My ears felt like they were burning. I stared at the computer screen, and tried to finish the sentence I’d been in the middle of typing. I deleted it and rewrote the same exact thing three times, before I finally gave up, and went outside to sit in the little garden. A plane flew past overhead. I looked up. The white jet trails were solid, compact, then little by little, they started to spread out against the blue of the sky. Somewhere up there, the air was clean. People were heading to new things. The lure of the untried. The different. I closed my eyes, and leaned back against the chaise lounge. The air smelled half of flowers, and half of exhaust, and heat and dirt, and the racing, throbbing grit of people pushing their way through life. Dusk to dawn. Dawn to dusk. I suddenly felt like I’d been on both sides of that division for too long. The rumble of another jet overhead reminded me of beach holidays, long ago, and the way sounds were different in the summer. I listened to the plane get louder, then slowly fade out, becoming part of the background of all the other noises. I thought about how they all worked together, like a symphony, like the keys on the piano, one hand playing the bass, the rhythm, one hand playing the top melody, everything changing when they moved past each other, or coincided. Chords that came apart and found each other again. Notes that imitated each other, then slipped away.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew there were two shadows blocking the sun. “Lily? Here you are. I wondered where you went.” Tristan’s voice sounded soft, regretful.
I shaded my eyes. “I must have fallen asleep. I came out for some air.” I tried to laugh, but my throat was dry. “Hey AC, you’re back.” I started to get up, and Tristan instantly reached out a hand to help me up. “How was it?”
“Ok. I don’t like eating cactus, I discovered.”
I made a face. “Hate the stuff. Leave it in the desert, that’s what I say.” And then Tristan had his arm around me, and AC did too, and the three of us stood there, bodies touching, my head against both their shoulders. A hand was stroking my hair. It wasn’t Tristan. I pulled them both a bit closer. I could feel Tristan’s lips softly kissing my head. “I’m glad you’re back. And ok.”
“Me too,” AC murmured.
And we all held on, a little tighter.
* * *
“It’s really really hot and it’s really really boring.” The voice of our new do everything organizer, pitch-in man, and road manager, Adrian, rang out in the hazy and hot L.A. air. Across the street a group of fans watched his every move from their vantage point directly across from the red awning of the hotel. The infamous Sunset Marquis. The band had come together there to prep for the next part. Pete, the original drummer, was still part of the group. He had been quizzed about whether he wanted to stay after everything that had happened, and proved his worth by apologizing, saying he was sorry that he hadn’t done more to stop what had happened. Before it happened. He had offered to leave, but Tristan told him to forget it, and that he was glad to know he wasn’t the only one who had been bothered by the whole thing.
So Pete was happy to stay on board and happy to meet the brand new bassist, John. Considering he had just flown in from London, knew no one except Trevor, and had honestly admitted to not being a diehard Devised fan, John had already impressed everyone with his musicianship and wary, observant personality. “All bassists are named John, aren’t they?” He had joked when he met us. “Unless they’re called Flea. I had no choice.”
The two of them were there along with the newly rehabbed AC for a couple of days, bonding, rehearsing, teaching John all the parts, while Tristan did a round of photo shoots and interviews. Then they all met up in the evening to talk about the day and plan out the daily rehearsals, ironing out the final logistical details—plotting how the rest of the tour, which had now become a worldwide event, would go. And Adrian, the manager, equally new, but like the bassist fitting in remarkably well. There was still a long road ahead, but so far it all seemed to be working out. Trevor popped in and out, beaming at all of us in his slightly sinister way, to watch the proceedings with an eagle eye.
And Trevor, oddly enough, seemed to be enjoying playing temporary road manager while he guided Adrian. Strolling out of the hotel, the regal, besuited Trevor greeted everyone, then handed Tristan’s bag to the driver to put in the trunk of the limo, along with a garment bag containing Tristan’s white suit for the video shoot. He was asking Adrian for a breakdown of the rental costs and delivery schedule for some extra instruments they were bringing in. Adrian reeled off numbers, and mentioned one guy who seemed to be a pain in the ass. I watched Trevor twist his face into a quick smile, before throwing another set of questions at him. He didn’t even flinch. Adrian was doing very well.
