Resurgence (22 page)
A powerful guitar riff suddenly rends the air. Then another. And another. The lads are warming up for what will be the first ensemble run-through of “Angle of Repose,” the tune written as an ode to reclaimed life that’s now destined to become a requiem for unexplained loss. Colin still has misgivings about including it on the playlist—especially as performed by the full roster—but he can at least be glad it won’t be distorted into an artsy-fartsy theatrical piece as was “Revenant” when the Institute Award wankers got hold of that tune.
Despite the extra work entailed, there’s a lot to be said for full artistic control, a position he fought for and won over the reservations of a skeptical few. In this capacity, he can make dead certain any elegiac qualities given “Angle of Repose” come from the listeners, not the performers. Similarly, when he fronts his own band for the European tour, he can guard against anything too revelatory creeping into the mix, regardless of Laurel’s comments about what’s now referred to as “Layla effect.”
They’re calling for him now, and, going by the energy some are putting into their arm waving, have been for the last several minutes. He could literally be grandstanding when he descends the risers one slow measured step at a time. His shoes don’t pinch and his legs don’t ache that much, but he’s every bit as wary of making a false step as he was at the Icon show.
The ride from the rehearsal hall to the Dorchester in a cab shared with Bemus, is a swift undertaking at one-something in the morning. It’s quiet as well; no one has anything left to say after fifteen hours of fine-tuning and second-guessing everything from stage setup, to order of appearance, to playlist selection, to distribution of media credentials, to dressing room assignments. And that’s only the beginning. Tomorrow will see tedious stretches of blocking and timing for the live television feed using standins, and the next day will see extensive lighting and sound checks in the actual venue—probably right up to zero hour—with the greatest chance of a cock-up occurring when there’s least chance of setting it right.
In this advanced state of preoccupation, Colin surrenders the last of the day’s details to Bemus, who settles with the cab driver, then provides redundant escort through an underpopulated hotel lobby into an empty lift, and straightaway to the door of an extended suite. Goodnights are implied rather than said when they part.
Colin hesitates a moment before opening the door. Not of apprehension, as would have been the case in another life, but of anticipated pleasure that’s met when the door swings open revealing Laurel in a lime-green kimono and warm smile.
She’s uncomplaining of his sweat smell when they kiss, and of the too many hours they’ve been apart when she follows him into the bedroom to inquire how his day went. She’s unarmed when she runs a bath for him. No grievances are tossed out under a smokescreen of solicitude, and no annoyances surface in any of the thoughtful questions she asks whilst he strips down and slides into the blessedly hot water.
She sits for a while on the closed loo and the conversation drifts far into neutral territory—to the banal—before he starts getting the feeling another shoe’s about to be dropped, even though he may not have heard the first one hit the floor.
“You finish up here while I check on the boys and order something from room service. From what you’ve just said, I doubt you took time to eat. You won’t sleep long on an empty stomach, you know.” She says all this a trifle too fast and scoots out of the room before he can challenge her.
He finishes up sooner than he’d like; he’d prefer to linger until the major complaints have been soaked out of his legs, but that could take till dawn. After toweling off, he pulls on the sweat pants and T-shirt she left for him on the bed and pads barefoot into the sitting room, where she’s pressed herself into a corner of the couch. He takes a seat opposite, the better to read what’s going on. If anything is going on.
“You all squared away with your financial advisor, then? How’d that go? Any trouble finding his office?”
She unties and reties the belt to her kimono, fiddles with the sleeves, smoothes back a wisp of hair. “We met . . . here,” she says without looking up at him. “The nanny was delayed, so I had to make a snap decision. I had to ask him to come here as the lesser of two evils.”
“The greater evil being the prospect of taking the lads into a child-unfriendly environment.”
“Yes.” She looks at him out of the tops of her eyes, obviously expecting him to register objection, and he’s damned if he’ll live up to that expectation even though he does object. Strenuously. Retroactively, therefore stupidly.
“But now you
are
done with him,” he says through clenched jaws that have felt plenty of practice today.
“No,” she says, “we never got around to the nitty-gritty because I needed to talk about so many other things.”
“What other things? What did you have to talk about with him that you couldn’t talk about with me?”
“Nothing that you don’t know about . . . Nothing of any great earthshaking importance . . . Just what should be done about Mrs. Floss, and about my house, and about my father. Things like that, and the conversation was pretty one-sided. It was mainly me talking, mainly me thinking out loud.”
“So, the great man was subjected to your stream of consciousness and the intrusion of the lads till the nanny showed up.”
“That basically describes it, except the nanny never did show.”
“You’ve been without a break all day? All night? Why didn’t you have the agency send another?”
“I’m going to rebook with an agency that’s just promised a no-show? Or any agency, for that matter?”
“Then what are you gonna do tomorrow, and the next day, or whenever it is you’re to meet with Nate again?”
“I called your mother. She’ll be here in the morning. Early.”
“Wait a minute. Wasn’t relieving her of nanny duties part of the negotiation when you convinced her not to move out?”
“It was, and I now realize it shouldn’t have been. I don’t think either one of us was telling the truth during that negotiation. Not the whole truth.”
“What brought on this revelation? Never mind, I already know. Nate’s behind this, isn’t he, then?”
“He said I’d be making a big mistake if I didn’t ask her to go on the tour, as well. He said I could trust him to know this is the right thing to do.”
“And you do trust him.”
