Access All Areas (17 page)

I remembered the first time I went in there, surprised at how ratty it was. The Barfly had a dark, high ceilinged room with banquettes tucked into corners, with a big bar in the center. Too much fake looking wood. Red walls. Filthy floors. And that was the downstairs. When it was time for the music to start, you had to get in line, right through the bar, up the narrow twisting stairs, along the hall, to go into another big room, a big grey and white dirty square, with the stage at one end and the bar at the other. A few chairs and tables by the far wall under a few windows that looked like they hadn’t been washed since before the war. And then there was a VIP line too, right next to the regular queue of punters, which expanded as people grabbed friends to join them, or a good looking girl in heels and lots of eyeliner who looked needy.

There was that one night, when I got to join the VIP line. This strange girl had come up to me. With her boyfriend. She was pretty, blonde, all eyeliner and push-up bra breasts, covered with a tiny t-shirt -and she latched onto me with a speed and persistence that was alarming. She didn’t wait for any approval—and turned me into the one who was watching, wondering what the hell was going on. She had grabbed my arm like we were old friends, and murmured hazily in my ear. Her breath smelled weirdly like yogurt, but the shock of the sour, milky smell somehow added to her air of mystery. Are you a gay, she had asked, syntax throwing me as much as the question. I nodded silently, figuring I could play along and be whoever she wanted me to be for the moment. I was curious. So nothing had changed there, not really. I liked it, just a little different. Like that song. “Alone Together.” The Strokes. Perfect.

Lucky for me, she took my nod for acceptance, and she held me closer, and threw a triumphant look to her boyfriend, who had a patient, bored expression. Then he disappeared for a while, while she bought us beers, so I figured this little ritual had been played out before. Sucking down beer, she asked me if I was watching the band. I managed to speak, but still thinking less was more, mumbled yes. She squealed, and hugged me, running her hands over my body. It was nice. I smiled. She seemed so pleased with me. Happy surprise. It was so easy. And she dragged me to the VIP line, so we would be right up front for the concert. She was a fierce little thing, pushing back people that tried to muscle in to our place on line. I liked it. Girls that acted like boys but looked like girls. Sort of like the Blur song.

When we got upstairs, she found us a place in front of the stage, planted me there to hold it, and went to get us another round. I wasn’t sure if she’d come back, but she did, complaining they tried to give her warm beer and she made them open two new Red Stripes for us. We clinked bottles and she held me close to her as the band hit the stage. They were disappointing, they were supposed to be on the verge of something, but only hit it for a couple of songs. I had always paid close attention to this stuff, having worked in the business, my first job, my first serious boyfriend in the trade, but that had been the first time I’d gone home and written all about what might have gone wrong in between the CD and live show. Funny to think that’s what had gotten me here, writing for the magazine.

It was always fun to play spot the A and R men, and they had not looked pleased. The week after I followed the band to the ICA, watched the suits give them another chance. It was sickening to watch them turn away, faces cold and grim, leaving as soon as the last note finished, knowing that was it for the band. They missed the golden ring. Disaster. Disappeared. Tristan was more of a sure thing, but the company people would still be there, watching the crowd closely, gauging the reaction. He was taking a gamble, one that hopefully would pay off. The element of risk—that could go in the piece. Remind people it wasn’t as easy as it looked.

But that night with the yogurt girl was fun. We kissed a lot, even though the taste of yogurt and beer was only somewhat tempered by the Camel Lights we were smoking. I don’t think I ever asked her a single question, not even what her name was, as we made out in a style that owed more to cool club display than actual passion. She was all over me, getting her girl on girl badge, but there was something, yet again, that made me want to leave it at the door. Was it her spacey attitude, or the boyfriend that checked in every so often and exchanged glances with me, that while not overly suspicious, seemed to acknowledge that I wasn’t all I was pretending to be either? Or was it just the power trip in saying you had to go, and watching their faces register the refusal? I guess I liked a little control too. And leaving was easier than staying. I never saw either of them again. I thought about her sometimes though.

One story in all the history that was following me.

