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He laughed. “No, no, of course not. But in the same way that all the stories about Led Zeppelin created this aura of mystery and sexual excitement around the band that lasted for years, to this day even, some might say, I think we can take what James hopes for, which is to shock you and threaten Tristan with blackmail, and turn it into a marketing dream, both for us and for Tristan.” He looked excited now. “That circulation increases the minute fantasy and sex are placed into the equation is nothing new. But the curiosity around him, the failed marriage, the rumors—pure sex, drugs and rock and roll. Nothing’s changed.” He glanced at me, and the look on my face. “And we will sell more records for him that way. The music is unique, inspiring, monumental.” He nodded to the server, who cleared away our plates again. “I’m a big fan, always have been. And AC, who’s a family friend, could use the boost, quite frankly. Which is why he will be joining the tour,” he lowered his voice, “unexpectedly, for a few dates. Surprise guest. His music is not as commercial, or as inventive. But it’s solid, and he’s a good person.” He paused, and raised his cup. “So that’s our job. Reminding everyone of the history, while steering them to the present. Teasing them with tales of debauchery, while proving nothing. Making them feel like they are there, and that it could happen to them.”

“And I’m the right person to do this?” I couldn’t help it. “Why?”

Dave looked at me. “You’re beautiful and talented and honest. You will do a fantastic job, because you have a gift for detail and atmosphere. And—Tristan wants you. So he’ll be more open.” He watched the chef again. “Now why do you think that might be?”

I quailed, inwardly. Discreet. Discreet.

“You don’t know? That’s good. But I’ll give you my take on it. He sees your talent, that’s been proven by the last interview. He wants the approval only an established enterprise, as the magazine is, can bestow. And,” he turned and took my hand in his, leaving me staring at his fingers on mine, “you’re a challenge for him. The unattainable, intellectual woman. What he’s never had, what he can’t have.”

I followed his hand still joined to mine as he raised it to his lips and our eyes met.

“Je ne suis pas prisonnier de ma raison.”

I couldn’t help it. I looked up at him from under my lashes, playfully. “Evidemment.” He was still holding my hand. “What should I say?”

“Say you will come out with me again when you get back from London. And not talk business.” He suddenly looked tall and imposing, yet the expression on his face was boyish and pleading. God it could be so simple. An elegant, comfortable relationship, the lid closed on the Pandora’s Box of curiosity and risk I’d kicked open. It made so much sense.

“I’d love to.” I smiled at him, as he kissed my hand again, and placed it carefully back in my lap.

“I’m delighted,” he answered. And he did look happy. He called the chef over and introduced me and watched as the chef bowed and smiled at both of us, as though something had been settled. The server came over and poured us some green tea, which I drank as Dave pulled out a black card to pay for our dinner. My jacket appeared. We walked out of the restaurant, his hand guiding me lightly on my back, the other diners watching. There was nothing discreet about this; it was going to be a piece of news passed along. I glanced over. There was frank interest on the faces of the women, a strange acknowledgment on the faces of the men, who returned more quickly to what they were doing. The tunnel seemed endless, but at last we were out, leaving behind the echoes of the hostess wishing us well again, out on the streets, the cold dirty air clearing away the haze of the sake.

He looked at me. “Let’s walk a little bit, get some air. The car will follow us.” And he pulled out his phone, gave instructions, and put his arm around my waist, carefully. “Did you enjoy that?” He was all solicitude.

“I did, thank you.” Ah this felt good, crossing the avenue, heading east, the car somewhere nearby, this tall elegant man holding me protectively. “It was a lovely evening, I really enjoyed it.”

“I’m glad. I did as well. I’m glad you said yes.”

“Are you?” I looked up at him. He was tall and handsome, the light and shadow of the night giving his face depth. There were no passions etched there, no torments, aside from a certain set to the jaw and the brow which made his face seem immobile and solid, somewhat like his presence. It was comforting, rather than exciting. But not boring.

No, not boring.

We walked over to Second Avenue, while he told me funny stories about meetings he had had with different musicians, their demands, their quirks. He asked me about my French, and we began a reminiscence of moments we had spent in Paris. It turned out we had both lived there for a time. It was his friend, whose father was the head of Publicis, the largest advertising agency in France, with offices all over the world, who had given him the idea to go into media.

“We must be there together sometime,” he said, his face serious and still.

I looked at him, surprised. He shrugged, a very Gallic gesture, and smiled. “You would be fun to go out with in Paris.”

“It’s a beautiful city.” I tried to think of something light to say. “It’s a place one is never sorry to visit.”

“Soon,” he said, as though we were discussing something else entirely. “But New York is beautiful as well.”

I looked around, from the cars racing past, heading downtown, to the broken awnings, the neon lights, the corner market and the white plastic tubs of flowers, the twenty different varieties of people walking past, and up to the silver white lights of the Chrysler Building. “It is,” I sighed. “It really is. Strange and beautiful.”

His phone buzzed and he answered it. “Yes. Second and Twenty-Third. Yes. Five minutes.” He closed his phone, and placed it carefully back in his inside pocket. “Lily, the car is going to meet up with us. I’ve got an early appointment, and you—well, you’re flying out to London.”

I sighed. Yes I was. Ready or not.

He took my sigh for something else. “Lil, I’ve had a wonderful time tonight. Brilliant.” He held me at arms’ length and looked at me closely, then held me to him for a brief moment, and kissed me on the cheek. “Soon,” he whispered, “I don’t like to rush.”

