Houston was hot, and the little crowd of fans at the airport were polite, but eager to get a photo of Tristan and AC as we made our way out to the waiting car. They both signed autographs, and posed for a couple of pictures together, their arms around each other like the world was a party and everything was fun. Both their faces changed in front of the cameras, like they both knew which angles suited them best, which expressions gave which impressions. But when it was time to stop, and the airport security guard stepped forward to separate the fans from their prey, they both returned to their normal expressions, and it was if a light had been switched off. They needed it, but it could be a parasitic relationship. The fans fed on their host, and if they didn’t limit it, there would be nothing left. Sometimes you felt that the fans wouldn’t mind, that they’d like to see them crumble and die, the desire to take everything apart, destruction a part of the passion.
The hotel was pleasant. James had flown down with us, and checked us in, while we waited in the bar. AC ordered for all of us. For someone that outwardly, at any rate, did not give the same impression of command as Tristan did, AC managed very well when he wanted to take control of a situation. Maybe it was the sense he gave off that if it had come to this, it was serious, and he wouldn’t tolerate any arguments. Or maybe it was that he knew when to push, and when to let it all go. Watching Tristan look gloomily at his vodka tonic—with extra tonic—was almost funny. But they had another radio interview to go to before the sound check and a quick record signing at a store near the venue. AC caught me eyeing Tristan’s pout, and with an amused expression, he winked at me. “Only one bottle for baby. Even if he throws all his toys out of the pram.” I laughed.
“Shut up, both of you,” Tristan said miserably. AC and I looked at each other, eyes big, fake shock written over both our faces. AC mouthed “ooooh” at me. I tried not to laugh.
* * *
“His name was always Buddy…and she’d sigh like Twig the Wonderkid.” That portion of the line was running through my head over all the other sounds as I walked up and down the street outside the radio station where Tristan and AC were. I turned my headphones up louder to drown out the clank clank clank of the nearby roadworks, the buses going by, the cars, the people. It wasn’t even that busy, compared to New York, but it felt like it. There was a guy coming my way in a cowboy hat. I couldn’t help it, I laughed out loud, and the man in the hat gave me a dirty look. It was hot, and it was dusty, and beyond the buildings, I knew there was just land, and oil derricks, and cattle waiting to be turned into cheap frozen burgers, and ancient burial grounds, and dirt. Land. And the lizard-like waiting and hot rock heat.
It was almost 2:30 p.m. The day winding down, the interview would be over, and the car would be there to take us back to the venue for the sound check before tonight’s show. I felt guilty. I was writing of course, but it wasn’t the same as having to spew out the same old set of answers to an endless parade of interviewers, asking the obvious, looking for the hopefully shocking angle that would add nothing to the world’s knowledge, but would keep them in bread and butter for the foreseeable future. Now that AC was going along, I wondered if some interviewer was going to get more than he or she had ever wished for.
I’d been politely banned from interviews after Kansas City. It was clear to the record company that it was only my gender they could rely on, and barely that. Trevor had congratulated me when I’d told him the news. “One interview, that’s fantastic. Of course, the bloke handed you the Yoko poison pill, so it wasn’t entirely your own doing. Still. Well done.” Apparently he’d told Tristan that if he wanted any more proof that I wasn’t in it for the celebrity, he was out of his mind. And Dave had mentioned that there was now a Tumblr called “We Are All Yoko.” I’d just laughed when he told me.
I looked down the street. A tall dark head had just emerged from the building, followed by a slightly shorter blond head of loose curls. They were quickly surrounded by a little crowd that I knew would contain two bodyguards, and a small loyal group of fans who had waited for Tristan and AC to emerge. I came closer. There was the car. They were standing chatting with the fans, posing for pictures, the girls eyeing Tristan for the most part, with a couple clinging on to AC adoringly. He looked amused. And the two more menacing members of the group were keeping a close eye on the proceedings. I was grateful for them, whatever impulse made this their calling. It worked for all of us—they banked on their natural ability to inspire fear and obedience, not to mention their unspoken enjoyment of this power. I banked on the fact that it worked, and kept Tristan safe. And AC.
There had been a couple of instances where a fan had drifted right over the edge into fanaticism. It was almost understandable. Tristan’s profile, emerging into the everyday, standing a head above almost anyone in the street, the long lean line of his thighs in the tight black trousers, the leather jacket taunting the heat, his half-smile hinting at a multitude of feelings while coaxing everyone else’s to come out of hiding, to come into the light from the dark playground of their bedrooms, the internet sites, their personal blogs, their secret dreams. His hands, actual skin, reaching out for a pen and the album covers, magazines, CDs, tickets, pieces of paper, fan art, t-shirts, clothing, skin waiting to become tattoos, hands, arms, phones, cameras, all reaching out for him, all wanting that piece of the divinity that meant they’d been validated, that some part of their lives at last was bigger than all the rest.
I approached only at the last minute. A gesture from Tristan was enough to tell the bodyguard to let me through, which he did, a protective arm around me. I got in to the car last, and as I sank down to the level of the seats, for some reason I turned back to look at the little crowd. One of the women was inspecting me, her expression a mixture of envy and confusion and want. Sheer want. I wanted to tell her, it’s not as easy as it looks, it’s not as much fun, it’s actually a lot more like real life than you’d think, there’s jealousy, and fear, and uncertainty. But she’d never believe it, I thought, not as the bodyguard shut the door with a sharp click, and the car pulled away slowly. Then Tristan took my hand and smiled at me, and I thought, all except for this. His mouth, his strong hands, and mostly the look in his eye when he found me next to him, safe and happy. This didn’t feel like real life at all. But maybe it felt like love.
