by PJ Adams
She pushed against him, almost giddy with the sudden pressure in her belly, and lower.
He’d done this to her before, at the Roxette. Held her and pressed and her response had stolen over her in a rush and she had been right on the brink of climax just from the way he held her.
She drew her head away from his kiss, and tucked it in against his chest, breathing in a peppery, slightly citrus scent. She wrapped her arms around him, inside his leather jacket, felt that peak slipping away, savoring its closeness and knowing that before long he would take her there again.
She peered past him, then, and saw a sleek cruiser drifting past on the river. A middle-aged couple stood at the wheel, the woman pointing across at Emily and Ray. Had they recognized him? Was he that obvious, even like this? Or was Emily being paranoid? The woman wasn’t even pointing at them, she was pointing at the swans, or the trees, or at whatever was beyond the wall.
Paranoid.
Stupid.
She fought back the urge to reach into her bag for her phone and check for messages. Marcia had said everything was fine. That should be enough.
She tightened her embrace briefly, then eased free of Ray’s grip. He looked at her and she nodded towards the passing boat. He shrugged, and then that smile stole over his face. “It’s fine,” he said. “As long as they’re not paparazzi, it’s fine.”
He stepped back, turned, and took her hand again. “Not far now. See that barge?” He nodded ahead and she saw a traditional narrow-boat moored just beyond a fork-trunked willow tree that leaned out across the water. “That’s Ronnie’s studio. That’s where we recorded the album.”
Just before they reached the boat they came to a heavy wooden door set into the wall. Next to it, there was a small keypad and speaker. Ray pressed something and spoke immediately. “Hey there,” he said, into the small device. “It’s me. Ray Sandler and guest. Ronnie’s expecting us.”
There was a click and when Ray pushed at the door it swung inwards.
Emily peered left and right: the high wall went for as far as she could see. When Ray had said they were staying at a friend’s place tonight, she hadn’t quite expected a riverside estate like this.
They passed through the doorway and strolled hand in hand away from the wall and the river. A path led them through manicured gardens that unfolded away on either side, avenues of trees, regimented rose-beds, long strips of bowling-green lawn that led between flawlessly trimmed hedges.
Finally, they rounded a tall, rectangular bush and Emily saw the house for the first time, a manor-house with a central building flanked by two adjoining wings. It looked old, Elizabethan perhaps, and beautifully restored and maintained.
“Now this is what it’s like when you’ve really made it,” said Ray.
They were approaching the rear of the mansion, Emily realized, and that only served to make the place seem even more impressive and imposing. She wondered what it must look like from the front as you approached, no doubt along a long, tree-lined drive. She guessed now that they wouldn’t be crashing on a sofa tonight.
She turned to Ray. The restaurant, the things he said, and now this. He really was trying to take her breath away this evening. And call her shallow and star-struck all you like, but it had worked. “Ray,” she said, “I just–”
“Ray, darling. About time. Thought you were never going to get here.” The voice was deep and rough, the accent Cockney with the occasional American inflection: a mid-Atlantic, media-friendly voice.
A shortish guy, about five-six, with flowing silver hair and skin tanned a deep orangey-brown came bustling towards them and then stopped. “So this is her, eh? Are you just going to stand there or are you going to introduce us?”
Emily just stood there. It had taken a few seconds to process and even now she was going through the lengthiest double-take in the history of being slow to catch on.
This was the ‘Ronnie’ Ray had mentioned.
He stepped forward, put his hands on Emily’s arms, and kissed the air to either side of her cheeks. “So I’ll do it myself,” he said. “Welcome. Everyone here calls me Ronnie and you must be Emily. You want to come inside? The mozzies are out something rotten tonight.” With that he took Emily’s hand and led her into his mansion, and all the time she was still glancing sideways at him and then back over her shoulder to the smirking Ray, who was now following them.
