by M. M. Mayle
“Because she’d been with me? Hell no, but I can see why you might think that. You’ve probably heard it said I was Colin’s idol. That wouldn’t be altogether wrong to believe, but it would be wrong to believe he ever idolized anything about me other than my musicianship. You’d be painting with a dirty brush to think he ever emulated my offstage performances to any extent or took up with one of my rejects simply because she once had my seal of approval.
“There was a lengthy period between my cutting Aurora loose and his taking up with her, and during that time Colin’s career was on a meteoric rise. He had no need to look up to anybody. He’d become the idol, he was the one all the young-comers wanted to be like, the one all the prettiest girls flocked to. At the same time, Aurora was moving up, quietly makin’ a name for herself with a different set of sybarites—footballers, they were—and it was in that setting Colin met her at a bash given by the great mid-fielder, Gabriel Ostrander, whilst he was playin’ for Barcelona. It’s never been said if Aurora was linked to Ostrander at the time, but even if she was, there would’ve been no contest. Colin gave off the greater starshine, and that’s the only drug she craved back then.”
“I see.” Laurel looks off into the middle distance trying not to imagine a twisted assortment of rock musicians and soccer players servicing in various ways a wildly salacious celebrity hound. A shrewd and conniving celebrity hound, if Rayce Vaughn is telling the unvarnished truth about Aurora Elliot. Laurel refocuses on the iconic rock star as he supplies a few more unnecessary details. She watches for nonverbal indications he has an agenda and sees nothing that would raise a flag. She reflects on the fact his testimony thus far is missing the long thoughtful silences, the struggles for just the right word, and the halting admissions that characterize the delivery of most witnesses. He’s glib to the point of seeming rehearsed, something that would raise a flag if Colin hadn’t endorsed him as a source, and if it were not realistic to assume he’s spent considerable time unloading to professionals.
“From all outward appearances,” he goes on, “Aurora knew enough to acquit herself in a wholesome way when she first started up with Colin. That went along with her depicting herself as newly arrived on the scene, all fresh-faced dewy-eyed innocence ripe for the plucking. That’s the sort of propaganda that made its way into the press back then and you can safely wager she herself was the source. As mentioned earlier, Colin was the bleedin’ center of the universe at the time. He couldn’t make a move without someone wantin’ to cover it and cover whoever might be hangin’ on his arm. This was Aurora’s every dream come true, to be famous by extension, to be famous just for bein’ famous. Though she professed to hate it, she was never more in her element than when surrounded by paparazzi screaming her or Colin’s name. Several sources agree she was in the habit of secretly tipping off the tabloid press about where she and Colin would next appear, then feigning great horror and dismay when the media showed up in force.
“They got married at a register office somewhere in Leicestershire and I can see by your face you were expectin’ me to say they tied the knot in Vegas and both were pissed as parrots at the time.” He flashes a humorless smile, “Sorry, no excitement there, and she wasn’t even preggers, the first boy didn’t arrive for more than a year, a year when Aurora perfected her deceit, had it down to a science, by all accounts.”
“I’m . . . I’m curious to know . . . When they married, was Colin aware Aurora had . . . spent time with you?”
“Yes, he knew. I made a point of tellin’ him, and I didn’t keep my opinion of her to myself, for the little good it did. Partners get passed around a lot in our little musical community, no one ever makes too much of it, so he was nonchalant about that part. He didn’t react at all to my comments about Aurora’s character. I could’ve been talkin’ to a wall. They say love’s blind. In his case it was deaf. He wouldn’t let himself hear anything bad about her, he refused to hear that a critical part of her was missing—that there was something fundamentally wrong with her.”
“Is this related to her treatment of your children?”
