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I sat there in silence. Anything I could say seemed stupid, trite. I just watched him. Finally he began again, his tone steely. “I was not going to let him go. Let me describe it for you, in case you’re missing something here. Tristan was not just thin, he was practically anorexic. A coke habit someone had forgotten to mention. A bottle of Jack a day to keep it all on a level keel. Anything else anyone brought to the party. At least he hadn’t started injecting. But the light in his eyes, dead, buried, gone.” Trevor raised his voice. “Do you know what he told me? What he said? That he hadn’t touched a guitar in six months. Nothing. Hadn’t sung a note. Had thrown all his drafts and the demo tapes into a bonfire on the beach when he found Paul and Alixe fucking. He threatened divorce, and she went to the papers and said he was a sexual predator who engaged in S and M practices with unwilling girls. The DA’s office was investigating him! He told me he couldn’t even go anywhere without being followed by photographers, some of whom brought along teenage girls in the hopes that they would get the picture of their careers. He was a broken man, and that bitch, and I don’t use the term lightly, Lily, so do forgive me, nearly fucking killed not only his music, but him as well.”

I had stopped taking notes during this, and now sat absolutely still, staring at him.

“So you see, if you do have any intention of doing that to him, I will intervene. I had to watch him get off the drugs, the drink. He stayed with me for six months, and I hardly let him out of my sight. After that first week, when the coke was gone, and the nightly screaming calls from Alixe were getting old, then Paul started calling. Told him he was a failure and that there would never be a third album. That they could write their own songs. That he and Alixe were together now. They sent him a picture of his guitar, floating in the pool. Another, of the two of them fucking. I’m really not sure what drives people to be cruel, but it obviously gave them pleasure.” He picked up his phone and pressed a button. “Alina. Tea. Thank you.” He looked over at me. “Unless you’d like something else?”

“No, tea is fine. Thank you.”

“Good. Anyway. I had my lawyers draw up a power of attorney, as you say in the States, and I took over his affairs. Threw the bitch out, sold the house. Got the record company to threaten Paul with breach of contract. Begged some more time out of them, let them release the live album, which of course was huge, and brought in some more cash, which is always good. But during all this, Tristan would just sit there, in my garden. Staring into space. Sometimes he’d read, a little poetry, some Lorca, some philosophy. I got AC to come over finally, but he had his own drug problems to deal with, and it was an unhappy meeting.”

Alina appeared with tea. There must have been something in his voice which made her hurry, as it seemed to have been only a few moments since he asked. This time, he let her do everything, but ignored her, puffing on his cigar, looking out the window. I watched her pour my tea, and picked up the cup almost immediately, staring into the milky reddish brown surface. I was in shock, a million conflicting emotions running through me. Did everyone know? No, of course they didn’t. Who did? Was I supposed to report on this, these incredibly private details of a man’s life? And then there was the weird recognition, the crazy similarity. And to think I hadn’t wanted to tell him my story. Well, obviously, neither had he. And now I was hearing it from this strange, menacing man, who it turned out had saved Tristan’s life. I couldn’t take it in.

Trevor’s voice broke through my reverie. “Have you ever watched someone sit, day after day, hour after hour, without speaking? Did you ever have to walk them to the bathroom, shower them, wash their hair, have to put them under the covers because if you left them lying on the bed, they’d be in the same place, shivering, the next morning? God, it was awful. Can you imagine it? This beautiful, vibrant creature, hollowed out, like a shell shock victim. There were times where I thought he was a drug casualty. That we’d never get him back. But I watched him. Gave him time. Fed him. Drove him to the countryside. No music. Never any music. He wouldn’t listen to anything, didn’t matter what it was. I finally made him one day. I played him their first album. And he started shaking. Before I could do anything, he was lying on the ground, sobbing. Crying. Sobbing fucking crying. I brought him tissues, a blanket, tried to hold him but he pushed me away. And when I went to turn off the album, he screamed. ‘No!’ he was screaming, ‘No! Leave it on, I want to hear it, I need to hear it. It’s all of me I’ve got left. It’s all of me I’ve got left.’ And he lay there, curled up, repeating those words over and over. Around three in the morning, I tiptoed downstairs, and he was sitting up, cross-legged on the floor, singing along, tears running down his face.” Three clouds of smoke came and went before he spoke again. “I went back upstairs and broke down myself. Never, I tell you, never will I forget that night.”