Then he stepped away, and took my hand again. “If you need anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to call. Even if it’s just to hear a normal voice.” He laughed. “Here’s the car.”

I protested.

“No, I’m walking. The driver will take you home. At least then I know you’re safe for part of the journey. And he will personally pick you up tomorrow for the trip to the airport.”

“You don’t have…” He interrupted me.

“Yes, I do.” He kissed both cheeks again. “Be good chérie. And good luck.” I got into the car and looked up at him as he shut the door. He smiled down at me.

I started to give the driver the address.

“No, ma’am, I know it already. Just relax. Mr. Fanning told me to take very good care of you. Precious cargo.” And he turned around and gave me a happy, toothy smile. He seemed genuine, but I wondered how big a tip had gone into that smile.

And as I sank into the leather seats, I wondered, yet again, what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

I checked my phone, involuntarily. Of course no messages. He was in the air. Away from it all.

Yes.

Chapter 3

The ride to JFK was smooth and problem free, and I thanked Dave inwardly for the chance to relax. I’d spent the day running around like mad. I had the tickets, the schedule, the hotel information, a list of contact numbers, the password for sending updates, the contact at the record company, and a list of times when I’d be interviewing various people. The one I was actually looking forward to was the head of Working Class Records, Trevor Sears, the first person to sign Devised, back when they were just fresh faced kids with a lot of drive and a knack of being in the right place at the right time. He was famous in his own right, a track record and history that made him one of the major players in the game over what was now a long period of time. He had the gift—knowing what was important—and maybe more crucially, trusting in his own judgment. He had been behind Devised and the early breakthrough. They were just another band to him though, however good they were. He’d been responsible for getting some of the most revolutionary and subversive acts out there, and turning them into mainstream success stories. I really wanted to ask him what he had seen in them that made him think of some of the great bands of the past, because that’s why he always said he had signed them. If I could pin him down on a chord progression, or a lyric, or even a vibe, that could be the hook for the rest of the story. I had made notes—I had the entire flight to write things down. I looked out the window. I was thinking too fast. I needed to calm down.

It had been a bit tricky telling Dave I didn’t need a car at Heathrow. “Friends, Dave, friends, waiting to see me,” was what I said to him. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. What it was—sheer juggling. It struck me how casual I was trying to be about it. Trying. Denial. All those things. After the dinner with him, it seemed easy. I could almost hear my family shouting approval from the roof tops. Rich, connected, sensible. As opposed to what? Rich, connected, outrageous? I felt my heart constrict at the idea of even making the comparison. There was more to it than that, even if knew I couldn’t go there. Those feelings were safely hidden. I’d gone to bed early, trying to be sensible, pleased with my decision to be self-protecting.

But I’d been woken up by a text in the middle of the night.

Yes is a good word coming from your sweet mouth. But it’s so small. And lonely. Don’t forget your pick up at Heathrow.      

I sank back down into the pillows. Cute. Bossy. And pick up. What did that mean? I couldn’t think what to text back. Everything I thought of made me seem either desperate or uninterested. Finally I decided.

Haven’t forgotten. Thanks for the ride.      

The reply came back in a flash.

Don’t thank me until you’ve ridden.      

That answered everything and nothing. My heart started racing. Oh god. What happened to discreet? “Work first, then games”? I shut my eyes. I’d been working so hard on shutting him out. And the minefield ahead of us, me, whoever, fuck it. I resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. The truth was, I had no idea how I was going to react to him when I saw him. Would I stay under control? Keep it all cool and professional? Or was I just scared of what I wanted? I turned over in the bed and flipped my pillow over, trying to cool my overheated brain.

When had I become so crazy?

• • •

Business class on the plane was good, and the stewards and stewardesses were a lot less stressed and a lot more friendly, than in economy class. I got to have my glass of champagne before take-off—civilized—and I could actually sit cross-legged in the seat, the way you used to be able to do. As the plane made its last turn to point its nose straight down the take-off runway, I felt that odd emotion of pain and excitement. The Earth, New York, everything suddenly seemed much more precious, even as the engines roared into life and the pulse of the sudden acceleration made action an imperative, a sharp want. It was what lay beyond the fear—the thrill of the unknown, the need for speed like in the comic books, the sheer power involved in getting something this massive off the ground. I watched the ground speed by faster and faster, the lights of Jamaica Bay and the Rockaways, flat and like part of the ocean go past, then tilt, as the plane lurched into the sky, jerk with the wheels being pulled in, and disappear as the plane banked to the North to follow the coast up to Canada. I closed my eyes. This part did always frighten me, and I drank down the rest of the champagne to try and dull the feeling. I wished I could be excited about seeing Tristan, but at the moment, it all seemed detail. Interviews to conduct, players to meet, speech to control and use to manipulate. I started to cry. The pressure, fuck, why couldn’t I just push it away? The plane began to ascend, then dropped for a moment, the way they always do. If I knew all this, why did it still get to me? Shit. The fear. I liked people. I was thrilled to meet some of these people. It would be great to get these insights into who and how. It was just that what I said would decide what they told me. And I didn’t always get it right.

And then there was Tristan. The girls. The rabid fan girls. His own interesting tastes. I stopped a steward and asked for another glass of champagne. He came back, and placed the glass down on my tiny table, and his hand on my arm. “Are you ok? Can I get you anything else?” He looked concerned. I wondered why I felt guilty at the attention.