Access Restricted (10 page)

“Really,” I looked at her. “What was it? Why did it surprise you?”

She flipped her hair slightly, and smiled again. “He told me I sounded pretty. Asked me if that was true.” She laughed. “When I told him I would do, he said ‘good, you’ll match my boys—and they like them pretty.’ It was such a strange thing to say.” She looked at me for confirmation.

“Yes, absolutely. Do you think that was part of the myth he was starting around the band, or the truth?”

She didn’t hesitate. “A bit of both, I’d say. It was true, but he was already establishing their reputations as notorious womanizers. But they weren’t, not really, not then, anyway. That came a bit later. Particularly for Tristan.”

Ah, here we go, I thought. “And the concert?”

“Well, I spent the rest of the night and the next day making phone calls, putting up posters, handing out free tickets, calling in favors. It really was a forerunner of the job I was about to take on, but full time. I managed to create such a buzz, that there was a queue around the corner to get in, people lining up three hours early, just to make sure they got in. It was a fantastic success, and Trevor, who of course was there, gave me £500 and the offer to run the fan club and help do PR.” She had a dreamy look on her face. “It wasn’t as hard a decision to make as you might think. To give up uni—university. It didn’t matter, not compared to what he was offering.”

“Why was that? And the concert? What is your most vivid memory of the actual show?”

“They were brilliant. Just on it. So young, yet so organized, so innocent, yet so trashed.” She laughed. “The music was fantastic. No one knew what to expect, but by the end, we were all rabid fans. That group formed the basis of the initial club. We were called the ‘fast set,’ and we got in everywhere first, so the scene at the front was always crazy. And the band was so good to us.” She stopped suddenly, and looked at me. “Have you ever been in it, at the beginning of something like that? Where you could just feel the energy, the buzz? We knew it, and it took over our lives.” She stood suddenly, and I wondered if she was going to end the interview. But she gave me that catlike smile again, and I could almost see her grooming her whiskers. “It’s nearly six, I’m having a glass of wine. Please join me?” I nodded, relieved that she wasn’t stopping her memories, but enhancing them. Maybe the mental images of the band brought on the need for alcohol. I knew just how she felt.

I watched her uncork the bottle of Pouilly Fuisse, glad I hadn’t poisoned myself with some cheap lager this afternoon. She handed me a large delicate glass, the buttery liquid inside looking like nectar. God I needed a drink. I would keep it together. This would help. Right? I thanked her. “So what was your impression of the band?” Liquid courage. I took another sip.

“Oh, everyone’s first thought, darling, was exactly the same. Fucking gorgeous.” We both laughed. She looked up under her lashes at me, almost seductively. “You think so too, of course.”

I tried to deflect the question. “I haven’t met all of them in person. But the photographs are always in huge contrast to most other bands, like the Pogues, say.” I pretended to laugh at my own joke.

She waved her hands. “No, no. They were like models, supermodels. And sexy. And smart. When I said the decision to take on the job wasn’t that hard to make, that was a huge part of it.” She looked out towards the garden and back at me. “Does all of this have to be on the record? There are a few things I’d like to tell you, that will help you understand, that maybe don’t need to be in the article? Or the book? Dave told me that there might be a book.” She paused again, while I tried to catch my breath. Dave? I knew he had spoken to people, but telling her there might be a book? He knew she’d tell it around. Interesting. And back to me.

“Of course.” I turned my head away, and switched off the tape recorder. Cool. Playing it cool. “Just let me know when I can put it back on. Do you might if I make some notes though? Jet lag.” I shrugged, as though it were nothing.

“Yes, I suppose that would be all right.” Poppy poured herself some more wine, and topped up my glass. I was trying to pace myself. I wondered if she wanted to get me drunk, and made a note not to count glasses, but pours. I thanked her, and drank some more. Perhaps she was all right. Perhaps the excellent wine was making it easier to open up, be trusting. Perhaps.

“So why off the record?”

“Ah that night. That first night. I want to tell you, so you understand. But I’m not sure it’s just my story to tell.”

“Ok, fair enough. Go ahead, I understand.” I tried to look as though she were telling me something therapeutic, and I was the pair of ears she was pouring into. I put my simple and plain face on. I’m so dull, so harmless. It had worked before. I wondered how many people she had told this story to, anyway. Maybe it really was therapeutic.

“After the show, naturally I went backstage to meet the band. Trevor, the head, was very complimentary about the job I’d done with the promotion. So he wanted me to hang out with them. We sat in the bar, drinking champagne that Trevor had brought—none of that in the Uni bar—until the sun came up. They were so funny, such different personalities, all very amusing and attractive in their own ways.” She sighed. “And then there was Tristan.”

Ah, here we go. Showtime. Indeed. I nodded helpfully, trying to mash my features into a mask of concern and interested disinterest. Damn it. I was interested. But I couldn’t show how much. Or why. But she had stopped. That meant I needed to prompt. I hoped my voice wouldn’t give it all away.

“Tristan. The front man. What about him?”

She looked at me as though I was insane. “Tristan—let me put it this way. By the time they left the stage, he’d had several pieces of girls’ underclothing thrown at him. Flowers. Phone numbers. One girl tried to climb up on the stage, topless. And he just laughed.”

I could imagine it, all too well. I smiled, in what I hoped was a journalistic coup kind of way, instead of “I’ve heard that sexy laugh too” kind of way. “That’s a great image. I’d love to use it.”

She waved her hands at me, and picked up her wine glass. “Yes, yes, that’s fine. That was part of it anyway. But not the part that’s off the record.”

“Great.” It was all I could get out.

“No, that night the two of us wound up talking. When the sun came up, we went for a walk…alone, hand in hand. And that was the beginning.”

I nodded, silently. Keep talking, keep talking, I thought. Give me a minute. Please. God.

