In an interview with Music Meter Magazine available later this month, Mr. Grant will only say: "I have every confidence that Jamie will continue to entertain and perform to the highest of his ability. However, he will do it without me by his side, at least in a managing capacity. He is my brother, and I don't always understand him, but he is the only brother I have, and that is very special to me."
Mr. Webster heads to Germany this week and was unavailable for comment, but did release a statement through the Whitmore Agency in which he said, "Like anyone, I am sorry when change comes, especially when it means I will have less time with my brother, but David convinced me that my career is growing beyond his bounds and it is best if I find new management. I am thrilled with my new agency. And David, I am certain, is thrilled that I am finally taking his advice—something I rarely did growing up."
Chapter Six
When Keelin and I returned to Paeder's suite, it was filled with not only Russell, Paeder and Jeff, but also Jamie, a few members of his band, and some people who I guessed were part of Jamie's crew. They were playing cards over a quartet of ottomans that had been shoved together. Russell was sitting sideways in an armchair with his legs dangling over the side. He held his cards against his chest. Jeff and Jamie were sprawled on the couch. They had their arms around each other's shoulders. I stomped on my jealousy. I already knew that Jamie and Jeff knew each other, and Jamie could put his arm around anyone he wanted. The metallic taste in my mouth disappeared when Jamie glanced up and gave me a small grin. Jamie was still wearing his rehearsal suit. He was infamous for it. Some entertainers or athletes had lucky socks; Jamie had an entire outfit, one which he claimed guaranteed a great show. He had loosened his black slim knit tie from his white collar and pushed the black jacket's sleeves up his forearms. Other than this concession to comfort and his uncombed hair, he was unwrinkled.
His drummer, Rhona, was sitting on the couch's arm beside Jamie, twirling her dreadlocks with one hand and holding Atlas Shrugged with the other. She wasn't paying attention to the game, although she had a stack of cards balanced on her knee. Arlo and Graham, the twins, who played bass and guitar, respectively, sat on the floor, their cards held protectively to their chests.
Paeder had perched on an ottoman that wasn't being used for the game. He said hello, a sure signal that he was winning the hand. A half-empty bottle of stout sat by his feet. Just as I started to think that Paeder had hidden it so Jamie wouldn't have to look at what he couldn't have, he picked it up. Then I remembered: that was something I would do, not Paeder. Keelin went to sit behind him on the ottoman. Paeder grunted as Keelin settled himself with a series of fidgets, but instead of objecting, he scooted forward to give Keelin more room and reached back to pat Keelin on the head when Keelin rested his chin on Paeder's shoulder. I stared at them for a moment, trying to reconcile this image of absent friendliness with what I had seen earlier. Maybe the alcohol had loosened him up.
Keelin looked over Paeder's shoulder at his cards. He pointed at one. Paeder ignored him. That was more like it.
"Andrew, want to play my hand? I've got things to do." Jamie swept his cards through the air.
"That's all right," I said. "I might find some food, actually."
"Well, come get supper with me. I'm fucking starving."
I forced myself not to read anything into it. It wasn't like he was asking me on a date. He was hungry, and I was hungry. No signals in that.
"I'd love to," I said. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.
"Brilliant. We'll see you blokes later," said Jamie. Jeff raised his camera and snapped him leaning forward, lips pursed, his hand palm up in front of his face as he blew a kiss.
"I never said I'd be in your book," Jamie said. He twisted to look at Paeder. With his hands on his hips, he seemed more amused than annoyed. "It's not me going solo."
Paeder did not look up from sorting his cards. "I know. Jeff, Jamie can't be in the book. We'd have to pay image rights to put him in."
Jamie stabbed his chest with his thumb. "I'm copyrighted, I am. I'm a National Treasure."
"Personal usage?" Jeff asked, smiling.
Jamie bent down to him. "Personal usage is fine, I guess. So long as it isn't too personal, eh, Jeffrey?" He gave a lecherous grin. I wanted to leap between them. I was behaving unprofessionally, and I knew it. When Michael was around, we worked, and we stayed on focus; I did not succumb to pointless jealousies. I didn't have any right to be jealous, nor did I have anything to be jealous of. Jamie wasn't exactly mine. Trying to distract myself, I turned to Paeder.
