Authors: Lauren Blakely
Chapter Four
I return to New York two days later, after a forty-eight-hour blur of interviews, meetings, meals, and parties, determined not only to put Jonas behind me, but also to keep Matthew with his blue eyes and penetrating questions far away. He’s a rock critic and anything more than a flirtation from afar would be dangerous.
Having a six-year-old helps immeasurably because Ethan spends a good chunk of the flight home explaining a new card game he’s invented. I don’t understand most of it, but the game makes perfect sense in his world—it’s a combination of Pokemon, Lego Star Wars, and Harry Potter because it involves picking cards, making characters, and trying to get a ghost helmet that transforms into a black dog if you use it to battle bad guys before you get a healing stone to ward off dark wizards. Or something like that. By the time we land, collect our bags, hail a cab, and shoot back through the Midtown Tunnel toward our home on Thirty-Sixth Street, Ethan is exhausted from the talking and the travel.
Once we’re inside the apartment I purchased a few months ago with the earnings from
Crushed
, I help Ethan get ready for bed, then tuck him under the same dog-patterned quilt he’s had since he was born.
“Ethan,” I say, smacking my forehead when I remember he has homework tonight. “It’s Tuesday, so it’s sound share tomorrow.” That’s the thing about being a mom—you don’t get to escape from daily life, even when your husband waves the rainbow flag, even when a bottom-feeder rubs it in your face, even when you win an award you didn’t let yourself dream of ever winning. The very morning after Aidan left me, I still had to make sure Ethan brushed his teeth and ate his toast and didn’t try to wear his favorite ratty little Yoda T-shirt to school. There’s no time to wallow in the mocha-chip ice cream when you have a seven in the morning wake-up call every day, no matter how good or bad you feel.
“Mom, can we skip it tonight?” Ethan half moans. At the same time, he swings his legs out of bed, knowing skipping homework is not an option. He’s in kindergarten, so homework is sort of a relative term. But his school assigns “sound share” homework to its kindergartners. The sound share letter this week is
G
.
He walks across his room, every square inch of walls filled with posters from the Harry Potter movies and shelves with the books, to a maroon-colored, kid-size desk and grabs his Scooby-Doo notebook and a pencil.
“G for Grammy. Three things about Grammy,” he says. “Number one: My mom has one. Number two: They’re really cool. Number three: I touched a Grammy.”
“Okay, love the idea, my sweets. But, number one, the Grammy is being engraved right now, so I don’t even have it.” Thank God, because there’s no way I want to let that little puppy into a kindergarten classroom. “Number two, you need to be more inventive with your answers. And number three, let’s find a photo of one online.”
About fifteen minutes later he selects: his mom has one, it’s an award for music, and it’s the shape of an old record player. Then he crawls back into bed and promptly falls asleep. I adjust the quilt, tucking it snugly around his body. I kiss his cheek, dim the lights, then make my way to the kitchen, where I fill a supersize mug with water from the tap and pop it into the microwave for a minute.
I pick up my cordless landline to find seventy-two messages on my voice mail. I’ve already fielded another dozen or so on my cell phone—calls from my parents in Maine, as well as my best girlfriend, Kelly, who lives here in New York. I punch my voice mail code—the date I lost my virginity in the backseat of Kyle Sutcliffe’s maroon Chevette in eleventh grade—and reach for a pen and paper, as I drop a Ceylon black tea bag into my mug.
As I wait for the tea to steep, dunking the bag up and down, I steel myself for a mixed assortment of messages. First the well-wishers. My next-door neighbor to the right, my next-door neighbor to the left, my doorman, the Chinese deliveryman (I hate to cook, so we’re on a first-name basis, commiserate over sucky relationships, and even share cold noodles now and then). Then, Haley Mauvais, who owns the guitar shop in my hometown (When would I come back to sign a picture for his wall?); Kyle Sutcliffe (How did
he
get my number?); Cranberry Morris, my booking agent (Am I free for a special one-night gig at the ultra-cool club The Knitting Factory in late March because they’d be delighted to have me in the Main Space? And can I perform on
Late Show with David Letterman
this Friday before my gig at Roseland Ballroom that same night? Yes and Yes!); and Jeremy, who runs my label.
I brace myself for this one. I love Jeremy like crazy, but he’s also been dropping anvil-sized hints that he’s ready for a new album. The trouble is I haven’t written many new songs, and I haven’t quite figured out how to tell him that my muse is taking an extended leave of absence for no good reason. I listen to his message.