“I do. And if you’re going to be pissed about that, you might as well know that I then asked him to figure out a way to reinstate himself with you.”
“You had to
ask
? Isn’t he already trying? I heard just this afternoon that he’s resumed beating the bushes for the single bogeyman he thinks is responsible for the Grant, Lester, and Kaplan murders, and is somehow posing a threat to me. Did he bring that up today? Did he mention to you that the New York investigation matched up drugs found at two of the murder scenes? Did he try to brainwash you into believing that’s significant beyond the obvious—beyond both Lester and Kaplan being well-known bottomfeeders?”
“No, he did not. No mention was made of any of that, and he flatly rejected the notion of even marginally involving himself with you again. He repeated what he said the night I hid from you at his house—he restated that he could never again tolerate the day-to-day—which effectively negates what you were told this afternoon.”
“Yeh, I suppose, but—”
“No buts. His interest in you approximates the interest he has in his ex-wife—his words—and I sincerely doubt that involves any extra skulking around.”
“I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.”
“I can see where that might be a problem.” She hints at a smile and rather hugs herself the way she used to when the hands-off policy was still in force.
“Can you forgive me for being sorry you and Nate can’t at least be friends? Can you understand that he’ll always be my friend for having given me the nudge that made us happen?” she says.
The arrival of room service spares his having to supply an answer right away. If an answer is even expected to a question so clearly designed to produce guilt. Then the selections she made—cream of tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches that reminisce the only other meal they ever shared in a hotel room—blur the leading edges of that guilt.
“You’re scaring me again, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she says and offers up a full smile that makes him feel like he should say grace before the meal.
As revealed in early morning light, the shallow indent of her spine may be the loveliest thing he’s ever seen, either in the flesh or as rendered by a master’s hand on canvas. This effusive, wildly uncharacteristic assessment jars him awake more effectively than would have a thrown bucket of cold water, and keeps his hand from reaching across a couple of feet of bed for this new art treasure known as Amanda.
Nate props himself up on one elbow, turns back the sheet to reveal even more of her side-positioned figure. He attempts a less impassioned appraisal and arrives at the same conclusion as before. But might not he be prejudiced by his admiration for what lies beneath this pulchritudinous exterior? Pulchritudinous? He gulps loud enough to be heard. He doesn’t use words like that—not even in thought—and he sure as hell knows the difference between spine and backbone, so it can’t be the high value he places on fortitude and determination that’s influencing his perceptions. Can it?
Amanda shifts onto her back, turns part way toward him, and now he’s forced to debate if her breasts are as lovely as they appear to be with nothing to influence him but the superficial. He grazes one with a knuckle—lightly, experimentally—just enough of a touch to wake her if his hot gaze hasn’t done the job.
She turns all the way toward him, opens one eye at a time, and unselfconsciously submits to his ogling. He’d have to be barking mad, as they say over here, to think the flipside was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen when clearly it’s this side. He inventories wondrous appearing features as though he’d never seen them before—never seen any naked female flesh before—until his mounting ardor is squelched by the ringing of the phone.
The call is for her, as has been nearly every call whenever she’s in residence. This has taken some getting used to, this sensation of playing second fiddle when he’s more accustomed to being the one in demand. But he’d better be damned used to it by the time he attends tonight’s concert. Tonight, he can expect to be as redundant as he was the only other time he attended a major rock event without authority to wield or a band to represent. Recalling the glum occasion when he took a break from overseeing Colin’s convalescence to attend the Philadelphia venue of 1985’s Live Aid concerts, could tempt him to skip tonight’s affair despite pledges given.
Amanda indicates she’ll be on the phone for a while and that he should go ahead and lay claim to the bathroom. He does, but reluctantly, knowing she won’t join him as long as there are calls to be returned. A trait he’d admire under most circumstances. But under most circumstances, he wouldn’t give a shit whether or not a sex partner had good work habits.
The clandestine nature of their arrangement is beginning to bother him, as well. Although an undeniable thrill comes with having to stay under the radar, he’d gladly forgo the thrill and flaunt their symbiosis if doing so wouldn’t jeopardize Amanda’s current status with Colin.
He finishes in the bathroom and comes out to find Amanda still anchored to the phone. He’s fully dressed for business before she heads for the shower with the sheet draped around her, toga style.
“I’m not going to see you again until after the concert, am I?” he says and starts gathering up coat, umbrella, and document case.
“Not unless you come backstage tonight.” She pauses in the doorway to the bathroom. “You can, you know. You have all-access credentials.”
“Yeah, I know, and if I’m seen anywhere near you by the wrong people, wrong conclusions
will
be drawn.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“From everything Laurel says. When we made arrangements for today’s meeting, she let slip that my presence at her hotel on Monday was frowned upon, and reminded me that Colin’s barely tolerant of my business relationship with her. So, it makes even more sense to stay out of his way. Especially where you’re concerned.”
“Worst case scenario—Colin finds out we’re seeing each other and assumes you’re running things from behind the scenes. Everything’s locked in now. Everything’s a go at this point, so if he sent me packing it wouldn’t make a difference.”
“Sorry, I have to disagree. He’s a rock star, Amanda. He may have changed a lot after the accident, but some things never change. He’s hotheaded, stubborn, and unreasonable in ways you might not be able to predict. But I can. Trust me, if he’s given reason to think I set him up for any of this, he’ll walk. And I don’t mean just walk out on tonight’s gig. He’ll refuse to do the tour as well.”
“Even though it’s all for Rayce?”