We were all due in the next hour or so down at the club that was going to be the set, for the usual hurry up and wait that was a part of filming. The interrogation over, Adrian was chatting to the doorman, while taking a picture of the four fans across the street. Three guys and a girl, dressed in their rock star best, standing there, waiting. “Our big fan base,” he laughed. “They’ve been there all morning. There were six of them before. We’re going downhill!”
“Has anyone been out there to say hello to them?” I asked.
He looked at me strangely. “You’re worried about them too? Yeah, just this morning Tristan went over and brought them some coffee. Where were you?” He laughed again. “I told him not to. The way to keep fans is to torture them. Let them wait. Let them starve. Odd, but effective. Also less wearing on the purse. But he wouldn’t listen. You can’t boss the boss.” He chuckled. “He’ll learn. I’ve only just started.”
The band came out. Pete, a small bag slung over his shoulder, and John, carrying his bass in its flight case, both looked a bit dazed in the bright sunlight. “Over here lads,” Adrian waved at them, from the side of the limo. He patted each one of the them on the back, whispered into Pete’s ear, making him laugh, and finally dipped his head into the limo, looking a bit as though he were tucking them in, even though I had a feeling what he was doing was making sure they only had a certain amount of alcohol available for the ride to the set. They drove off, and the next limo swung up.
AC and Tristan emerged into the sunlight, walking towards the road as though everything on Earth had stopped until their arrival. The fans across the street waved, and called out their names. AC smiled at Tristan, and the two of them stepped into the street. Trevor was by their side immediately, glancing back at Adrian as if to say, look, this is what you need to do when I’m not around. The three of them crossed over, AC and Tristan only looking straight ahead of them, Trevor scanning the road and the sidewalks like an owl looking for prey, his head swiveling. He raised an arm protectively as they approached the fans, and permitted AC and Tristan to sign a couple of t-shirts and CD covers, making sure they weren’t accumulating items to sell on eBay. One of the guys said, “It’s great to see you out AC. You look really fit.”
AC smiled and mumbled his thanks, and then Trevor was herding them back across the street to the limo. “You three get in the back, I’ll ride up front.” He peered through the passenger window at the driver, and came back towards us. “No, slide over. I’m riding back here with you. He doesn’t look very welcoming. How many days do we have of this? That’s right. One very long one that compresses two days of work into what will feel like a week.”
Tristan grinned. “But there are no snakes.”
Trevor turned to look at him. “Damn right. No animals of any kind.”
“Only me,” AC cut in. “I’m ferocious.”
Trevor nodded. “No, I think you’re fairly well trained. What is it, Tristan, ‘give him a bone’? Very effective.”
I didn’t think I’d ever seen Tristan blush before.
AC rolled over on his back, and placed his head in Trevor’s lap, looking up at him hopefully. “Woof. Never argue with success, isn’t that your motto, Trev
or? Besides, your bark is much worse than your bite. We all know that.”
Trevor put his hand on AC’s forehead for a moment, then pushed him gently. “Go on. You’re getting hair on my new suit, AC. Lily, I admire your patience with these clowns.”
“Animals,” interjected AC.
“Musicians. You’re all mad. Maybe I can get my island nation back, exclude the pair of you.”
I laughed. AC sat up.
Trevor looked over at me. “Lily understands me. You will be my Evita, darling. First act of business will be to dispense with this lot.”
Tristan smiled at me and took my hand. “Trevor, aren’t you supposed to be massaging our egos for our moment in the spotlight? Lily does understand, that’s just it.” He kissed my hand, and winked at me. His smile seemed to make everything right, and I felt the familiar warmth that made me feel like I could do anything, if only he were there by my side.
Trevor coughed. “Not the fluffer, Tristan.” He looked down, and raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “As if you needed one. Be sure to keep that up on camera. And I’ll do my part to make sure the cameraman and editor don’t go all coy when they film and only show from the waist up. Americans frame men in the shot like they’re still shocked by Elvis.”
