by Karina Bliss
“Cover for me,” he said to Dimity and weaved his way through the crowd with a smile here, a quip there, Luther one stride behind him. “We’ll need somewhere to talk,” he muttered to his bodyguard.
“There’s a utility room, second door along the corridor. I’ll stand guard.”
Elizabeth didn’t smile as Zander approached, but he wasn’t expecting her to. “I’m only here to tie up loose ends,” she said by way of greeting.
He felt sick as he gestured her into the corridor, but didn’t respond until they had privacy in the utility room.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was scared you were having second thoughts about us. Then my performance for the vets was…crap. I got drunk and lashed out. Of course you’re not fired.” He went to touch her, but she moved away, her expression impassive.
“I can’t work with you anymore, Zander,” she said crisply. “I don’t want to.”
His stomach clenched. He hadn’t expected her to fall into his arms, but he needed time to win her over. “You’re not fired,” he repeated, “which means if you quit you’ll be in breach of contract.”
“So what, you’ll sue me now?” Taking off her hat, she ran a hand through her hair. “Is this how it ends, with threats and counterthreats?”
“No! Because it’s not going to end.”
“Relax,” she said wearily. “I won’t write an unauthorized biography. And I’ll tell everyone we had creative differences and parted amicably.”
“I don’t give a shit about the memoir, all I care about is you. Please, Elizabeth, give me a chance to explain.”
“What’s to explain?” she challenged. “You treated our relationship, professional and personal, with a total lack of respect.” Zander opened his mouth and she held up a hand. “I don’t doubt you’re sorry, but I can’t trust you and there’s no magic wand that will suddenly make me. You hurt me, Zander, really hurt me,” her voice wavered and she paused, “and I’m not letting you do that again.” Her gaze was steady on his.
“You hired me as some kind of moral rubber stamp. You never had any intention of telling the truth, did you?”
He squirmed. “I haven’t lied to you.”
“The whole basis of our contract is a lie. Was our affair all part of the manipulation, something to distract me from asking further questions?”
It was his turn to hold her gaze. “You know better than that.”
She said bitterly, “I know it worked.”
He had to tell her the truth. “I didn’t want you at the concert because I lip-synced the performance for the vets. Lip-syncing to me is…” he spread his arms helplessly, “…like the Pope converting to atheism.”
She frowned at him. “I’m missing something. Why did you lip-sync?”
“My voice is fucked. I need surgery to remove a vocal cord polyp.”
“Oh my God.” Her hand reached out instinctively, before she recollected herself. “Tell me.”
“I found out before this tour leg, only I had to keep performing because I borrowed against everything I own to make the Resurrection Tour happen. Tonight’s concert will be the break-even point.”
“I…I can’t believe it.” Dazed, she tipped up a nearby bucket and sat down.
Baldly, he filled in the details. “While you were in New Zealand, my voice got worse. I was wound tight with the stress and the upcoming performance. When you said, let’s wait on going public, I heard rejection and… I’m so damn sorry for lashing out. Please…” To Zander’s horror, his throat tightened with emotion. “Give me another chance to do better. I’m not the same cynic who set out to exploit you in Auckland. You’ve already changed me.”
“Have I?” Her expression was unbearably sad. “How many times did we talk or Skype while I was home? Even when you were telling me you were crazy about me, you were hiding major secrets.”
He wanted to say, “I didn’t want to worry you,” but he couldn’t lie to her.
“Oh Zander,” she said softly. “You don’t trust me and I can’t trust you.”
He didn’t like where this was heading. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have told you.”
“You mean if you weren’t desperate.” Standing, she paced the small utility room. Unwilling to add any more fuel to the fire, Zander waited. Please, God…please, God. “You can even use the voice thing in the biography,” he blurted. “Not the lip-sync. I still need a career.”
