Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (46 page)

“Andrew,” she whispered.

“No. Don’t.” He held out his hands, ordering her to stop, his voice cold-blooded.

In that awful moment she could see it all. The tortured brow, the fierce chin, the biting lines of his cheekbones. She could see his father. She could see Neil. And she could see the heartbreaking resignation, the same haunting desire to flee.

“Stay away from me, Emily, I’m no good,” he commanded. “I’m—” His voice faltered, broken like his spirit. “I’m not right—I never have been—I’ve lied. We’re…we’ll never be…It’s all…it’s all bloody wrong!”

His face held more pain than she had ever seen. He didn’t want her—he didn’t want them. Even with the specter of death waiting, he didn’t care. Even with all the proposals and the promises, he didn’t care. He hated himself too much. He wanted to escape, to disappear. To be done.

Without a word, he crashed open the door and ran.

19

N
EIL
A
PPARENTLY
D
ID
N
OT
expect Andrew that early the following morning, or maybe he did, but nevertheless he showed no surprise when Andrew appeared on his doorstep still dressed in the same clothes as the night before. Neil would have been an idiot not to have known why Andrew was there and why he was livid. Yet the older man’s face bore no shock, no remorse, and upon seeing the younger man, he remained as businesslike as ever, mechanical in his motions, though dark circles ringed his eyes.

Andrew had never before stepped foot into Neil’s home, a modern, monolithic structure on Broadway; he had never even received an invitation. Now he was being ushered into his office, one of the countless rooms off an austere foyer with sweeping walls of glass and blocks of leather furniture.

Crisply dressed in a pressed white oxford and trousers, Neil spoke of trivial things, waiting, biding his time, before offering Andrew a seat that he refused. Andrew wanted to hate him, so cool and collected, standing there in front of his platinum records and awards, he truly did, but he could not find it in himself; maybe that was a good thing, he thought. Maybe it proved something, although what, he didn’t know.

And he would have left. But when Neil stepped around his desk and rested his hand on Andrew’s shoulder and Neil’s eyes searched his, filled with such compassion and understanding and—and Christ, with pride—Andrew hauled off and punched him as hard as he could. Hard, brutal, and wanting revenge. His fist made a sick sound when it connected with the side of Neil’s mouth, sending his head snapping back. Andrew instantly readied himself for the blow he knew he would receive in return, the shouts and the curses.

Neil’s fingers found the blood on his lips, and he stopped. “I’m sorry,” was all he said. “I am so terribly sorry.”

Andrew had rehearsed what he would say. He had thought about it every step of the way there, but now the words flew out in a rage. “You fucking left her. And now you came back, for what? To play daddy? Some midlife crisis after your wife died, and you supposed you wanted a family now, now that it was convenient? Showing up in London, it was a scam, wasn’t it? Offering us the house and some work, it was all part of a game. You never wanted to help. You didn’t care about the band, it was all about you. About what you bloody wanted—to keep us holed up, take us out and parade us around, to see how it felt having a son before you decided to commit.”

“It wasn’t like that. It isn’t like that.”

“Did you ever once tell the truth? Did you even believe we stood a chance?” Andrew held the back of his throbbing hand to his mouth and fought to keep his voice from breaking when Neil began to speak. “No, don’t say a word. I don’t want to hear your excuses. You left her because she was pregnant with me and that didn’t fit into your grand plan. That’s why you never went back to London. You didn’t want to hazard the risk of running into your responsibilities. Well, fuck you. We didn’t need you then, and we sure as hell don’t need you now.”

“Andrew, listen. I…I wanted to help.”

“I swear, if you come near me or my mum again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Stop. Listen to me.”

But Andrew was already through the door, a whirlwind of destruction intent on tearing everything down if necessary.

It was late morning when Emily finally awoke. In those first few blurry moments she had forgotten everything, and before losing the grasp of sleep, the soft comfort of pillows and blankets and oblivion, she was happy.

Then the pain came; it poured through her veins like a drug, making her want to be anyone but herself right now. She wanted to wake, wondering if Andrew meant what he said when he was drunk in the dark, not sober in the light.

There never should have been a séance, she thought bitterly. They should have stumbled home together, tripping over the threshold. They should have kissed long and sloppily in the foyer, and laughing, he should have led her by the hand to his bed, and finally, finally, they should have made crazed, unrelenting, fantastical love. They should be waking now, hands trailing, mouths parting, tongues tasting. She would have never left his bed. He would never have left her body. Like lovers.

Like lovers who didn’t have ghosts ruling their lives, didn’t have spirits that wanted them dead. Who didn’t have tour dates and writing conferences and she-devil rapacious agents stalking them. Who didn’t have lies between them. Who only had each other.

