by Rob Manary
“Icarus, tag you’re it?” I smile, she has found me, she has bothered to find me.
“Advantage St. Claire.” I laugh, recovering from my initial surprise.
“You’ve created a monster. There are at least twice as many reporters camped out this morning. Are you coming to see me?” She chuckles warmly and before I can respond she continues. “You know good girls don’t kiss on the first date. You kinda owe me a date, at least, maybe two.” Again that musical chuckle that strikes right to my core.
“I thought you wanted to be a bad girl? I want to be dirty, remember?” I tease her with the name of her number one hit song.
“Boy, you’re in for a world of disappointment, Icarus,” she says. “I’ve cancelled rehearsal for today. Ask me out before I make other plans.”
This girl never fails to surprise. I know from my research that she is a perfectionist when it comes to her show and she rides everyone around her to exhaustion in pursuit of that goal. I hope I am not reading too much into what she has done. I tell myself she just wants a day off and it means no more than that, but still I hope otherwise.
“Will you spend the day with me, St. Claire?” I smile the words.
“Yes, Icarus, I would be glad to.” Again that amazing laugh. “Now hurry up and get here!” It is her turn to hang up and she does.
I grab my leather riding coat and am out the door, in a taxi, and on my way to the Royal York much faster than you would think possible.
Again I instruct the cabbie to stop just up the block. St. Claire’s white limo is waiting in front of the building and I spot St. Claire preening for the cameras as I make my way up the street. She spots me and runs towards me.
“The cover of the National Enquirer, the cover of the Toronto Sun, and page two or three in a handful of other newspapers, if my sources are right and they are,” she half whispers as she reaches me. “Now, my favorite part of the day.” She kisses me, long, slowly, deep and passionately.
There is a commotion as she kisses me. The outburst from the photographers, however, doesn’t bother her today. Her delicate tongue slides into my mouth and my tongue finds itself intertwined with hers. “Fuck.” She breaks the kiss and looks into my eyes. “I need to catch my breath.” She laughs and her lips find mine again seconds later. This is far from a show for the cameras, I tell myself. She moves into my embrace and I hold her close as our mouths are locked together again. I don’t want it to end, but it does far too soon.
As if on cue, down the street her driver opens the door of her limo and her hand finds mine, our fingers interlocking, and we walk towards the car. Her driver closes the door behind us and slides behind the wheel, tinted windows obscuring us from the prying eyes of the paparazzi. Almost before the door is even fully closed her mouth is on mine once more, her free hand slips under my shirt as she kisses me, her other hand holding mine. She moans low in her throat, an incredible sound. Her fingers find my left nipple and she playfully pinches it. I break the kiss. “Ouch,” I protest. She bites her lip and pinches my sensitive nipple again. I grab her hand and remove it from under my shirt. Holding both her hands, I lean in and take her mouth this time, but again far too quickly she breaks the kiss.
“You’re going to get the idea that I’m easy, Icarus, and you’re wrong. I like kissing you, that’s it, no more.” She appraises me and laughs. “You are a fucking horrible dresser! Who wears white pants past labor day? And that shirt?” She laughs wildly. “And a thumb ring? Fuck, Icarus, do I have to dress you?” Slowly she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, you probably think you look good. Fuck.” She laughs again. “That was a lot of “fucks”, sorry about that. I’m trying not to use that word so much but, Icarus, fuck, just fuck.”
I take her mouth once more just to shut her up and we kiss long and slow. The limo comes to a stop, she releases my hands and slides the thumb ring from my thumb and slides it onto one of her fingers. She smiles coyly at me, then the driver is opening the door and we are in front of a McDonalds. At this time of the morning it is empty.
Before I can protest, she is dragging me from the car by the hand.
“I’ve only eaten here once before and I got violently ill,” I say.
“No McDonalds? What kind of childhood did you have, Icarus?” I can see she regrets the words as soon as they have slipped from her lips, she has done her research. “I’m sorry, Icarus. I didn’t mean...”
