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Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour’s solitude and reflection might have tranquilized her…It was an overpowering happiness.”      

Overpowering. They had met. He had said something. Trevor had said something. My absence had been noticed. With that unheard, unseen conversation, I existed again, like a shadow that had life breathed back into its form. I pulled the vase closer to me, and I buried my nose into one of the roses. Soft, delicate, velvet like skin, like his skin. I’d see him again, maybe. I read the card again. Trevor. The unholiest of guardian angels. How had he managed to be conscious enough after the party, and his seduction, however brief, of Sarah? I measured the softness of the flowers again my cheek. Tristan. My god. All this desire was terrifying. His eyes, piercing me.

I sat there for a while, holding one of the long stems I had freed from the vase, and stared out the window. The fragility and strength of happiness, as though everything broken within me was being knit back together. Success, achievement—all the thinking aspects were good—amazing, even—but this petal touch of want and need and desire was something else, big and as out of control as the sea during a January storm.

I untied the card from the flowers, and brought it and the one rose I had picked out from the rest. I stretched out on my bed, and fumbled around in my bag for my phone. I found Trevor’s number and sent him a text. Just two little words. Two words that would hopefully make up for my inability to stay there and fight my corner, and let him know that the roses had made all the difference. I pressed send, and lay my head down on the pillows, the image of Tristan’s sea and earth-colored eyes looking at me thoughtfully like a mirage in my head. Nothing but everything.

Chapter 27

I had fallen asleep, finally completely overcome by the events of the past few days, but I woke up a few hours later, clammy and cold. I waited until the room stopped turning, and tried to remember where my body was, which room I was in, which side of the globe I was on, what lay outside for me. It was still quiet in the apartment, the light giving off the longer streaks of approaching evening. I rolled over and looked at the rose. Such a cliché. Fine, I’d roll with it.

But I knew there was no time to lose. There was no more of the easy drop into first love dreaminess. I had to make use of my knit-together nerves before someone or something stronger came around to break them again, and this time for good. I swung my legs out of the bed, avoiding glancing at the wreck I knew I’d see in the mirror, and went to make some coffee. Twenty minutes later, I was at my small white desk, setting up the computer, plugging in the drive, getting out my headphones and notes. I couldn’t let this derail me. This was what I did, what I was good at. While I could, I would. More than usual, the ugly tyranny of the blank computer sheet spooked me. What idiot had decided that they would reproduce that depressing reality in the virtual world? More coffee. Free association, that’s what would work. So for a while, I just wrote down everything that stood out for me. Meeting him in the office. His casual control of things. Playing the songs. Crying, again, for the first time. His idiot manager. Slapping him. Blood. I idly wondered if I could put that in. Too bad there weren’t pictures to prove my nervy heroics. Perhaps I could say someone else had done the deed. Or that it was a rumor. There had to be a way to slide it in—what it meant was too tempting to leave out.

Trevor? No, keeping that light. The quotes. Not the story of Tristan at 3:00 a.m. losing it. Or him doing coke with the ex. That wouldn’t be there, no matter what, even if some picture surfaced of him with his head between her legs instead of just on them. Some things were beyond pain and jealousy. Poppy. A kind portrait. A fan, a moment in time. The guitarist, AC. He needed a light hand as well. Or did he? Was there a bigger future market for the rock journalist who told tales, or the one who kept some stories under wraps? That was a judgment call. No, I decided. Allusions, rather than concrete details. Everyone knew already that he had been in rehab. Why hammer it home? That just sounded petty. His love for Barolo and dislike of rock parties made the cut. I needed to call him and get his viewpoint on Poppy. God, why had I been so wrapped up in Tristan? It had put me off asking all the questions I really needed the answers to. Never mind. Maybe in a few days. After the engineer interview.

