tylenol as my phone rang, an unfortunately familiar number on the caller ID.
Great. Just what I need. “Kevin. What do you want?”
“Hey, Claire Bear, are you in New York?”
My stomach instinctively lurched at Kevin’s voice; every utterance was so grating. It was hard to believe I’d ever enjoyed listening to him talk. “Please don’t call me that ridiculous nickname. And how did you know I was in New York?”
“I just got off the phone with Patrick Collins. Have you done your interview with Chris Penman?”
“Part of it. We’re finishing tonight. Why?” I rubbed my temple and plopped back down on the bed.
“Patrick asked me not to say anything, but this whole thing sounds fishy. I’m pretty sure Penman demanded a woman writer at the last minute.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Claire, come on. Think about it. He’s a good-looking guy. He wants to rehab his image. He probably got panicky and figured he wouldn’t have much sway with a guy.”
“But Patrick said he wanted someone experienced, someone who Chris could trust and talk to.”
“Exactly why you had to be the person to write the story. I’m sure Patrick is thinking you’re woman enough to keep Penman on his toes and a good enough interviewer to drag the story out of him.”
My head sputtered, putting facts together until I realized that had to be exactly why Patrick had been so anxious for me to accept the assignment. And Chris had likely organized every detail on his end—the restaurant, the private fashion show, the wine and champagne, even the walk back to the hotel. He’d probably paid Marco to say that stuff about fending off men with a stick.
“I can’t talk about this.” I closed my eyes, understanding what a girl I’d been all day. The fact that the message was delivered my ex-boyfriend in no way softened the blow.
“What are you going to do? You can’t say anything, to anyone. It’s just my guess.”
“There’s nothing to do. You told me your stupid theory and now I’m going to finish the interview.” I couldn’t bear to tell him how I’d been so gullible.
“Be careful, Claire Bear. You know, everybody says he’s a dog.”
I hung up the phone and knew one thing. I was not going down in a fiery crash. I’d put my story and my future, Sam’s future, at risk by allowing myself to be swayed by Mr. Perfect. I had to take control of the situation. It was my only hope to finish the interview and get out with what I needed—a story worthy of a cover, and that meant dirt.
A shower seemed like the remedy for many of my problems—the headache, the residual cold, and the sting of the truth. Chris Penman wasn’t being nice to me. He’d used his charming exterior to make the best of a situation he’d avoided for more than a dozen years.
The hot water lapped at my muscles and my body bubbled back to life when I dropped my head forward, rolling it from side to side as the scalding water beat on
my neck. Time to start fresh. If Chris Penman wanted a woman, I was going to give him one. If I did it right, I could distract him exactly as he’d distracted me.
Always prepared for a last-minute dinner invitation or a disastrous coffee spill, I’d packed a snug black skirt and a killer pair of black pumps in my suitcase. I chose the slim-fitting sapphire blue cardigan I’d planned to wear home minus a t-shirt underneath. An extra button left undone did the trick—the sweater made my eyes look an exceptional shade of blue, not that they were the intended focus, with the help of a well-engineered bra.
I turned in the mirror, confident that with the way I filled out the back of the skirt and a waft of perfume as my starting point, persuading him to spill his handsome guts would be much easier.
In final preparation, I flipped through my notes to the most indelicate questions, reading them aloud. I couldn’t run the risk of tripping over my words or being surprised by the sound of my own voice.
When five-thirty came, I slipped into my pumps, quickly recalling the effort it took to walk in them. Alas, they were an essential part of the package. I teetered my way to the elevator and down the hall to his room.
Chris answered the door, his reaction to my appearance transparent. He blinked several times, his mouth agape. “Don’t you look smashing?”
I breezed past him and the door clicked shut, followed by the sound of the latch. My heart skipped a beat, but I took a deep breath and kept it together. “I had to take a long, hot shower after our walk. I was freezing.” I gracefully bent over to place my bag in a chair and felt his eyes on me.
He was wearing the same clothes from earlier, but was barefoot with splendidly disheveled hair. He looked sleepy and gorgeous, as if he’d just climbed out of bed, and my doltish mind drifted over the image.
His suite was several times bigger than my room and huge by New York standards. The windows were astounding, floor to ceiling, and lining one entire wall. We stood in a spacious living area with the bedroom beyond, featuring a King-size bed and the same sumptuous white linens I had in my room. I considered it for a minute—if I’d wanted to, I could screw the whole music-journalism gig and make my greatest adolescent dream come true. A bounce on the edge of the bed and a welcoming pat on the mattress was probably all it would take.