Ronnie, otherwise known as Lionel Ronson, one-time session keyboard player for the Beatles and the Rolling Stones before forging a career for himself as one of the biggest-selling singer-songwriters of a generation.
They entered through leaded glass doors into a ballroom where a team of roadies was moving lighting rigs and a grand piano encrusted in what looked like diamonds. “Oh, don’t mind all this,” said Ronnie, waving dismissively. “They’re just clearing up. We’ve just finished shooting a video, and my God I’m ready for a drink. It’s the Christmas fucking single – can you believe it? It’s not even properly summer yet and here I am miming about snow and presents. Load of old toss, I tell you.”
They emerged in an entrance foyer that probably had more floor-space than Emily’s entire house. Wide marble stairs swept up from here, and numerous doors opened off three sides, the fourth just having two sets of high, leaded windows either side of a single set of high doors which must be the main entrance.
“Through here, through here.”
Ronnie led them into a side room, all dark wood paneling and high-winged chairs, with an upright piano against one wall. “Come,” he said. “Take a seat. Tell me about yourself. No you, Emily, not Ray. I know all about young Ray.”
She sat, and it felt like she would carry on sinking into that chair forever. “I...” she said. “I’m not sure what there is to tell.”
Ronnie steepled his hands together in front of his chin, the fingers thick with jewelry. “Really?” he said. “You expect me to believe Ray’s fallen for someone dull?” Then he threw his head back, laughing, every utterance and gesture a theatrical event for him, it seemed.
Getting over the shock of whose house this was, Emily realized she was starting to do that thing again, just as she had with Ray: the transition from staring at the celebrity to seeing flashes of real person beneath the gloss. Ronnie was a talker, a gusher, but all the time he’d been talking his eyes had fixed on her, looking for something. Approval, perhaps.
She smiled at him now, and was instantly rewarded with a genuine flash of warmth in return.
“You want to see around?” he asked. “Or you want a drink, maybe? Or both? I’m flexible.”
They drank mojitos, and Ronnie told them how he’d fallen in love with the drink at La Bodeguita del Medio in Havana. “I said I’d write them a song if they let me in on their secret,” he said. “Not quite Picasso drawing on napkins, but you know. Apparently it’s the mint they use, the hierbabuena. We grow it here now, in the orangery – whorled mint – but it’s not quite the same as when you’re drinking your mojito surrounded by hot, sweating Latinos and listening to jazz and Cubaton, now, is it?”
Ronnie had a reputation as a wild, flamboyant partygoer, short-tempered and eccentric and prone to superstar tantrums, not as the charming sweetie he turned out to be. For all his well-worn anecdotes about the places he’d been and the name-dropped stars he’d been there with – John and Paul, Frank and the gang, Kylie and Meryl – Emily realized well into the evening that he’d gradually been leading her out into the open, digging for stories and sitting back as she spoke. He’d have made a great therapist, or interviewer, if he ever grew bored with being a multimillionaire recording star.
Before long, it was more like visiting an uncle you haven’t seen for months. They talked and they laughed, and occasionally Ray would join in with an anecdote of his own, but mostly he was content to just sit back and enjoy how Ronnie drew Emily out of herself.
Finally, it was dark outside, and Emily had long since passed the point of realizing she was in the hands of a master. S
he couldn’t remember talking so much in the longest time – not even on a night out with Marcia. Maybe it was the mojitos: she was sure it wasn’t just the special mint that gave this drink that something extra.
She sat back and smiled across at Ray. He looked so chilled – about as chilled as she felt. Earlier at L’Auberge, there had been a tension about him; the way she knew he could get when he was on public view. Seeing him like this was special, an insider’s thing.
Now, he raised his glass to Emily and Ronnie and said, “So... how about that threesome?”
It was as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs.
She stared at him, fighting not to let any expression pass across her face.
For his part, he just sat there, straight-faced, eyebrows slightly raised as if to prompt a response.
Then he snorted into his drink, unable any longer to contain his laughter.