Going back. To be there. Watching him. I felt my throat constrict. What the hell was I going to say now that wasn’t going to reek of desire? I couldn’t pretend he wasn’t sexy, hell, he was famous for it. I’d have to be very careful. It was all going to be written all over my face. And the past. The ghosts that were going to be there, in the club, watching me.

I checked the phone. Great. I’d spent a whole fucking hour daydreaming about the weird little moments of life I’d been through. I leapt out of bed, realizing the enormity of what was going to happen. I was frightened of what could go wrong, maybe even more frightened of everything that was going right, so fucking right. I threw on some jeans, and my very own push-up bra and black t shirt. The bruises were fading, I was still a little sore. All that meant was that I was ready for round two. This looked right. Rock and roll lifestyle all the way. I could use what I’d learned, back then in those lonely days.

I pulled out some boots. Musical hero, what was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking, I’d been caught up in his spell, and now I ran the risk of exposure. Indiscreet could mean losing it all. I stretched out and touched the floor. The ground, to ground me. That’s what the yoga therapy had recommended. I stood up, slowly, and went to brush teeth and hair and put on some makeup. Out in the world. A strong coffee, some notes on the book. Maybe that strange dream idea would give me some direction.

15 minutes later, I threw on my leather jacket, and left the house. My phone told me it was just after 12. A bit late to start out the day for normal people, a bit early maybe for the serious music crowd. In between—that’s what dwelling on the past got you. I walked over to Broadway, and up to my favorite bagel place, the one that wasn’t famous. They made really nice plain old coffee, regular, like the old men still called it. Half and half, that brilliant American invention and strong fucking coffee. That would chase away the demons. I smiled up at the sun. I’d walk around. Maybe sit in the park for a while. I checked my bag—notebook, and gloves. Phone. Still nothing. Fine. I needed some caffeine before any more calls came in.

The guys behind the counter were friendly as always, and one of them stuck a piece of rugelach in the bag for me. I smiled, said my thank yous, and walked out. I decided to sit in the middle of Broadway, on the bench, but when I got there, there was a homeless woman with all her possessions in a shopping cart, bundled up against the cold like a babushka. There but for the grace of a god go I, I thought. And I thought I had problems. I have no problems. I turned away, and walked towards Central Park, sipping at my coffee. I nibbled at the tiny Danish. It was good, buttery. Smooth. I wondered if Tristan ever ate little pieces of pastry, if he would ever just sit with me in the park, and talk and drink coffee.

He’d warned me. And as usual, I ignored all warnings, plunged ahead with my own philosophical imaginings about how this time I’d get what I wanted. Needed. And here I was, on speed dial to the gods, and I was thinking of more. Stupid idiot fool.

I threw out the bag, and stomped off towards the park. I crossed Amsterdam, and squeezed through the group of private high school kids coming out for lunch. I listened to their sharp chatter, wishing for a moment that I could feel that entitled and oblivious again. That had been me back then, sneaking out, or faking some kind of permission, and going to smoke in the park, beautifully indifferent and horribly self-conscious all at once. They completely ignored me as I walked past. I was backdrop, stage dressing to their loves and losses. Yeah, yeah, it’s always been that way. All your belongings aren’t in a shopping trolley, and you’re out in the cold because you want to clear your head.

The red light changed to green, and I crossed Central Park West, and went up a block to get past the low red stone wall that only permitted access at certain points, decided long ago. Just like life, I thought. Access all areas. The secret gig. Was he going to think I’d planned it all, some career progression? Or would he see all these events as what they were, a group of happy accidents? Well, happy for me. Discreet. We were supposed to be discreet. If no one knew for certain, didn’t that count? But there was Alice. And the boyfriend, Sean. And the manager. And the limo driver. What was amazing to think about were all the people who were witnesses to any liaison. Oh god, what a headline. “Fetish nights whip up good reviews.” Any publicity, right? But we were going to have to be careful. Especially over there, land of odd libel laws. Any rumor could snowball. And no one could be trusted. Look what happened to Kate Moss, photographed in a studio, doing coke, by a “friend.”