“It is. My children, seven at last count, and not all from the same mother, which made coordinating their visits seem like layin’ out plans for the Normandy invasion. Keepin’ the ex-wives and ex-girlfriends apart was a full-time job—sorry, rambling again. All righty then . . . Aurora’s treatment of my kids . . . To say she didn’t like ’em is too strong a statement. She didn’t fucking acknowledge ’em. For her, they did not exist. Whatever lot was in residence, she just looked right through ’em, and this included the time when one was in great peril. Aurora was sitting alongside the pool at my place in Marbella when my then youngest somehow worked her way out of a playpen contraption and toddled straight on into the deep end of the pool. This happened literally in front of Aurora, who glanced up at the splash, then went right on varnishing her nails.”
“How do you know this? Were you there?”
“I was told after the fact. At the time it happened I was in the house and came at a run when I heard the screams of the nanny and shouts from a groundskeeper who couldn’t swim and nevertheless plunged into the pool fully clothed and wearin’ wellies. Fortunately there were others about who heard the uproar and responded because the nanny and I were havin’ a time of it with two potential drowning victims.”
“Are you saying Aurora still ignored the situation?”
“I am. She did. And I couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d caught her settin’ fire to the cat. This girl was a strong swimmer, she was. Only the day before she swam the quarter-mile in from the yacht anchorage instead of taking the tender, so there’s no excuse there. Certain assumptions are made about human beings—that they won’t stand idly by and see harm come to another—’specially a child—if they’re able to do something about it. Seein’ that theory shot full of holes took a lot outta me, it did.”
“There is such a thing as bystander effect, you know. There are people who are predisposed to distancing themselves from involvement,” Laurel says.
“I know. I’m old enough to remember about the girl gettin’ attacked in one of your New York neighborhoods and the residents there not wanting to get involved when they heard her screams. I can almost understand that sort of callousness—the sort urban violence gives rise to—but that’s not what I’m talkin’ about here. Aurora wasn’t hiding behind a curtain to avoid getting involved. I’m sayin’ it never crossed her mind that she should get involved, that it would be normal to get involved. She was wholly lacking the part that reaches out to the troubled and defenseless. She’d shown this in other ways that didn’t seem all that significant till the near-drowning incident, when I got convinced she was born deficient.”
Rayce Vaughn could be describing her grandmother; he’s even using some of the same language her long-suffering father did when writing off that heartless woman’s behavior as an inborn deficiency rather than an acquired trait.
“I should remind that it didn’t appear Aurora was self-medicating at the time,” he continues, “so drug psychosis wasn’t a factor. But it sure as shit was when it was her own kid she paid no attention to. It’s generally believed she started using after the first boy came along and the excitement surrounding his arrival died down. By all appearances, she had a better setup than Princess Di, a bigger personal retinue than mine, and didn’t she get bored with the existence. Touring was not to her liking, and with Colin on the road a lot, she went lookin’ for attention elsewhere. Word of her wanderings leaked out and it’s safe to say she wasn’t the source of that leak because tabloid reports ran universally against her—against her leavin’ baby Anthony with the hired help whilst she frequented the playgrounds of the rich and famous, as the bloke’s so fond of calling us.
“Then she started taking French leave when Colin wasn’t on tour. She’d go missing for extended periods—drug binges, these were—and she’d eventually come crawling home much the worse for wear. That’s the pity of it, she always
made her way back, worked her way back into Colin’s good graces, then history’d repeat itself all over again. This went on for way too long, longer than any wanted to admit. Nate Isaacs finally stepped in and somehow forced Colin to cut off the money supply. That’s when rumors circulated that Aurora was doin’ hardcore porn to support her habit. Those rumors were never substantiated that I know of, but the rumors alone were enough for Colin.
“He had her found and brought home. He cancelled a tour of the Far East in order to be with her through withdrawal and a lengthy rehab. Months passed before his sacrifice appeared to be payin’ off. When Aurora started showin’ a bit of interest in Anthony, Colin carried on as though she’d risen new and improved from the dead. When Aurora let on that she was pregnant again, he was quite over the moon because the only truly harmonious stretch in their marriage was when she was expecting Anthony. Within this hopeful atmosphere, I don’t wanna imagine what a blow it had to have been when she relapsed towards the end of the pregnancy and set out for parts unknown.”