Shit. What time was it? Nearly 11:00 p.m. I’d been writing for five hours, steadily, fuelled by coffee and a sense of desperation. I needed to call Dave. Oh, why not? No time like the present. I needed a break anyway. Maybe there’d be another dinner in my future. And would you be up to it, whatever it was, the veiled offer on the table? I had no fucking idea, I realized, as his cell phone rang. A very good question. The phone went to voice mail, and I left what I hoped sounded like a more together message, more together than my plea to get on a plane, asked about the engineer, and how soon could we do it, and that I wanted to meet with him with the article—by—what day was it? Monday now. Ok. Tuesday. Short deadlines meant less time to fuck around. Good. Limits.

My mind was whirling with everything that had happened in the past few days. I noticed that I was not thinking of the Greek restaurant or my old friends and their reaction to the arrival of the man in the cab. The bittersweet memory of those tucked-away hours in the attic room. Shit. I would not think about it. There were no guarantees. Flowers from Trevor did not equal flowers from Tristan. It could be a sort of warped apology for seducing my friend.

I felt the light-headedness of too much coffee and not enough sleep, but I had to continue. Who knew when the hammer would come crashing down? I kept typing, looking through the notes. But I knew I was putting off the inevitable. With a long sigh and a new cup of coffee, I finally reached for the headset. I flicked on the switch with a sense of fatalism. His voice, murmuring to me over the wires. 2:00 a.m. The perfect time to confront ghosts. Papers being shuffled. Mumbled numbers, sound check. And then. The soft tones of his honey stung voice came though the headphones. Fuck. I listened without hearing anything, just letting the feeling of it run through me. God. A voice. Just a voice. Why that effect? I threw down the headset and walked out of the room. The kitchen—neutral territory—away from the atmosphere I’d created in there—a shot of the single malt, a glass of water. This was going to be an all-nighter—one of the many all-nighters I should have pulled right from the start instead of following him around like a lovesick puppy.

No more listening. Writing up the notes. Describing the gig that Poppy had seen. That needed to go in there. Tricky, balancing her account with her bitterness. Guiltily, I wondered what she had done after the show. We had all abandoned her. I hoped one of the band had seen her, and given her some love. The innocence and excitement of university parties. Pretending you were super cool, when really you were super lonely, or super terrified. But the sweet moments too. That picture with Tristan. Would Poppy find something to take her out of herself again? It was harsh to think there was only one moment that counted in life. Or maybe not. Maybe that was love. Maybe that was what I had been missing out on, always hedging my bets, riding on the next thing to come along to take me away from the disappointments of the last mad rush. True love had a different feel to it, whether it was requited or not, whether or not it worked out. Time taught you that. Some things you didn’t just move on from. Sometimes you never really moved on.

Four am. Good. And there was still more to say. Maybe if I made more coffee? I was already buzzed. Maybe lying down. Just for a minute. The light in the room looked fuzzy around the edges, too bright. I turned off the light and lay down on the bed. One, two, three. Sheep? Rock stars? I opened my eyes again. This was never going to work. I could still see the screen against the dark ceiling. Where the hell was Alice, anyway? The garbage truck stopped outside, rolling its metallic gears over the plastic bags. I sat up, too quickly, and had to squeeze my eyes shut, the sheet bunched in my fists, to stop from falling over. I remembered the last time I had sheets clutched in my fingers. Couldn’t I just stop thinking? Faint gracefully, and be rescued? For now, all I cared about was saving the recordings to my phone. I’d go for a walk, listen to the voice outside through my headphones. Have breakfast somewhere. Assimilate. Pretend. Just like everyone else.

Chapter 28

It was just getting light when I made it out the front door, earphones in place, hat to keep my head warm and protected against the chill early morning air, and to give me some anonymity. I walked down to the park, and stood at the corner where his limo had picked me up, that very first time, and I shuddered with the memory of straddling his hips, his hands tracing endless patterns over my body. I could still remember what it felt like, his lips on mine, god that taste of him, sweet, soft, hard, finally. I closed my eyes, and hit play, and let his voice pour over me, as I stood there, under the street lamp, alone. No one to watch me leaning against the cold, ridged metal of the lamppost. I wished I could cling on, stay there, invisible. This was where I was stuck in time. I slid down to the pavement, and sat there, my back against the metal. His melodic voice hummed on in my ears. All about his plans, his creativity. What the fuck had happened then? Something inside me cried out. And I had no answer.

