I drank for a moment, and glanced around, wondered if anyone had heard us. “So, what’s the next band?”
He laughed. “It won’t matter to you, you’re a bit too young to remember or care.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, whatever. Who is it?”
“See, you don’t even know. Who was it, more like.” He was starting to slur his words a bit. I had the feeling his meeting had involved a bit more than the exchange of phone numbers. “He’s dead, poor fucker. That’s why I’m telling you to make haste. Carpe diem, bitch.” He clenched his jaw, and his forehead tightened. “Joe Strummer. They’re going to do a tribute to him.”
“The Clash. The only band that matters,” I threw back at him. “One of the greatest. More relevant now than ever. A seed band for things now. “‘White Riot, I want a riot, White Riot, a riot of my own,’” I sang out. Mark looked at me in shock.
“This is why I keep you around, Lily. Full of surprises.”
I ignored him. “So who’s going to sing a song, and which one are they going to do?”
“Pay attention, and you’ll find out.”
“So there is something you don’t know,” I retorted. “Aren’t they going to have a hard time finding a song that isn’t too insultingly political for this lot?”
“No one listens to the words anymore anyway. Whine about it in your blog. And I do know, by the way. Just didn’t want to spoil the surprise for you. It’s Devised.”
I squealed, drunkenly. “Really? I love them. What a great choice. They’ve got some of that attitude. Apparently Joe liked them, too.”
Mark imitated my squeal. “Really? Great. Now stop talking. My head hurts with it all. Talk talk.”
I shrugged. He was high, I was high, I was numb enough not to care. Typical. I turned towards the stage, feeling relieved that I’d already met Jake. Maybe I wouldn’t have to put up with this shit for much longer. Maybe. Maybe we were just drunk and aggressive. Couldn’t we just all get along? Couldn’t we just settle this over a pint? I laughed. Plaid shirt dude looked over at me. I turned away. Seriously. This was supposed to be fun. It was all starting to go a bit wrong. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Ok, that was a mistake. Maybe a little too much champagne. After this, I’d borrow the little vial again. That would smooth it out.
But the presentation was starting. Mick Jones was up there, talking about the band, modestly immodest. He was a player—one of those people who was in the thick of it, whether you saw him in the magazines or not. Another one, I thought, who had stuck with it, love or hate. Some clips of the band were being shown. Joe. Looked so young. Was so young. A smart street fighter with a heart of gold, according to the rumors. I felt suddenly horribly sad. We were all sitting around, liggers, drinking to his memory, most of us didn’t care. Shit.
Then he announced Devised, and someone ran out to strap a guitar on him. Mick hugged them all as they came out, and there was this electric feeling again, partially brought on from the meeting of past and present, making all the differences insignificant. Something so right about it. And from the first chords of “London Calling”, the sting hit, and you felt wired, illuminated. It all still mattered a lot. “War is declared…come out of your cupboards, you boys and girls…” And it went on, insistent, persistent. The frontman, Tristan Hunter, screamed out “and I live by the river” and Mick grinned at him, and they went at it with a fury, like they were trying to bring Strummer back from the dead. By this time, I was standing, but I wasn’t the only one. Tristan called out the crowing battle cry of defiance and I felt the words. “Yes I was there too.” And I was there. There I was. All I had to do was ignore the assholes, who were everywhere, and cut through it and stay standing. Then the choppy guitars moved into “Tommy Gun” and I think I actually screamed. I didn’t give a fuck how uncool it was. The man had died trying to move us. Fuck ‘em, I thought, and I got up to head down to the front, ignoring the brief tug of Mark’s hand on my arm. I couldn’t believe they were playing this song. The rapid fire drum beat, Mick and Tristan screaming into the mic together, Tristan’s face, beautiful and intense, Mick’s face, intense and knowing, the guitar blistering through the air like a flash bang. I was over by the side, but right at the front, me and the photographers, and the cameras. I didn’t care. The wood of the stage was like an altar and I was ready to sacrifice myself to get up close to this, to feel it. Now they were all singing, standing in a tight line, shouting out the words, “kings and queens and generals…learn your name…” Then it ended, sharply, and we were all on our feet cheering. They were all smiles, arms around each other’s waists, sweat dripping down Tristan’s forehead, as he leaned into the mic and said, “thank you to Mick! And to Joe—we wouldn’t be here without him.” He saluted the audience, and they all bowed, and filed off stage. Tristan threw one last wave to the crowd, as he disappeared into the wings.
