“So what was going on with the band at this point?” I thought I’d make an effort to get us back to on record. I put my hand on the recorder.
“No, no, not yet. I haven’t told you everything yet.” She poured out the rest of wine into our glasses, and raised her glass. We clinked glasses.
“I do need more information for the actual piece.”
“Yes, don’t fret, darling, we’ll get there.” She had that strange English way of sounding friendlier the further away she was getting from actually being friendly, and I felt that sense of worry come over me again. I almost wanted to shake her. Just get on with it, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. So I drank some more, and tried to settle my mixture of unease and impatience.
She was enjoying this, you could tell. This was her moment in the spotlight. I wondered how much she would want out of this, and what, if anything, Dave had promised her.
“It was amusing. Thrilling, of course. The shows were getting more and more frenzied. As were the fans. The boys, as you know, were very careful of their private life. But I can tell you, a saint would have stumbled at the parade of flesh they were treated to every night. And there they would be, at the end of the night, sitting at a table, each of them surrounded by two or three lovelies. They’d developed a system…”
I interrupted her. “Can this go on the record? I think we can guarantee anonymity for any quotes you’d rather not have attributed.” I hesitated, hoping I seemed like I was divulging a big secret. “I’m sure Dave mentioned it? The possibility of this being turned into a documentary? Film? And you’d have a large role, of course, particularly because of your special insights.” Was that laying it on too thick? “If I can record it, then Dave will hear instantly how important your participation would be. Ok?”
She took the bait, and swallowed it whole. Along with another gulp of wine. Yes, that’s right, who’s in charge now, I thought, as I pressed the button, and made her repeat most of what she’d already said.
I had some ideas for where she wanted to go with this. I’d help her hurry it up. I felt a bit more sanguine about it all. I knew what she was going to say. The fact she wanted to build it up so much, actually made it a tiny bit depressing. This was her past. And it was amazing, naturally. No one would deny that. But it was the past. I felt this sudden need to call Tristan, throw my arms around him, touch his warm body, and be in his actual presence, instead of all these ghosts, however interesting.
I returned my focus back to the blond woman, looking at me quizzically from across her pine kitchen table. “You were talking about a system?” She looked surprised. Not that drunk yet, am I, Yoda says, I thought in my head. And giggled. Her face registered slight annoyance. She thought I wasn’t taking her seriously, that’s what that small frown at the corner of her mouth meant, I decided, thinking at the same time that she’d have to watch that, or it would be the prime place for her first Botox injection. I smiled at her. “I’m laughing because I can just imagine what they did. Did they let you in on the secret? Did you ever help?” Now for a little ego boosting. She needed to open up a little. This would do it. “They obviously trusted you, particularly Tristan.”
She preened, and began playing with her hair, putting it up in a simple, artful bun. Taking a long black lacquered chopstick off the table, she placed it through her creation and secured it. She was aware of me watching her, and seemed pleased to again be the center of attention. Another one who liked having an audience, but her need seemed more selfish somehow, and more tiring. She was pretty, and what she was saying was interesting, but it felt like hard work. Keeping her happy. I wondered if Tristan had felt the same way, and before I knew it, a slow smile had spread across my face. I felt her eyes on me. More work to do.
“You’re a beautiful woman. And they trusted you. How did this fit into the lifestyle they were developing around being the most in-demand group at the time?”
She patted her hair, moving one long tendril back into place behind her ear. “Tristan and I were friends. He didn’t really want the follow through with the groupies. He liked the attention, naturally. But he was pretty indifferent to the constant sex on demand that the rest of the band were enjoying.” She drained her glass. “It wasn’t that he didn’t like sex—or women! No. He was a fantastic lover. Fantastic. Extraordinarily gifted. In all ways, if you see what mean.” She sniggered. “I’m not shocking you, am I?”
I smiled, politely. Focus. Focus. “No, not yet anyway,” I replied, sweetly. “I’ll be sure to let you know if you do.”
“Would you like some more wine?” She smiled back. A dangerous game.
“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” I made a show of looking at the notes. “When did you become lovers?”
She stood and took another bottle from the refrigerator. I stared at her haunches, slim, flexible, tried to imagine them wrapped around him. I closed my eyes. It was easy. Too easy.
I looked up again, and she was pouring out more wine into my glass. I scribbled something down. “And the system? You were going to mention that?”
“The system. Yes. The boys would pick out their favorites from the audience. I’d have to make a little map of where they were, with the colors of their clothes and hair, and send some of the roadies out to invite them to the after party. Of course they were happy to do it, they got the leftovers. If there were any!” She laughed. “They had a lot of stamina, the boys.”
“Did you ever sleep with anyone else in the band?” It seemed a logical question. But her face was a study.
“You really don’t know all the stories, do you? What a funny choice then to have you to do the book. Well, maybe they want someone who isn’t contaminated by all the rumors that went about.” She shook her head, as though she was disagreeing with something. “There were so many things said, the orgies, the whips and cuffs, the girls claiming that they’d been sex slaves.” She drank more. “People don’t realize how mainstream the whole BDSM thing had become in certain circles. It would have been like turning down cocaine. If it’s offered to you, you don’t say no, do you?” She answered her own question. “No, obviously not. Yes, I slept with AC. But that was after Tristan and I were over. It wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same after that.”