I know I saw you just eight hours ago, but I’m so damn proud of you, and we all want you to pop into the office tomorrow to see you in person and celebrate.
Okay, I can do that. Then I hear the rest.
And, you know, talk about what we’re working on next. Because there’s this little thing known as momentum. Hey, that’d be a good name for a song. Maybe you could work on a song called “Momentum.”
I take a deep breath, reassuring myself that I can deliver what Jeremy needs. I want to write a new album, and hell, if there’s anything that can be inspiring, winning a Grammy has to be it. Maybe there’s a kernel of an idea in momentum, after all.
I listen to the others. Jonas again. (Delete.) Then a reporter from
Star
. I kind of like that magazine. Especially the fashion-police photos. Maybe I’ll call him back. Then
In Touch Weekly.
Then
The Superficial
.
All these messages from reporters remind me that I need to hire a publicist. I’ve always handled press calls on my own or relied on Owen or Aidan to help. But things happened so quickly with
Crushed
and then the Grammy nomination. Natalie tracked down a few potential publicists for me last month, but no one panned out.
Then I hear the next message.
“Hi, Jane. It’s Aidan. I just wanted to say congratulations. I was pulling for you all night—we had a Grammy party.”
We.
And here’s the other half of
we
now chiming into my voice mail
.
“Hi, Jane. It’s Tom. Oh my God, we’re
soooo
excited for you. We’re
soooo
happy you won.” Yes, Tom actually speaks in
soooo
s. All his
soooo
s
have multiple
o’
s.
So this is my life. I get to climb the music industry’s biggest peak, but on the top of the mountain here’s what’s awaiting me: another night in an empty bed and a congratulatory message from my ex-husband and his lover, the man he left me for, the man who speaks in
soooo
s
.
I met Aidan seven years ago when I was twenty-two and he was twenty-one. I’d just released my first album for the indie label Glass Slipper, and Jeremy sent a couple of his favorite artists on a New England tour that summer where I played at Matt Murphy’s Pub in Boston one night in August. About thirty seconds into my first song, I noticed Aidan. He’s hard to miss. He was gorgeous—movie-star gorgeous. Pinch-me-I’m-dreaming gorgeous. He looked like Chris Pine, with chiseled features, see-inside-my-soul green eyes, and golden-blond hair, slightly wavy. I never thought for a second he’d be interested in me. But I had one advantage and I planned to use it. I was the one onstage, and that’s a time-honored trick that’s worked for male rock stars.
I played six songs and I sang them all to him. The club took a five-minute break in between acts, so I maneuvered my way to the bar where he was getting a refill, and chatted him up. We both had a few beers, and one thing led to another. In another time-honored rock-and-roll tradition, I took him back to my hotel room and pounced on him.
The next morning, I told him I’d call him when I was back in town, and he pulled my hand to his face and kissed my palm to say good-bye. In retrospect, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? He kissed my
hand
. He didn’t kiss my lips. He didn’t run his hands through my long, curly hair. He didn’t trail a tongue across my neck. Nope, he kissed my palm.
Even so, I planned to look him up again. Then I
had
to. Because there was one big difference between me and all those revered male singers and guitarists and drummers and bassists bedding groupies and fans and hot young things after a gig. I became pregnant that night.
He was a gentleman when I delivered the news, insisting we make it official and become a family. We tied the knot a few months later, and we went on like that, Mr. and Mrs. Aidan Stoker and Jane Black, a history teacher and struggling singer, him moonlighting as a sort-of manager for my career, until that night a year ago when both my husband and the truth of our marriage came out.
“And I’m proud of you. I knew you had it in you all along,” Aidan says as the phone message continues playing. “So listen, I’m calling because I wanted to see if you’d be willing to come to a meeting of Gay Men With Straight Wives, that group I still go to. To talk about your experiences when I came out and maybe help some of the other wives who are going through the same thing, because there are women who attend the meetings, too. And a lot of them are really looking for someone who understands their situation and could give them some honest and true support.”
I groan loudly, then delete the message. I don’t want to be the poster child for dumped straight wives. I don’t want the reminders of the ways I’d been fooled, the ways I was stupid. I’m not at all ashamed he’s gay. I’d be just as ashamed if he left me because he was doing it with the nanny or banging his assistant. I’m ashamed for being so goddamn blind for so many years. I’m embarrassed that I was so stupid I missed all the signs, all the way to the first night when he kissed my hand. I’m annoyed that I’ve been unwanted for so long.
Untouched, unkissed, undesired for years.