The pebbles in the pavement were starting to press into my skin. The self-preservation side of me told me to get up, before all that weakness was noted by someone out on the prowl. Reluctantly, I raised myself up and leaned against the lamp again, until the feeling of lightheadedness left me. I had what I needed. This was just torture. Sweet, agonizing torture, but pain just the same. “You do it to yourself,” I sang out, into the trees and the apartment buildings of the Upper West Side. No one answered. My voice died on the wind. This was New York, after all; no one would notice one more lunatic singing to herself at 5:00 a.m. I felt my face twist up into a half-smile. His voice was my new drug, my new best friend, and I could come out to be crazy with it when I wanted. Nobody would notice.

I switched it off, putting the phone back in my bag, and started walking uptown, north. After crossing the next street, I decided to walk along the park. I stood at the corner, and waited for the light to change over the nearly empty avenue. I waited for the next set of headlights to pass, thinking I’d run across once they’d gone. One dark car was headed for me. They wanted to pull up where I was standing. I backed up, irritated that my bit of space had been invaded. It was a town car, not a limo, but you couldn’t see inside. I was curious to see who would get out, and then I felt scared. I turned and started walking uptown again. I didn’t really want to see anyone anyway. I heard the door slam. I didn’t turn around. It didn’t matter. Curiosity killed the cat.

There were footsteps behind me, then I heard the voice. “Lily? Don’t walk away, please?” No, now I was hallucinating. I needed breakfast and sleep, obviously. The voice started again. “If you don’t want to see me, I understand, but let me say one thing, ok?” I took three more steps, then I stopped. If it was a total disconnect, at least I wanted to enjoy it. Maybe there would be visual too.

The hand on my shoulder made me jump. Without even thinking, I reached up and put my hand over it. Soft. His long fingers. Where had they been?

I felt Tristan gently swing me around to face him. He looked sad, and faraway. There were inches between us. It was him. For real.

“You. Are. Here.” I whispered. “Why?”

“You ran off,” he answered. “I didn’t
…
” He stopped. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

I stepped back, like I’d been slapped. Had he thought I’d just stick around? Watch? A big part of me didn’t care if that was what he had thought. Fuck he was beautiful. “Tristan?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “What the fuck were you expecting?”

He laughed, that same sexy throaty laugh as before. Like nothing had happened. I winced, and he stopped instantly. He picked up my hand, and looked at it, small against his large palm and pale skin. “Honestly?”

“You’re here. You must have a reason.” I felt the urge to negotiate. I tried to quash it. Heroines kept their mouths shut. This was my turn to shut the fuck up and let him talk. I didn’t want him to say anything I had prompted.

“I thought you’d sleep with AC.” He looked sheepish.

My brain was having trouble processing his words. So it had been a set up. “Did you want me to? Or were you setting up a future threesome? Games, right?” Shit shit shit. I needed to calm down.

He licked his lips, and took a deep breath before he answered. “I’m not proud of it, ok?” I stared at him. “Not the threesome, no. That’s not what I meant. Even if it could be fun.” His smile faded as quickly as it had come. I shrugged.

“Lily. Please. Listen. This isn’t coming out right. It’s simple, really. Maybe you don’t understand exactly what it’s like.” His words came out in a rush now. “How many people just want a piece of you? For their own aims. How many times have you been betrayed? Once? Twice? A hundred times? It’s not sweet, is it, to have someone you relied on let you down.” He ran his hands through his hair. It looked unwashed, like he hadn’t been home since London. Maybe he hadn’t.