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“Oh, I’m fine. A little tired,” I lied. “I tend to feel jet lag more in this direction. Usually means I stay up late, then crash hard.” Well that part was true enough. “How are you?”

“Perfectly well. Your flight, I mean. You said you needed to get back. Have things improved since then?”

I felt like we were talking in code. Not for the first time, I wasn’t sure if we were tapping out the messages from the same book. He’d hear about it all anyway—that was his job. It just didn’t have to be from me. I tried to be evasive without seeming so. “Things are the same. But things are always the same. I suppose you want to know about your piece.”

“By necessity. But I called to inquire about you as well. What do you say to early cocktails tomorrow evening? Send me your draft, we can talk it through then. As well as everything else.”

My throat hurt again. So this was it. My future. Twenty-four hours to decide which way it was going to go. I couldn’t call it my destiny. I was pretty sure I’d missed out on that. “That sounds lovely, Dave. I appreciate you looking after me. Thanks for flying me out. You’re a great boss.” Distance.

“I’m more than that.” He paused. “I think friends should look after each other, don’t you? Benefits. Part of the package deal.”

I laughed, and so did he. I didn’t think it was for the same reason though. “Ok. Well then. Brilliant. Where should we meet?” Which watering hole would he suggest for the shakedown?

“Oh, why not Verlaine? No view, but they have some lovely ginger and sake cocktails. Tuesday’s acceptable there. Take your mind off…” He paused again. “Can’t be all work and no play. Then maybe some Italian food. You looked a bit off in London, we can’t have that. Hold on a sec.” I heard him give some muffled command to someone. “No, need you ready and on form. Especially when you’re about to go out on the road.”

That woke me up. “What?” I said the next part, very slowly, as though I was learning a new language. “Out on the road? When? What about the piece? With who?”

He seemed to find my confusion funny. “Had you forgotten? The second part. Part two. The tour. Devised reunion on hold, but AC has graciously agreed to join Tristan on the tour. Big news. And you will be covering it.” It sounded slightly like a threat. I couldn’t figure out why.

“Still?” It was the closest I could let myself get to mentioning what had happened.

“Still? Always. Consider it a homeopathic cure. We’ll talk more tomorrow evening. Rest up. Finish the piece. You’re probably going to be the cover. If it’s good enough.” He chuckled. “No pressure. A demain, chérie.”

I closed the phone and held it to my chest. Bloody fucking hell. This was what I’d wanted, right? A shot at the big time, drinks at the right places, air kisses, my name in lights? Right? Damn. Not for the first time, I wondered why so frequently you got something just at the moment you didn’t really care anymore. I saw my zafu cushion and bowl of brown rice disappearing in a puff of smoke. On the road? With Tristan. Watching him. Every night. I tried to remember how long the tour was supposed to be. A month? Longer? Tristan on show for me every night. His face, those hands, his long legs. Was Dave right? Would proximity cure me? Or would I simply lose what was left of my mind?

On the other hand, could I really say no? It’s all torture, I muttered to myself. Fuck it.

And then, almost on cue, my phone vibrated. Another text. Tristan.

I want you there. If you hate me, we can fight.      

Again. His unseen hands, pulling the strings. I put my head between my knees, trying to rest my aching brain. And Tristan obviously wasn’t going to make this easy for me. Fuck. If I went out with Dave, then it would get back to Tristan. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Tristan. Fuck. I closed my eyes again. I still wanted him, so badly, I could feel it thrumming through me like the sound next to a high-tension wire. But I couldn’t give in. It couldn’t be that simple. And he couldn’t think I was with Dave. That would be worse than anything.

Exhaustion was starting to get the better of me. Dave was right about one thing at least—I needed to rest if I was going to be up for all this. I needed a shaman, some kind of fairy godmother with a magic wand and a big lantern to light the way. I dragged myself up and threw myself, fully clothed, on to the bed, and wrapped the quilt around me. I was nearly asleep again when I thought of Trevor. Trevor. Of course. He would know what to do. I reached for my phone, double checking that there were no more texts. I typed quickly on the tiny keys. Honesty was going to have to take the place of wit on this one.

