A Different Kind Of Forever (5 page)

“No,” he said quickly. He shrugged. “I don’t. But it’s part of the package. You can’t be somebody like me without having to put up with some bullshit. It’s invasive. I love the fans, I really do, but I don’t think they have a right to know every single thing about my life.”
 

She finished her drink and felt her lips go numb. She looked at him carefully. His eyes were very blue. “Are you wearing contacts? I can’t tell,” she asked.

“No. Why?”

“You said you wore glasses.”

“Oh, I did. I had laser surgery. Really amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. A couple of years ago.”

Diane tilted her head. “Do you get laid a lot?”

Michael blinked. “Excuse me?

Diane was blushing furiously. “I can’t believe I just asked you that. I am so sorry. See, I told you.” She buried her face in her hands. “God,” she muttered.

He was laughing. The waiter had returned, placing in front of them two salads.

“Diane,” Michael said, “please, eat some salad. It looks terrific.”
 

Diane dropped her hands and stared down at her dish. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Michael took a bite of salad. “I used to. Get laid a lot. It was amazing, after that first album. There were girls everywhere. I was only eighteen, and Denise stayed home, and Dave came on tour with us and man, all I had to do was point and smile. After a while, I started looking for more, ah, permanent relationships. But the women in this business, they just assumed that every date would end up in bed. I’d meet them for coffee and automatically stay to breakfast. I didn’t even like some of them. Most of them.” He shrugged. “Seth used to say there was no such thing as a wasted condom, but I don’t know. It gets old. Finding somebody to go to bed with is easy. Finding someone to wake up with, now that’s hard.”
 

Diane lifted her fork and started eating. “So, how many times have you been in love?” she asked, looking up at him again.
 

He thought. “Three times. My first great love was Theresa Milano. She moved next door to us when I was in the third grade. She was in public school, and I was in Catholic school, but I was determined to make it work. I proposed to her half-way through the fourth grade, but she had become infatuated with a shortstop. She broke my heart. But we stayed friends. She’s an intern now, at Columbia Medical School. I still see her.”

“How sweet.”

“There was an actress. We dated for about a year. Then I stopped touring and we lived together for six months. All that togetherness was a big mistake.” He sipped more wine. “And then there was a week ago Tuesday.”

Diane looked puzzled, then broke into a smile. “Oh?”

“Yes. I’d ask you to spend the rest of your life with me, but I have to go to Philadelphia tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m crushed, of course, but I understand. Especially since I would never go to Philadelphia.”

Michael smiled and shrugged. “That’s what I figured.” The salad plates were gone, and were replaced by bowls of steaming risotto.

“Oh, this is fantastic,” Diane exclaimed. “So, do you have a show in Philly?”

“Yes, Sunday and Monday. We’ve got promos and interviews tomorrow. Seth likes to be there when they set up the equipment, even though our road manager has been doing it perfectly for years.”

“Denise doesn’t do that stuff anymore?”

“No. David oversees everything now. Denise is our lawyer. She takes care of contracts, investments - all that stuff.”

“Good for her. This risotto is amazing. So the famous Marco and your father are brothers?”

“Yes. My father is the oldest of five brothers. They’re all great men, all great success stories.” Michael gestured with his fork. “Look, another drink,” he said wickedly.

Diane pushed it firmly away. “No. I refuse to embarrass myself further.”

“Does this mean no dancing? Oh, well. Now you tell me.”

She looked puzzled. “Tell you what?”

“Well, let’s start with how many times you’ve been in love.”

Marco approached the table. “How is everything so far?” he asked.

“Oh, Mr. Carlucci, everything has been delicious. Really.” Diane smiled happily.

Marco leaned in. “Would you like to try the veal?” he asked her. She nodded. He patted her hand. “It’s perfect tonight. Just wait.”

Diane sighed after he left. “I’m going to have to walk at least fifteen miles when we’re done. I just know it.”

“Okay. So, we’ll walk. But now, how many times have you been in love?”