Laurel struggles to find her voice. “Do you have any idea why . . . why Colin was able to put up with her for so long?”
“I have a theory, but Nate Isaacs has got the better one. Nate’ll tell you Colin’s got an amazing capacity for love and never gives up on anybody, least of all himself. That’s the statement Nate gave to the press after the accident when he thought it might also be theme for a eulogy. And that rather ties in with the actions that got Colin arrested earlier today. He was lookin’ out for my reputation, not his, when he clipped the photographer.”
FORTY-SIX
Early afternoon, April 6, 1987
A quarter-hour after Rayce’s departure, Laurel is still seated on the sofa in his hotel suite where she was told she could stay as long as she wished. She hasn’t yet made a move to claim the voice recorder he said was hers to keep; she hasn’t yet written down any of the dozens of questions that cropped up after time ran out and he had to leave; she hasn’t entirely shrugged off the shock and amazement that must have revealed to Rayce her need to stay here and decompress for however long it takes.
Another fifteen minutes go by before she stashes the recorder in her carryall, unsure if she’ll ever be able to replay the testimony let alone transcribe it. Her decision-making process has slowed to glacial since embarking on the mission. She’s not even sure she can still call it a mission after learning that very little the press has said about Aurora Elliot is worse than the truth. However she happens to reconstruct her case, that’s no longer the issue. The issue is how the dead woman’s reputation affects the reputations of the living.
With renewed pluck and passion, to use Rayce’s description, Laurel looks around for a phone. When she doesn’t see one right away she elects to proceed without fanfare, gathers up her things and heads for the elevator.
On a lower floor, in an otherwise empty corridor, Bemus and his clone, Tom Jensen, loom like Easter Island monoliths in the middle distance. They’re dressed to go out, as is Colin when he suddenly steps into view. Then it’s Saturday morning all over again because Colin remains planted, forcing her to either bear his scrutiny or declare this a standoff. But there’s no fantasizing the world of a romance novel today, no imagining how she might like to approach under different circumstances. Today, reality is her cloak against self-consciousness and wishful thinking as she covers the final few yards between them.
“Where in hell have you been keeping?” Colin separates himself from the bodyguards and hovers over her. “I’m half mad with worry and so is Amanda. She says you disappeared without sayin’ where you were going soon after you heard about the media shitstorm.” He gives off the faint fragrance of expensive soap and minty mouthwash. “Please don’t tell me you’re trying to take on the media single-handed.” He makes a grab for her, thinks better of it, and withdraws his hand mid-gesture.
“To do that I’d have to repeal the First Amendment and criminalize stereotyping.” She widens the distance between them to lessen the chances of spitting on him with her next forceful retort.
“But it is the bad publicity setting you off, then? And shall I guess you’re still pissed at me for upsetting you last night and newly pissed at me for overdoin’ it with a fuckbag photographer? Amanda can’t have failed to bring that to your attention. Or maybe you heard about it on one of the early-morning chat shows. Or from David. Have you talked to David? Have you watched telly? Did the Stan Mason bloke let you know about the court date and the—”
“Slow down, will you? I’m not pissed at you about anything. It’s not my place to be upset with you about however you choose to deal with individual members of the press. I will say, though, that you might be wise to avoid dispensing pharmaceuticals in public, and you might want to forgo physical confrontations.” As though emphasizing that last bit of advice, she retreats another full step and sweeps him with an appraising glance. “Am I keeping you? Have you an appointment somewhere?”
“No, no appointment. I was coming out to try find you, actually.”
“Very well. Then if there is someplace other than this hallway . . . we should talk.”