Elizabeth stopped with a sigh. “I don’t want to add to the pressure on you, so I’ll stay as your biographer.” Zander moved to take her into his arms and she sidestepped. “Nothing else.” She wouldn’t look at him. “I know it’s painful, but it’s time to get real—we’re too different to make this work.”
“God knows I don’t deserve you,” he said desperately, “but don’t pretend what’s between us isn’t real. And yeah, sometimes real can be messy, and hard and painful but it’s worth it.” He held out his hand. “We’re worth it.”
She folded her arms. “Those are my terms.”
He looked at her a long time, but her gaze didn’t waver. Zander sighed. “I accept,” he said.
* * *
In downtown LA, Zander shifted in Dr. West’s uncomfortable designer chair, waiting for his specialist to arrive with the results of his latest stroboscopy. He could still taste the topical anesthesia and feel the tingle of returning sensation at the back of his throat.
His cell beeped and he dug in his jean pocket, hoping for Elizabeth, though in the past few days their encounters had been strictly professional. She hadn’t returned to his LA home, instead staying in downtown Calabasas and visiting for their interviews. But yesterday, when he’d mentioned this appointment, he’d caught a flicker of concern before she’d doused it.
But the screen showed Dimity’s number. Disappointed, he switched off his cell.
His biographer would be leaving for New Zealand in a week because she’d have all the additional interview material she needed to complete the manuscript. And Zander was heartsick about it. The paper-clip arms of the designer chair creaked in protest and he released his grip and gave himself the lecture, the one that stopped him making more stupid mistakes.
He’d give her space—a few months to miss him—while he recovered from the surgery he was here to schedule. They’d reunite for the book launch and publicity tour in early January, by which time he’d have come up with a cunning plan to win her back. Because he wouldn’t give up on them.
West arrived, his brow knitted and his expression grave. “I specifically told you that if you had any symptoms to stop performing immediately.”
“I did everything I could, short of canceling, to minimize the damage.” Trying not to sound defensive, Zander watched the specialist upload the most recent shots of his vocal cords onto his laptop. “And I’m off steroids completely.”
“I’m afraid there’s significant additional scarring.” West pivoted the screen and pointed to a pulpy red mass.
Zander averted his eyes. “So let’s schedule surgery and get this fixed. I’m resigned to canceling the next tour leg.” He opened his online calendar. This afternoon he’d break the news to his manager and the band. First thing tomorrow, he’d personally telephone promoters before working on a press release with Dimity. Better get his lawyer onto the insurance companies too. “Next week’s good for me.”
“You don’t seem to understand.” The specialist’s gaze shied away from Zander’s before he resolutely brought it back. “There’s every possibility the damage to your singing voice is permanent.”
“Huh-uh.” He grinned, waiting for West to say, “Gotcha. Just teaching you a lesson.” And waited.
“It’s a lot to take in. Do you want a few min—”
“No. I’m fine.” This was how shock worked, Zander remembered. You act normal, talk normal, feel normal until bang… Sensation catches up with the blow. “What are my odds?”
“If you do exactly what you’re told post-op, around sixty percen
t.”
“Of full recovery?”
“Of permanent damage. Let me show you where the problem is.”
Dr. West launched into explanations, but the blood was pounding so hard in his ears Zander missed most of it.
“When will we know?”
“Four to six weeks after surgery… Easy now.” The specialist strode over and pushed Zander’s head down between his knees. “Deep breaths. We don’t want you keeling over.” His hands were cold on Zander’s neck. Poor circulation, he thought dazedly. Gradually his surroundings stopped moving and he sat up slowly. “I’m okay.”
“Why don’t you come back when you’ve had a chance to process this.”
“No, let’s schedule the op today.” They fixed a date.
“Post-op you’re on total vocal rest—no sounds—for four days. A speech therapist will teach you how to sneeze and cough silently. Then you use a confiding voice—not a whisper—for two weeks, gradually increasing your talking time from two sessions of five minutes apiece on day one. Again, a therapist will guide your progress.”
Zander nodded, resisting the urge to touch his throat.
