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I checked my lipstick and hair as the car slowed down. We turned down East Fifth Street, and stopped in front of the plain storefront, name printed in modern font down the side of the door, like a book. Jewel Bako. Well, it wasn’t new, but it was supposed to be good. I wondered what happened to the other place. This one was a see and be seen night out, with excellent food. I reminded myself to be grateful. This was a perk, not a punishment.

I got out, thanked the driver, and walked towards the door. Thresholds. I presumed Dave would be waiting inside, and I gave his name to the hostess, who immediately became much more welcoming. She led me through the tunnel-like restaurant. The walls were covered in a kind of bleached bamboo, like a glowing cave, and the whole thing made me slightly claustrophobic. I thought of airplane fuselages, and seats, and people taking off, and dark eyes looking out on to darkening skies. I brushed the image aside in favor of a smile and the thought of hot sake awaiting me. That cheered me up somewhat. The restaurant was already filled with diners, mostly expensively dressed couples, and the noise level was loud, but toned down, unlike some of the New York restaurants I’d been in, where the volume seemed in proportion to the buzz they were trying to create. I really didn’t like places like that.

I was pleasantly surprised to see Dave sitting at the sushi bar, chatting to the chef, and a flask of hot sake in front of him. Excellent. No angst, just conversation. Some drinks. Great food. An early night.

The hostess led me right to the chair, and smiled and bowed to Dave. He slipped her a tip, and she bowed again, and pulled out my chair. He leapt up, and took over, but not before kissing me on each cheek. I closed my eyes, then opened them again quickly, just in time to see his perfectly trimmed short sideburns and immaculately shaved and moisturized skin up close. He was the visual definition of a high powered media exec. The leather jacket, buttery and expensive. Probably Burberry. The perfectly fitted jeans, fashionable without being sexy. The bespoke shirt. The hint of woody and exotic scent. If they distilled money, that’s what he smelled like. A leather wallet and new bills. No want. No emptiness. I kissed the air next to him. When did we all become so Parisian?

“Lily, so glad you could make it. Here, let me take your coat.” And he swept it off my shoulders, and handed it to a server who had miraculously appeared out of nowhere. “Would you like some sake?”

“Yes, please, Dave. Thank you for inviting me.” I sank down into the chair, and watched him pour out a small cup for me, and refill his own. Ah, so it was going to be like that, was it? I looked into his eyes for a moment. Game on.

“No, pleasure. I’m glad this has given us the opportunity to get to know each other better.” He smiled, and he raised his cup. “To our mutual success.” He winked at me, and drank off half of it. I buried my nose in the cup and breathed in. Ah, sweet oblivion. I kept myself from downing it in one go, and tried to be ladylike about it.

“I’ve ordered the Omakase dinner for us. Is there anything you don’t particularly like, so I can inform the chef?” He looked concerned again. Could he really be trying to impress me? Yes, and doing a good job of it—mostly by not insulting my intelligence by asking if I knew what it meant.

“No, I do like most things.” I paused and thought. Demands are good. “Actually, now that you mention it,” I tried to sound as though I had just remembered, “I’m not a big fan of sea urchin, sadly. I’ve tried to like it, but it just doesn’t do it for me.” I smiled, hoping for a mix of apologetic and imperious.

“Of course.” He turned to the chef, who was instantly there, attentive. He spoke a few words in Japanese, and nodded at me. I nodded back, impressed in spite of myself. Just because it was a music magazine he headed up, didn’t mean he wasn’t a CEO in every sense of the word. I tried to remember what I knew about him. Harvard, wasn’t it? Rhodes Scholar? Peace Corps stint? Some heroic moment, followed by a year following the Dead. Writing. Management. Meteoric rise due to obvious talent, background and his adept handling of situations.

And now he was here in front of me. Trying to impress me.

