Access Restricted (17 page)

Looking over the rooftops, I could see the famous—infamous—Trellick tower, the strange architectural council high rise with the elevator shaft as a separate part, connected to the main structure by little walkways towards the west. An architect’s witty notion that became a watch word for the failure of government to look after the common people, like the Pulp song. Was it only yesterday morning that I was heading east, in the opposite direction, with Tristan from the airport, social engineering the last fucking thing on my mind? The way things jumped around. Time was speeding up, and nothing could be assumed or predicted anymore.

We got off the elevated highway, and came back down to earth in the twisting and curving streets of West London. Everything here was a mews or a road, or a crescent or a villa. We weren’t that far from where Poppy lived. This had been the epicenter of cool for a long time, before things had shifted eastwards. You’d never know to look at the buildings now, but there was a time when the white or pastel stucco that covered them was cracked and blistering off with damp, and the windows were covered with hippie bedspreads and cracks filled in with newspaper. Now, gentrification had been going on for so long, it didn’t seem possible that the neighborhood had ever been ‘up and coming’. It had up, and come, and then some. Didn’t a certain prime minister “live” here? Not so rock and roll anymore. And here I was, about to take another journey into Tristan’s past. I felt like I was looking back for both of us, trying to figure out how the hell we got here. The trouble was, I didn’t really care how anymore, I just wanted my present—with him.

Chapter 13

The car pulled up, and double parked in front of a tall stucco townhouse, painted clay red, that stood out in a Mediterranean way from the rest of its pastel compatriots on the street. The driver was repeating his instructions twice, as though he wanted to be absolutely sure that I wouldn’t misunderstand him. I put his number into my phone in front of him, which seemed to reassure. “Take your time, Miss Lily. I will wait. Don’t worry, we are looking after you.” It was sort of sweet and endearing, and I was bathed in that warm feeling again. Was it all Tristan, and his instructions, or was some of it just about me? I waved at him, and he drove off, completely ignoring the car behind him who had started to hit the horn to get him to move on. I liked it. It was an omen, a good feeling to take in with me to the interview. It was all about not moving until I was ready.

I buzzed the intercom, and a sharply inflected, yet slightly louche female voice came through the little plastic speaker. Her accent wasn’t London, but she’d picked up the streetwise drawl. I gave her my name, and the only answer was a buzz, and I pushed open the big door. It had crossed metal bars over the glass, which added to the sense of coldness I felt as I entered. The hall was narrow, and lit from high above with energy saving florescent lights, which gave off their usual colorless glow. There was a door immediately to my left, and I tried it. It opened on to a plain office, with a big ugly fake wood desk in the corner, surrounded above with shelves filled with box files. Strangely, the floor was covered in a kind of greenish carpet. It was soft, but had the allure of a lawyer’s office that dealt solely in criminal cases. Cheap, functional, ugly. A very tall woman was standing behind the desk, on the phone. She wore shorts, very, very short shorts, a button down shirt that wasn’t tucked in, and a plaid vest. I half expected there to be a trilby covering her long blond hair. She looked more like she was ready for a photo shoot or a festival rather than an office job. But this was a record label, and not just any record label, but one of the most cutting edge. So she was fine. Maybe what wasn’t right was the carpet. Or the desk. I was trying to decide what wasn’t working, when she got off the phone and barked out my name. I jumped, and instantly felt a complete idiot for doing it. Not moving until I was ready. I remained silent and stood where I was, about five feet from the desk, and I stared at her. Silence. An old trick, but a good one. And when I finally repeated who I was and what I was here to do, she nodded, still indifferent, but no longer rude. I imagined that’s why she had the job. Meeting and greeting the famous, not changing her manner. She had the all the warmth of a drill sergeant, despite the shorts. For a moment, I wondered what she had been like as a little girl, before she decided to shut down and out, but it was a brief thought. I was only curious, not really interested.

“Trevor will be right down,” she said, and now her accent did sound more noticeably foreign. I said thank you, and I went and stood by the window, thinking of Tristan’s warning. Not the friendliest of places, and not for the first time I wondered why so many people in the music business wanted to be as off putting as possible. Strange, I thought. You’d imagine they were all happy people, hanging out, listening to music, going to concerts, doing a little work. But it’s a business, the business of cool. Which means it’s all a facade. I was just typing the idea into my phone, thinking it might come in handy some time, when the door swung open, almost like they did in those old vampire films, like the door was on strings, and in walked Trevor. I knew him instantly, from the pictures, but I was still taken aback. He moved very stiffly and precisely, and he was tall—maybe even taller than Tristan—and dressed in what appeared to be an expensive French suit. He wore glasses, designer grey metal, almost frameless, very severe, like his short grey hair, styled and coarse. He had the appearance of a gallery owner. Instead of the slick bouncer look—banker with ponytail on holiday via the mafia—that so many of the music folk affected, Trevor looked elegant, unconcerned, cold cool. One would notice him without knowing why. Nothing screamed out “I’m in the music industry! Can’t you tell?” Instead he gave off a slightly intimidating aura. He turned towards me, and smiled. I was reminded of the Dracula movies again, but I found him oddly fascinating. His nose was from a statue of a Roman emperor, and his eyes were slightly empty, like a shark. He peered down at me from his height, and his eyes narrowed. I had the impression he had heard my thoughts, and his expression was hardly welcoming.

Then he spoke, with a voice that was both trained and polished. Another surprise. Sharks are silent. But this one had made sure that when he did break the silence, his voice was a weapon, a warning bell that sounded out before him, alerting you to the danger you were already in. I already felt like I was being swallowed up. But just as I figured I really was in too deep, water was over my head, I flashed on Tristan’s text—don’t take his shit—and suddenly I was breathing again. I didn’t have to like it, but I could survive it. Maybe even better than that.