Tristan snorted. “This is why you’re the best. Making sure the fans are always happy.”
Trevor sighed, theatrically. “But at such a cost.”
I knew he wasn’t entirely joking.
chapter twenty-four
L.A.
We had been there about a week when the first big invitation came up. Trevor had been putting out feelers, and had finally found a huge party that he approved of. Given by a well-known fashion designer, it had all the trappings—oceanfront home, movie stars, models, fashion insiders, a few music industry people. Trevor sent an inquiry, and it turned out that the designer was a fan, of course, and incredibly delighted to have Tristan and his plus one attend his little gathering. He must.
And Trevor was determined that we were going to attend. “Look, Tristan. You need to put yourself about a bit. Be seen. In the right places. If you’re worried, neither of them will be there, Alixe or Paul. We apparently have a truce. Self-interest, I imagine, possibly based on the threat of loss of royalties from the forthcoming Devised Greatest Hits album. All that lovely cash gone if she does anything to damage that little project and the potential success your publicity is bringing.” Trevor smirked. “Although I do love a lawsuit. Never mind. And,” he paused for effect, “I hear that Paul is trying to write an album. Oddly enough, my server brought me a copy of a couple of the demos when I was picking the kale out of my salad at lunch the other day.”
Tristan looked up. “Oh yeah? How is it?”
Trevor grimaced. “As if you needed to ask. Tell me—how is it supposed to be any good, when he’s out of practice playing, because there are so many better things to do, and he’s still grasping the necessity of song structure? A chorus. So pop.”
“That bad?”
Trevor shook his head. “Worse. But people will buy it, because it’s him, and some producer will spend three months crying every night at 4 a.m. in an attempt to make something like music out of it. You know. The usual.”
Tristan shrugged. “He’s a decent guitar player if you tell him exactly what to play and show him how to do it.” He glanced at Trevor. “There was a time when I cared. That time has passed. I wish him well in whatever he chooses to do.”
“He’s a parasite,” Trevor spat. “But that’s for me to worry about, not you.”
Tristan’s mouth was a thin line. “Harsh. Possibly accurate. As long as he doesn’t threaten what I do, or trouble Lily, or AC, I really try not to think too much about it.”
“AC won’t see him anymore. He was pissed at how he treated him in London. And you. Reeling you in with drugs.”
Tristan gave him a hard look, then smiled. “AC. Doesn’t he want to come to this party? He likes fashion. And models.”
Trevor patted Tristan on the back. “Good. That means you’re going. I’ll ask him, but I think he’s actually enjoying hanging out with the band.”
Tristan grinned. “Road animal. He’s probably right—isn’t this just going to be a lot of beautiful people comparing personal trainers and bitching?”
Trevor coughed politely. “Indeed. Beautiful people bitching. You’ll probably be turned away at the door. Nothing in common at all. Now please stop whining and consider my serious problem—finding a quiet place to smoke a cigar without people making comments, or worse, lecturing me. As occurred only last night. A very lovely woman encouraged me to welcome positivity into my life. Now I have to leave the grounds of the hotel for a simple cigar, and attempt to walk in a city without sidewalks.”
“There’s always the beach,” Tristan said, smiling.
“That’s an idea.” Trevor clapped his hands together. “However, the thought of spending an hour each way in traffic to engage in an activity whose sole purpose is to relax me seems somewhat pointless.”
“True. So give up while you’re here.”
Trevor looked away. “Touché. We each have our little addictions, don’t we? Not bloody likely, as they say. Be sure to give me a full report on the party. I actually think this man may admire your music, or some nonsense. Get a modeling gig out of it. Free clothes. And the record company might just die from the joy. All that PR they didn’t pay for.”
Tristan ran his hands over his body. “Hello bitches. Maybe I will. Maybe I will.”