Satisfied, West led him to the door. “You must not, under any circumstances, attempt to sing until cleared to do so. It’s imperative the vocal cords heal properly to optimize the chance of retaining your singing voice.”
“Whatever you say.”
West squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll go over all this again before surgery.”
In reception, Zander nodded dully to Luther and followed his bodyguard to the elevator. Only as he dug in his pocket for his car keys did he recall he’d driven here alone. “What are you doing here?”
“I figured by your expression that Dimity got hold of you.”
Zander switched on his cell and saw he’d missed half a dozen calls over the past half hour. He started with Dimity’s.
“Zee, some rumor’s gone viral that you were lip-syncing at the charity gala. A monitor engineer gets drunk in a bar…sounds like the start of a joke, right? Everyone in the industry knows your stance, but that hasn’t stopped the media converging on the house, so Luther’s coming to provide security. I’ve got our lawyer working on a suitably threatening denial.”
Zander started to laugh.
Chapter Twenty-six
Elizabeth’s first thought on spotting the television news crew milling around the entrance of the Sweet Solace Inn was there must have been a murder.
The olde worlde inn was too cheap and cheerful to attract celebrities, which was exactly why she’d chosen to stay there. Come to think of it, when she’d left for her walk, the husband and wife proprietors had been arguing in the furious undertones of two people itching to kill each other.
Except—she scanned the parking lot—no cops, no ambulances, no crime-scene tape.
A female reporter holding a microphone glanced over as Elizabeth crossed the road and self-consciously she straightened her baseball cap and yanked at her oversize T-shirt. She’d gone on a two-hour power walk to encourage mood-elevating chemicals.
It hadn’t worked.
“It’s her!” the brunette reporter barked as she stepped onto the sidewalk and the mob converged, the brunette leading the charge. She waved a microphone in front of Elizabeth’s face.
“Did you know Zander Freedman was lip-syncing at the charity fundraiser attended by the President?”
Elizabeth blanked her expression. “Where did you get this information?”
“So it’s true?”
“I didn’t say that.” She upped her pace but the encircling mob moved with her. “I asked who your source is.”
“If the information proves true, what would you say?” Even in six-inch heels, the brunette didn’t break stride. “You’ve spent weeks as part of his entourage. Is the claim consistent with the man you’re interviewing?”
“If you want my view of Zander Freedman…” Elizabeth gestured for a gap and reluctantly, people shuffled aside. “Then read the book when it’s published.”
She ran, taking the stairs two at a time and locking her door with the chain before phoning Zander. His cell went straight to message. Fanning out her sweat-dampened T-shirt, she tried Dimity. The same thing happened. Of course, they’d be in damage control. She telephoned the house. Nobody picked up.
Throwing her cap on the bed, Elizabeth combed her fingers through her tangled hair and tried to think. She could go over there, but the media would have the place under siege. And she was reluctant to talk to the press. Even if she did lie about what she knew—and she really, really didn’t want to—her face would give her away. She’d do Zander more harm than good. And if his response to all this was playing it down and laughing it off, then rushing to his rescue would be counterproductive.
Slowly, she sank into a chair. Not to mention that it would encourage Zander to think she might give him another chance. She’d removed herself very deliberately from his inner circle and if he perceived any crack in her resolve, he’d be in like a thief. The man she loved was no respecter of boundaries.
Time and time again she’d had this argument with herself, but she knew in her heart—her grieving, bruised, broken heart—that she had to protect herself because she couldn’t trust Zander to. No matter how much she wished otherwise.
She phoned his cell again and left a message. “The press came to my hotel. Let me know how you’re handling this and what I should say. And… I love you… Hang in there.”
* * *
“It’s true,” Zander told his PA and his manager. He dropped his booted feet on the library desk, careless of the mahogany. “All true. I lip-synced the national anthem because my voice is fucked. I’m having surgery within the week and we can get a statement from the specialist verifying that. No touring for three months at least. Assuming I’ll still be able to sing—it’s doubtful.” The numbness continued to work for him, providing a buffer between himself and the world.