I stuck out my hand, half expecting his to be ice cold. It wasn’t, just a little dry and dusty, a light covering of hair. His skin transmitted an odd feeling. “I’m Lily Taylor. Nice to meet you.”

“Of course. I know who you are. Your reputation, in all things, precedes you.” He looked at me quizzically. I should have had some witty comeback, but I had nothing. Perhaps that was better. He indicated the door at the back of the office. “Let’s go upstairs, and we can talk.” Said the spider to the fly, I thought. His voice cut through the atmosphere again, but he was speaking to short shorts woman. “Alina, bring us up some tea please.” She responded curtly, and walked in front of him, heading off to what must be a kitchen. I wondered if he slept with her. Power was power.

He turned to me. “Come.” And I followed him out of the green carpeted office, and up the stairs, which went up to an ugly landing, then turned. The spectacle that greeted me as we rounded the turn in the stairs was surprising. There were gold and platinum records in neat frames lining the perfectly painted bisque walls. The carpet was wool, and red, and plush, made to cradle your feet as you climbed. Once at the top, the sliding cream painted wooden doors were open, giving way to a large room, with three sets of windows that ran nearly floor to ceiling, and a chandelier dangling over a mahogany desk, whose curved legs sank slightly into an oriental rug. There were two yellow silk covered wing chairs, placed at an angle, facing the desk, and it was towards one of these that Trevor waved a long arm, the suit jacket moving up slightly to expose a fine, neat white cuff, and a miniature guitar cufflink, a small diamond where the volume control would be, a ruby at the head stock. A bit tacky, very revealing, and I felt myself relax a little as I sat down.

Trevor was looking at me, expectantly. Oh, ok, I was to begin. A chess match. Fine. And so the wary circling begins, I thought. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? It will help me fill in any gaps and check on my recollections of points we raise.”

“Did your legal department give you that speech, or did you make it up all by yourself?” Trevor looked down at me. The first rocket launch. And the fight was on. I wondered if he would just go this route for a while to satisfy himself, or if the whole interview would be like this.

“I’m sure they’d agree. But I’m happy to write notes, if you’re happy for me to rely on them.”

“If you’re competent,” he snapped.

“You’ll tell that from the article.”

His voice became a silky threat. “No, I intend to decide that much sooner, Miss Taylor.”

We glared at each other for a moment and then I smiled at him. He’s a little too aggressive, I thought. Didn’t really go with the suit. Must be part of the house of horrors act. So let’s get him talking about himself. God knows everyone loves that.

“So, Trevor—may I call you Trevor? What in your background led you to the business?”

“I thought we were focusing on Devised here, not me. The
Guardian
just did a piece on me a few years ago. You should have read it.” He turned away slightly, almost inviting me to end the interview. But I wasn’t letting this one go. Oh no. He’d have to try harder than that to get rid of me.

“I did read it. And I thought how neo-left wing of them to brush over your background. Perhaps that worked during a Labour government, some lovely notion of equality. Now that things have changed, perhaps your deprived past, given a lift by grammar schools, might be of more interest. A reminder, if you like, that all talent—and money—isn’t just inherited.”

He was silent for a moment, deciding which piece to move. “So you’re going from the point of view that my sense of ambition helped me recognize that drive in Devised when I met them?”

“Did it?”

“Look, Miss Taylor, let’s not play games. I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed, and my point of view in terms of Devised is fairly well known. Why are you doing this piece? What’s Dave’s angle here?”

“I didn’t realize you knew Dave well enough to be concerned about his motives.”

“Everyone knows Dave, eventually. And questions his motives. So what does he want?”

“You’re asking me a question now.”

“Well spotted Miss T, or may I call you…”

“Lily. Don’t bother with the Miss, we’re obviously all feminists here.” I couldn’t resist the little jibe, but it was said more to amuse myself than score points.

He laughed. I smiled and pressed my advantage. “Trevor, listen. I have only a vague idea of what Dave is planning with all this. Movie, book, TV rights, who knows? World domination, as usual. A boost to Tristan’s solo career. A boost to back catalogue sales, maybe he bought the publishing rights, and neglected to tell anyone.”

“No, I own the publishing rights.” This was surprising.

“You do? Still? How did that come about?” Now we were getting somewhere. I was holding my breath with excitement.

“I’ve had them right from the start. Before anything happened. You don’t know the story then. Tristan, it was always Tristan who did the business, called me up from America. He’d managed to get my private number—to this day he refuses to tell me how. I think it was Alina’s predecessor, Karolina—she always was a pushover. He said he had some songs he thought I’d like.” Here his voice slipped into an odd mix of upper class huntin’ and fishin’ and cockney. It made for a strange, compelling mixture, one that betrayed the overwhelming self-confidence that was expected at both ends of the class system. “Didn’t want to share them with ‘just anyone,’ he said. He’d chosen me, because I would understand. I agreed to listen. I don’t know why. He always was a convincing cunt.” Trevor looked to see if I flinched under the profanity. I was still scribbling notes, but I smiled up at him when he stopped. “And then?” I felt like repeating it over and over again, like the scene in that ridiculous movie, but I resisted the giddy temptation. Somehow, he was telling the story, and I was just going to smile and nod and get it all out of him, the bastard. “What songs did he play you?”

“No, he Fed Ex’d me two different formats of music– and photographs. The only musician in the history of the world who isn’t allergic to doing the sensible thing. He understands so well all the tools at his disposal. Innate charm and intelligence. And when I heard the songs, three of which became the singles off the first and second albums, I knew there was something there. Naturally I held back on the first song until the second album. But you never sign someone on one song alone. You want to hear that longevity, a range. The last single we released was by far the heaviest and hardest of the lot. But it surprised people when it came out, as it was intended to. Timing.”