And I knew. This was what the piece would be about. I would get backstage, and see them somehow, and I would have to go right now, or I’d lose my nerve. There, that was where Jake had disappeared through the curtain when he went off to do his interview. Now, right now, while the crowd was still milling around and talking about it. I pushed through, said “all access” to the bouncer, while pretending to reach under my dress for a pass, my voice stronger than I felt. I would fucking do this. I would not be the one on the sidelines. No.
I walked further into the backstage area, not having any idea where I was going, but figuring if I followed the noise I would get to the center of it all. And then I came around some sets stacked up, and I saw them all, being photographed, still smiling. “One more shot,” one of the two photographers called out, and Mick and Tristan sat down again, while the rest drifted away. “We’re done,” called out the guitarist, “they’re who you want anyway.” I filed that quote away, while I watched the two of them pull a few faces for the camera. I’d interview the two—the leads. The links between times. Yes. I watched them get up, hardly looking at the photographers who just a minute beforehand had had their full attention, and move towards the side. It looked like they were all leaving—a breeze was coming in. I could see the metal stage doors open to the outside, the street beyond.
• • •
Now. I ran over to them, and they both looked over at me, startled, wondering who this was speeding towards them that they didn’t know, and on guard, guessing what it was all about. But just as I was about to speak, my heel caught on one of the sound wires, and I went down, right in front of them. The grey painted concrete floor was even harder than it looked. I could hear Mick laughing and for a moment, I just lay there, wanting to die. That was my great professional entrance, oozing sex appeal and charm, lying like a spilled drink on the ground. Then I felt a hand come under my arm, and lift me up as though I were weightless. The first large hand was joined by another one, and I was placed gently back down, and brushed off. And then I found myself face to face with Tristan. All the air left my lungs in a big rush. I looked up at him, into his eyes, and they were a strange green and brown color, light and dark all at once. Funny, I’d always thought he had very dark eyes.
His voice broke the dream feeling. “Are you all right, sweetheart? That was quite a tumble you took.” He smiled, and I had the odd sensation I’d done this before. I still hadn’t said anything, stunned both from what had just happened and having Tristan in front of me, asking if I was ok.
What do you say, face to face with your musical heroes? I tried to rouse myself. Be polite, I thought. Before you ask for the soundbite. “Thank you. Thank you for helping me up. I’m sorry to intrude—but you,” I looked over to include Mick, “both were incredible up there. Two of my favorite songs. It was amazing.” I was starting to babble. “I’m supposed to... Jake wants me to write something about tonight. I wanted it to be different. And it was going all wrong. Then you reminded me why I was even here.”
Mick cut in. “So why are you here, love? Be quick.”
The pressure. A test. How many ti
mes had he been asked to justify himself? Trial by fire. Now it was my turn.
But I had no idea what to say. I’d have to say anything. Something. The first thing that came to mind.
I had gone blank. I looked at Mick. He seemed to have a clock face where his eyes had been, ticking away my precious seconds. I turned to Tristan. His eyes were warm, and then they lit up with an unworldly shine, and I thought I could see down a long tunnel, through space, past time. And I felt it. I knew I was where I was supposed to be, and doing what I was meant to do. And then the words came.
“It’s the only thing that matters. The feeling you get when it’s right. When it means something. Making it happen.” I stopped for a moment, a Clash song had come into my head. “I’m not ‘turning rebellion into money’, I promise.”
Mick smiled, a brief light breaking across his face. “Amazing how it keeps going. Follow that feeling, love.” He turned to Tristan. “Come on mate, time to go. You can’t have them all.”
