by Laura Carter
She wanted more of this. She wanted more of him. Her heart swelled in her chest as the rest of her felt simultaneously satisfied and longing. He kissed her briskly, then took a breath and kissed her again. And again. Until her arms were wrapped around his neck and he was carrying her to his bedroom.
* * *
She woke in the middle of the night. Tommy’s bedroom was tinged blue by the low floor lighting outside the room, seeping through the gap under the door. From under Tommy’s hold, she reached out and found his cell phone on the side table. It was 03:18. She should go.
Then a long, strong arm snaked around her, took the cell phone from her and set it back on the side table.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he said, burying his head in her neck and pressing her tightly to him, where she felt his equipment, semi-hard against her rear.
She turned to face him and ran her fingers through the hair at his temple. What if she stayed? What then?
She didn’t have time to answer her own questions before he rolled her onto her back, taking his weight on his forearms as he kissed her.
One way or another, he was making her stay.
16
Rosalie
‘Here she is, finally,’ said Clarissa, as she stood from her seat at a table in Astor Court.
Rosalie didn’t miss the way Clarissa smiled in her direction, then rolled her eyes in the direction of the other two women now standing at the round table.
Clarissa, Madeleine, Kaitlin and Rosalie had been frequenting the St Regis dining room for years, always enjoying brunch in the luxury of high, painted ceilings, fine tapestry and impeccable service.
The hotel had become something of a staple institution in their years of friendship. Kaitlin had stayed in the presidential suite the night before her first – no, second – wedding. Madeleine had been conceived on the balcony of one of the suites – something her mother was happy to discuss publicly, given Madeleine’s father was merely the first of a string of husbands. Clarissa had spent months at the hotel playing mistress to a Russian oligarch who introduced her to bondage – a passing fad that secured her own adult wealth when she threatened to disclose his many indiscretions to the world and landed herself a seven-figure confidentiality arrangement.
And Rosalie? Yes, it was true, she knew the interiors of the finest rooms at the hotel. She had been introduced to flings and boyfriends in the King Cole bar over a glass or two of champagne. She had even woken up to find one of everything from the breakfast menu had been ordered for her after a night of love-making, though her date had already left the building.
But the truth was, those days were behind Rosalie now. She was in her thirties and wanted to move onto the next phase of her life. No more one-night-stands with insanely wealthy men, when their wealth was her sole motivation. No more status flings with musicians that were sure to make the gossip rags. No more meaningless relationships. No more being dumped because she wasn’t responsible enough, apparently.
She wanted and needed more in her life. The way Andrea had an amazing, all-consuming career, Hannah had a beautiful family.
Rosalie was going to become a mommy, with responsibility for something bigger than shopping and casual relationships. She was going to have a little human to love and be loved by, whom she could mould into a fine young lady or a handsome young man. She would impart her wisdom on them. People would say things like, ‘Ros is such a good mom’ and ‘that child is a credit to Rosalie.’ Her friends and parents would be proud of her because she had achieved something incredible. She would have someone to share all the love inside her that could be spared. Someone to fill her lonely days, be there to talk to always, to fill her empty apartment with noise and unconditional love. She was going to run a record label and demand respect.
The eye-rolling and gossiping were beneath her now.
The maître d’hôtel took Rosalie’s short crepe jacket and showed her to the table, where she was air-kissed European style by Clarissa, whose voluminous yet sleek blonde locks engulfed Rosalie.
‘What is that scent, Clarissa? You smell divine,’ Rosalie said.
Clarissa flicked her hair back across her shoulder, displaying this season’s Chanel pearls around her neck as she retook her seat and said, ‘the latest treat from my beau.’
Madeleine stepped forward to Rosalie, performing the perfunctory greeting ritual and whispered, ‘Another Russian. Probably staying in Trump Tower for free.’