She stared at him, still, now letting her jaw sag. Then Ronnie leaned forward and put a hand on her forearm.
“Darling,” he said, “for a moment there you had a face like a bulldog sucking lemons. You do know I’m homosexual, don’t you? Bent as a nine pound note.”
She turned her look on him. Of course she knew he was gay, but... Everyone knew Lionel Ronson was gay.
She looked at Ray again. He’d bitten back on the laughter.
He’d done exactly what she had to him earlier, she realized. Sucker-punched her right back. Shown her that he could say almost anything and her starting point was always to believe, no matter how ludicrous something might be, just as his starting point was always to believe. She had liked what that said about him, and so she must like what it said about her, too.
She narrowed her eyes, and saw a flash of uncertainty race across his features. Had he got it wrong?
“Bastard,” she said, and then burst out laughing. “You utter, utter bastard.”
4
“Remember, darlings: noise carries. Even in a 32-bedroom mansion.”
They left the room, hand in hand, giggling. Lionel Ronson remained in his seat by the window, suddenly transformed from the bubbly, charming host to a rather sad and lonely figure.
“You okay?” asked Ray, pulling the door closed behind them.
“Yes. Just...” She nodded towards the closed door. “Ronnie. He just seems...”
Ray nodded. “I know what you mean. He’s one of the sweetest people I know. He’s been like a father to me at times. But he never really opens up. There are always barriers.”
“Kiss me.”
He leaned down, and kissed her tenderly, slowly. Held her. She fitted so perfectly into his arms.
She pulled away, eventually. “You’re trying to impress me, aren’t you?” she said. “Dinner. All this. Ronnie.”
“Of course I’m trying to impress you, Emily. With everything I do. But all this? These are my friends. This is who I am. In thirty or forty years time I’ll be Ronnie, shut away in my mansion, not trusting anyone and not able to go out.”
Was that why he was showing her this? Not to impress but to confront, to tell her that this is what she’s dealing with?
“That’s some career plan.”
“It was never a plan,” he said. “It isn’t the deal you sign up to when the A and R man comes up to you after a gig in a shitty little pub and tells you he wants you to meet some people. It’s always part of the territory, though. But hey, I’m not complaining.”
He cracked that smile and she tucked herself briefly into his arms again. “Did he say there was a room for us?” she asked.
§
He led her up those grand marble stairs and along a dark corridor. The only lighting came from small spotlights directed at heavy-framed paintings. Mostly pictures of birds, their gaudy feathers picked out in exquisite detail, some of them dead – the game birds and waterfowl – and others stretching wings to display their plumage. There were landscapes, too; possibly of the manicured grounds of Ronnie’s mansion. She should recognize the artists, she knew, but she was distracted.
They came to a door which Ray pushed open. Then he stepped back and waited for Emily to pass through first.
She stepped into a living room. More of those high-winged chairs, a leather chaise longue. Doors opening off this room – presumably there was a bedroom through one of them. Over by the window there was a grand piano, and it said a lot about the scale of this suite that the piano didn’t dominate the space. There were pianos throughout this mansion, she realized – so many that you stopped noticing them.
More paintings hung from the walls in ornate frames.
“Ronnie, you little...” Ray was shaking his head, then he nodded towards the nearest of the paintings and Emily looked more closely.
She’d been so distracted by her first impressions of the room as a whole that she hadn’t seen that the pictures were not paintings at all: someone had printed out old photos of the Angry Cans and taped them into the heavy frames, concealing the original paintings. Four young men in wraparound shades, leather jackets and tight jeans; they stood on top of a wall, hands tucked into jacket pockets, their postures surly, confrontational, the sky heavy and gray behind them. A softer shot of Ray, shades pushed back, dark eyes staring out of the picture, dreamily, lost; and blurred in the background the other three Cans, all against a white backdrop. The four on stage, Ray, Callum and Rake with their guitars slung low, Laney looking like he’d been caught in mid-air as he launched himself at his drums. And more: stage shots, pictures from the magazines, studio shots.