So she told him. And as she told him, and as they ate, she found herself leaning toward him more, watching him closely. Once or twice her hand accidentally touched his, and she felt a warm rush in her cheeks. She was smiling at the end of the evening, her hand propping her cheek, thinking she had probably said too much. The effects of the vodka had worn off, but she was still feeling light and absurdly happy.

They left around eleven, having thanked Marco, and they walked in the cool, spring evening, past darkened shop windows. They were shoulder to shoulder, not touching, still talking. She stopped in front of her car, and she leaned her back against the door, breathing deeply.

“I had a terrific night, Michael. Everything was just wonderful. Thank you.”

Michael stood, hands in his pockets. “Me too. Listen, I won’t be back until Tuesday, no, probably Wednesday, and things are going to be crazy. But I want to see you again.”

Diane nodded. “I’ll see you Friday night. We’ll come backstage.” She took a deep breath. She wanted to touch him. “I’ve got to go. It’s late.” She leaned over and quickly kissed his cheek, then turned, reaching to open the car door.
 

Michael put his hand on her shoulder and turned her back around, pulling her toward him. He kissed her, and his arms went around her, and when he let her go she was out of breath, blood drumming in her ears, her face flushed.
 

“I’m going now,” she whispered. His face was very close and his lips brushed her cheeks, the corner of her mouth.
 

“Okay,” he whispered back

She had been gripping the smooth fabric of his jacket, and she let go suddenly, smoothing out the wrinkles with her hands. She could feel him, still close, his hands against her back, hot against the cool silk of her blouse.
 

“Good night.” Her voice was hoarse. She was looking into his eyes and she brought her hands up and into his hair, soft and thick, and they kissed again. She leaned forward, her whole length against him, feeling the slim strength of his body, and when she finally pulled away she had to take a deep breath, her eyes closed, as she pulled the world back into sharp focus.

“I have to go,” she said softly.

“Yes. You mentioned that.” He kissed her cheek, the soft spot below her ear, her neck.

She opened her eyes and took another breath. “Really. It’s late.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat and stepped away from her. “Good night.”
 

She got into her car and drove away.

O
N
F
RIDAY NIGHT
, they piled into Sue Griffen’s Suburban and inched their way into the parking lot of the Fleet Bank Arena. The younger girls had been in a frenzy all afternoon. They had arrived at Diane’s house after school with armloads of outfits and spent hours screaming, laughing and arguing the merits of each article of clothing. Diane vetoed Megan once and Emily twice. She had no control over what the other girls wore, but her own daughters were not going anywhere in anything too tight or showing too much skin. Sue brought over boxes of pizza, and sent her own oldest daughter home to change. Diane chewed pizza, and put on jeans and a white tee shirt under a black leather blazer. She brushed her hair, refreshed her mascara and lipstick, and they were off.

She had gone on the Internet the night before and typed in the name of the band. The number of sites available shocked her. She read reviews. The first album eight years ago had been a stunning breakthrough, nominated for five Grammy Awards, winning two. The last album was considered their best yet. She read a few interviews. The band mates had nothing but respect and affection for each other, and there wasn’t even a rumor of back-biting. There were sites dedicated to individual members, Joey Adamson having a large, rabid following of women who speculated in chat rooms about everything from the state of his marriage to the size of his penis. Seth Bascomb had been engaged six times to six different women. The Martone brothers, Monty and Phil, were happily married to sisters and their children were born three months apart.

The pages for Mickey Flynn were mostly divided between women of all ages who wanted to either knit him a sweater or have wild with him sex on stage. He was also widely discussed as a songwriter, with a few fan sites devoted entirely to that aspect of his life. Although the band received credit as a group for all original material, Michael did most of the writing. Before he had joined them, the band had been called Mitchell Street, and they had been known as an R&B cover band. Once Michael came on board, and they began to play his original material, things had taken off.