I drank some more sake, and he refilled my cup. He turned his upper body towards me, and I pulled my gaze away from the beautiful fabric of his very light pink shirt, the Italian collar open, revealing a strong neck, and back to his eyes. He had a kindly expression on his face, and I could tell he was trying to put me at ease. He took another sip of sake, and smiled again. “This is a great place—their food is just fantastic. I thought you’d like it here better—more suited to your tastes.”

I wondered what he meant. “It’s very lovely. I’ve heard very good things about it.” Damn, now I’d shown I hadn’t been here before. Well, my life hadn’t taken the same path his had, even if they had started out in similar places. I took another sip. Time to go on the offensive. But he was speaking again.

“Of course I know about your background, your education, experience. Like me, your entry into writing about music might seem unexpected to some. But I think I understand it.” He looked thoughtful. “The usual paths set out for us don’t always provide a challenge, do they? Yet we still feel compelled to succeed, even while craving experience that throws us in at the deep end.” He refilled our cups, and nodded to the server to bring another flask. He spoke slowly and quietly, as though we were discussing some spiritual quest. I stared at him. Yes, it was true, but did he realize how much of what he was saying applied to my more recent and secret activities? Still, I found myself drawn to what he was saying.

“Yes, I think that’s accurate.” I tried to find my voice and pull myself away from my other thoughts. “Were you groomed to be in finance? Or the Foreign Service?”

“Very close. Politics, actually. My older brother managed it; he’s the state senator for Duchess County.” Now it was my turn to look surprised. “Well, the two worlds don’t always go together, although I’ve helped supply some bands to perform at fundraisers.” He looked at me. “The rest of it—the usual rock and roll lifestyle issues—he doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell. Not that I really get involved. But I see and hear a lot, as you might imagine.”

“That’s why you warned me about Tristan.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Not so much a warning, as perhaps a very strange way of telling you I am looking out for your wellbeing.” He looked at me, settled and calm. “We come from a world of certain standards. One, not everyone shares them. And two, some people are so eager to get away from those standards, break the taboos, find the chaos. ‘Mon innocence me ferait pleurer.’ My innocence would make me cry—it’s…”

“Rimbaud,” I finished for him.

He nodded, smiling. “Just so, just so.”

I felt torn. I liked him. In fact, he was everything I had been brought up to like, in many ways. Intelligence, stability, understanding. Money. Ambition. And was he kind? What were his motives?

I felt restless before him, impulsive. No. Slowly. Carefully. I pushed down my impulse to demand what he knew, about everything. “Please don’t think I don’t appreciate your efforts on my behalf.” I tried to soften my features. “I do. It’s just that I’m, well, a little confused.” I stopped, and then stopped myself from drinking more before I spoke. “I think we both know James, Tristan’s manager, is not to be trusted. But Tristan?” I tried to think of something that would make me sound indifferent. “He seems…typical. Driven. Tortured. Un peu égoïste.” I grinned. Maybe the French would get him.

His eyes lit up. “Mais oui, chérie, comme ils les sont tous. Après moi, le déluge. Mais moi aussi, peut-être je suis un peu comme ça?” He winked at me again. Oh, it did sound both better and so much more obvious in French. “
Of course, my dear, they are all like that. No one else matters. But maybe I’m a little like that as well?
”

Maybe he was a little like them. Certainly he had an ego. He spoke French beautifully. Of course he did. I could get used to this, expensive meals, expensive clothes, and discussing French poets. Yes. Luckily, at that moment, the first fresh morsels of sushi were placed in front of us, the small grey and white shrimp that the chef had just plucked from the tank behind him and had quickly filleted and placed over the shining white sculptural piece of rice covered with bright green wasabi. We each picked up a piece, and with a glance, bit down at the same time. It was divine, and the strange energy that you could feel on your tongue from eating something practically still alive was oddly erotic. Cheating death somehow. It tasted of brine, the blood of the earth. I closed my eyes for a moment. It felt strangely healing.

I opened my eyes to find him looking at me, his pupils dark, his face normal in contrast. He said nothing. I looked back at him. Silence was power. I wasn’t going to break the moment, but let him feel what he was feeling. Clearly.

