by May Burnett
The song went round and round in my head. Words, feelings, started to rise from my subconscious like mist over the ocean shore. I grabbed a pen and my notebook and wrote as fast as I could – my own lyrics. A song for Myra, to celebrate and remember her. To tell her of my love. It could have been corny, in fact skirted the edges. Yet when I sang it, strumming my guitar, it sounded genuine. With my camera I made a recording of the new version. I called it Not the End.
Though it was getting late, I called Hell.
“Listen, I got a copy of the song you and Myra sang in Atlanta, and did an English version in her honour. I’d like to share it with the world, but I don’t know who has the rights to the song. I’ll pay them for it, of course. Do you know?”
“Can I hear your version?” Hell demanded. I played the recording close to the phone. He was silent for a while.
“It’s okay, you can use it.”
“Really? But if you’re not the composer, how can you know?”
“He’s a good friend, and has given me the rights. Go ahead, I guarantee you won’t be sued.”
I wasn’t sure how much faith I should put into the assurance of a fourteen-year-old. But I could always appease the composer with money, if and when he turned up.
I uploaded the new song on YouTube, with a dedication to “my absent beloved”, and went to sleep.
Not all that long afterwards, I was woken by an angry call from my agent.
“Have you lost your mind, Jason?” Jerry asked me as I sleepily groped for the light switch. “What have you done!”
“What?” I pretended ignorance.
“That song! You whistled a fortune down the wind by simply putting it on YouTube. Not to mention that doing this breached your contract with your label.”
I yawned. “Get the lawyers to sort it out.”
He was breathing heavily over the line.
“It’s the best thing you’ve ever done, even if it has only that guitar. We need to schedule a recording with proper instrumentation right away.”
“Okay.”
“Take it down from YouTube this instant.”
“Sorry. It stays up.” I rang off. Jerry Murdock had a nerve, I thought, ordering me about at six o’clock in the morning. He worked for me, not the other way round.
Still, as I was already awake, I checked the song on my laptop. It had several million hits and half a million likes. Not bad for a short night’s exposure.
I called up Myra’s picture on my cell phone and looked at it for a minute. Words flooded my brain, things I wanted to tell her, if only she were here. I reached for the notebook and a pencil.
By the time I finished, I’d written the lyrics to four new songs, and it was nearly eight. Would I be able to find the right music to do them justice? Would she appreciate them?
One day we’d meet again. I felt increasingly sure of that.
5
The search for Myra was broken off after three days, without result. In the meantime I’d had to undergo a couple more interviews with various law enforcement personnel, always flanked by Zackary, my personal lawyer. The questions became more pointed over time.
“How badly hurt was the victim when you left her?” I hated that they kept referring to Myra as “the victim”.
“I’m not a doctor, but she was bleeding heavily from a big gash in her head. I suspected that she’d broken several bones.”
“But she might have been able to leave under her own strength?”
“I very much doubt it. She was unconscious and looked close to death when I left.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell them of my suspicion that Myra’s spine was broken – after all, I was no doctor. If I was right, she could not possibly have moved by herself.
The agents wanted to know all about my relationship to the two girls, and if I’d ever given Christabel any encouragement. They spoke to Hell, to the other students, our teachers, the girls’ matron. As far as I was concerned, they were just wasting their time.
In the meantime, my popularity had never been higher. Just as Alice had predicted, being involved in a mysterious tragedy had made me even more interesting than before. The slight aura of danger – for those who suspected me – only added to my allure.
Christabel did not return to the school, just as well as far as I was concerned – I could not have concentrated on learning anything if she’d been in the class. Her family tried to portray her as a victim of my callousness, a selfless lover trying to shield me by taking on the blame for my own actions. This strategy failed to work, in part because of the song I’d recorded. The papers wrote that “nobody who hears Not the End, and the lyrics written by Jason Mackenzie himself in the depth of his grief and loss, can doubt his love for the vanished girl.” Though it had been far from my intentions, the song acted like a character reference.
To the disgust of her family’s lawyers, Christabel kept to her self-incriminating, and as only I knew for sure, true version of events. The lawyers had still got her off so far, aided by the lack of a body, and claiming that she was under psychic stress when she made her confession.
I went back to the school’s dull routine, broken by a couple of recording sessions and some promotional appearances for Hurricane Riders. This movie, on which high hopes were pinned by producers and investors, was due to open at the beginning of December. My professional activities felt less important to me than before, but I fulfilled my contractual obligations like an obedient star, going through the motions. Nobody seemed to notice any difference.
For the Christmas days, I was going home to my parents’ mansion in Maryland. It would be a relief to get away from the school, now that Myra was no longer there.
WINTER
1
My parents had been travelling in India for several weeks but they’d be returning soon after the start of the Christmas holidays. I arrived home before them. The staff rallied round to spoil me, as they had done in previous years, whenever I could make it home for brief visits.