My eyes were tearing, and I was biting my lip. I didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. I quickly brushed something from the corner of my eye, but I was biting down on my lip so hard I could taste blood. I lifted up the cup to drink some tea, but my hands were shaking so badly I nearly spilled it in my lap. My throat was too tight anyway, I could barely swallow, but I managed to drink a little to wash away some of the blood. But going back down, the cup hit the saucer a little too hard, and it made me jump. And I took a deep swallowing breath, before dropping my head in my hands. I just needed a moment, I told myself, and then I wouldn’t cry, and then I could carry on, and then I could pretend that I knew what to do. I didn’t care if he was watching me; this was better than losing it in front of him. A tear started out and down my face. Shit. I wiped it away and raised my head. I’d have to try and talk.

“Trevor?” My voice came out a hoarse whisper. “I’m really not sure I can tell this story. I mean, it’s not mine, I mean it is mine, but not his. Oh shit. I’m babbling. I guess what I mean is, I’m not sorry you told me, that’s not it, no. But why? Why did you tell me? What am I supposed to do with this?”

He watched me wipe another tear away, still gaunt and slightly terrifying, but with a somewhat paternal air, as though he’d found me cleaning up something I’d spilled as a child. When he spoke, it seemed to come from a long way away. I hoped I wasn’t going to faint. “So, Lily, you have a conscience? Perhaps even a soul? I suspected you might, actually. Now, are you going to be brave enough to tell the story the way it should have been told right from the start?”

My answer was immediate. “Not without Tristan’s permission. Never.”

“Even if he needs this story to be out there, and may not realize himself?”

I bristled, in spite of myself. How could this man, who had helped Tristan, saved him, be so cold? “As I said, never. I’m sorry.”

“What if Dave told you to?” He put both his hands on the desk, leaving the cigar between his teeth. I felt like I was in the Army, in front of some deranged colonel.

“Dave will never hear this story from me. As far as I am concerned, this stays between us. And Tristan, of course.”

“Then you’ll tell him you know.” The words were like a judgment.

“I don’t really see how I can avoid it. For many reasons.” I felt weak. There were more questions I had hoped to ask, but I didn’t think I could carry on. Not like this.

Trevor blew out more smoke and put the cigar down in the ash tray. He looked thoughtful. “Lily, the music business has lost so many. The best, the genius performers and creatives, get chewed up and spit out. Or just chewed up. Maybe the way things are done now, it’s a blessing. It’s only the hardest, the least talented who generally get anywhere. Why? Because they can cope with the horrible cut throat nastiness of it all. Fortunately, the technology supports this. Talent? Skill? No longer a requirement. And then, from time to time, you get a real artist who decides he’ll throw his luck in with the rest.” He picked up the cigar and examined it closely before tapping some of the ash off, and sucking more smoke into his mouth. He blew a smoke ring and watched it float off. “Lily, good luck. Look after him—he’s more fragile than either you or he realizes.” He crushed out the cigar. “Let’s all meet for lunch the day after tomorrow. I’ll tell him I told you. That should make it easier. And you can get the rest of your story. We never did get to the saga of the third album. All right?” He stood up and held out his hand, which I grasped, more firmly than before. “I’ll let you pack up, you can see yourself out.” He released my hand gently and walked away, still with the odd almost limp, towards the stairs. I watched his slightly hunched shoulders, when he surprised me by turning around, his eyes bright and unnaturally shiny. It suddenly occurred to me that he was about to cry. “Lily?”

“Yes, Trevor?”

“People like Tristan attract vultures. It’s the nature of the beast. I hope you’ve got a good right hook.”

