For Two Nights Only

  Maybe that’s it then. Maybe you were given such an extreme shot of confidence at a young age that nothing can deter you now. Everything is always possible because that’s been your experience.

  I hate this psychoanalysis, Chris. It’s a bore.

  Just thinking out loud.

  Well think internally. I’m getting us some music. Darin dialed to a specific station and a man’s voice came clean and clear through the speakers. He spoke calmly, with self-assurance. This is Zane Lowe’s show. Do you know him?

  I glanced incredulously at Darin. Of course. He’s the Casey Kasem of England, and infinitely more cool.

  I don’t know who that other guy is, but Zane’s the best radio DJ in the country. He took out his cell phone, punched a couple buttons and put it up to his ear. Hello Sam, it’s Darin. Nice to hear your voice too, you sound sexy as ever. What are you wearing? Oh fine, perhaps later? I’m in the city tonight. Good. Hey, ask Zane to play something for me, will you? Julia, The Beatles. Thanks much. Of course, I’ll ring you later. Perfect. Take care.

  He hung up and pocketed his phone. I love how they say ring instead of call.

  A sweet feminine voice cut into the radio program to tell Zane that someone had just requested a song; and that he sounded very handsome. Zane understood immediately, announcing he was obliged to accommodate a special friend. With that, he introduced Julia.

  For the next two minutes and fifty-three seconds we drove without exchanging a word.

  Track 10

  About a mile from the hotel Darin asked me to pull over onto a quiet street, full of expensive and specialty shops like the ones I’d seen the previous evening.

  You going anywhere in particular?

  There’s a music shop nearby, and a spot around the corner that makes a good pastrami sandwich. He paused, standing inside the door, and looked me up and down. I’ll be fine, mate. You?

  I didn’t understand his question but nodded anyway. I’ve got no reason not to be.

  I know I’m difficult, that’s just the way it is.

  You’ve got a lot of walls, Darin. You’re not all that bad, but I wish you’d open up more.

  Well you can’t hardly blame me for that. My past is my past, dictates my future. At least I’m not Robert Zimmerman.

  He shut the door and strutted off in the opposite direction. I watched him through the rearview mirror, all the while stuck on his allusion to Bob Dylan who, early in his career, had lied to the press at every opportunity. He became known for contradicting himself, frequently and knowingly, with a wink at the camera and the corners of his mouth fighting down a grin.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Darin’s number.

  Miss me already?

  What did you mean by that?

  By what, chief? Hello lovely.

  Are you listening to me?

  Always. You’re not saying much.

  Is anything you’ve told me so far true?

  Lots of things I’ve told you so far are true. You’re all ruffled by the Dylan reference?

  I’m not ruffled about anything.

  I didn’t mean to imply I was fabricating things. My point was, you shouldn’t complain about the current state of our interview when it could be much worse. I answer your questions honestly, if not always fully, but that’s because I’m a person, I don’t put everything out there to someone I don’t fully and wholly trust. I’ve got walls, just like everyone else. Except Robert Zimmerman. That man had automatic weapons mounted on towers.

  I understand.

  Excellent. Now hang up, you shouldn’t be on the phone while driving. You’ll get a ticket, and the men in blue over here don’t like it when foreigners break the law.

  I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Really looking forward to it.

  I pulled into the hotel driveway, left my keys with the valet and went inside. I slowed as I passed the reception, wondering if they might deliver a message, but they didn’t flag me down.

  I took the elevator up alone and, getting out at the penthouse, felt a rare rush of energy at the novelty of the scene. I admired the fine furniture, running my hand across the darkly stained oak desk on my way to the bedroom. Room service had made up the bed. I dropped onto it with a childlike enjoyment reminiscent of when staying in a hotel still felt like visiting a new world, long before the excitement gave way to associations with work. I lay there, humming Julia and tapping out the rhythm with my fingers on the silk duvet. The next day I’d be returning home, confident I’d gotten much of what I’d come for. Remaining details could be clarified on the phone, and I even had another day to seal leaks in the story, which I’d begun to write in my head. It was the evolution of a young man, growing up in the middle of nowhere, learning music at a young age in a tight, loving family. Forgoing the normal routines of a boy his age he focuses on the guitar, giving himself what would seem, for any person his age, impossible musical challenges, but he proves an eager and precocious student and learns from the greats through the truest of compliments: precise mimicry. When the time comes he cuts his chops at a local establishment, only to be discovered by a guardian-like figure who plucks him from a tiny stage and nurtures the talent. He takes the reigns of his life, touring and writing and recording, keeping family close so as not to stray too near the sun. But he does at times. There are drugs. There are women. There are nights he doesn’t remember. And then the sandcastle begins to erode. A fallout with his sister before her wedding. A decision not to attend his father’s funeral. An interest by the press that makes this introverted person uncomfortable in his own land and a move abroad. The love of a life, days of endless, comfortable and rejuvenating happiness, all of which passes tragically, terribly. A prolonged and difficult trial, prosecuted by a woman eager to convict. After years of introspection and solitude and the abandonment of his art, the zest for music returns and he triumphantly comes back, rolling in with flags waving and birds chirping and choirs singing. The piece, like Darin’s life, will move up and down. It is a redemption tale. He must travel through darkness to find the light.