There’s one more voice mail, and it’s from Matthew Harrigan. “Remember that interview I asked for? I hope it’s not too much to request a bit of time with you for a feature article. About your
music
. Call me on my mobile.”
He leaves the number. I don’t remember ever giving him my home number or Jonas or
Star
or
In Touch
. Though evidently all of Manhattan and all my past lives have found it.
But Matthew is the first one who’s getting a call back. Matthew’s voice is the one I want to hear most right now, even if he’s a reporter. At least he’s not a reminder of all the ways I was fooled. I grab a sweatshirt, make my way through the living room and open the sliding glass door to a tiny balcony that overlooks my quiet block. It’s chilly, but I’m a Maine girl at heart, so I don’t mind the cold.
I pick up the phone and dial.
Chapter Five
I’ll admit I have a big thing for British accents. When my brother produced an album last year for British singer-songwriter Jamie Withers, Owen kvetched that it wasn’t fair that Jamie was not only a musician, but also a Brit. “I have no chance when I hang out with him,” Owen said. “If the women aren’t already falling all over him because he’s a rock star, they’re swooning for that oh-so-proper accent. American guys have zero chance against that.”
I nodded and laughed. Because it was true.
“Hello,” Matthew says in his oh-so-proper accent, which instantly makes me want to flirt with him against my better judgment.
“You know, I know you were listening to Johnny Cash,” I say, after hearing the faint sounds of “Folsom Prison Blues” fade away as Matthew says hello.
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes. You see, when you turn down the volume
after
you’ve picked up the phone, the other person can still hear what you were listening to.”
“Really? I did not know that. I suppose next time I’d better be more surreptitious.”
“Yeah, you don’t want anyone to know that a music critic might actually have personal preferences.” I sit down in my deck chair. “By the way, it’s Jane Black.”
“Yes, I know. Caller ID is a beautiful invention, don’t you agree?”
“Speaking of, and not that I care, but how did you get my home number?”
“The day you called me to say thanks, I took your number off caller ID and saved it.”
“Resourceful,” I remark, leaning back into the chair, feeling the wooden slats through my shirt.
“I believe I can speak for most journalists here when I say we’re quite good at harvesting numbers. Between you and me,” he says, as if he is about to share a tawdry secret, and I simply love the playfulness in him, “I have a database of more than six thousand names because I’m completely obsessive with phone numbers. Anytime I get one, either on my mobile, the office, or home, I record the number in my database. You never know when you might need it.”
“Well, my e-mail is janesecretmail at gmail, in case you want that too,” I say quickly, and perhaps it’s because there’s a part of me that hopes he uses it. “So you’re a big Cash man?”
“You have to love the man in black, don’t you?”
“I thought you didn’t play and tell?” I say, teasing him.
“Well, this
is
Johnny Cash we’re talking about. They’d have to take my credentials away if I didn’t listen to him on a daily basis.”
“That I can understand.”
“It’s in the international code, section five, paragraph two of the secret order of rock critics. You can check it out,” he tosses back. His voice washes over me, like a Valium, a muscle relaxer, masking the pain of the voice mail. “So, listen,” I say, getting down to business. “I wanted to return your call. But I should let you know talking to the press isn’t at the top of my list of things to do right now.”
“Jonas has you a bit down, eh?”
“You might say.”
“And now you’re press shy.”
“Well, it was pretty shitty what he did, don’t you think?”
“It was completely shitty. If I were you, I wouldn’t have even returned my call. I’d have deleted it right off the voice mail and then thrown a rotten egg at my window. Simply because all journalists are horrid.”
I can’t help but laugh. Then I add darkly, “It was like reliving the humiliation all over again.”
He sighs, a sort of sympathetic sigh. “I’m truly sorry for what happened, Jane. But you shouldn’t retreat from the spotlight right now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t happen to have an ulterior motive for saying that, would you?”
“Of course I have an ulterior motive. I have many ulterior motives,” he says in a low, sexy voice that sends a warm flush through me. Is he flirting? Is this some sort of innuendo? I have no idea, but I let my mind wander to my own ulterior motives too. Ones that have nothing to do with work and everything to do with wondering how he’s dressed right now.
I assemble an image of him looking all cool and laid-back in jeans and a tee, stretched out on his couch. Then him undressing, the shirt coming off so I can check out my absolute favorite part of a hot guy’s body—his abs. Well,
one
of my favorite parts. “But seriously,” he continues, returning to his crisp reporter’s tone, and I refocus. “This is your moment. You have worked so hard for this. And you deserve it. All of it. I’d hate to see someone in your position back down because of someone like Jonas. You should bask in the limelight right now.”