A couple of days’ solitude, away from the school or work, was a rare luxury in my life. I could use the time, as I had some serious decisions before me. Should I go back to the Rockview Academy after these holidays, find a new school, or finish my education with some form of tailor-made home tuition?
I was signed up for three tours and four major movies in the next two years. Over the last years, my acting and singing commitments and school had demanded a constant balancing act. At times I had hardly known how to manage, and there was nobody to whom I could complain. Everything had only worked out, more or less, because my school basically let me get away with murder –having me as their most famous student was worth it to them.
In just four months I’d turn seventeen. A bit late to start at another school, which might be less tolerant of my frequent absences.
On the other hand, how important was my career to me? I’d not consciously set out to become a star, it had just happened. A bragging acquaintance and my mother’s sense of competition put me in the starting position, fate and talent had done the rest. Plus hard work, good genes and luck.
I didn’t even need the money I earned. A trust fund from my maternal grandfather assured my living standard, even if I never worked a day in my life. It was just a little bigger than my own earnings even now, though at the current rate I’d surpass it in the next couple of years.
People admired and envied me: young, famous, talented, rich, good-looking. Sexy, according to the fan sites. I sometimes read some of my fan mail and Alice sent me press clippings every week, so I had a pretty good idea of my public image. It was difficult not to let it go to my head. Myra’s matter-of-fact attitude had helped – she was like a bracing cool wind on a beach, and had helped me keep some perspective in face of so much unearned admiration.
I’d have given up all of my wealth and fame, in a heartbeat, if I could have Myra back.
After two days of lounging around and thinking, my parents finally returned from their business trip. Moth
er and Father – they detested “Mom” and “Dad” - had never been hands-on parents; like every other chore, bringing me up had been delegated to highly qualified experts. Maybe it was for the best.
They asked if there was any news about Myra, but as they’d never met her, their questions were perfunctory. My answers were short. I could not see the point of discussing my feelings with them. I never had been encouraged to do so - why start now?
“What’s your schedule for the rest of this year?” Father asked as we were cutting into the sizzling pepper steaks their cook prepared so well.
“End of January the shooting for Monsters under the Dome begins in L.A., before it moves to Nevada. I’ve set aside four solid weeks for that. Then, just two days later, there’s a series of recording sessions for the new album. At least a week, probably more.”
“Is it true you wrote a song yourself recently?” Mother enquired, delicately incredulous. “Somebody I met on the plane said they really liked it.”
“I only wrote the words, the music has a somewhat mysterious origin.”
“So, you will spend very little time at school.” Father could calculate figures and schedules in his sleep. “Considering your constant travelling, I’m surprised your reports are decent.”
“The school made special allowances for me. In another school I could not take that for granted.”
“Oh, I think you can,” Mother said with a smile. “Successful people are always treated differently, and given special privileges. When they are famous, good-looking and rich as well, only the envious or jealous would make trouble for you.”
“Well, there are always some envious and jealous people around, Mother. Anyway, I’m not happy with the special privileges I’ve been getting; it seems unfair towards the rest of the students.”
“Whoa – that’s a new tune,” my father raised his brows. “Since when does that bother you?”
“Maybe I’m growing up.” It had been Myra who made me see, in her gentle way, how many privileges I took for granted.
“Nonsense.” Mother was brisk. “Fairness is only important if it you need to claim it in your own favour. Other people can look after their own interests.” That summed up her philosophy, I guessed. I shrugged. At her age argument would hardly change her mind.
“So you’ll be staying here a few more days, then? You’re always welcome, you know that.”
The words were kind, but the message was just the opposite: my mother was talking to me as a guest, not her own child. Not an unquestioned, permanent member of the household. I felt a sudden stab of pain. Was this not my home too, then? If not, did I even have a home? The school hardly qualified.
As I’d done in other stressful moments lately, I imagined an invisible Myra next to me, putting her hand on mine in a gesture of silent consolation. My hurt receded, and I started to use my brain again.
If Mother didn’t consider this my home, wasn’t I entitled to my own separate place? I’d have moved out when I went to college anyway; why not simply do it a couple of years early?
“So,” I said casually, feeling my way, “if I make my agent a happy guy and move to L.A. permanently, I’ll be taking my own house there.”
“Don’t rush into anything,” Father advised. “Rent before you buy, and get a feel for the neighbourhood.”
“Well, buying might not be a bad investment, depending on the location,” my mother said. “Do get the best advice before you decide on anything, dear.”
Neither of them seemed to have the slightest objection to their sixteen-year-old son taking a house for himself.
Looking at them, as they sat there in their own elegant world, I realised that they were not really made to be parents. They obviously felt much more comfortable with me outsourced to various professionals, and now could not wait to treat me as an adult they no longer needed to worry about.
Well, they were what they were. Wasn’t this better than the opposite, clinging or controlling parents? I’d seen and heard quite a few of those on location. If I was offered my freedom, I’d be a fool not to take it.