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught flashing red on the bedside phone. I rolled over, grabbed the receiver, hit the button and laid back while a message from the front desk informed me someone had called while I was out, and would I like to have them send someone up with the message.

  I paced the living room waiting for the note to be delivered, trying briefly to sit but too fidgety to make it last. I thought of Heather, and wondered if the message would bring about plans for the evening, a companion for dinner and drinks. I told myself not to get carried away again, that I needed to be sharp for the final conversation with Darin, that tomorrow would benefit from work being done this evening.

  The knock on the door brought me out of my plans. I hastened to open it, finding across from me a young man, probably nearing twenty, still pimply but handsome behind his teenage skin. With a confidence that betrayed both his youth and his outward appearance he handed me the note, asked if there was anything else and then disappeared. I shut the door and sat on a leather chair in front of the large plate-glass window overlooking the gardens.

  Inside the small, beige envelope was a handwritten note on cream stationary. The penmanship was pristine, each letter carefully formed. The note itself was short and concise.

  Mr. Price;

  Claire called. She wishes for you to call her back at your earliest convenience. Should you wish to use the hotel’s phones, please first choose nine, followed by 001 for international calls to the United States. If you need assistance we will gladly help.

  4:15pm

  I set the note down and let my disappointment fade, confused by my reaction and the sense there should have been more to the surprise promised by an awaiting message. I found my cell phone and dialed Claire.

  “Hi, where are you?” she asked.

  “I’m back at the hotel, just got your message. Why didn’t you call my cell?”

  “I did, a couple times, but it sai
d your number couldn’t be reached.”

  “I think the reception where Darin lives is spotty.”

  “How’s your day?”

  “It’s good, we made progress. I was just going over the arc in my head, I think there’s a compelling story here. And luckily for me, and probably for Darin too, there’s an upswing at the end of it. I can write this as a redemption tale.”

  “That’s fantastic. It sounds like you got what you went there for. Do you think he’ll agree to a full biography?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’ve gotten along well enough. I’ll present my ideas to him tomorrow before I leave and see what he thinks. He may want a draft of a few chapters before he commits. I’ve been thinking about this nonstop, tell me about your day.”

  “It was long. I was running all over the city. Do you remember Jessica B_, I did her apartment on the Upper West about a year ago?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “She called and asked me to come over again. Tomorrow.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Yes, except I hated working for her. She controls everything to the point I can’t do my job. Apparently she’s now an SVP, or VP, something high up, so she has money to upgrade her living and dining rooms.”

  I opened the mini fridge and took out a soda, then grabbed a single-serving Scotch from the shelf above and emptied both containers into a glass.

  “Repeat customers are good.” I sank back into the leather chair and admired the sun setting over the line of trees at the far side of the garden. “She liked your work.”

  “I guess so. I just don’t like working with her.” I took a sip and waited for her to continue. “Because she’s so mean. It’s a lot of dismissive waving.”

  “I hear you. But it’s temporary.”

  “I know. Doesn’t necessarily make it easier.”

  “But it could if you thought of it as a minor sacrifice for high monetary gain. I’m assuming she’s got a big budget?”

  “Yes, true.”

  “So it’s not all bad.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  I downed the rest of my drink and stood up. Sometimes conversations with Claire stalled out, and I’d had enough experience to know when to get out of the car and walk.

  “I should go. I need to do some work this evening yet, tomorrow’s my last day with Darin. And right now all I can think of is food, I’m starving.”

  “Okay, I can let you go.” A hint of sadness in her voice?

  “Unless,” I added, “you have anything else? Dinner can wait.”

  “No, it’s fine. Go get yourself some food. There nothing else, really.”

  “I love you Claire.”

  “I love you too, Chris. Have a good night. Text me before you go to sleep?”

  My chest felt light and free, unchained to another drunken phone call that experience showed I was not good at making. A text I could easily pull off.

  “Of course. I’ll let you know when I go to sleep. You do the same, okay?”

  “I will. I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I hung up and tossed my phone on the chair. I made a second Scotch and soda before digging through my pockets for Heather’s note from that morning.

  She picked up after two rings.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you,” she said, sounding relieved.

  “A person has to eat. Join me for dinner?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Side D

  Track 11

  “I didn’t think you’d call.” Heather had pulled her hair back, a contrast to the previous day’s flowing strands over shoulders. Tonight it was her eyes and sharp jaw line that made an impression. She wore perfume, though different than before. I wondered if she’d applied it that morning.

  “I was busy most of the day. And to be honest, this morning was rougher than I’d have wished. I’m not in my twenties anymore.”

  “So that was your prime, eh? I’m too late?” She pouted her lips but I didn’t find the ironic sympathy endearing, and it must’ve shown on my face. “I didn’t mean anything,” she corrected. “I mean,” she searched for a way to remedy the situation and I managed a comforting smile, “I didn’t realize I was too rough on you.”