I cut her off. “It’s alright, St. Claire. No, there weren’t a lot of “happy meals” at my house,” I joke, hoping to lighten the mood. It is a poor joke.
She shakes her head and drags me through the restaurant to the astonishment of the girl at the counter.
“You’re Rachel St. Claire,” the girl at the counter stammers and Rachel smiles.
“I am,” she agrees. “Could I get two of the number two meals and one of the number three’s, and orange juice with all three meals, please?” She looks to me. “And what do you want, Icarus?”
I look at the menu above the counter girl’s head and nothing looks particularly appealing. I’m a little astonished at the sheer quantity of food St. Claire has ordered. Thankfully, St. Claire saves me from the dubious honour of choosing which meal I will torture my body with. “He’ll have the number two meal.” She looks to me with a smile. “Apple or orange juice, Icarus?”
“Orange,” I say and try to pay the girl. Offering her a hundred dollar bill I am informed that they don’t take “big bills” at this establishment. I don’t have anything smaller so St. Claire is forced to pay.
The food starts coming and keeps coming. Our tray is soon piled high with what looks like English muffins wrapped in wax paper and what I assume are hash browns, deep fried and wearing little paper jackets. The juice I recognize, in little plastic single serving size cups, the top sealed in foil. St. Claire watches them load up the tray, then squeezes my hand.
“Okay, that’s it.” Reluctantly, she lets go of my hand so I can take the tray and she leads me towards a table, looking for one that is clean. I smile as she finally finds one.
I set the tray down. “I'd pull your chair out for you but it looks like the chairs are bolted to the floor.” I laugh. “You might not be easy but you are a cheap date.”
“Oh, you owe me, Icarus, you owe me.” She laughs, too, and god how I love the sound.
She sorts through the mountain of food and places one of the wax wrapped sandwiches in front of me. I also get one of the paper jacketed hash browns and a juice. The rest is hers, apparently. “You’re going to eat all that? You’re going to have a stroke right in front of me. You're aware of that, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been doing about fourteen hours of cardio a day, usually seven days a week, for the last couple of weeks. That lets me eat just about anything I want. Besides, this is just a once in awhile thing, I don’t eat like this every day.” She delicately takes a bite which seems at odds with what she is eating. She looks up at me as I stare at her. “Just shut up and eat, Icarus.”
I unwrap what I am going to have to eat and a large quantity of the processed cheese sticks to the wrapper. This is probably a good thing. I look at the culinary delight within; there is what appears to be egg, the remnants of the cheese, and a round piece of meat I hesitantly identify as sausage stuffed between two halves of a soggy English muffin. I expected worse. St. Claire looks at me, shakes her head, and laughs.
I bite into the thing and it isn’t horrible. St. Claire is unwrapping her second one already. She sticks her tongue out at me when I look up at her then starts sucking cheese off her finger seductively.
I force myself to be unruffled by the show. “We’ve done the meet in front of the hotel thing two days in a row. We’re going to have to step it up if you want to keep in the eye of the media. I’m thinking we rent one of those short term condos or houses you can rent by the month and move out of our hotels. That will cause a flurry as we move in together, set up a “love nest”. And, in the meantime, being seen around town togethe
r will garner some attention.”
I have taken her off guard, it flashes in those emerald eyes. I like that. “I don’t know. Let me think about it?” she stammers.
“Sure. Think about it, but you asked me to help you play the game. This is how it is played. You’ve got a couple of days to think about it while I look into places.” Which means Wayne will look into places.
The rest of the meal I choke down in silence. We exchange flirtatious smiles as we eat, but I can tell she is thinking about my proposal and it frightens her.
“This is my day,” she informs me as we get back into the limo. “We’re going to do what I want to do today. Another day can be your day, okay?” She offers me the sweetest childlike smile, inclining her head slightly.
“That works for you, doesn’t it?” I ask.
“What?” She looks caught and laughs a little nervously.
“That smile you just gave me, it works doesn’t it?” It is my turn to laugh. I am familiar with staged, practiced smiles.