* * *
So we found ourselves being driven up to an excruciatingly modern beachfront home, the last rays of the setting sun sparking the blueish glass windows that formed part of the sides of the building. It was a linked collection of glass and wood boxes that appeared to be partially suspended in air. The roof hung above the structure almost like a canopy, and the entire creation, dominating its slice of land in between the beach and the road, was surrounded by bamboo plants and greenery. Once admitted inside, the house felt insulated from everything, as though you were on a boat, or some kind of submarine, watching the world through the blue glass, feeling like you were underwater. And then you walked to the end of the house, and the glass and neat strips of wood opened out on to a deck, and the wide expanse of the beach and the last of the sun setting over the dark green Pacific rose up to meet you.
“My god,” Tristan whispered, after we had made our tour through the house, and were standing out on the deck, watching the distant lights of the cargo ships out to sea. “Someone’s done very well for themselves.”
“Perhaps you should model for him,” I said. “Perks like hanging out here.”
Tristan winked at me. “What do I have to do for him to get a house like this?”
I laughed. “Sex acts that haven’t even been invented yet. And you’d need to clone yourself. Probably pick up his dry cleaning too.”
Tristan groaned. “There’s always a deal-breaker.”
“Sucks, I know,” I murmured. “But we could get a jump on the inventing part. Be prepared.”
Tristan’s eyes lit up. “Suddenly this party is much more interesting.” He moved closer to me. “Later?”
I was about to answer, when one of the extremely attractive servers came over to us. He was exceedingly polite, apologizing for interrupting us, but our host wanted to meet Tristan Hunter before the hour grew any later. Tristan thanked him and said he would be with him in a moment. The young man smiled, and went and stood over by one of the stone pillars that held up the glass ceiling above us, and waited.
“Before the hour grows any later, interesting. Does that mean you’ll be his first of the evening?”
“Heavens, I hope not,” Tristan whispered. “That means I’ll have to do all the work.” He shook his head. “Lily. Behave.” Then he leaned over and kissed me. “Ma
ybe I will get a modeling job out of this, after all.”
He looked oddly hopeful. I couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind. “I don’t doubt it. You are frighteningly beautiful, you do know that?”
“Isn’t that my line?” Tristan smiled at me.
“You can have it back later. Now go—not polite to keep the host waiting. Work it baby.” Tristan smiled and kissed me again, then turned to walk over to the man waiting to lead him away. I watched them disappear though the connector leading to the next glass and wood box, then I turned back to the ocean. It was an extraordinary view. One of the servers came by with tuna sashimi. It was delicate, sweet, and melted away to a sea taste that lingered on the tongue, and mixed with the faint smell of the ocean drifting over the sand to the house. The chatter of conversation faded in and out, as people circulated, stood, moved on. They were dressed beautifully or outrageously, above all, expensively. Surrounded by all this luxury, nothing seemed very real. Another server came around, this time with champagne and aged tequila in small, salted tumblers. As I stood there, sipping iced champagne out of a crystal flute, while watching a red carpet parade, the scene was somewhat clichéd, but astonishing nonetheless. I half expected the clock to strike 12, leaving me in a pumpkin pulled by mice. And when two very famous actors walked by, followed at a reasonable distance by someone that looked vaguely like a minder, and at a further distance by people that were trying hard to hide a certain grasping excitement, I laughed. I’d stepped through the looking glass. Fame, power, and money, but so beautifully deployed, it was a little like resenting a Siberian tiger for its superior hunting skills. It was just a shame that you were the prey.
I turned away from the ocean, and headed in, over the partially transparent floors. In the center of the building, there was a reflecting pool now softly lit, the tiny lights against its cobalt blue surface like the stars that would be seen through the skylight directly above it, if not for the smog. It seemed a petty complaint. I stopped a waiter for one of the caviar toasts he was carrying, and I wandered to the back. Even at night, the view of the surrounding area was oddly sharp and immediate. I supposed it was the effect of the floor to ceiling windows. I wondered what Dave would think of all of it, and I laughed. He had probably been here, I would have to ask. I thought about writing up the party for the blog. But it was too alien. Too different from normal experience to be believed. I would have more luck writing about moving staircases. The small percentage of people for whom this was everyday life would find my wonder at it all a symptom of jealousy, or foolish innocence. And maybe they’d be right, I thought. None of it seemed real, anyway.
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