Her eyes were slightly creased now, and her cheeks were flushed. I raised my glass. Now maybe we could cut the bullshit. “To heartache,” I said.
“To heartache,” she answered, and we clinked glasses again.
“What happened?” I felt like I needed to ask.
“I don’t know. The band was huge, of course. It was a moment that was over, the small clubs, the intimacy of it all, and the excitement. You can see it in the interviews they gave then. So much less guarded. Just a bunch of kids who had no idea what was about to hit them.” She sounded sad. “I couldn’t tour with them all the time. And it suddenly got to a point where it was either going to be serious, or it wasn’t. And the time wasn’t right.” She sighed.
I suddenly felt very, very sorry for her. Was this going to be me? In a couple of months? Next year? I needed to know more. I’d never, might not ever, have this chance again. I needed to know this stuff. Now.
“Did he break it off with you gently?” I wanted to hear about the future.
She shook her head. “He didn’t mean to be cruel. I flew out to meet him in LA for a show. As a surprise. He was sleeping with the drummer from the lead on band. I found her trussed up in the dressing room with his head between her legs. AC said he didn’t realize they were in there, but I think he’d always been slightly jealous of how close we were. And he wanted a go at me himself. A way to get back at Tristan? Maybe. Or a way to get close to him. It was a pretty open secret that AC thought Tristan should explore the other side…with AC as the guide.” She filled her glass up to the top. “Oops, a little too much there. Never mind.” We both drank.
“And you and AC?”
“We were an item for nearly two years. Ironically, it lasted slightly longer than my
time with Tristan. How funny is that? But it wasn’t the same, never the same.” She sighed. “Paul, the guitarist, you know, the one who AC punched?” I nodded. “Good, at least you know that story. He always claimed that I was like their Yoko. That I started the split with the band. But that was bullshit, and everyone knew it. Everyone knew that he was hiding what his girlfriend had done. She was the one that brought the photos of Tristan and the drummer to the papers. We all knew it.”
Well, this was interesting.
“Which photos?”
“Oh, of course they couldn’t be published. One of the big mags wanted to buy one of the cleaner ones. Sheer porn.”
“Did you see them?”
“Yeah, AC got a copy of some of them. I actually think he took them. Nothing that surprising to anyone in that circle. Tristan in leather. A collection of whips. Probably the most shocking one was the small brand on her hip, with his initials. But no one ever said whether he did it or not. The drummer, what was her name, Christina, that was it, chained and bound. His cock, with a cock ring. Pretty standard stuff, really.”
Really. I laughed, I couldn’t help it, but whether it was from nervousness, or the wine, or just the idiocy of the whole situation, I couldn’t tell. “Maybe not to your average person.”
“Yes, but who cares? No one. Anyone in the spotlight has to take it further. That’s what they want!” She was becoming more animated. “That’s what started all the stories. Those pictures. The rumors about what was really in them. And again, it all came up again later on, when his wife left him. Although no one was really sure why she had married him in the first place. Anyone who knew Tristan from the old days knew that he liked to drink, and party, but that he wasn’t really about the party, he wanted to push the boundaries. She just wanted the money. To be the center of attention. Well, she’s in Hollywood. Getting what she deserves, the bitch. I think she really hurt him. Hopefully someone even more shallow and concerned with appearances will dump her and her fake boobs.” She pulled out the chopstick and her hair fell down around her face, and she energetically swept it back up again and rearranged it, again watching me watch her.
I couldn’t resist. “Do you still have the pictures?”
Her hands slowly finished putting the chopstick in place. “Who said I had them in the first place?”
More flattery was needed. “I thought AC might have trusted you to keep them out of the wrong hands.”
She pursed her lips. Her face grew more pointed, almost as if she were sniffing at me, like an animal. I gazed at her, levelly, or as much as I could, given how jetlagged I realized I was becoming. I wanted the information. This was what I needed to do to get it.
“You’re not stupid, are you?” Poppy gazed at me.
“I try to avoid it,” I answered. “I don’t want the pictures, I’d just like to see them.” Maybe I could make this a bonding moment. “I’d like to see what you experienced.”
“He didn’t really do that with me. Ah, simpler times.” She smirked into her glass. “But yes, I’ve got them.” I looked at her hopefully. “You probably want to see his cock. Most people do. Remember the ‘plaster casters’? Now those were the days. When men were men, and women kept souvenirs of their favorite parts. I met one of the ladies once. She was fantastic. No point in living your life filled with regrets over what you haven’t dared to do, that’s what she said. I tend to agree.”
I nodded. “I would love to see them.” I tried to look grateful. Like I needed her to corrupt me.
“Yes, they’re definitely erotic. Naturally not as impressive as he was in the flesh, but we take what we can get, don’t we?” She looked me up and down. “All right. But this is off the record. You can only allude to how well-constructed he was…is. Some lucky girl. But once, that was me. Yes. I’ll show you. Stay here, I’ll be back in a moment. The loo is through there if you need it.” And with that she swept away. I could hear her footsteps going up the staircase, and I wondered if they were in her bedroom.