Trevor. Rose King. What to do? I’m lost. Love Sleeping Beauty      

I pressed send, and turned off the phone. I’d mixed, now it needed to bake. And I needed sleep.

Chapter 31

I woke up, twisted in the covers. It had been a fitful night’s sleep, filled with dreams half remembered that seemed vaguely important. It was no wonder I was dazed. I lay back on the pillows, willing myself to have the strength of mind to not just grab for my phone and turn it on. I padded out of the room, still feeling disorientated, my hand reaching out against the cold blank wall to steady my progress. I made it as far as the kitchen, wrapped in a sweater and managed to make a cup of tea before I succumbed to the inevitable and skipped back to the bedroom for my phone.

I pressed the button that would turn the phone on, and looked away from the start-up screen, slightly embarrassed. Very nervous. I didn’t want this, didn’t want these feelings. And Trevor? What the hell was he going to tell me? Nothing, probably.

I opened the text message icon. And there they were. Two from Trevor, one from Tristan. I held my breath and went for Tristan’s first. Maybe Trevor’s words of wisdom would make sense of whatever Tristan was going to say and my response, which I knew was bound to be irrationally emotional.

Lily. I’m not perfect. But Dave? Where are you meeting him for dinner? Give me a chance to fight.      

Bloody hell. I let out my breath with a long hiss and chucked the phone on the bed. My head hurt. I lay back and closed my eyes. And if I had pushed Tristan away for good? There was no way of telling what Dave had told him. The idea that he thought I had given myself to Dave… I clenched my fists. No, I would fix this. On to Trevor. I clicked on his text. He was good, coming back with something right away. I hoped it would be useful.

Wake up then, love. Thorns all metaphor no substance. Arriving Thursday. We will go out and drink and discuss. But I think you know.      

Then, the next text.

No money-back guarantees on this one. BTW, what’s your friend Sarah’s number? I feel a bout of pre-flight homewrecking coming on.      

I laughed. And then bit my lip. And then swallowed some more tea. Had I really expected he would tell me what to do? Or had he? I sat there for a while, watching the blinking red light on the phone remind me that I still had unread emails. I texted back.

Thursday then. If you know and I know, does he know? Sarah 0207 434 2967. I used to go out with her fiancé. I don’t want him back.      

It really was all down to me then. Drink and discuss—by then it might be a post-mortem.

Well, on to the emails. The usual this and that, and there it was—the confirmation email from Dave about dinner that Tristan had alluded to.

Lily. Tonight. Let’s skip cocktails and go further east than Italy. 7. Pylos. Expect to sign contract on whole deal over an expensive bottle of red wine. I know your weaknesses.      

Ah. So it really was party time. Dave, cleverly, would never come out and say anything “unprofessional” especially not in an email. But he knew what he meant. And so did I.

Chapter 32

I was right on time. Early even. I peeked in the window. I’d never been here before. What was it with Dave and womb-like spaces? The room was long and oddly low ceilinged and over-decorated in a way that was obviously supposed to evoke the faux peasant earthiness of your last holiday spent at your Greek villa, and the tavern where you finally hooked up with 1) your ex, 2) the bartender, 3) your sailing instructor, or 4) your Sapphic yoga/creative writing teacher. Whatever. I walked up the street and looked at the people in the wine bar, looked up at the windows of the old apartment buildings. I still hadn’t completely made up my mind. The last time I had seen Tristan, I’d been so angry. But he had seemed so broken, yet so distant. The words of his cryptic little texts swirled around in my mind, but nothing stuck, it was all so fragmented, like words of a sentence in a foreign language that you hadn’t quite memorized.

And then there was Dave. Who would be here any minute. I was looking out for his usual dark town car. And soon after his arrival, he would make me an offer I wasn’t supposed to be able to refuse. He had me; he had the twin threat of the career and my shameful flight from the sight of my lover’s deceit. Cut the crap, I thought. He knows how to win and that’s by either stepping on the losers or tying them to you with a lifeline. “Oh everybody plays the game”—the beginning of the lyric, as said by The Strokes, my pragmatic grandmother, and a million other people. And the end of the line in the song—“if you don’t you’re called insane.” Fuck. At least the song was ironic. I hoped. I imagined Trevor looking at me sorrowfully. Why Thursday? Why not now? I could use some backup.

