Revenant Rising

by M. M. Mayle

  THIRTY-THREE

  Morning, April 4, 1987

  Despite the interruption by Mrs. Floss, Laurel is till running ahead of schedule when she steps into the elevator at work. She’s looking forward to some time alone to prepare for today’s session when she steps out of the elevator on her floor only to see Colin Elliot emerge from her office a moderate ways away. He just stands there, filling the hallway, forcing her to cover the distance between them under heavy scrutiny.

  In the world of romance novels she would run to him; she would free her tresses to fall in a tumble of raven-dark curls against her creamy shoulders; she would submit to his smoldering gaze and crushing embrace; her bodice would rip and multiple layers of petticoats would fall away; rose-tipped breasts would heave, lustful loins would thrust, and she would be transported to previously unknown heights of writhing ecstasy.

  In the world of Clark, Sebastian & Associates she walks down the hall slightly pigeon-toed so the straps of her Chanel slingbacks don’t slide off her heels; her eyes are focused on a spot just above one of his shoulders, and the only thing she might consider heaving is an exasperated sigh. With one hand, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear; with the other, she clutches the drab raincoat around her in a way that eliminates even the slightest contact as she precedes him into her outer office. “Good morning,” she says in passing. The greeting excludes Amanda—wide-eyed and expectant at her usual station—who shouldn’t be here either.

  “Why don’t you wait inside? I need to go over a few things with my assistant.” She breaks her own rule and touches the client; she propels him by the arm into her private office and closes the door behind him.

  “What on earth are you doing here and why did you let him in?” she stage whispers to Amanda even though Colin is out of earshot.

  “I was supposed to leave him waiting in reception? C’mon, Laurel, give the guy a break . . . give me a break.”

  “He’s not supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes at the earliest,” Laurel says in louder voice.

  “Well, I guess the precedent was set at your first meeting with him. He was a whole hour early for that one, and I don’t recall your grousing about it.”

  “How long has he been here anyway?”

  “He says he was here only a few minutes when I showed up a half hour ago.”

  “So you haven’t had to keep him entertained all that long.” “Yeah, just long enough for him to tell me about the fabulous food you prepared for the picnic you had with him yesterday.”

  “Shit!” Laurel says in full voice.

  “Oh, and when he wasn’t monitoring the hallway for your arrival, he mentioned that you told him your life story.”

  “There was good reason, just as there was for the picnic. I told him some of my background merely to draw him out. I was only employing the same technique Nate Isaacs used on you, and by supplying a picnic lunch, I was only protecting his privacy.” Laurel removes her coat and flings it atop a filing cabinet.

  “Sure you were.” Amanda puts on a wise-ass expression. “And look at you now. You’re dressed that way to convince him you mean nothing but business. Right?”

  “Okay, if you want to play that game, let’s hear what you are doing here this morning. Or am I safe to assume you’re just after another celebrity fix—perhaps hoping to cadge some more vicarious thrills?”

  “Go ahead.” Amanda’s chin comes up. “Assume away while I assume everything I’ve read about you in the tabloids is true.

  “It appears you already have.”

  “I’m sorry, that was a cheap shot.”

  “I had it coming. One cheap shot deserves another.”

  “Look, I admit I’m a romance junkie or whatever you want to call it, but it really is thrilling to be up close to someone that’s so smitten, so besotted . . . besotted . . . that’s it! That’s the word I’ve been trying to think of ever since I saw the look he gets in his eyes when he talks about you.”

  Laurel regards Amanda as she would Mrs. Floss and endows her with about the same amount of credibility. “One more time . . . you came into the office on a Saturday morning . . . why?”

  “In case someone needs me? To catch up on my work? To catch up on the latest?”

  “Get a life, Amanda, and while you’re at it, hold all my calls, although there shouldn’t be any. Technically I’m not here.”

  Laurel cannot put it off any longer. Nor can she put her coat back on. She adjusts the neckline of her blouse upward, plucks at her skirt as though to loosen it, and goes into her private quarters where Colin has not yet chosen a chair. He’s looking out one of the windows and doesn’t turn around right away. When he does, he shows no interest in the way she’s dressed. She feels vain and foolish for thinking he would.

  “I missed you,” he says from across the room. “No, that’s not right . . . yes it is . . . what I mean to say . . . I missed your call last night. I’m dead sorry I wasn’t there to pickup, but I was glad to hear about the garage door opener. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I, too, am sorry you weren’t there because I wouldn’t have had to wait until now to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “I was . . . ungracious . . . to react the way I did to your offer of help. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m not. No, that’s not true. Actually I did give it a bit of worry . . . a bit of thought, I should say, and I came up with a theory about why you reacted that way.”

  “Really? And it is?”

  “You’re not keen on accepting help because it reminds you of a time when you were forced into dependency. Accepting help’s apt to make you feel obligated, inferior, even. If I’d been thinking straight last night I would’ve recognized that straightaway and known better than force myself on you the way I did.”

