My focus hung on the two curls she twirled beside her mouth.
“I’m a journalist, I have an interview tomorrow. I’m giving the interview, I mean. It won’t look good if I’m more hungover than the other guy.” I added, wondering about Darin’s night out with Geneva, “Not likely, but at this rate fully possible.”
“Exciting,” she cooed. “Who are you interviewing?”
“I can’t say,” I replied, pleased I’d found a mystery to maintain. “It’s not even supposed to be known he’s giving an interview.”
“Come on,” she said, reaching out and placing her hand on mine. She did so calmly but deliberately, and I became aware not only of the softness of her skin, but the odd inertness of her touch. It was neither warm nor soft, simply present, a delicate pressure against my hand. The moment lasted only a second before I pulled back and wrapped my fingers around the stem of my martini glass. Heather gave no indication she’d noticed the discomfort in my withdrawal. “That’s no fun. Why can’t you say?”
“Because he hasn’t given one in a while. This one is important.”
“As rare things often are. So, you’re interviewing a man.”
“I’m not saying any more.”
“But if I guess it you’ll tell me?”
“I don’t know, Heather, really I should–”
“Twenty questions. Play along.” I gave her a stern look as if to say I wasn’t interested in making a game of it.
“Please,” she pleaded, the way someone does when there can be no answer but Yes.
I nodded. “Sure, fine. It’s a man. And that was your first question.”
“Splendid.” She smiled and then plowed through her next three questions. Politician? Actor? Football player? On her fifth she asked if I was interviewing an artist.
“Yes,” I nodded.
“But not an actor or director?”
“No. Actor you had already, not a director. Director was six.”
“A musician?”
“Yes.”
“Is he the frontman?”
“In a way, yes. That’s eight.”
“But he’s more of a solo artist?”
“Yes.”
“Robbie Williams?”
“Ten. No.”
“Morrissey?”
“Not a bad guess, but no. Eleven.”
“Sting?”
“Twelve.” I leaned back, holding my glass in my lap. It swayed slightly, I couldn’t seem to hold it in place.
“Is he a British musician?”
“Great question. No.”
“Is he contemporary? Has he done anything in the last five years?”
“That’s tougher. Yes.”
“You had to think about it. Okay, we’re getting warmer. Has he released an album in the last five years?”
“No. I think that’s fourteen. Do you know what number we’re on?”
“I wouldn’t tell you if I did. Fourteen it is. So you’re saying his only recent releases have been singles? And that does not count as a question, this is clarification.”
“You’re trying to break the rules,” I laughed, loudly, garnering stares from a nearby elderly couple.
“Not at all. I can clarify a point. If he hasn’t brought out an album but he’s released something else, then it has to be a single. I’m only confirming.
Her eyes rose slightly, seductively. “Oh really?”
I waved her off. “Not what I meant.”
She could tell I was embarrassed but added anyway, “It would’ve been fine if you had.” The right corner of her mouth rose a little.
“Next question,” I stuttered over the words while struggling to set my drink on the table.
“Okay,” the jovial tone returned to her voice, the seduction of the previous few statements gone. “Is he pop or rock?”
“A mixture of both. His songs do very well on the pop charts, but his music has rock elements. Fifteen. You’re getting down to the wire.”
She giggled and leaned in over the table, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on her face. I found her devastatingly attractive. My eyes locked in position as I fought not to stare down her shirt, cut low and revealing the upper ridges of her breasts. Upon our return to The Goring she’d run up to her room to change into something more casual, and come back in a tight black top.
“Is he younger than thirty?”
“Yes. Sixteen.”
“Is he mega-famous?”
“That’s an ambiguous way to characterize something, but if I had to guess at what you mean I’d say yes.”
“Does he have black hair? Eighteen. I’ll help you count.” With a slight grin she let me know she was in control, and I wondered what I’d done to court the interest of a woman so practiced at flirtation. I didn’t normally attract the attention of the likes of her, instead typically finding success with somewhat younger alternative girls interested in trying out a normal guy with an interesting job (rock journalist), as opposed to their usual interesting guy with a shitty job (rocker who makes cappuccinos).
“He does.”
“I’ll be right back.” She stood, took a step around the table and stopped beside me. She placed a hand on my shoulder and bent down to whisper in my ear, “When I get back the game will be over. I don’t need all twenty.”
She disappeared behind me, and when I turned to look I caught the last few seconds of sashaying hips as she exited the terrace.
I immediately flagged the waiter and asked to settle the bill, handing him my credit card. While he charged it I checked the time on my phone, alarmed to see it was already the next day, five past midnight. I somehow couldn’t recall the passing of the previous four hours, but if Claire were paying attention to what time it was in London she’d be worried. The waiter returned with the bill, and I held him at the table while I scratched my name on the receipt and handed it back. He was gone for only a moment before Heather returned.
Slowly and deliberately she took her seat, brought her pink cocktail up to her lips and drained it before making eye contact.