He waited for that inner voice to say, “Hell yeah, you’ll still be able to sing,” but it was silent.
Dimity paled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He thought of Elizabeth. “I’m getting better at minimizing collateral damage.”
“You said I was family,” she said.
“Dimity, you know how I treat family.” He tried to say it kindly, but it came out flippant.
Without a word, she left the room. Zander didn’t try to stop her. He needed practice letting the women he loved go. His manager said nervously, “How do you want to handle this?”
“Tell the truth, Robbie,” he said cheerfully. “The truth shall set you free. And we might as well admit I’ve been struggling through the last concerts. The way my life’s going lately, it’s bound to come out.”
Zander switched on his cell. “I’ll contact Moss, Jared and Seth. You phone the promoters. Thank God we have insurance. Once our people have been informed, I’ll make a statement to the press.”
He paused as Elizabeth’s number flashed up as a missed call and a shaft of grief pierced his numbness. Two hours ago, he would have scrambled to return it. But what do you say to a woman you have nothing to offer but infamy?
Resolutely, Zander returned to scrolling for the band’s numbers.
I’m getting better at minimizing collateral damage.
* * *
“Why didn’t Zee confide in me?” Dimity huddled on the window seat in Elizabeth’s faux colonial room, furiously blotting away tears with a tissue. Half a dozen lay scattered around her, scrunched into indoor snowballs. “I’m his right-hand woman.” She watched forlornly as Elizabeth ripped sachets of coffee, sugar and creamer and poured boiling water into a sturdy white cup. “I feel so betrayed, isn’t that silly?”
“Not silly at all.” Elizabeth brought over the coffee.
Accepting the cup, Dimity gave a shaky laugh. “I’m so sorry, dumping on you like this. I’m only deciding whether to walk away from a job, not a relationship.”
“Don’t leave
him.” Sweeping aside tissues, Elizabeth sat beside her. “He needs someone on his side and it can’t be me. It’s tough enough finishing the book with him. I only agreed because…” I love him “…I didn’t want to add to his woes.”
Dimity paused mid-sip, “You knew about the lip-syncing?”
Uh-oh. “Well after the fact.”
Dimity started to cry again and Elizabeth took her cup before she spilled it and passed a fresh tissue.
“He was probably ashamed to tell you,” she said quietly and Dimity glanced up, her tears arrested.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “Zander would be ashamed.” She blew her nose and sighed. “Even if I stay, he’s suggesting I take leave until this blows over and we both know I’m hopeless with free time. And what if the surgery doesn’t work? Zander said if a job opportunity comes up in the meantime I should take it… Does he want me to resign?”
“Back up… What’s this about the surgery?”
“You don’t know?” Dimity’s reddened eyes widened. “He found out this morning that the damage to his singing voice could be permanent.”
Elizabeth fumbled to put the cup on the sill and splashes of coffee pooled on the white paint. “Zander must be devastated.” I don’t know how to do anything else.
“He’s acting weird,” the PA frowned. “Detached.”
Shock, Elizabeth thought, feeling it herself.
“But then he’s crazy busy trying to manage the fallout from all this. That reminds me…” Opening her bag, Dimity produced an envelope. “He gave me a note for you.”
Elizabeth tore it open.
If you have to talk to the press, you’re as shocked and horrified as everyone else and waiting for my explanation. DO NOT come to the house. DO NOT allow yourself to be drawn into defending me out of some misguided do-gooder impulse. You’ll be crucified. If you really want to help, return to New Zealand and give me one less person to worry about. I’ll be in touch.
There wasn’t a signature.
Elizabeth looked up. “He’s trying to protect me,” she said slowly.
She handed the note to Dimity, who read it and said, “I’m an idiot,” in her usual voice—her battle voice—and excused herself to wash her face.