He returned to himself a moment later, with studied poise. These people never lost control. Or did they? I wondered what it would be like to see him, losing it. Would he resent me? I recalled the quote I had once heard a society girl in London mutter over her champagne, sitting at the next table to me, at Prince Charles’ favorite wine bar, if such a thing could be believed. Certainly it had been filled with the braying long range voices of London’s favored classes. And what had she said? “Sex is a great leveler.”

I wondered what he would say if I repeated it. I wondered why I was wrestling with the urge to shock him out of his cultivated demeanor.

His voice was calm and soothing, and I felt guilty for my thoughts. “It’s delicious, isn’t it? Their food is so…I don’t know. Healing.”

Startled, I exchanged a look with him. “I was just thinking that. How strange.”

“I told you, I think we have a lot in common. Here, let me pour you some more sake, and tell you about my ideas for the tour.” He looked around, and within moments, our plates were whisked away, and the server was pouring freshly warmed sake into our cups.

“That sounds good.” I wanted to trust him. I felt like I was going to need an ally in the weeks to come. I was entering potentially dangerous territory. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, Tristan and I not knowing each other. I was beginning to see Tristan’s stance as self-preservation. Now that I had more to lose, it made more sense.

Our next course had arrived, and over delicate nibbles of sashimi and ginger, I listened as he outlined his plans. He knew that James intended to embarrass Tristan in some way, but he wasn’t sure why. He looked at me quizzically as he said it, but I tried to involve myself in dipping some black cod into the bowl of seasoned miso broth to avoid looking at him. When I was certain my face was calm, I took a bite, and turned towards him again.

“No, it seems odd.” Offense. “I think he feels protective of him, in some way. And perhaps he feels I might be a danger, although I can’t think why. Perhaps it’s all journalists he doesn’t trust.”

“Maybe.” He watched the chef for a minute. “I want all interviews to be vetted through me first. Prevention being better than cure, as they say. I think he…” Dave stopped and wiped his mouth with his napkin, delicately. “Perhaps you will uncover his motives. But keep your eyes open. A bit of a detective game for you.”

I nodded. What did he know? I tried to pretend I wasn’t concerned. We set up the meet with the Australian band with the girl singer. “Flash in the pan, but the latest eye candy for this week.” He stopped and considered something. “No, she’s not important enough, otherwise I’d suggest taking her to the after party for Tristan’s concert. But she doesn’t belong there, however much it might add to your story, watching him and the girls.”

The girls. God, there was that phrase again. “The girls?” This seemed a neutral ground to begin interrogation on.

“Oh, yes. You don’t know the rumors then. Or the facts. Well, I won’t go into huge detail, but obviously,” and here he paused again and gave me a pointed look, “his fan base does consist in part of, how shall I put it—excited females. No, I jest. But he does give off quite a, let’s call it a blatantly physical, sexual aura?” He gave a half laugh. “That’s what makes a good front man. But some people, if you give them the candy box, they’re flattered. They pick. They choose. Others eat the entire thing. And some,” he continued, “think of new ways to use sugar. Seeing as it’s running hot and cold all the time, if you’ll forgive that revolting mixed metaphor.” Now he did laugh.

I tried to laugh. This time I did drain the small cup. I hoped Dave would see it as a sign of my offended sensibilities. He refilled my cup, and was silent for a moment.

“I hope I haven’t shocked you. But you are going on the road with them. And James wants you to interview some of the groupies, although that’s not what anyone calls them anymore.”

I felt sick again. I focused on the elegant crispness of his appearance. That was what I wanted. Safety. Elegance.

I took a deep breath, and tried to swallow down some of the tofu. It was delicious. It felt like Styrofoam in my mouth. I hoped it wasn’t obvious that I felt like I was chewing pellets. I glanced at him. He looked happy. Smug, even.

I regained my composure. “Let me ask you—what is the angle the magazine wants on this? Presumably not a hatchet piece.”