“You’re interviewing Darin Caldwell,” she said, very matter-of-factly.
I nodded, trying to suppress a smile but too drunk to do so. I certainly looked a fool. Against expectation she did not pry for information.
“I am,” I confessed. “But that has to stay between us. Please. He appreciates his privacy and it should be respected.”
“Don’t worry.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m excellent at keeping secrets.” A smile, and with it a pang of longing shot through my abdomen.
“Congratulations,” I said, composing myself. “Heather, it’s been… lovely.” I stood. “I need to get some rest. Thank you for a great evening.”
“Is it over already?” she asked.
“For me it has to be.”
In one smooth move she scooped up her purse. “I should head in as well.”
“Don’t let me cut your night short.”
She brushed away the comment. “Not at all. I have meetings early.”
Together we exited the terrace and walked in silence to the elevator. The lobby clerk didn’t bother to glance our way, standing like a statue in his pressed gray uniform, eyes fixed on the front door.
“The penthouse,” she commented when I chose my floor. She hit six. “Very nice. I’ve always wanted to see the The Goring’s penthouse. In all my years coming here, my company has never gone in for it.”
I let the comment sit, unwilling to take the bait.
“Oh no,” she gasped as we rose into the air. “The bill.”
“It’s okay,” I reassured her. “I took care of it.”
The doors opened at six.
“Well thank you, Chris. You’re a real gentleman.” Heather stepped forward and placed a soft, light kiss on my cheek, with delicacy I hadn’t felt in years.
She stepped out, turned around and looked me in the eyes, smiling. “Good
night,” she waved once as the doors closed.
As soon as I was upstairs I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and called Claire. To my relief she didn’t answer. I began a message I hoped would come across as sober, rambled a bit about my day, and told her I’d call her when I woke up if it wasn’t too late in New York. Then I passed out with a half empty beer on the nightstand. The last thing I remember was smelling the hand Heather had reached out and grabbed across the table. The scent was floral, with a hint of cinnamon.
Side C
Track 5
Click
How was the night out with Geneva?
A mess. She insisted on going dancing at some idiotic new club that just opened. I don’t dance. I don’t do clubs.
Why is that?
It was just past eleven in the morning and I was sitting next to Darin on his back patio, overlooking the yard. I picked at a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, orange juice and coffee. The amount of pulp in the juice indicated freshly squeezed. My subject had a plate of food in front of him but hadn’t taken more than two bites, instead opting to repeatedly empty glasses of Bloody Mary and cups of coffee. The latter he refilled from a large thermos in the middle of the table, the former always came from Oscar. Normally I didn’t eat while conducting interviews so as to stay focused, but because I was both terribly hung over and still working at establishing a rapport with Darin, I had accepted the meal. A breeze strong enough to unsettle our cloth napkins should have been pleasant, but I was so stricken by a headache that I found the air uncomfortable against my skin.
I can’t. People look fucking stupid dancing, don’t they? I don’t want to spend my time with idiots who’ve chosen to flail around to loud drum and bass music for six hours, stoned out of their minds on all kinds of drugs. Not the company I choose to keep. I just can’t respect any of them, on principal. Seriously, the music is shit. But anyway, there’s usually paparazzi outside those clubs, and even if I go in the back door I’m swarmed as soon as someone recognizes me. That’s the thing, I have all the money I could ever need but when you reach the level of fame that provides this much wealth, you’re in a cage. I eat at the most expensive restaurants not because I don’t enjoy diners, but because there’s a certain level of privacy the price of that meal brings. If I’m dropping a couple hundred pounds on dinner it means everyone else is, and those people are more respectful of my privacy. It’s a fact, I don’t get approached for autographs at five star restaurants. I was having this conversation with my brother recently, because he doesn’t understand that I live in a little box, that I don’t have a normal life. He only sees the money and the toys and the mansion. I moved fucking countries, for chrissake, just to get away from the cameras and tabloids.
Do you still talk to your brother?
Just said I do.
Right. Do you talk to him on a regular basis?
Of course. He’s family.
How’s your relationship?
It’s fine.
Do you look out for him? Does he look up to? I’m asking you to describe that relationship.
If he looks up to me he doesn’t show it. Or express it. He has his own life, he’s successful in his own right and I respect him.
What does he do?
I don’t think that’s relevant.
Will you tell me?
You look like shit today and your brain’s not functioning. I said it wasn’t relevant which means I won’t tell you. This interview is supposed to be about me, not my family.
So you feel disconnected from your family? You don’t think those relationships in any way define you?
What did you get up to last night? You’ve been shaking like a college freshman on Sunday morning since you got here.
It’s usually not a good idea to open up about your personal life with a subject. It gets the interview off track. The über-successful celebrities – and thereby the most tightly managed – often don’t ask questions to the interviewee. They don’t care. They stay focused, hit the talking points, and move to the next journalist waiting outside the hotel room. They don’t care because the person is just one in a long line. Only the celebrities that aren’t completely sure of themselves ask a question of me, it’s a deflection. They’re seeking a way to get the focus off of them when it seems things might grow uncomfortable. Darin was clearly out of practice, because I was sure that at one point in his career he was a pro at interviews.