“When the boss asked me to run things, and go on tour with them sometimes, we hadn’t slept together yet.” She looked at me to see the effect of her words. I was drinking wine. I lifted my glass to her, and drank again. Then put it down to make some notes. Look busy.

She was continuing. “After the shows, I’d hang out with the band. There were always so many girls around, and a few guys too. The bass player wasn’t averse to both, well none of them were in theory, but he practiced it more than others.” She laughed. I laughed. Safe territory. And interesting information.

“So what was going on with the band at this point?” I thought I’d make an effort to get us back to on record. I put my hand on the recorder.

“No, no, not yet. I haven’t told you everything yet.” She poured out the rest of wine into our glasses, and raised her glass. We clinked glasses.

“I do need more information for the actual piece.”

“Yes, don’t fret, darling, we’ll get there.” She had that strange English way of sounding friendlier the further away she was getting from actually being friendly, and I felt that sense of worry come over me again. I almost wanted to shake her. Just get on with it, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. So I drank some more, and tried to settle my mixture of unease and impatience.

She was enjoying this, you could tell. This was her moment in the spotlight. I wondered how much she would want out of this, and what, if anything, Dave had promised her.

“It was amusing. Thrilling, of course. The shows were getting more and more frenzied. As were the fans. The boys, as you know, were very careful of their private life. But I can tell you, a saint would have stumbled at the parade of flesh they were treated to every night. And there they would be, at the end of the night, sitting at a table, each of them surrounded by two or three lovelies. They’d developed a system…”

I interrupted her. “Can this go on the record? I think we can guarantee anonymity for any quotes you’d rather not have attributed.” I hesitated, hoping I seemed like I was divulging a big secret. “I’m sure Dave mentioned it? The possibility of this being turned into a documentary? Film? And you’d have a large role, of course, particularly because of your special insights.” Was that laying it on too thick? “If I can record it, then Dave will hear instantly how important your participation would be. Ok?”

She took the bait, and swallowed it whole. Along with another gulp of wine. Yes, that’s right, who’s in charge now, I thought, as I pressed the button, and made her repeat most of what she’d already said.

I had some ideas for where she wanted to go with this. I’d help her hurry it up. I felt a bit more sanguine about it all. I knew what she was going to say. The fact she wanted to build it up so much, actually made it a tiny bit depressing. This was her past. And it was amazing, naturally. No one would deny that. But it was the past. I felt this sudden need to call Tristan, throw my arms around him, touch his warm body, and be in his actual presence, instead of all these ghosts, however interesting.

I returned my focus back to the blond woman, looking at me quizzically from across her pine kitchen table. “You were talking about a system?” She looked surprised. Not that drunk yet, am I, Yoda says, I thought in my head. And giggled. Her face registered slight annoyance. She thought I wasn’t taking her seriously, that’s what that small frown at the corner of her mouth meant, I decided, thinking at the same time that she’d have to watch that, or it would be the prime place for her first Botox injection. I smiled at her. “I’m laughing because I can just imagine what they did. Did they let you in on the secret? Did you ever help?” Now for a little ego boosting. She needed to open up a little. This would do it. “They obviously trusted you, particularly Tristan.”

She preened, and began playing with her hair, putting it up in a simple, artful bun. Taking a long black lacquered chopstick off the table, she placed it through her creation and secured it. She was aware of me watching her, and seemed pleased to again be the center of attention. Another one who liked having an audience, but her need seemed more selfish somehow, and more tiring. She was pretty, and what she was saying was interesting, but it felt like hard work. Keeping her happy. I wondered if Tristan had felt the same way, and before I knew it, a slow smile had spread across my face. I felt her eyes on me. More work to do.

“You’re a beautiful woman. And they trusted you. How did this fit into the lifestyle they were developing around being the most in-demand group at the time?”

She patted her hair, moving one long tendril back into place behind her ear. “Tristan and I were friends. He didn’t really want the follow through with the groupies. He liked the attention, naturally. But he was pretty indifferent to the constant sex on demand that the rest of the band were enjoying.” She drained her glass. “It wasn’t that he didn’t like sex—or women! No. He was a fantastic lover. Fantastic. Extraordinarily gifted. In all ways, if you see what mean.” She sniggered. “I’m not shocking you, am I?”

I smiled, politely. Focus. Focus. “No, not yet anyway,” I replied, sweetly. “I’ll be sure to let you know if you do.”

“Would you like some more wine?” She smiled back. A dangerous game.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” I made a show of looking at the notes. “When did you become lovers?”

She stood and took another bottle from the refrigerator. I stared at her haunches, slim, flexible, tried to imagine them wrapped around him. I closed my eyes. It was easy. Too easy.

I looked up again, and she was pouring out more wine into my glass. I scribbled something down. “And the system? You were going to mention that?”

“The system. Yes. The boys would pick out their favorites from the audience. I’d have to make a little map of where they were, with the colors of their clothes and hair, and send some of the roadies out to invite them to the after party. Of course they were happy to do it, they got the leftovers. If there were any!” She laughed. “They had a lot of stamina, the boys.”

“Did you ever sleep with anyone else in the band?” It seemed a logical question. But her face was a study.

“You really don’t know all the stories, do you? What a funny choice then to have you to do the book. Well, maybe they want someone who isn’t contaminated by all the rumors that went about.” She shook her head, as though she was disagreeing with something. “There were so many things said, the orgies, the whips and cuffs, the girls claiming that they’d been sex slaves.” She drank more. “People don’t realize how mainstream the whole BDSM thing had become in certain circles. It would have been like turning down cocaine. If it’s offered to you, you don’t say no, do you?” She answered her own question. “No, obviously not. Yes, I slept with AC. But that was after Tristan and I were over. It wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same after that.”