And just as I was about to stumble back up the street in my heels, I saw the car. Showtime. I stopped short and looked around. Funny how no one noticed, no one cared. It was just the massed assemblage in my head, all catcalls and advice, who were paying attention. I tried to tune it down to a low buzz as I prevented myself from going to the car. Let him come to you. Act as though you just arrived. Slowly. Fuck, who taught me this shit, I wondered? And why has it been of so little assistance? A retro punk rocker pushed past me, all piercings and Mohawk. If you don’t you’re called insane. Easy to say.

Dave had exited the car and caught sight of me once the green spike of hair had gone past, and smiled as he strolled up. Christ alive, was he taking even more time with his walk than usual? It was a peacock pigeon mating strut. I half expected him to turn around and fluff out his feathers. And of course, I had to wait and watch. I smiled, hoping it looked genuine. Laughing at the strutting peacock was never a good survival strategy. I breathed in and tried to feel super feminine. Needy. Dangerous. Seductive.

“Dave! So good to see you on this side.” We stopped for the usual French air kisses. His seemed to be landing dangerously close to my mouth. Possession, already. I tried to swallow down the sudden bile in my throat. This wasn’t me. This was me. Act as if.

“Lily. You look lovely. That’s a beautiful dress.” He ran a slow finger down my neck towards the deep neckline and stopped. I shuddered, but it wasn’t with desire. His eyes flashed slightly anyway. “You clean up so well.” He took my hand and raised it to his lips. His eyes spoke a question that he had already answered. I tried to look blank. It had worked for Garbo. Let him project. I forced out a tense smile, and hoped he read my nervous swallow as desire. He took my arm. “Come my dear. Let’s go have a lovely dinner and talk about our future plans.”

He opened the door to the restaurant and as usual, was greeted by the maître d’ like a long-lost friend. I nodded and smiled some more, watched myself being appraised, watched Dave slip him some bills as he took our coats, watched us being watched as we paraded to our table, felt Dave’s arm slink about my shoulders, protectively, possessively, in full view of the other diners, who were memorizing our posture in our chairs at one of the best tables. Predictable, choreographed, exciting—except I felt hollow, like some kind of defective Christmas cracker—and I wished I could feel I warranted the jealousy and curiosity that was hanging in the air. I looked up to see a blonde with superb highlights purse her lips and turn back to her companion with a shrug. Whatever. I faced Dave again, and tried to gaze at him, winningly. He glanced at me as if to say, see? See all the good things that come from being with me? And then he gestured towards the waiter and ordered a bottle of wine, in Greek. Show off. I forgot to even consider that I knew enough Greek to know what he was saying. But it would have been obvious anyway. The waiter bowed and scraped, and Dave twisted slightly in each direction, just long enough to weigh up who was on either side, and let them know that he was there.

We sat there for a few minutes, like any other awkward date couple, and talked about the weather, the news, another band that the magazine was running a story on. Tits from Oz came up—apparently there had been a big fight after the gig, and now she was staying with some producer, who had punched one of the guys in the band who tried to interrupt his tale of how to make her a star. I laughed. It was bound to happen. She would be easily convinced of her own star potential and follow anyone who promised to make it come alive. I felt bad for the other guys, briefly, imagining them back on their Qantas flight, their big break broken, and a lot of nights gigging to drunks ahead of them, no tits in sight. My effort was running as a kind of last interview could-you-see-it-coming type of piece. A by-line. That was good, although I felt superstitiously reluctant to let my name get linked up with their failure. Then the wine came, and their tragedy evaporated as the bottle was uncorked and delicately poured, artfully swirled, apportioned to me for my pleasure. Dave winked at me over the rim of the glass as we toasted to our future. In business, in business, I murmured in my head.