I glanced over at Tristan. He had an odd look on his face. I wondered if he had seen that strange sort of vision in my eyes too. I wished I could ask him. But all that came out was, “Thank you again.”
He nodded. “Knowing it means something. Now there’s a quest.” He put a hand on my shoulder and looked down at me, his face serious, the circles under his eyes suddenly very apparent. He was about to speak, when someone called out from the direction of the stage door, and he seemed to come back to himself. “Nice meeting you.” And he turned with Mick, and headed out towards the street. I watched his long figure move away, following Mick, until his dark head was lost amongst a group of people, watched as the small crowd thronged out the door.
I looked down at my hands, so recently covered with his. They had work to do. The Isley Brothers song flashed through my mind. “I’ve got work to do…I’m out here trying to make it.” I suddenly wanted to know more than anything if he had ever heard that song, a million miles away from what they’d just been playing. But it was all music. More important than anything, genre, class, falling on your face in front of your heroes. “Knowing it means something,” I whispered to myself. I walked down the now empty corridor to the stage door, and pushed the metal handle and leaned on the door until it opened. The fresh night air, cool and wet after the rain, washed over me. The dry spot where the limo had been was evidence that any of this had happened. It did all mean something. And I was going to go home, and prove it.
Five years later
Chapter 1
I was reading over my notes when I turned the corner in the long hall, and ran straight into someone. I looked up to apologize, and froze. I tried to speak, but my chest suddenly felt heavy, like a large warm hand had just pressed me back into myself. My mind had left my body, and thought just wasn’t happening. My neck was in a vice. I struggled to force some willpower back into my limbs and managed to slowly raise my head. The vision before me was calling up some strange language in me, some pre-verbal reaction blocked by lifetimes of conditioning. My response seemed to be in my blood. His lips were full, not quite red, made to entice. His nose was fine, yet all about fighting and determination. I finally made it up to his eyes, which were dark and staring back at me. That part of his face set something up within me, something more, a firestorm of heat. He continued to look down at me, while I fought an internal total surrender. I pulled myself away from those eyes—but adding in the rest gave him the look of an angel, and softened the burning stare that went through me like an arrow. Courtly love, I thought, from the eyes straight to my soul. So it was true.
My entire life seemed to flash before me. Foolish. I had the feeling that nothing I had planned was going to be of any use anymore.
Then his eyes widened slightly, and suddenly we were both human again. And I instantly felt guilty. This beautiful, talented man was normal, just a person. How exhausting it had to be, the focus of a million fantasies and obsessions. I tried to smile, in some sort of acknowledgement of my failure to realize this right from the start. His mouth turned up at one corner slightly, and his face transformed again, and he seemed at once lighter and more serious, as though he had taken something into account.
“Hi,” I managed to squeak out. God, my voice. I had effectively managed to cut off the rest of my body. It was probably just as well. I had the feeling that some kind of groaning plea was still lurking just below the surface. I tried again. “How are you doing?” and attempted a rough smile. In my mind, I was busy slamming the gates on my otherworldly experience. I tried to think of something professional, something that would allow me to speak. I cleared my throat.
“Hi.”
“Yes, we did that part. I’m Tristan. And you are?”
Unfailingly polite. I yanked myself off the floor of shame, and met his eyes.
“I’m Lily…Lily Taylor.” I wondered for a moment if I should tell him we’d met before. I wondered if he remembered me. I thought about how many women he must have met, and decided against it. “The Core sent me to interview you. I’m sorry, I’m a bit early. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
His smile grew wider, and for a moment I thought he was going to laugh. “No, you didn’t startle me—I haven’t run off, have I?”
Now my determination not to make a complete fool of myself was wrestling with the fog in my brain.
“I haven’t either, so we’re both lucky.” My tone was more cutting than I had intended, and it had the horrible consequence of chasing away his teasing smile.
He looked at me seriously. “Let’s make a start then. I’ll show you around.”