If she didn’t think about these things, she could make them go away. It was a trick she had learned as a child. When misfortune would strike she would force it from her mind, throw the fortress walls up, slam her back to them, and carry on as though nothing had occurred. That wasn’t a C-minus she received on a test; she had tons of friends despite sitting alone on the bus; her parents really loved each other. Her life was fine, and her heart was intact. It worked. Most of the time.

After her shower she attempted to eat lunch, but the food tasted like plastic. When she was done studying for finals, she buried herself in her search for The Lady in Red but found nothing. Upon cleaning the house for the second time, she broke down and called Detective Obester. He was suffering from a cold, and his voice sounded like how she felt, straining to remain positive. No news to report. Nothing. Hearing the despondency in her voice, he extended an invitation to a family barbeque. Forget her problems for a day, he said.

She ended the call with a shudder.

Rays of sun streamed in through her bedroom window; the glass was so old that it seemed to run between the mullions like rain. In truth, she felt steadier in the sun, more positive. Things weren’t as bad as she thought when it was so bright and cheerful outside. Andrew was angry—he had a right to be after everything he had learned—but he hadn’t meant to take it out on her, she reasoned. He hadn’t meant what he said about them. He was distraught; he needed time, space, to get his head together. They were fine, really. He would come back in a few hours, and they would hug and cry and kiss and everything would be back to normal.

Yes.
Of course.

She smiled confidently, having straightened herself out so. There was nothing wrong with them. Nothing wrong with him. Nothing.

The blood tasted like metal in Andrew’s mouth. He sucked one knuckle, the worst of the gashes, and his eyes squinted shut at the pain and the screeching morning sun overhead.

S.J. Gordian, the last person in the world he expected to see on this street, and at this hour of the morning, was uncoiling from a car parked directly across from Neil’s front door. The sun blazed on the Jaguar’s feline chassis. The sun blazed on her.

She regarded Andrew as though it was the most logical thing in the world that he should be standing there, with blood on his hands, unshaven and panting, at ten a.m. on a Friday morning.

“You know, I never gave you this.” She reached into her elegant black bag and withdrew a business card, holding it tight between the tips of her fingers. She searched his shirt for a pocket, and when she found none, her eyes roamed lower.

Before Andrew could utter a word, her face was inches from his. He felt the claw of her nails, forceful and brazen as they slid into his trouser pocket. Like talons, they slowly scratched along his thigh as she released the card. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but the smile on her lips told him they were laughing.

“You never know who to trust in this profession, do you?” She stepped an inch closer, not a sigh between them. Andrew didn’t back down. Her breath held a mix of peppermint and coffee. “My home phone number is on the back. Why don’t you stop by for drinks tonight? We can chat.”

Her lips brushed his cheek, hot and moist with lipstick, and her nails dragged dangerously along the inside of his thigh. She waited. Slowly, she deliberately withdrew her hand, stepped back, and smiled.

Andrew knew there would be no need for explanations with her. She would open the door to her tasteful designer penthouse, knowing he had no place left to hide. With no thought of going back, and only twenty bucks in his jacket pocket, where else could he go?

They would have the required drink, and when they were done they would face each other. She would want him to undress her as she undressed him, without passion. Then she would turn, her nails gleaming in the candlelight, they would fuck.

He would shower and leave in the morning. No goodbyes. None required. There was no need.

“Andrew?”

Did she enjoy the look of self-loathing in his eyes?

“You really are amazing. Such talent, so gorgeous. We could do incredible things together, you and I. Think about it. I really do want to help you.”

Her heels clipped up the steps, and her hand paused on Neil’s door knowing he was still watching her. She looked over her shoulder, her blond curls victorious. “Ten o’clock, just drinks. Don’t be late. We’ll have fun.”

Sometime around six in the evening Emily heard a car pull into the driveway, and she was at the window before she even knew she was moving. The figure of Claudia, smaller than Emily remembered, was getting into a taxi, suitcase in hand.

Emily’s nose stayed pressed to the pane, her breath fogging the glass, until the figures of Margot and Simon stole her attention. They walked tentatively toward Margot’s car, each eyeing the other, about to depart for their sojourn to the observatory in Berkeley.

Restless, she retreated to the conservatory and sat curled up on a wicker chair tucked away in the corner. Outside the weather was getting worse; a relentless thin gray line had descended on the horizon: the harbinger of storms. She pulled her hooded sweatshirt around her and shivered uncontrollably, then began to pluck at a string on her torn jeans.