  Without indicating there’s any truth to his theory, Laurel eases into the desk chair and beckons him to take a nearby seat. It’s only then that she notices how tired he looks; his eyes are red-rimmed and his demeanor suggests of dejection. He’s no less well groomed than he was yesterday; his suit and open-necked shirt are clean and pressed, but something’s missing. Now that she’s willing to admit he has one, she could almost say his aura is diminished.

  “I have some other theories I’d like you to hear, but before I go on I have to ask—do you have another appointment? By the look of you, I’ll say it’s a heavy lunch date.”

  “No, you are my only appointment today.”

  “So I don’t have to hurry?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Do I have to pretend I haven’t noticed that you look fantastically lovely today?”

  “Shall I go on pretending you don’t look as though you’ve been out all night?”

  “I wasn’t out except for when you rang, and then I was just down in the Oak Bar having a nightcap with Bemus. I was awake most of the night, though. Never did get settled down, actually.”

  “Were you writing? You mentioned you were working on something.”

  “That’s what I was doing before I had the bright idea to ring home around three—their breakfast time—and catch Anthony before he was off to his Saturday-morning football. When I did, I learned they were waiting for a decent hour in this time zone to let me know that Anthony’s been stripped of all privileges and won’t be going anywhere except school.”

  “Good heavens, what did he do?”

  “You’ve heard of the Wish Upon a Star Foundation?”

  “Wish fulfillment for children suffering threatening illnesses? Yes, I have. David once served on their board.”

  “It was through David that I first heard about the organization and got involved. I recently started participating again, but to get on with it . . . Anthony broke a house rule by using the fax machine and it seems he sent a request to the British office of the foundation.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Using a fake name, he passed himself off as termina
lly ill and wishing for a visit from a star before he breathed his last.”

  “Don’t tell me . . . ”

  “Yeh, he did. He asked for a deathbed visit from yours truly.”

  “Oh . . . my . . . god,” Laurel claps one hand over her mouth and swivels her chair in the direction of the credenza.

  “Are you laughing?”

  “I’m sorry.” She laughs without restraint. “I can’t help it.”

  “That was my reaction when I got off the phone—damned near pissed myself laughing at the kid’s sheer audacity, then I couldn’t get to sleep for wondering what to do about it. About him. I’m startin’ to think I should just give in and go home, actually. I’m afraid that may be the only thing for it.”

  “Oh.” She falters for a moment. “Are you sure? Do you really think that’s the only recourse?”

  “Do you see another?”

  “Well, if you go home now you’ll give him exactly what he wants along with tacit approval of his methodology.”

  “You think so? That’s interesting. I hadn’t got round to looking at it that way. You make a good point, a very good point.” He brightens a little, releases a shadow of the killer smile.

  “Even if you go home strictly to reprimand him, he’ll still have accomplished what he set out to do. I know it sounds cruel, but—”

  “No, not necessarily. Now that I think about it a bit, what you say makes perfect sense. Brilliant it is. By staying put I give him no power. I doubt even my mum can argue with that.”

  “Do you expect any fallout from his prank? This assumes the fax actually transmitted, was received, processed and treated as valid.”

  “I understand what you’re asking—is someone at the Wish Foundation going to recognize the request as coming from my son.”

  “Yes, will someone be able to pick up on the fact your eight-year-old son concocted an elaborate ruse to make you come home? That would make quite a story for the tabloid press—the legitimate press as well.”

  “I rather doubt that’ll happen. My participation in their program is conditional upon my contributions remaining private. Any attempt on their part to publicize my involvement will put an end to it, and I’ve alerted someone in Nate’s London office to remind them of just that. The only real fallout I expect will be from Nate himself. When he finds out he’ll shit a brick.”

  “I understand he’s shat several recently.”

  “So you’ve heard?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “Is there a problem with Nate? Are you all right about meeting with him next week?”

  “That needn’t be discussed right now. Right now I’d rather hear how Anthony’s mischief was discovered . . . if you don’t mind sharing that with me.”

  “I don’t mind at all. He left the original document in the fax machine where my mum found it when she was placing a grocery order. She later discovered that he’d composed the original by borrowing from previous correspondence with the foundation that he found in my desk. Because he is allowed access to a typewriter and he’s seen others use the fax, the rest had to be easy for him.”

  “After thinking up a scheme like that, almost anything else had to be easy for him. Are you sure he’s only eight?”

  “I ask myself that regularly and hope to hell I can somehow channel his abilities for the forces of good instead of evil. Did either of your brothers show a bent for creative mischief?”

  “Nothing that creative, but they did have their moments, especially as teenagers. Once I found Michael, the younger one, attempting to make brownies, which was totally out of character because he had no interest in cooking and didn’t even like sweets that much. Turns out the recipe included a special ingredient he tried to convince me was oregano. Another time, Ben, my other brother, who wasn’t licensed at the time, took the car without . . . Wait a minute. Oh no you don’t. We’re not playing that game again. We’re here to talk about you, not me.”