“Basking sounds heavenly.”
“So listen. You did call me back,” he points out. “And I have a hunch, I’m only guessing here, but I bet that Jonas left you a message, too.”
“He did, as a matter of fact.”
“And correct me if I’m wrong, but I suspect you’ve already deleted his message. You probably even pressed the delete button extra hard to make sure it went to voice mail oblivion.”
I’m smiling now. “Fine, I admit it. I did that.”
“And since you
didn’t
do that to my message, that tells me that you’ll at least hear me out.”
Hear him out. How could I not when talking to him is the sweetest drug that feeds my hungry imagination? “Fine, make your pitch, Matthew. I am
all
ears.”
He laughs. “So here it goes. I’m not Jonas Applebaum. We like to practice journalism at
Beat
, not ambush. So along those lines, I have a fantastic idea for a follow-up. I’d love to do a feature on you, a sort of what’s next. But more than that. I want to do something where we can explore the creative process. Would you be able to meet in person to perhaps chat a bit more?” Then, he adds, as if by way of apology, “Of course, you must be swamped right now. I’m sure your schedule is packed.”
Yes, but that’s not the problem. The problem is I don’t know what’s next.
“I’m not saying yes, but I want to ask you a question,” I counter, because as delicious as he may be, he’s still a reporter, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to trust one so soon after getting burned so publicly.
“Have at me. I’m all about equal opportunity.”
“I admire your work and you’re obviously good at what you do,” I start. This is true—I have read all his reviews since he became the lead critic at
Beat
three years ago. Matthew’s taste is impeccable and his track record is virtually 100 percent. Even before he took the reins of the top tastemaker job, he was well known for an uncanny ability to pick indie bands poised to break out. Add the iTunes home page placement deal to the mix and he’s a force of nature in the music business. Still, I can hear Jonas’s nasal twang ringing in my ear and the sting isn’t gone. Not when I’ve worked so hard to keep my private life just that—
private
. “But I’ve had a bunch of calls for interviews that have nothing to do with the music. Are you only interested in doing this feature on me because of the gay husband revelation?”
“Absolutely not. To make my case, I did ask you before you won—I even predicted you would win—if I could have the first sit-down interview. I already had it in mind that I wanted to do this before Jonas outed your ex.”
“True,” I say, remembering his question in the lobby of the Staples Center.
“Look, I understand your reticence right now. You’ve had something incredibly personal revealed in a highly public forum. And I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but for what it’s worth, you should simply be yourself. You’ve always been upfront and easy to talk to. You don’t spew a corporate line or anything. You’re just you. So be yourself with reporters and it’ll blow over.”
“It will?”
“Of course. It’s a
story of the week
kind of thing. It’s no racier than the latest wrinkles in Rihanna’s romantic foibles. Interesting for a bit, then it fades. I mean, it’s not like Bono said he was gay,” Matthew adds with a laugh. “And it’s not like you’re gay. I mean, you’re not coming out to
Star.
Or are you?”
“No!”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Of course not,” I say, wanting to add that I’ve always been a big fan of men, especially men who like women.
Then there’s a barking sound.
“Shh. Quiet, Doctor,” I hear Matthew say to the dog.
“You have a dog named Doctor?”
“Yes. But she’s not currently taking any new patients,” he says, and I laugh once again. “So you’re not going to be the next Melissa Etheridge or k.d. lang, we’ve established that. And the reality is no one is that interested in him long-term. Besides, he’s not the first guy to marry a woman and then realize he likes guys. It happens. So if anyone still wants to know how it impacted you, they could just listen to the fucking album.”
This is the longest conversation I’ve had with Matthew and certainly the first that’s been personal. But I can already see that he has this unusual ability to hop from witticism, to social commentary, to a sort of very raw and very honest emotional insight. I like the way he thinks. I like that he’s straightforward. I like that he seems to enjoy talking to me.
But that’s the problem.
I stand up from my deck chair ready to head inside. “Tell you what,” I say as I close the sliding glass door behind. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Because I don’t know how I could trust a reporter, so I’m not ready to agree to a story. Especially when that reporter is the tiniest bit flirty, and when I’m already entertaining after-hours thoughts about him. I don’t know how to trust anyone, even my own instincts, so I desperately need a barometer. My compass is so far out of whack that I don’t know what’s up or down anymore. I need to borrow my friend Kelly’s.
I call her and let her know that by the power vested in me as her best friend, I’m declaring tomorrow an emergency sushi lunch meeting.