"Paeder, do you want to talk about the album after I get back?" I asked.
Paeder tossed down a four, five and six of clubs. "Is tomorrow good for you? I'm knackered tonight."
"Yeah, tomorrow morning's fine." At this rate, we'd be lucky to have three hours together before I had to fly home. "Keelin and I have this wedding at two."
Paeder looked up. "You and Keelin?"
"Yeah. As it turns out, my cousin and your lawyer are one and the same."
"Is he? Well, that's interesting." Paeder said, sounding anything but interested. He picked up another card.
Keelin nodded, though Paeder could not see him. "Yeah. And we're all invited to the wedding. Alfred was really excited about having us come," Keelin said.
"Well, we'll be excited to go," Paeder said. He picked up a card from the discard pile.
Keelin smiled. "Good."
"Let's go, Drew," Jamie said. He pushed his jacket sleeves down as he walked towards me. I felt underdressed in my green button-up shirt and dark jeans.
"Gin," said Russell.
Jamie pulled me out the door before I could see Paeder's reaction to losing.
"Bob is meeting us on seventeen," Jamie said when he and I were in the hallway. He punched the elevator button. "I'm not allowed out without him. That is, it's in the best interest of my personal safety that I keep him around." He turned to me, eyebrow raised. "Meaning he'll kill me if I try to ditch him." We stepped onto the elevator, and Jamie pushed the button for seventeen.
When the door opened, a huge man beckoned us forward. "Hiya, Jamie." And to me: "You must be Andrew?" We stepped off the elevator.
"I remember you," I said. "From the Grammy Awards."
There was nothing about Bob to make him stand out in a lineup of other men in his profession. His body was thick—like his workout consisted of a dumbbell in one hand and a doughnut in the other. It was his nature that recalled him so firmly to my mind. Bob was the only bodyguard at the Grammy's giving Jamie water instead of alcohol. He was also the only one who snatched bottles out of Jamie's grasping hand. But I mostly remembered watching his back as he carried Jamie through the gathered crowd and the way Jamie's head had fallen backwards over Bob's arm like a dead bird's.
"Ah, right. It's good to see you again," Bob said. "Sorry, didn't know your name before. I bet Jamie gave you a scare that night, eh?"
"Uh, well…" No one had ever asked me that. "Yes. He did."
"Well, we do our best to keep him on his feet these days," Bob said. "Right, Jamie?"
Jamie looked at us, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, and said, "I'm hungry."
He had the flat, unhurried voice of a man accustomed to having his needs tended without question or delay.
Bob was immediately all business. "Right. If you'll follow me, I've arranged an exit out the back." We shadowed him through the corridor to the service elevator. I felt like a film spy. Jamie followed without comment.
It was everything as usual for him.
"This is my glamorous life, Drew. All kitchens and no lobbies," Jamie said as we exited the service elevator. Bob led us past the sous-chef and a line of cooks and out a back door. "Bob played rugby before he met me. He'd have no problem tackling the fans out there. I don't know why he's so addicted to backdoors." He smirked at Bob. "Got something you want to tell me, mate?"
Bob ignored him and spoke to me. "I was a damn good p
layer, but I hurt my knee in a scrum." He put Jamie and me into the back of a black Mercury as he talked. Then he squeezed in beside Jamie. The driver moved the car into traffic.
"One day you're going to let me see the front of a hotel," Jamie said.
"You want to see the front of the damn hotel, you stop being famous," Bob said. "Last thing I need is to get this car turned over by twelve year olds while you're in it. We can drive past other hotels if you want. You can look at the front of those."
Jamie smacked his lips. "I might take you up on that, you know. And what are you saying about my fans? They're a bit older than twelve!"
"Some of them have been there three days. Someone should call their mothers."
"Bob's always watching out for the little guy," Jamie told me. He patted Bob's knee. "Maybe I should go down and say 'hello' to the girls when we get back," Jamie said.