The current tour was considered a financial and critical success. Their concerts were called old-fashioned block parties, with everyone up and rocking. The new material was well-received, but also included plenty of old favorites, and at the end of every show, Mickey Flynn would tell a story. It had apparently started when the band went on their first major tour. They had no material for a second encore, so Michael had gone out and told the crowd one of the funnier stories of the road, then sat down and played an old blues number that no one had ever heard of, but had received a standing ovation. After that, every concert ended with a story and a song from Mickey Flynn.

Diane had not seen a concert in years, and had never been to the Arena. She dutifully showed a red-shirted security guard her ticket and pass, and they were lead through the swarm to the center section, second row. The place was massive, the stage looming before them. Speakers were everywhere, a giant screen across the back of the stage. They had all gotten programs, and she bought her two daughters’ tee shirts. She and Sue settled into folding seats, keeping an eye on their charges.

“We should have roped them all together,” Sue said, directly into her ear, and Diane nodded with a grin. They could easily get lost in the vastness of the arena. She couldn’t imagine how they were going to get backstage.

She heard someone calling her name, and turned to see another security person. He was very tall and broad, with several earrings and a ponytail. She stood up and moved to the end of the aisle.

“Are you Diane?” The guard yelled into her ear.

She nodded, and the guard stuck out his hand.
 

“Michael is worried you guys will take a look around and give up on coming backstage.”

She shook his hand. It was huge. “I was thinking about that, actually.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry. After the lights come up, just stay in your seats, okay? I’ll come and get you. You follow me back.”

“Thank you very much,” she shouted.

“Thank Michael.”

Sue looked at her, questioning, as she made her way back into the seat. When Diane explained what the guard had said, Sue lifted an eyebrow.

“That’s pretty considerate of him, isn’t it?” she asked.

Diane nodded. She had not told Sue about their dinner. She had not told anyone. She wasn’t sure how to explain it, exactly. It was only a dinner, but he had been on her mind for a week, his smile, his kiss, and she was anxious about seeing him again. The arena was filled, the buzz of the crowd intense. The lights flickered. The screaming started, and the clapping in time. There was no opening act. The house lights went down, the stage blazed with light, and the band walked on.

The cheering was intense, a wave of sound that Diane could feel pressing behind her. Her own daughters were screaming, clapping. Diane stood with them, applauding, watching as Michael came on stage.

He was behind Seth Bascomb, a tall black man with a shaved, beautifully shaped head, in red leather pants and a white silk shirt. Michael wore jeans and a short-sleeved Sponge-Bob tee shirt. He walked up steps to the keyboards, waving once to the audience. Diane had been holding her breath. He had seemed dwarfed by Seth, who was at least six feet tall. The equipment seemed to loom around him. His head was turned, speaking to Joey Adamson, who was settling behind the sprawling set of drums.
 

Seth Bascomb was standing before the microphone. He held up his arms and yelled, “It’s great to be home!” The crowd roared in response. Monty Martone slipped the strap of his guitar over his head. His brother, Phil, did the same with his bass. The brothers were very much alike, slight, long blonde hair, in jeans and open-necked shirts. Seth waited as the crowd began to quiet down.

“Me and the boys are glad to be here. It’s been a bitch of a tour, but we promise tonight will be a blow-out.” The crowd started up again. Seth was grinning. He looked back at Michael and said something. Michael grinned in response and nodded. Joey Adamson, long hair flying, began a tap on the drum. Phil Martone picked up the beat. The keyboards began, and Michael began to sing.

Diane had heard the music before, of course. All three of the band’s CD’s had been copied to all available iPods and other players. They even had their own station on Pandora. She knew Michael’s voice. It was deep and pure. Seth Bascomb sang with him, higher, a rock and roll voice, rough and sexy. The band was all about good-time rock. The music was fast and furious, heavily influenced by R&B. They played their own music, of course, but covered Chuck Berry, Credence Clearwater Revival,and Springsteen. The crowd never sat down. They were up, dancing and moving, hands clapping. Diane was amazed at the quality of the sound. The performance was infused with drive and energy. Michael no longer appeared lost. The moment the music began, the blast of his personality blew across the stage and into every corner of the arena. She found, much to her surprise, that she was having a lot of fun.