“I should never have told him,” said Ray, shaking his head. Then, prompted by her silence, he went on: “I told him you’d had Angry Cans pictures on your bedroom wall. I told him how old it made me feel.” He laughed. “I’m sorry. I’ll take them down.”
He reached for the nearest picture but Emily caught his wrist. “No, it’s fine,” she said. “It’s sweet. You clearly mean a lot to him.”
Ray shrugged. “He’s one of the good guys. You learn to value that.”
She moved further into the room and stopped before another picture. The four members of the Angry Cans in a huddle, arms around each other’s shoulders, skyscrapers and city lights behind them.
“Why did you guys split?” she asked.
“It was always going to happen,” he said. “It had the weight of inevitability about it. People get together, people split.”
He moved across to the piano and sat, then started picking out simple arpeggios, moving through three chords and then back to the start again. When he started to sing it was a repeated high note, sliding down as the chord changed. That gravel in his voice giving the notes an impassioned quality.
“Can’t stop thinking ’bout you as the day grows old,
Built my life around you, gave my heart and soul.
Can’t stop dreaming ’bout the things we did and said,
Grains of sand running through my hand, and through my weary head.”
Emily stood by the piano, watching the way Ray’s hands glided over the keys. Such a rare gift, to be able to just sit down at any instrument and make something beautiful like this. He’d played this song at the Roxette. One of the new ones, so she’d only heard it that one time, but it had stayed with her so that now she was with him, ahead of him, as he transitioned into the chorus:
“Now is the moment, now is forever,
We’re living it for all we’ve got.
If there are ninety-nine ways to get together,
There’s a hundred ways to break up.”
First time round she’d taken the song at face value, a song about the precarious nature of love, how you must treasure every moment because even the most secure of relationships was vulnerable, easily lost. Now, though, she realized it could equally be about any relationship, and in particular it could be about the Angry Cans: four young men who had grown up together, lived and played and worked together, fought and broke up.
She wondered at his choice of words earlier: It had the
weight of inevitability about it. People get together, people split.
He had a way of putting things, presenting a negative that’s actually a positive, and then twisting it so that it’s negative again. So now he was sitting there and singing the most beautiful song about how important it was to treasure the moments you have because they might be all you have.
It totally encapsulated the mood that had been stealing over her repeatedly this evening. A mood she’d tried to deny and resist, whereas Ray embraced it: this is life – enjoy it, give yourself up to it. Life so precious, so vulnerable.
That double-edged thing, the appreciation and the vulnerability, had been in his songs from the start, she realized. She’d just never quite understood.
She waited until the last notes of the piano had faded away, Ray still sitting there, his hands poised, his head drooping, as if the song had taken everything.
She moved around the piano and put a hand to each of his cheeks, cupping his face, tilting him up to meet her kisses. A succession of brief, delicate kisses. Across his mouth, his nose, his forehead, and then back down to his mouth, lingering now, pressing.
He turned on the piano stool to face her and his hands moved to her hips.
She parted her lips now and his tongue pressed home. That nervous thing of his, the first tentative probing and then the hunger and need stealing over him as he took control, driving deep into her mouth.
Instantly, her heart was pounding, her breath rapid, and that delicious, tense knot was forming deep in her belly.
Those hands... pulling at her skirt now, sliding it up her thighs, over her hips.
A moment’s rushing of thoughts: fear of being intimate with him (but he’d seen her naked already, kissed every inch of her curvy body), relief that she’d chosen to wear those sheer black hold-ups and the new black lace shorts she’d bought that morning. Then...
One hand now, moving away from her hip, stealing inwards.
Pressing. Thumb upright against her mound. Forefinger pressing against the fabric of her panties, hard knuckles against her softness, parting her through the thin cotton. A roll of the wrist, a rocking back and forth.