"Over my dead body," said Bob.
"Bob keeps threatening me with a tracking device," Jamie said. "That's why he's squeezed back here with us instead of up front where it's nice and roomy. He says I run off, but I've been quite good lately, haven't I?" He looked at Bob for confirmation.
"I'll hold my judgment until the end of the tour." Bob crossed his arms over his stomach.
"Come on. I haven't done a runner since Milan last June. And you can't blame me for that. It was Milan, for fuck's sake. What was I supposed to do?"
"You," Bob said, "were supposed to stay in your hotel like a good boy or come get me if you wanted to go out. Christ Almighty. You running around in a city where you don't speak the language—brilliant idea."
The car pulled up to the restaurant, a French establishment with crimson curtains blocking the windows and potted plants lining the front. I moved to open the door, but Bob stopped me and addressed Jamie. "Alright, mate. You have three exits. The front, obviously, one in the back behind the gent's, and one in the kitchen. If you need me, hit your panic button. I'll be waiting right outside. Send the maître d' out when you're off so I can have the car pulled round."
"I know, I know," Jamie said. He started to crawl across my lap. "Let's eat!" He popped the door open. Bob grabbed Jamie's hips and pulled him back into the car. Bob clambered out, checked the perimeters, and beckoned Jamie. Jamie emerged from the car with a controlled grandness. He was prepared to make an entrance if anyone was willing to watch. Apart from us, the sidewalk was empty. He adjusted the knot in his tie.
Bob touched my shoulder. "Jamie doesn't drink" The words were innocuous, but their tone held a warning I couldn't ignore.
"I know."
"All right. You gentlemen enjoy yourselves."
"Thanks, Mum!" Jamie propelled me into the restaurant.
"So, you got the 'Jamie's an alckie' lecture."
"It wasn't much of a lecture. More of a reminder," I said.
He wagged his eyebrows. "Watch me get sloshed tonight, and it'll turn into a threat."
"I think I'll pass." I had not planned on getting Jamie drunk, but having a bear of a man tell me not to was more than enough to cement my position.
"This way, sir." A waiter led us to the rear of the dining area.
Jamie smiled over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Drew. I promise I'll behave myself."
The waiter drew back a rich velvet curtain, and Jamie and I slid into a private booth. The waiter closed the curtain, leaving us in a darkness timidly broken by a flickering candle that cast our shadows on the dimpled walls.
"Do you really have a panic button?" I asked.
Jamie fished a small, plastic rectangle out of his jacket pocket. "Just push this button here," he indicated a gray protrusion, "and you will be whisked to a place where you will not be seen again while I," he grinned, "will finish my meal and probably have the bill comped with apologies for my inconvenience."
"Don't you get it comped anyway?"
"Only sometimes." He put the panic button away. "So, we won't be using that tonight, I don't think."
I smiled. "I hope not."
"Unless you're into that sort of thing. I could make it a real exciting night for you." He started to pull the panic button out again. I reached out to stop his hand, but pulled back. I wouldn't make the mistake of touching him without permission again. Not after his reaction the previous night when he'd pulled away.
"I think I'm excited enough as it is."
His reply was instant. "Well of course you are. You're out with me." He made a vertical teepee out of his menu. He didn't try to read it. I remembered that he had dyslexia. I had thought that he would pretend, but he seemed unconcerned. I scanned my menu and started reading aloud in a conversational tone, like I was trying to decide what I wanted.
"They've got steak tartar and fillet mignon as house specials," I said. "Also, gazpacho and cream of leek soups. Choice of potato or vegetable with sandwiches, or you get both with entrees."
"Do you always read the menu out loud?" Jamie asked.
"Yes." I returned his slightly amused look with my best attempt at nonchalance.
Jamie rested his folded hands on the table. "You've read that biography about me, haven't you?"
"Which one? There are about two hundred, you know." I kept my eyes on the menu.
His hand appeared over the top and he pushed the menu down. "The scandalous one." He made the 's' sibilant. A tiny drop of spittle landed where I was pretending to read.