That’s where I’d keep them.
I went to the bathroom and I tried to straighten myself up a little. There were so many more questions I really wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to give myself away. I couldn’t decide what I felt about her. I liked her, even felt a bit like we had something in common besides the obvious, but it almost didn’t seem real that she once had a relationship with Tristan, maybe even felt she was in love with him. That’s what I would ask her, I thought. How she felt then. How she felt now. Maybe her answer would help make sense of my jumble of emotions. But I thought of his smile, his whispers in my hair, and I didn’t want to compare it. I didn’t want to think of our connection as some problem to be figured out, one more relationship on some long timeline that started and ended…when? I splashed some water on my face. The circles under my eyes were becoming darker. It had been a long day. It really was time to cut it, go home, stop feeding my irrational curiosity. I had enough material for now. But just a few more questions, couldn’t hurt, right? I went out, and found Poppy sitting there, gazing at the photos, 8x10 glossies. She hadn’t heard me, and I stood there for a moment and watched her. She was pretty, no question. Her long neck was gracefully curved, looking down at the pictures. She was smiling, but it was a smile so close to tears, that I immediately felt guilty for spying on her. I carefully backed up a few steps, over the large square red clay tiles in the hallway, and closed the bathroom door with a loud click, and advanced again into the room. Sure enough, she had mastered her emotions, and on her face was a bright, if pained smile.
“Oh, there you are,” she called out, and we might have been at a garden party, discussing fabric patterns for the new curtains, instead of about to sit together and look at pornographic photos of her old boyfriend, my new one, except she didn’t know that, having sex with yet another woman. Interesting. I sat down, and sipped at my wine. It hadn’t escaped my notice that she had put the photos back into a folder. Maybe she had changed her mind. I waited. I had a feeling it would be better if I didn’t show as much interest as I felt. I looked at her, and she held my gaze. Her eyes were strange, I thought. Soft and brown, but with darker spots. She didn’t look friendly at the moment. She looked menacing. I shrugged my shoulders at her, and drank my wine. It really didn’t matter. At least I wanted her to feel that way.
Finally she spoke. “I didn’t know what to think about you at first.”
“No?” I responded.
“No, I didn’t know why you were doing this. And once you were here, I still couldn’t make it out. What was your angle? You seem,” here she tapped the side of her glass with a clear painted fingernail, “sound. But why? You don’t give off the vibe of a high flyer, yet obviously you have the clearance, no offense meant.”
“None taken. But where are you going with this?” I couldn’t resist asking her. What was she going on about, and what did this have to do with the pictures?
“We still love him, you know. Those of us who remember the beginning. The band—was great—of course. I still see a lot of AC. He always comes and takes me out to dinner when he’s passing through. He’s a lovely guy. But Tristan,” she moved her chair back from the table, so that she was facing me more directly, “Tristan had, still has, by all accounts, something special. But he’s been through a lot. I really hope you aren’t one of those hacks who get to the top by any means possible.”
I started shaking my head. Even with the insult, and the vaguely backhanded compliment, I sensed the fear behind the pride. She was throwing out darts, seeing if one of them would hit its mark. I had no intention of giving her the satisfaction.
“Look, Poppy. I’m doing my job. And my job is to talk to you, and get your unique point of view on Tristan and the beginning of his career. It’s been a long day, I landed here this morning, I’m jetlagged as hell, and you’ve been charming, really. Very gracious. But look, I’m not a vulture. I don’t need to see the photographs, although obviously I want to. I’m not dead yet, right?” I laughed,
and she echoed me, unwillingly. “Why don’t we just call it a night? I know how much those photos mean to you. It’s ok, really.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ve tried to be helpful.”
I rushed to reassure her. “And you have been. Really.” I started packing up. Enough was enough. I wondered if she was coming to the show. Well, she deserved it. Maybe. Of course, then she might know exactly what my interest in all this was, but it couldn’t be helped. If it was going to come out, it was. What the hell. “We can talk again. And, you’re on the guest list for the day after tomorrow, of course.”
“Guest list?”
Oh sweet Jesus, this was worse than I’d thought. She had no idea he was even here. Never mind. “Tristan and the band are doing a secret show day after tomorrow. At Dingwalls.” I tried to make it seem legitimate that I knew and she didn’t. “It’s a press thing, a junket. And some fans. They’re keeping it quiet until the very last minute. So you’ll be down for yourself plus one.”
She smiled, and she instantly looked years younger. There was a softness around her eyes that returned, and it lit up her entire face. I stood up, and held out my hand, but she pulled me to her for a hug. She was small and bony, and she felt wispy close up, as though she might blow away. We separated and stood apart for a minute. “I want to show you something,” she said, and reaching into the folder, she pulled out a small square photo and handed it to me. It was the two of them, their arms around each other, smiling into the camera. Her head was on his shoulder, and she had a blissful expression on her face. He looked happy, but at the same time he was looking at something beyond the camera. It was a cute picture though.
“It’s a sweet picture.” I handed it back to her, carefully. “You looked good together.”
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