Rosalie couldn’t help but smirk. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Maddie,’ she said, taking a step back to admire her friend’s tailored pink dress with cream neckline and matching cream gloves à la Audrey Hepburn. ‘This dress…’ Was all Rosalie could manage because Madeleine did not look like Audrey Hepburn in a garden of blossom trees, she looked like a giant marshmallow that was wearing gloves when it was expected to reach eighty-four degrees out.
It didn’t matter because Madeleine finished the rest of the sentence in her own mind, gushing with pride. ‘Oh, Rosalie, thank you. You always do know the right things to say.’
For a woman whose education must have cost her parents a small fortune, Madeleine really was just a little bit dumb.
Kaitlin’s greeting came next – the red widow. Kaitlin had lost two husbands before she reached her thirtieth birthday. One went to a stroke and the other to a freak helicopter incident – both of whom left her a healthy proportion of their estates, pissing off their children who, in both instances, were older than Kaitlin. As far as Rosalie was aware, the third husband was still alive and kicking – for now.
Rosalie was the only one of the four women taking a seat and being tucked under the table by waitstaff in unison, who had never been married. This was something the others liked to gloat about. Occasionally – like, every time she left these girls and felt strangely deflated, down on herself even, without truly knowing why – Rosalie would wonder if there was something wrong with her. She knew she wasn’t ugly and she kept herself in decent shape. She enjoyed the finer things in life and dressed the part. So why had no man ever stuck around long enough to propose to her? Amongst these women, she felt like a failure in the romance department. In fact, all of her friends, with the exception of Andrea, had been married and the lucky ones, like Hannah, were still happily married.
Without needing to be asked, a waiter brought a round of the hotel’s famous Bloody Marys from the King Cole bar and set them down around the table. No brunch at the Regis was complete without a Bloody Mary.
Rosalie sipped her drink, resigned to having just the one because she wanted to have a clear head for her meeting later with Lance.
‘Your problem is,’ Clarissa had once told Rosalie, ‘you expect too much from them. The kind of men we need don’t want a friend or an equal, Rosalie, they want control. That’s what we have to give them. In return, we get to live the lives we want and when they leave, they give us a big fat cheque for letting them indulge in their egocentric ways.’
Rosalie remembered this as she looked around the tables of wealthy people and thought, her friends were the elite of high-class hookers.
‘Ladies, raise your Bloody Marys because we are celebrating,’ Kaitlin said.
Rosalie raised her glass, thinking about her last lunch with Hannah and Andrea in Brooklyn and how they had celebrated new relationships, new jobs and Billboard successes.
Then Kaitlin said, ‘Maddie has finally gotten rid of those ashy tones.’ She turned to Madeleine, gently touching her refreshed blonde waves. ‘I’m so happy for you, sweetie. It’s been such a torrid three months for you.’
Rosalie watched as Maddie pursed her lips and leaned her head to one side. ‘Aww, Katy-bear, you’re the sweetest. It has been awful and I’m so happy to finally feel like myself again.’
Sipping her drink, Rosalie wondered what on earth she was doing here. Her life was shoes and clothes and men with these women. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t what she wanted, any more. And it wasn’t how she had been brought up.
Her parents had been married for more than thirty years. They loved and respected each other. She wanted that. She wanted more than hair and shoes. Than being able to choose the best-looking men, who turned out to be idiots. She wanted to sit at a table and feel proud to talk about her business investments and a husband she loved, a child she adored.
She was jealous of Andrea, heading up a record label. Of Sofia running Sanfia Records. Of Hannah and her gorgeous family.
‘So, Rosalie,’ Clarissa began, ‘what’s new with you? Any replacement yet for – what was his name?’
What was new with Rosalie? This morning, she had made an investment into a bio-genetics company that she had been monitoring for some time, in anticipation of its inevitable IPO. Later today, she was going to Sanfia Records to continue her learning. Tonight, she had a daddy-date with Lance, who ticked every box she could think of. A CEO, like Daddy. Living in Greenwich Village. Never been married. No pets. Wants his kids to be empathetic and accepting. Likes theatre and fine-dining. Oh, and straight. Hopefully, a year from now, she would be sitting in the St Regis with a baby who relied on her for everything. She would be too busy juggling things that mattered to waste time celebrating the death of ashy tones.