"I may have skimmed it. For research." I pulled the menu away from him. He slumped backwards and grinned. He had me, and he knew it.
"I can read," he said. "I prefer to avoid it. But if it's an emergency, I'll get it done." He leaned forward and skimmed his fingers over the back of my hand. The hairs stood up and reached for him. "But, since you're reading anyway—why don't you tell me what they've got for chicken."
I reluctantly reclaimed my hand and opened the menu. As I read down the list, the waiter's arm appeared and placed two glasses of water on the table. His head popped through the curtain next.
"May I take your drink orders?" he asked.
"A seltzer for me and cola for my friend," Jamie said.
"You know what I drink?" I asked after the waiter left.
"I saw a can in your rubbish bin last night." He looked pleased with himself.
"Most people don't know what their own hands look like after a lifetime. You know what's in my trash after a night. I don't know what to think of you, Jamie." I shook my head as I felt a smile come over my face. "You're an enigma."
He became serious. "I'm observant because I have to be. I can't always rely on other people. You're right; I don't get on reading well, so I make up for it by noticing things. I notice things about you."
"Like?" If he saw something in me that I hadn't, he would not be the first. People were always telling me about myself. Michael said I had the kind of face that made people want to say, "You know what you are…" It was how I found out that I was a loser, a queer, a sad husband, and from Michael, too sensitive for my own good.
Jamie counted off on his fingers. "The soda can was right side up in the bin, for starters, which means you probably bent down and put it there instead of throwing it."
"Yes." I hadn't wanted the few drops still in it to leak.
"And you fold your dirty clothes."
"Yes." I hid my dancing hands under the table so he wouldn't see that his precision was making me fidget.
"You're anal."
"I guess. Sometimes. I… I can't really help it." I had heard it before. Had it shouted at me. 'Lighten up, Andrew.' I liked to fold my clothes. 'Andrew, you're hopeless.' I did not understand why it infuriated people. I did not understand why it made people leave. Now Jamie would go. He had figured it out, and he would go.
"I think it's cute."
"Oh." My hands stopped fidgeting. They were as stunned as I was.
"And you're afraid that if you don't do everything exactly right, something terrible will happen." He delivered this conclusion with the flourish of a carnival fortuneteller.
"I think you're in the wrong career, Jamie. You should have been a behavioral psychologist." Did he make everyone feel like he could see right into him? I reached for the candle to pull his attention away from me.
He touched my hand again. "Can I ask you—have you ever had sex with a man?"
I searched his face for a sign to figure out why he would ask that. Was it general curiosity or something that he wanted to know about me exclusively? My hand wrenched out of his and flew to the coins in my pocket. Jamie didn't blink. Three nickels and a quarter. I rubbed them through the denim. The waiter's hand appeared and set our drinks in front of us. Then, the curtain opened, and we saw him. We ordered. The waiter didn't use a notepad.
"Leave the menu," Jamie said. He took a long sip of his seltzer. I watched Jamie's hand as it moved and circled over the triple varnished table. "Well?" Jamie asked, turning back to me.
My answer had to be no. The hand jobs and one awkward attempt at a blow job that I did in high school didn't qualify as sex, not in the way Jamie meant. But I was hesitant. What if he wanted me to say yes? If I could just get an idea…. "Is that your opening line?" I asked.
His bemused expression gave me nothing. "I don't need an opening line. It's a serious question. Have you had sex with a man?"
"No," I said. I tramped down the urge to apologize for my inexperience.
Jamie nodded as if he had been expecting this answer. I was the poster boy for inhibition, as he knew from all the things he had rattled off about me.
"Jeff might try to fuck you. Don't take it personally."
It took a moment for the surprise to wear off. Embarrassment replaced it. I was an idiot for thinking Jamie would be talking about the two of us, but just as confused about why he would be talking about Jeff. "How can I not take that personally?"
"It's a habit of his."
"He's slept with you?" I knew the answer. Jamie's reputation preceded him. So did Jeff's. The two of them together—it was impossible for them not to have had sex.
"He has." He gave me a look like, 'come on, what do you expect?'
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