I could find affection and warmth elsewhere. The imaginary Myra beside me gave me an approving smile as she slowly dissolved, like a silent promise to give me what my parents were unable to provide.
Mother already had moved on to a subject closer to her heart. “On Saturday we have a pre-Christmas party here. We’re expecting some two hundred people, mostly our own generation. Still, they’ll be happy to meet you, the way you’ve been in the headlines lately.”
I shook my head. “I’ll just stay away, if you don’t mind. After what happened in Colorado I’m really not in the mood for parties.” I had experience of my mother’s entertaining. Deadly dull and expensive was not my preferred style.
“If you’re in the house you have to at least say hello, then you can leave.” My father disapproved of social awkwardness, and didn’t understand how my fame as a singer and actor exposed me to all kinds of speculation and pursuit. Still, what could happen in my own parents’ house? I reluctantly agreed to make a brief appearance, for politeness’ sake.
The day of the party arrived in a flurry of florists, caterers, and delivery vans. I kept out of the way. Over the last couple of days I’d written more songs in my cycle for Myra, and had started to put several of them to music. It was the first time I’d tried to do everything myself – music, words and performance – and the task consumed my time because I wanted to get these songs just right. When Myra heard them, she should be proud of me. The lyrics were not so difficult because I drew on what was in my heart, but I had trouble with finding music strong and original enough to go with the words. There was technique involved that I hadn’t yet studied properly.
The party was formal – my parents didn’t do informal. I put on black pants and a loose black dress shirt. Jacket and tie were not part of my image. My publicist Alice had drilled me in how to dress for various occasions. “Black flatters your Nordic looks, the blond hair and blue eyes,” she’d told me on a shopping trip in L.A. Despite my annoyance with her, it still seemed good advice from a professional perspective.
My hair badly needed cutting but it didn’t seem as important as it had other times.
As soon as I joined the party, a thick cluster of guests formed around me. Their average age must have been over forty, yet their avid curiosity was anything but mature.
“How are you doing? What’s your theory of that girl’s disappearance?” The same questions came at me over and over. “Fine, dealing with it,” or “No idea” were my rote answers. It had to be the worst party I’d ever attended.
“That new song of yours on YouTube is great,” a middle-aged woman in pale blue silk told me. “I had no idea you were that talented.”
Did she realise how condescending that sounded? “Thanks.”
“What did you see in that Swiss girl, when you must have met so many pretty actresses?” A fat guy wanted to know. Clearly tact was not part of his repertoire.
“Well, prettiness is only one part of a person. There are more important qualities.”
The women in the crowd nodded at this, while the fat guy shook his head. “I don’t suppose you can understand,” I added. He looked the type who chose his women according to boob size.
I only managed to escape the crowd when the buffet was opened and most of them drifted over to graze there.
Pretending to move in the same direction, I got the crowd around me to walk, then – trading on my better local knowledge - I made a quick turn into the library, and closed the door behind me. Socialising was second nature to me, but tonight it had been really hard to pretend to care what they said. My brain was bursting with thoughts of Myra, of my new songs …. I plopped myself down in a large leather armchair and pulled out my cell phone to look at Myra’s picture.
“All alone in here?” an arch voice interrupted me. Quickly I stuffed the cell phone back into my pocket.
A spectacularly beautiful woman of about thir
ty, dressed in a vivid red sheath-like dress, unhurriedly approached and stood right before me. From my position in the chair I had an excellent view of her bulging bosom and pouting mouth, painted in a much darker red but harmonising well with the dress. Her slim fingers wore a big diamond and a wedding ring. Long smooth hair of a very dark brown, almost black, shimmered in the dim light.
Good manners dictated that I get up from the chair, but she was standing so close that I would have bumped into her.
“The buffet is out there,” I said.
“Who cares?” She tossed her hair to the side, exposing a tanned, flawless neck. “What I see in here is a lot tastier.” Her dark eyes looked me over from top to bottom, lingering for a long moment in the region of my crotch.
I stood up with a swift movement, putting her out of my way by picking her up at her bare upper arms and setting her down again a small distance away. “I don’t like being crowded.”
She remained unflustered by my touch. I noticed that in her high heels she was just as tall as I. A slow smile crept over her glossy lips.
“I could show you a very good time.” Her voice was husky. Sexy.
“Sorry, I’m not interested. I just lost my girlfriend, if you’ve heard, and I’m not in the mood for a quick fuck.”
The crude expression did not put her off.
“No? Well, I am.” She reached out with her crimson fingernails and would have touched my cheek, but I moved out the way.
“How many times do I have to say no?” My pitch was rising. Not cool.
She just stood there, staring at me.
The library had another entrance that led to the back staircase. I turned my back on the intruder and banged the door behind me, fled back to my own room. My heart was pounding. She had looked at me the way a big red cat would look at a juicy mouse.