I had a few drinks at the hotel, the night got a lot later than I’d hoped.
Alone?
What does that matter?
Because, Chris, if you got that drunk by yourself I’d be a lot concerned for you.
Look who’s talking? You’ve had a drink in your hand almost every minute of this interview.
Rubbish. I’m not alone, you’re here.
But I’m not drinking.
I’m a social drinker, and if you’re here it’s a social situation. Additionally, I might add, I don’t look like you do right now. Which, is shit.
I’d woken up still drunk, done the math to figure the four martinis totaled eight shots of vodka, drinking had commenced a little after seven and I should’ve certainly been sober by the time I woke up at half past eight. Instead I stumbled naked into the bathroom, almost slipped on the scrubbed-clean floor of the shower and stood under running water for fifteen minutes, holding the shower door with one hand to keep me upright. A thorough brush of the teeth and I still didn’t feel completely sober, but I put on a game face and walked to the elevator. Alone in the small metal box a sense of claustrophobia came over me, and I watched the red digital numbers count down past eight and then seven and hoped Heather was already gone for the day, that she wouldn’t by some insane chance be getting in the elevator and see me in such a sorry state. I shouldn’t have cared, really, but I did.
On my way past the front desk an older gentleman with a large nose and long ears flagged me down. I approached slowly, not yet ready to interact with anyone in person. He handed me a slip of paper, explaining that a woman had left it for me the night before. I asked if he was sure of the timing and, I think to humor me, he referenced a large book behind the counter, flipping back a page. He pointed a finger to a notation and looked up at me. “Last night, sir. It was recorded by our overnight staff.” I thanked him and waited until I was outside and had handed my ticket to the valet to open the folded piece of paper. In bubbly letters I read:
Chris,
Wonderful meeting you last night, it was one of the most enjoyable evenings I’ve spent in London. If every business trip were this much fun I wouldn’t dread taking them so often. I hope we can do it again. If you’d like, please call me when you’re free this evening. I will be around, or I’ll make time. I hope I wasn’t too forward last night. Please chalk it up to the drinks, or to a woman feeling like a girl again.
-Heather
Underneath her name she’d written a phone number. Maybe to verify the authenticity, maybe because I was still drunk, I brought the paper up to my nose and inhaled deeply. The ghost of her perfume was unmistakable.
I looked at Darin over my plate of food, took a large bite of hard toast, and smiled.
Do I look that rough?
You look like shit.
Don’t sugarcoat it.
What did you get up to? I want details.
I met a nice woman traveling on business, also staying at my hotel. We had a few drinks. As I’m sure you know, The Goring has a nice terrace. A couple drinks turned into many and I woke up feeling like I look. Satisfied?
Not in the least. What did she look like?
I’m not doing this, Darin. Getting back to your brother…
Fuck off, I’m not answering any more of your questions until I hear about this little butterfly that fluttered into your evening.
You can’t be serious.
Deadly so. You tell me what happened, then we can continue.
Fine. She was very nice, a real smart girl. Intelligent. Professional.
Chris, I hadn’t pegged you for…
No, no, not that kind of professional.
Right. Did the penthouse pay off?
What do you mean?
Did you take her back to your room? You cannot be this daft.
Not everyone sleeps around like you do, Darin.
Hey, no judgments! I’m free to sleep around. I’ve not made a commitment to anyone.
Well I have, so no, this woman never made it to the penthouse. We kept it to the terrace. And the elevator.
You rode the elevator together and you couldn’t finish the negotiation?
I didn’t want to, you deaf fuck. I’m not here for that, I’m here for you.
Darin slowly nodded his head and leaned back in his chair, suppressing a smile.
Well I suppose I should be quite flattered. I had no idea you felt that way.
Look, you’re screwing with me and I’m not in the mood. If you asked me to fly over here so you could have some entertainment, I’m not doing it. I can leave, I will not be fucked with.
Whoa, whoa. Darin leaned forward, concerned. Calm yourself. I was just having a laugh. Seemed like you could use some loosening up this morning. No harm. Honestly.
He seemed genuine.
Fine, can we talk about your brother?
He gazed off into the distance and remained like that, calmly sitting, his mind at work. I recognized it not as a blank stare, but as the look of someone processing information.
What do you want do know?
Do you feel disconnected from your family?
I live in a different country, take a guess. Next question.
So you bring your brother on the road with you.
Used to. Occasionally. But I’m not on the road very often now. For a time I would fly Donald to where I was so I had someone I trusted nearby.
Is there no one else in your life you trust?
My family isn’t interested in my fame or my money. That can’t be said for most.
I read that at one point in your life you looked to Donald for advice. Does that still hold true?
He refilled his coffee and stirred in milk.