  “You weren’t. It was fun. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s good for me to do that once in a while, but I spent all day watching Darin move through drinks like a machine.”

  “He drank a lot?” The news prompted more concern than I thought necessary.

  “Yeah, well, rock stars like their booze. It’s a cliché for a reason.”

  The conversation lapsed into silence and I realized that, even with three Scotch and sodas in me, the second outing was not on course to keep pace with the first. I was oddly nervous. She looked lovely, she’d obviously put forth an effort in getting ready, a reassurance I should’ve easily and without hesitation accepted. Her dress was more conservatively cut than what she’d worn the day before, but it still managed, in the way the thin fabric fell across her chest and arms, to convey her form underneath. The dark floral pattern accentuated her femininity.

  The restaurant she’d chosen, presumably one she’d known from a previous trip to London, was quiet and pleasant, not overly bourgeois. Some patrons wore finer clothes, ties and heels. I’d neglected to pack anything of that distinction, forgivable since in my experience it was rare for a rock star, if desiring to go out, to choose anything other than his favorite dive bar. They all did it, took me to a dark and dirty establishment to show they hadn’t let the wealth change them. A burger of above-average quality and imported beer were normal requisites. The elitism of five-star restaurants, while in their budget, went against the image they wanted to portray. I would occasionally read about a sighting of a famous lead singer eating at an unpronounceable French restaurant, but those were slipups. The Goring had lent me a jacket and, though the woman across from me would’ve justified my presence without it, I felt I fit in. In honesty I would’ve preferred a dive bar and a burger, but to have dinner with an attractive woman in Londontown one has to make concessions.

  “How was your interview?”

  “It went well.” I picked up my Scotch on the rocks and swirled it around, watching the snaking trails left by the ice. “I don’t know if I got everything I need, but I’m close. Like I said, the beginning of the day was not easy after last night, which I don’t regret, of course, but it wasn’t until sometime in the afternoon that we really got going. He’s not a very open person, it takes time with him. None of them are. They communicate through their art, not through normal conversation. That skill always seems to have been left underdeveloped.”

  “Is he hard to get to know? In your opinion?” She took a sip of her Cabernet Sauvignon and set the large wineglass down.

  “I think so. He likes to retain some mystery. At times it feels like he’s playing with me.”

  I caught a look in Heather’s eye and stopped short. A cross between trepidation and the way a child stares at you when you’ve caught him in the act of something naughty passed across her face. Just as quickly it was gone. We stared at each other, me with a puzzled look, her with something resembling a question, asking me what was wrong. The coolness of the Scotch glass in my hand, and the knowledge of the Scotches before it, led me to wonder if I was really seeing what I thought I saw.

  “But I’m sure it’s nothing. He’s just a difficult character.”

  “How so?”

  “I really shouldn’t be talking about him. He likes his privacy. I can send you whatever gets published. If you’re interested.”

  “I’d like that. And I’m sorry to have pushed you, that was rude of me.” She bowed her eyes to her lap and I was caught up in the confusion of trying to understand her shame.

  “It’s okay,” I managed, “it’s fine. I just don’t think… you know.”

  “I understand. I shouldn’t have asked so many questions. Not tonight.”

  The wait
er interrupted to take our orders. While he stood stoically beside the table, hands folded behind his back, we chose salads and two dishes to share: Mahi-Mahi with a white wine and garlic reduction, and housemade potato gnocchi in a rosemary and butter sauce, as well as another round of drinks. After looking over the menus for too long and slowly dancing around the idea, we’d decided, both of us wanting to be open and friendly, to commit to sharing two entrees. For me it felt like a bit of a betrayal to Claire, but I didn’t know the norm for the English and wanted to keep things open.

  “Tell me about what you’re working on. Enough about me.” I adjusted in my seat and settled into a comfortable position, letting her know I wasn’t expecting a short answer. My question seemed to catch her off guard, and she brushed a hand over her hair as if to pull it back, though it already was. It must’ve been a nervous tick, and I smiled to set her at ease. She returned the pleasantry, but her eyes told me she was hesitant to start.

  “Can you not talk about it?” I asked. What was a normal reason for me didn’t seem like it had much place in her line of work, but knowing so little about event planning I thought anything possible.

  “No, I can. It’s just not that exciting.” She laid her hands in her lap, transforming the confident woman I’d known into someone unrecognizable.

  “Let me ask a more pointed question. What are you working on? What’s the event?”

  “Well,” she paused, searching for the right words. The waiter swung by, dropping off our drinks and informing us of a few minutes wait before the salads. He was tall, with an unattractive nose that looked like it once may have been broken. His goal appeared to be avoiding any outward enjoyment of his work, and instead merely performing the utilitarian function of bringing us items as we asked for them. With a fluid movement he swept our empty drinks off the table.

  Heather’s focus was stuck on the full wineglass in front of her. She picked it up and took a sip, never meeting my eyes, her mind somewhere else. I raised my own glass in an impatient, irascible toast to things not going as planned. The chilled fluid glided over my tongue and slid down my throat, barely offering a hint of its flavor. When I set the tumbler down it was half empty.