She smiled and said, ‘Not much to report. Though I did pick up Louboutin’s limited edition stud bootie yesterday.’
Squeals preceded questions that preceded statements.
‘There’s no pleasure without pain,’ Clarissa said.
‘Are we talking about the Russian or shoes, here?’ Kaitlin asked, making them all laugh – all except Rosalie, who was ready to enjoy her egg-white omelette then swiftly return to the real world.
* * *
Rosalie’s cell rang just as she got out of her Porsche at Sanfia Records. Struggling to balance the box of New York’s finest cupcakes in one hand and her purse and cell phone in the other, she managed to hold the phone to her ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is that Rosalie?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘Rosalie, hi, great to speak to you. This is Jenna de Sanchez from Rolling Stone magazine. I wanted to speak to you about Seth Young.’
She walked and talked with Jenna de Sanchez all the way to the studio. ‘All right, Jenna, let me speak with Seth and we’ll fix a date. It’s been great speaking with you. Tell Leonardo I owe him for this,’ Rosalie said, entering the sound booth where Seth, Billy, Frankie and Sofia were listening back to a track.
‘I have some great news and some less good news,’ she said. ‘I just got off the phone from Rolling Stone magazine and they want to interview Seth in advance of the CMAs. Now, it’s going to have to be asap, preferably today by phone. I know the editor over there and he is willing to make this a feature. The next edition is already planned and it’s out next week but they are really keen to get a piece on you and it’s pretty much the best publicity you could get.’
All other eyes in the room had gone wide and were focused on her… in a good way. But… ‘Thing is, I know you won’t like this part,’ she continued, her voice breaking as she met Seth’s gaze. ‘They want to mention Randy.’
Seth stood and moved close to her. ‘Rosalie…’ He said, with a tone that said whatever left his mouth wouldn’t be good.
Nervous and suddenly afraid of the bizarre way her heart was pounding in her chest with him this close to her, Rosalie looked past Seth to the break between the tiles on the floor.
She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Look, you’re this tough, hot soldier guy, who happens to have a killer voice, knock-out lyrics and can play a mean guitar. You’ve also burst onto the music scene, getting your first airplay hit right out of the box and you’re lined up to play at the CMA Awards. Rolling Stone wants the scoop on you. But you also happen to be Randy Jonson’s brother and that elevates you from interesting to mega scoop for the magazine.’
‘You know I don’t want to ride on Randy’s rep. I want us…’ He turned to Sofia and the guys. ‘Sofia, Billy, Frankie and me, to do this.’
She tried not to show how sad it made her that he, like everyone else did, had dismissed her, failed to even acknowledge the part she was trying to play in making him a star.
‘We are doing, Seth,’ Sofia said, coming to his side, where they were both facing Rosalie. ‘We’re the A Team. The interview won’t be just about Randy and we can make that clear but you’ve got to appreciate that people are curious about you guys. Like, where has this insanely talented brother been hiding, huh?’
He folded his arms cross his chest and sighed. ‘Yeah, thanks to her,’ he said, gesturing to Rosalie. ‘All right, Soph. I’ll do the interview, but I’m doing it for us.’
‘So, I’ll call the magazine and say we’re on?’ Rosalie asked, no longer excited at all about helping her friend.
Seth looked at her in a way that almost knocked her from her heels, which would have had devastating consequence for the box of cupcakes in her hand. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘And maybe you could say a small thank you, just this one time? I mean, if only for the fact I called you a hot soldier guy.’
When Rosalie smiled, Seth Young blew her away with a laugh that threw his head back and came from somewhere deep inside him. ‘Thank you for calling me a hot soldier guy, Rosalie.’
She pouted and scowled playfully. For the first time since she had met him, Rosalie didn’t find Seth to be a poorly dressed ignoramus.