  “I wasn’t aware it was a game.” He hits her with the full-intensity smile.

  Like hell he wasn’t. She takes up her pen and stops short of drumming it on the desktop. “You mentioned other theories you wish to discuss, something that will further our progress, I hope.”

  “That would be my constant hope and I believe what I have to say is relevant to the . . . uh . . . cause,” he says.

  “Well, let’s hear them, by all means.”

  “From things you said yesterday I theorize you’re at a crossroads for being newly free to do what you want instead of what’s dictated.”

  “Yes, that is fair to say, but I thought I made it clear just now that we’re not talking about me anymore.” She waggles the pen between her fingers like a clumsy baton twirler.

  “We’re talking about you as you relate to me and the crossroads I’m at.”

  “Where I am in my life has absolutely no bearing on where you find yourself to be.” She drops the pen.

  “Oh yes it does. It bloody well does when it reminds that I’m in a similar place . . . that I’m finally in a position to make choices that are mine alone.”

  “But—”

  “Hear me out. Please.”

  “Very well.” She drops the pen into a desk drawer.

  “In my business, someone other than the artist invariably dictates the conditions of initial success. Keep that person or persons well fed and the artist maintains a platform, even if it’s not entirely his own. Nearly all of us have to sell out a bit in the beginning—feed the god of commercialism before we can feed the god of artistic endeavor. Many of us settle for tradeoffs—one formulaic release earns us the right to produce an experimental one. A few of us hold out for complete autonomy, complete control, and if we get it we can wind up as hybrids because we may have forgotten how to be true to ourselves in the process.”

  “What have my present circumstances to do with any of this?”

  “Everything. Yesterday I experienced the equivalent of your thirtieth birthday—that final requirement you had to meet—by cutting myself loose from a record label that nurtured by smothering, and you were there to remind me of the importance of pleasing myself, of being honest with myself above all else,”

  “I still fail to see—”

  “Laurel . . . I sense that you’ve had to be someone else for so long you wouldn’t recognize your true self in a mirror . . . metaphorically speaking.”

  “I’m not sure I care for that image, no pun intended.”

  “Please don’t be offended. I’m not speaking critically, I’m speaking from experience. I know more than a bit about having to sell myself as something I’m not. And I know something of transitions. I was already pushing hard for change when the crash enforced it. If it seems I’ve been taking literal measure of my own celebrity lately, it’s because I’ve begun questioning if I want to be celebrated in that way any longer.”

  “What do you mean? You can’t be thinking of giving up what you do, can you?”

  “No, not at all. I’ll never stop being a musician, but I’ll never again go about it the way I once did. And, from you, I get the distinct feeling you’ll never again practice your profession the way you did when the terms were spelt out for you.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you, then? You’re not just saying that?”

  “Yes, Colin, I do see what you mean, and as applied strictly to you it is indeed something to ponder and probably deserves a chapter. In fact, the subject of transition is an excellent lead-in to what I’d like to discuss today.” She recovers the pen, selects a fresh legal pad from the credenza, and prints a word on it in large block letters before she leaves her chair. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the sofa over there while I—”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll be elsewhere for a little while and while I am, I’d like you to jot down in order of importance the topics you think best relate to this working title for your biography.” She hands him the legal pad. “I’m sure you know the term, and I thin
k you’ll agree it could be a positive way to refer to the enforced pause in your productivity.”

  He frowns over the word for a moment. “Jesus, Laurel, bloody brilliant, that is. That’s not just a working title you’ve come up with, that is the title—Intermezzo. There can’t be a better word. Bloody perfect, it is. I . . . I don’t know . . . what to say.” He frowns again as he moves to the sofa.

  He’s still focused on the pad and the solitary word when she thinks to take him her pen and explain that her phone’s been lighting up like a pinball machine. “I really should see what that’s all about, and there are some other calls I meant to take care of earlier.”

  “Earlier, as in when you got here and found that I’d shown up before the appointed hour.”

  “That would sum it up nicely.”

  “You will come back, then?”

  “Well yes, of course.”

  Why would he ask? Why would he have to ask? Does his concern bespeak possessiveness more than dependency or the other way around? Is this only standard behavior for a much-catered-to rock star? Should she even care?

  “I won’t be long,” she reassures, “just long enough for you to get started on those topics.”

  In the outer office Amanda hands her a stack of messages.

  “My god, what’s going on?” Laurel responds. “I shouldn’t have any calls this morning, at least not here.”

  “That’s just it,” Amanda says, “all the people expecting to find you at home on a Saturday morning have called. One of them—a Mrs. Floss—has called three times, and Nate Isaacs has called twice.”

  Laurel riffles through the messages. Amanda’s assessment is correct. Most are from intimates who wouldn’t think twice about phoning her at home on a Saturday morning. “I’ll be in the small conference room. If anyone else calls, transfer to that extension.”

  “Will do, but what about him?” Amanda cocks her head in the direction of the inner office.

  “I left something to keep him occupied, so please don’t disturb him. Okay?”