“My thought as well.” He nods dismissal to Bemus and Tom, guides her to a door farther down the corridor that opens into a sitting room similar to the one she just left—a plush, heavily decorated space, but by no means glitzy. He takes her coat and removes his own coat to reveal himself dressed more like a bank examiner than a rock star. No surprise there, however. The only time he lived up to her expectations wardrobe-wise was that morning in the hotel lobby when his rumpled tuxedo worn with T-shirt and running shoes caused her to suspect he might be a rock star. And that doesn’t count now that she knows the extenuating circumstances behind that appearance.
She’s drawn to the piano, focal point of the room, and to the two solid objects dominating the piano surface. One is the Icon statuette she’s not surprised to see, the other is a sleek Steuben glass owl she is a little surprised to see there because it’s not the standard sort of flash-and-trash one generally associates with rock stars. Reminded that she once identified the owl as her favorite in a window display, she caresses the gleaming object and puts thoughts into words. “That seems like such a long time ago I almost forgot,” she says and moves toward the windows.
“You feel that way too?” He joins her at the windows. “As though we met more than a few days ago . . . as though we’ve known each other a lot longer than that? I’m constantly reminding myself only a week’s gone by since the Icon show because so much has happened since.”
The view of Central Park is choice, especially this time of year. The park is among the few places she’ll miss if she ever abandons the city altogether. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
“It is that. The one spot in New York guaranteed to make me homesick.”
“Does your home overlook a park?”
“Uh . . . yeh, you could say. We can go into that sometime when I’m not on pins and needles waitin’ to hear what brought you here. I rather doubt it’s a social call you’re makin’.”
Laurel casts around for suitable seating arrangements and selects the dining table as the best substitute for the executive desk she’d prefer to have between them. She takes a seat on the long side of the oval table and indicates he should sit opposite.
“Well,” he says, “let’s have it, then.”
She moves aside the morning papers and demonstrates composure she doesn’t feel with folded hands and level gaze. “I went to see Rayce Vaughn without first telling you,” she says for starters. “When I left my office this morning I came straight here to The Plaza. I’ve been with Rayce ever since.”
For a long moment she’s unsure if it’s annoyance or resignation flickering across his face. Within the pause she can almost believe his thought processes are audible, that she can hear wheels turning and gears meshing.
“I suppose I should be relieved,” he says finally. “And I suppose I should know why you sought him out at this partic
ular time, but I’d like to hear you say.”
His expression is still hard to read. Her attempt to decipher it takes in the distinguishing qualities of a face destined to remain compelling long after frown lines become grooves, laugh lines lengthen into creases, and dimples deepen into furrows.
“I’m waiting,” he says just as she’s wondering what time will do to his straight strong nose that veers to one side when viewed head-on, if time will erase the thin scar on his cheekbone and the one along his jawline, if time will fade his blues eyes and strip his dark blonde hair of color.
“Oh . . . sorry,” she says, “I . . . I was gathering my thoughts.” And still am. “Okay . . . you already know Amanda brought me up to date on the bad publicity you’re receiving. The common thread in those unfavorable mentions is your late wife. I take strong exception to the recycling of unproven allegations, especially if the subject of those allegations is considered fair game for being deceased. I have a big problem with that, just as I have a big problem with issues of presumed guilt by association.”
Colin is given a condensed version of the appeal made to Rayce, with heavy emphasis on her reason for the appeal.
“I couldn’t very well decide what was actionable and what was accurate without consulting a reliable source,” she summarizes. “And I chose Rayce Vaughn because . . . no one else was available . . . and because you said he should be consulted . . . and because—”
“Because in order to correct media perceptions about my late wife you needed hard facts.” Colin gets to his feet. “And you knew I wasn’t likely to supply ’em.”
“Yes, that was the conclusion I reached.” She’s at a slight disadvantage for having to look up at him as he slides his chair back and steps away from the table. Then vantage points cease to matter when he pats himself down as though unsure of where he left the car keys. Whatever he’s looking for, he now seems to have found in a side pocket of his trousers, but he doesn’t produce it. Instead, it’s that hard-to-read expression again.