‘And, I brought cupcakes,’ she said cheerfully, giggling when Billy, who, it seemed only ever thought about his stomach, took the box of cakes from her.
‘Let me lighten your load, sweet lady.’
‘Ah, it’s true, a man’s belly really is the way to uncover his good manners.’
As she glanced, uncommonly shyly, up to Seth, who towered above her even in heels, he was displaying that curiously sexy half-smile again.
‘Say, Ros,’ Sofia said through a bite of red velvet cake, ‘why don’t you tag along to Nashville with us for the CMAs? Seth got a last-minute slot. We’ll go south for a few days.’
Rosalie gasped. ‘Oh, oh, oh! I could totally dress Seth. Get him out of those godawful lumberjack shirts and make him look like a real rock star.’
‘Now, then, what’s wrong with a lumberjack shirt?’
The voice belonged to Jimmy, who had appeared at the studio door wearing his usual stonewash jeans and checked shirt. His appearance prompted Rosalie to consider the attire of every other person in the room and found them all wearing some variation of the same thing.
She shrugged, offering and angelic smile, and said, ‘You know what I mean.’
As everyone laughed, Jimmy’s expression changed. ‘Soph, I don’t want to break up the mood but I need to speak with you. It’s about Jay.’
* * *
Seth’s session was over for the day but he was hanging around waiting for Jenna from Rolling Stone magazine to call for a telephone interview. They had a photographer in the city who was going to come out to take pictures of Seth in the studio the next day. They wanted the story badly and it pleased Rosalie immensely.
Sofia had gone home after dropping a bombshell that Jimmy had agreed to drive her husband, Jay, to a rehabilitation clinic, so Rosalie offered to stick around at the studio, as much to calm Seth’s nerves and reluctance to do the Rolling Stone interview as anything else. Frankie and Billy had gone for pizza and beers.
Rosalie wondered whether Jay could get clean and stay clean. He’d never managed before but he had never had professional rehab before either. She wondered whether it would be a good thing if he got clean and Sofia stayed with him and because of that she knew that somewhere deep inside, Sofia’s loyalty would be battling with her sensibility. Rosalie hated to admit it to herself because in her eyes, Sofia had the job, the husband, the impending family, but Jay wasn’t a nice person. He had started off great – fun, making Sofia wildly happy. But as soon as they married and he became involved with Sanfia, he started to change Sofia. First her style, then h
er spontaneity, like, her random calls to hit an open mic night after work stopped. Then he started trying to change Sanfia Records and the way Sofia ran things. Slowly, her confidence started to go. That was all before they kept having to battle the drink and drugs. Still, if Sofia loved him and if he was what Sofia wanted, then Rosalie wanted him to get clean and for them to work, for Sofia’s sake.
The sound of the piano being played in the studio reached her ears as she sat in the sound booth, picking at the last of the cupcakes she had brought. It was an unexpected sound, since Seth tended to improvise on a guitar.
She stood from her stool, looking through the glass pane into the studio, watching him move his fingers over the ivory keys. Then he started to sing, not his own lyrics but a song she recognised by Brett Young, called ‘Mercy’. In this instance, the surname a genuine coincidence.
Listening to the words he sang made her heart stop beating and stole the air from her lungs. Could he love as fiercely as the man he was singing about? For a moment, she found herself indulging in the fantasy that someone, he, could sing those words about her.
Would she ever know that kind of love in her life?
Had Seth ever felt that way about a woman?
And, despite his crabby attitude towards her, Rosalie wanted him to be singing to her. She willed him to look up and meet her eye. Why? She didn’t know.
Before she could second-guess how much her very presence would irritate Seth, Rosalie had slipped her sore feet back into her heels and found herself walking down the steps into the music studio, coming to sit on a stool behind Frankie’s drum kit. And she closed her eyes, letting Seth’s voice soothe her. She thought of nothing else. Not the pain in her feet. Not her posture. Not the way everyone saw her as a joke and how her loneliness broke her heart every single day. Not about the person people expected her to be and the image of herself she always played up to.