I felt the beginnings of a wry smile start across my face. It was all wrong, looking happy at a moment like this, but I couldn’t help it. I stood up and went up to him and gave him an awkward hug. “I’m tougher than I look,” I whispered to him, then released him and stood back.

“I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it,” Trevor replied. “I will see you tomorrow night. I think that cunt Dave is planning on turning up. I’m looking forward to watching you shoot him down.”

I laughed as he turned and walked down the stairs, raising one arm from behind to wave.

Chapter 15

I sat back down and packed up the recorder and my notes as quickly as I could, seeing as my hands were still shaking. The scent of cigar smoke was still heavy in the air, and I couldn’t decide whether it was making me sick, or whether I was desperate for more smoke, like a cigarette, to calm myself down. I pulled out my phone and found the cab number in my contact list, and managed to press the button. The idea of the cab driver, and how kind he was and this morning, when I was so happy, so ignorant, made me start crying again, little tears that leaked out slowly and made my throat small. Trying to get my voice out, I managed to steady it, enough to tell him I was ready to be picked up. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed. Slipping the phone back into my bag I felt like I was being dropped into some dark place, as though I was under a glass bell, and all the air was being sucked out, slowly.

So I grabbed all my stuff and ran to the stairs, not even looking around for one final summary glance, which I usually did, to fix the place in my mind, in case I wanted a description in the piece. It was though I had tunnel vision; the periphery was all black and I could just make out one clear path down the stairs, round the landing, down the rest of the stairs and there was the door, in front of me. I didn’t stop to say goodbye or knock on the door of the office; instead I ran out like a kid cutting school. Opening and shutting the front door didn’t make me feel any safer. I had the impression nothing would ever make me feel safe again. I wanted nothing more than to stand in the middle of the road, as far as from the building as I could. But I just stood there, on the pavement in front of the door where they could probably see me, the scary sweet man and his Russian moll, and spent long moments filling my lungs with air, trying not to think about how I would cope with lunch. Any part of tomorrow, or tonight, for that matter. How was I going to act in front of Tristan now that I knew all this? Somewhere, a rational part of my brain kept telling me that he must have known I would find all this out, but in another part, a lot closer to my heart, I knew he wasn’t going to find this new knowledge of mine easy to take. Fucking people. It was as if they wanted to fuck everything all up, make it ugly, and maybe they’d get their wish. I felt sticky, like I’d escaped from something nasty and invisible, and I couldn’t get it off, like gum on the pavement in front of a school. There was just too much of it.

Finally, the cab came, and the driver rushed out to open the door. I must have looked like crap, because he suddenly jumped into action. “Miss? You need coffee? Water?” I nodded weakly, and his face looked even more alarmed. After making sure I was comfortable in the back seat, he closed the door firmly, and got back behind the wheel. He drove rapidly to the high street nearby, and parked the car, still running, next to the wide white concrete sidewalk in front of a large corner store, next to a dry cleaner, a vet and a pub. Except for the pub, the blinding whiteness of the concrete reminded me of Florida. “I stop at store. You wait in car. Miss, do not move for me, thank you.” I nodded and closed my eyes. Everything had those black spots in front again. I felt like my head was bursting. It was either a migraine, or I was finally going to be locked up for losing touch with the world, all control lost. The back of the car smelled like carpet cleaner and leather, and for a minute, I thought I was going to be sick. I quickly opened the window, and stuck my head out to get some air, just in time to see the driver and a traffic warden approaching at about the same pace. My driver sprinted to me at the window, thrust the bottle of water into my hands, and opened his door and slid in, pulling out as the door shut, leaving the warden shaking her head. I closed my eyes again, and smiled. Something good. I thought of the Bob Dylan song. He made it sound so easy to break, like it happened all the time, and he just picked up the pieces. I wished I felt more like a woman most of the time instead of a confused kid.

I opened the water, and drank some, which helped. Maybe it was just the overexcitement. Being hungover. But I couldn’t go back like this. Maybe just another ten minutes driving around. I opened my eyes, and squinted painfully at the bright hazy afternoon light. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”