I walked by the bridle path that circled the reservoir, strolled past the sweaty, driven joggers, the older couples and what seemed like an endless supply of strollers and anxious looking mothers, some accompanied by their nanny, in case it got all too much. It’s good to have back up, I thought. And then I remembered I hadn’t seen Alice. She had been there for me, a million times. I felt a bit guilty, and pulled out my phone.

And there was the flashing light. Fuck. I’d had my headphones plugged in; I hadn’t heard anything over the traffic. My heart was beating wildly and my fingertips felt numb. Shit. I sank down on an empty bench, and closed my eyes. “It’s all ok,” I said out loud. No, not now. Not yet. Ignorance, bliss. I postponed finding out whether it was good or bad news by sending a text to Alice.

Hope yr feeling better. Lets talk.

It wasn’t much, but it was a little flag of truce. She’d bounce back, she always did. I wondered idly who the next Sean would be, or if she’d go back to him. He was connected, and she had a heightened sense of self-preservation.

Now. My stomach was churning, the coffee burning through me now. Voice mail first. Yoga. Fuck, it was like AA for yoga. Constant reminders and check-ins. Well, that’s what I had wanted. Before. Delete. Next message. Dave.

“Lil. Ok. Yes. All go. Of course he liked it. Why wouldn’t he be happy to have you come over? Said you were very professional. Apologized for the outburst before. Come by the office later in the week to pick up itinerary, chat with the
Guardian
newspaper and
NME
lined up, and brief interview with some new band from Australia that are supposed to be hot, who are playing next Friday. Ciao.”

Well. It didn’t look like I’d have a lot of time for fun and games or reminiscing. Maybe that was best. Interesting the damage control Mr. Control had done. Very nice. A chess player, thinking several moves ahead. But that was the story for them. What about how he felt about us? Was the relationship going to be professional or personal, one or the other? The idea of having to choose at some point between them…which would it be? If you had to choose. Call yourself an independent woman. Shit. There was my answer. Maybe.

And all this while, I knew that I had a text. At least one. But it could just be Alice. It could be anyone else I knew. I wiped my hands on my jeans, and unzipped my jacket. I was heating up. I slid the little track ball over to the symbol. It took forever to get there, and I pressed down. Yes there was a message from Alice. And from him. Was it a request…for…company? Or a rating on the article, and the new need to keep it strictly professional? I pressed the link for Alice’s message first.

Soz doll, that wz bad. All fixed, out 2nite, tlk laterz.

Oh, so Alice was all better. Great. As I knew she would be.

Now the serious stuff. I’d kept him as “unreal.” I thought there was no point in leaving a crumb trail directly to his name. And “Master” seemed a bit much. I kind of hoped he wouldn’t have me call him that if it came to it, it seemed a bit tacky. Yeah, like you’d complain, I thought. He’s probably about to tell you the game’s over, anyway. With a sense of fatalism, I pressed the button.

Like the article. You write very well, but you knew that. Hero? Look up to me tonight. BTW, discreet London plans for you. My apartment 7.

The wave of heat that rushed over me as the image he had planted in my mind of standing over me with a whip came to me. My legs were shaking. The phone vibrated in my hand and I nearly dropped it, I was so on edge. It was him again.

Text me yes. Now.

I had a purpose. It was so much easier like this. I jumped to obey.

Yes.

An answer came back almost immediately.

My fingers, in you. Now. Are they wet?

Whoa. Ok. What to answer? The truth, that’s right, sticking to the truth these days.

Now they are.

Again, the answer back in a flash. Was it experience, or eagerness?

Not like they will be.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Holy fucking hell. My body was vibrating with want, like a pulse going through me. My phone went off again.

Hard…thinking about it.

The image of him, silken and ready, jumped into my mind. I needed to let him know. Everything.

Hard to obey when you tease me like that.

Another lightning reply.

Those who break rules get punished. Understand me?

Oh. Fuck. It was going to happen then. I closed my eyes for a moment, overcome, heart racing.

I do now.

And in a flash, he wrote his answer.

Steep learning curve. Tonight.

I put the phone away and got up and began walking. Anything to move this huge rush of energy around. Six hours, and he’d teach me something I said I wanted to learn.

His beautiful hands on me, again. And he’d make me understand.

Oh yeah.