“All the time.” She playfully punches me in the chest then gives me a quick kiss. “We’re going bowling, it’s my day. I bet you’ve never been bowling, have you?”
“That’s where you throw a ball down a wooden strip in an attempt to knock over as many pins as possible, isn’t it?” I tease.
“You’ve never been bowling, have you?” she asks again with a smile.
“Up until now I have steadfastly avoided any activity where I had to wear rented shoes.” This she finds screamingly funny.
“I love the way you talk, Icarus.” She adopts a masculine tone I assume to be an approximation of how I am supposed to sound. “Up until now I have steadfastly avoided any activity where I had to wear rented shoes.” And she laughs again.
I shake my head. The imitation is not flattering or particularly accurate. “I don’t sound like that.” I laugh.
She continues taunting me in that horrible mockery of my voice. “I don't sound like that.” But it loses its impact because she can’t stop laughing.
Playfully, I pout.
Too soon we arrive at the bowling alley. The activity isn’t that bad and I don’t dare complain when the shoes I am given are wet inside. Unfortunately, St. Claire informs me that the shoes are wet because they sprayed them down with disinfectant. This I could have lived without knowing and I vow to burn my socks when I get back to the hotel.
At the bowling alley there is a lot of touching from St. Claire. I let her go at her own pace. She takes my hand or rests her hand on my thigh or squeezes my shoulder and I don’t mind at all. If I take her hand she shies away, if I rest my hand on her leg she nervously moves away. I let her, therefore, set the tone, let her touch me as she would, and without pressure from me she touches me a lot and even steals the odd kiss. It is her day and I let her have it.
I’m not recording my score here but I did not make triple digits.
As we get back to the limo there is a call from her manager and she ignores it. On the way to the sushi place St. Claire has chosen for lunch, there are three or four more calls from her manager. Finally, she asks me if she can take the call. I nod yes and smile at how thoughtful she is being. There is some sort of emergency that she needs to handle. St. Claire doesn’t go into detail, but apologizes again and again. I have her drop me off at my hotel. When I move in for a kiss, she holds a finger to my lips and with a wicked smile says, “I don’t kiss on the first date.”
I am left standing outside the Ritz Carlton with a big smile on my face and the smell of her on me, surrounding me, enveloping me.
Sunday, Day 7
At three a.m., the phone wakes me. If it is Wayne calling with anything short of the news he was just elected President of the United States, I am ready to jump in a cab and commit unspeakable acts upon him of biblical proportions. I grab the receiver and wait. It is St. Claire.
“Icarus, you know it is customary to say “hello” when you answer the phone, don’t you? It’s a little unsettling how you just pick up and wait for the other person to talk.” She laughs and I smile. “You don’t need to tell me its 3 a.m. either. I know and I’m not going to ask if you were up and have you lie and tell me you were. I don’t want to stop talking in case I fucked up by calling.” She lets out a long breath “Okay, say something or I’ll just keep babbling.”
I laugh warmly. “You did wake me up, but you didn’t fuck anything up.”
“Good. And don’t get your hopes up, this isn’t some drunken booty call,” she says.
I laugh warmly again. “Then what is this?”
A long pause follows. “Honestly, I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop thinking about you, couldn’t stop thinking about how I felt when we kissed, how hard it was not to take advantage of you in the limo today. How cute you looked with your little bowling shoes on.” She teases, but quickly grows serious. “I knew I was in over my head when you first looked at me, it ran a charge right to my core. Fuck, I’m babbling again.” She laughs nervously.
For just a moment I am made speechless by her admission. “I like it when you babble,” I say, and it is true. I love her voice. That incredible voice that has sold tens of millions of records is not done justice by any recording and has to be heard. “I can be at your door in fifteen minutes, St. Claire.”
“I told you this wasn’t a booty call, Icarus. I just had to hear your voice.” She sighs.
“So what do we talk about?” I curse myself for being so poor at small talk.
“I don’t care. Just talk.” I can hear her smile and it warms me, sends shivers up my spine. The silence lengthens between us. “Just talk to me, Icarus. Just talk. You have the sexiest voice.”