He guided me through the long corridors, stopping to pop into little offices and introduce me. Everyone seemed very pleasant, but severely uninterested. Another journalist, come to flounder in an interview. I shook hands with his manager, James Max, who I thought looked vaguely optimistic until he said, “You won’t make this one of those hatchet jobs, will you?”
I assured him that I didn’t really believe in writing controversy in order to gain readers. I guessed it was the right moment for The Quote. “What was it Frank Zappa said? ‘Rock journalism is written by people that can’t write, about people who can’t talk, for an audience that can’t read?’ Or something like that.”
They both laughed. Tristan looked at me, quietly reflective. I could only glance at him out of the corner of my eye. The effect he had on me at this proximity was still too new, too overwhelming. His manager spoke first. “Well, doll, I don’t think you’ll last long as a rock journalist. But you’re a joker.”
Then I bristled, and snapped back at him. “Thanks so much. But this isn’t American Idol.” I gave him my best fuck you smile. “Your opinion won’t send me home crying.” It was impossible to let your guard down in these situations. “So, where’s this interview going to happen then?” I spoke more to the room than to either of them.
Tristan’s voice was neutral. “Leave it, Jim.” He stretched out his arm in the direction of the door. “Let’s go get a coffee and you can see my room.”
He turned quickly and began striding down the corridor. I followed him, two steps to every long one of his. He had reached the kitchen and was opening the cupboard, taking down coffee beans. “Fresh coffee all right?”
“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” I looked around the room. It was a fairly spacious kitchen, with white linoleum tiles and white doors with chrome fittings. A large silver refrigerator was on the other side of the room, and I watched him cross the room in one motion and retrieve the milk. Each rack of the painfully bright white interior was filled with beer, and champagne and soda cans. No food. He turned to me and saw me looking. “It doesn’t bother me, all the alcohol, if that’s what you were thinking.” He stared at me, his eyes dark with challenge.
I looked back at him. “You’re right. But you’re wrong. I was thinking that actually, I still find it hard to be around a lot of drink.”
“Have you stopped?” Tristan asked.
“Working on it.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Just milk please.” So far the interview was looking like it was going nowhere. If he had already taken a dislike to me, and I was alternately angry and disturbed by his physical presence, it was unlikely we’d get anywhere. I felt there was nothing for it; I had to try and be honest with him.
I waited until he sat down. “I feel like we’ve started off badly, and I’m sorry for that.” I felt my face color. “I’ve been really looking forward to doing this interview—I’m a big fan.” I took a sip of coffee and felt his eyes upon me.
“Well thank you. Isn’t that something you have to say?” He sat back in his chair, hands around the cup, looking vaguely smug.
“I’m not sure I have to say anything. A bit like you perhaps.” I sat up straighter. If there was going to be trouble, then I was ready. “I’m not here to trip you up, but maybe you’d prefer that.”
He laughed. “I’m used to a fight. Maybe you want to get in the ring with me?” He winked.
“Oh just add me to the queue. But I don’t like waiting, so move me up faster, ok?”
“How fast?”
I looked at him. His eyes were sparkling with some kind of infectious glee. Jerk, I thought. Pretty jerk. “As fast as you like, darling.”
“Oh we’re on to darling now. That must mean we are making progress.”
“Aren’t we just? You make a mean cup of coffee. I feel so much more relaxed and welcome.” I raised an eyebrow. “This is great. Listen, why don’t we cut it, and you can tell me what you want to have out in the press, and I’ll try to ask some questions that you’ll deflect. But I warn you—although I’m tempted, I’m not going to label you an arrogant ass in the article, if for no other reason than it’s been done so often.”
He really began laughing then, and the sound of it bubbled up inside me and I couldn’t resist joining in. “You are funny. Come on, let’s do this.” And with that, he swallowed down the rest of his coffee. I found myself strangely fixated on his neck muscles and tried to cover my confusion by drinking down the coffee grounds at the bottom of my mug, which only made me cough.
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