We talk on and on about many things, too many to remember… favorite movies, mine, “It’s a Wonderful Life”, St. Claire’s “The Wizard of Oz”, favorite artists and favorite songs, mine, “I Want To Be Your Dog” by Iggy Pop and the Stooges, hers, David Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream”.
We talk about our influences, the artists I was influenced by, the musicians she was influenced by. She talks about growing up in Detroit and I soak it in, love every second of it. I could picture her as a child with those flaming long red curls. She paints amazing pictures of a happy childhood for me and I take it all in, ask her dozens of questions. She doesn’t ask about my early years and I could volunteer nothing. I want to, but can’t find the words for her. What she already knows I don’t know, don’t care. My past was certainly well publicized and if Guy had done his research as thoroughly as Wayne had, what St. Claire knows is much.
It is almost seven in the morning when St. Claire causes the conversation to come to an abrupt halt. “What am I doing, Icarus? I can’t have a relationship now. Fuck, I don’t even know what a relationship is. I’m rehearsing fourteen hours a day for the next month and then I’m doing an eighteen month world tour. What the fuck am I doing?”
Again she takes me by surprise. It comes so suddenly, and from nowhere, and burns like a knife in my heart.
“I can’t even get away for a day. Fuck, Icarus, just fuck. Call me tonight.” A long pause and I can think of nothing to fill it with. “Please, call me tonight. Goodbye.” I can hear her waiting for something that I don’t have.
“Goodbye,” I say simply and, painfully, it is my turn to hang up. Then I curse myself repeatedly.
I stare at the phone for long minutes, and come up with a dozen things I should have said, but the moment has passed. I pick up the receiver and call Wayne for information he happily provides, then make a call to the concierge, and try to go back to sleep for a couple of hours. To be honest, it’s mostly tossing and turning.
Waking, I shower and dress. I choose a pair of jean overalls that hug my body tight and a plain white t-shirt that emphasizes my broad chest and biceps. I grab my riding coat and am in a cab rushing to an address Wayne has given me, a basket I have arranged for the concierge to assemble under my arm.
I don’t think I have ever felt a cab ride t
hat was longer. The cabbie tries to talk to me, I ask him to turn up the radio, and he takes that as a cue. Perhaps, asking a cabbie to turn up the radio is the international “do not disturb” signal. What seems like hours later we pull up to our destination, a large rehearsal space in Scarborough where I know St. Claire is rehearsing for her upcoming tour.
I pay the cabbie and tip him handsomely. I stand outside the door to the space for long minutes, steeling myself, as the cabbie pulls away. Throwing open the large door I enter with a confidence I do not feel. The makeshift stage is a long way away. I feel like a condemned man walking to the electric chair as I make my way down the aisle.
St. Claire and her dancers are in the middle of a number, her choreographer calls out instructions, and berates one of St. Claire’s back-up dancers. I close the distance slowly and finally St. Claire spots me. “Take five,” she shouts, and I wish I’m close enough to read her expression. The distance and the fact that she towers above me on the stage makes that feat impossible.
“No one is supposed to know where I’m rehearsing.” She sounds bemused. “Advantage Icarus. Eager boy,” she says, our little joke, and I take this as a good sign. She wears gray sweatpants and a halter top, her cascade of red hair pulled away from her face in a ponytail.
“Even you need to eat lunch, right?” I smile, patting the basket under my arm. She is smiling, but she crosses her arms, hugging herself. I wonder what signals she is sending me.
“You might get into my pants yet, you know that, Icarus?” She laughs. “That’s lunch!” She shouts and there is a flurry of activity as the dancers abandon the stage. She waves towards the stairs at the side of the stage and I quickly join her.
I set the basket down. On top is a red and white checkered cloth, the stereotypical picnic blanket. She laughs and shakes her head as I spread the cloth out. “You know those overalls make you look like a five year old, right?” She bites her lip and squeezes my bicep. “I’m really going to have to start dressing you.”