* * *
Tristan was fidgeting on the bed, flicking through the channels, propped up by the three extra full pillows he had asked housekeeping to bring up. Everything was done, the radio interview, the sound check, the record signing, So we were biding our time, watching TV and waiting for the main event. I was working on some voice-over sections for the documentary, the on-again, off-again project, which now, according to Dave, was on again. It didn’t seem possible, but with the success of the Stone Roses documentary, hot on the heels of the award winning look at Freddie Mercury, it appeared that the public was ready for more rock history, even of fairly recent date. I was scribbling away, vaguely aware of Tristan’s increasingly speed-driven flick through the channels, when the sound of the remote smashing against the wall made me shriek. I had caught the tail end of him raising his arm, but it all happened so fast, I couldn’t make out why he had done it, or what it meant. Now we sat there in silence, staring at the black scrape on the wall, and the shattered pieces of the plastic casing half lost in the deep pile carpet.
“Fuck this shit,” Tristan said, strangely out of breath. He looked over at me, then shut his eyes tight, flinging his head back against the pillows. “I can’t do this. All this domestic.”
I stared at him, silent.
“No, that’s not what I mean. No. I love you. You know that. But this,” here he swept his hand through the air, in almost the same gesture he used to obliterate the remote, “the waiting. The steady meals. Destinations. Fuck.” He sat up, his hands brushing through his dark tangled hair, “I want to get wasted. Do crazy things. I don’t know if I know how to be like this. Sens
ible.”
I breathed out, slowly. “Maybe you’re just bored. Nervous about the awards show. Finding it weird that someone is making a docu-drama of your messed-up rock and roll life.” An edge had come into my voice. I thought of that girl looking at me, longingly. I wondered what she’d do, face to face with the ever-growing monster that on-tour Tristan was threatening to become.
Tristan looked at me, surprised. Then his face hardened. “Yeah. I am all those things. But. I want to be the other. I want to write some songs, I want to play, I want to go crazy. I don’t know how to do it like this. That place seems very far away, when I’m lying here next to you, ready to order room service, no band mate to put under the shower, no half-naked girls to be escorted out.”
“Is that what you want? And the drugs?” I paused. “I thought that was already taken care of.” He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “Women? It wouldn’t take a lot of work to get back there. A quick phone call, and you could have the local talent here in a heartbeat. I was under the impression you were already working at full capacity though.” I got up. “Getting there is easy. It’s getting back that’s tricky. But if you want me gone,” I started picking up my papers, “It’s easily done. No one said I had to be on tour with you every day, every night.” I walked over to the minibar, and pulled out a little bottle of vodka, which seemed to be today’s drink, and a beer, and went and sat on the sofa. I rifled through the papers, unseeing.
Tristan got up, and started pacing. Then he stopped by the window, to look out at the 24th floor vantage point. I’d stood there myself when we arrived, watching the grid disappear into the horizon, half listening to Tristan making his phone calls. Now I didn’t know if he wanted me to fight him, or let him have his way. Teach him a lesson, or prove love by acquiescence. What I did know was that he couldn’t feel that I was holding him back from anything. That would be disaster.
I thought back to the talk Trevor and I had when I’d flown out to see him in London before the tour had even begun. Now his words seemed oddly prophetic—“don’t let Tristan feel he has either the upper hand or the lower. In other words, don’t hesitate to remind him that he has made all these choices.” He had laughed. “Nothing a rock star loves more than to risk, to threaten to give it all up. Make sure when he wants to go there, he knows that no one will stop him.” Trevor had gazed at me. “It’s not true, of course. We’ll stop him. But god help us if we fuel him by restriction.”
I had turned towards Trevor then, really uncertain of what he was telling me. “But your story? Tristan crying…”
Trevor shood his head. “If we want to keep them, we raise the alarm—but we get out of the way. Then we pick up the pieces.” He saw the look on my face, and carried on. “There’s nothing we can do but pray they listen.”
“But you…you practically staged an intervention. How can you let him go, if that’s what he is going to do?”
“Because Tristan will dance his own dance. Be the music—not the steps.” He had reached out for my hand. “You’re sensitive—as he is. I trust that you will respect his demons as you do your own, my dear.”
And here was the moment Trevor had warned me about. I hadn’t really understood what he had meant. Now I did. Tristan. Always wanting more than he had, feeling that insane pressure, needing to act, to do, to make something happen, almost anything. Trevor’s voice echoed through my head—“respect his demons as you do your own…” I took a deep breath. How many times had I felt trapped? Those long, late night walks home alone, where the silence and the isolation had been what I wanted, when I didn’t know how to deal with what people wanted. Their idiocy. The want. It seemed to me it was the same problem. This didn’t need to escalate. Maybe. I opened the beer and drank half of it before I answered him. I hoped he couldn’t tell how much I was holding back.
“Maybe you aren’t sure what I want. Or what you want. But you’ll never figure it out watching reruns of Ellen.”
Tristan smiled finally. “I like Ellen.” His voice lowered. “I was hoping she’d give me some help with the whole gay thing.” He smiled. “What was it you said? ‘Working at full capacity?’ Nice.” He smirked.
I wasn’t going to be baited. Keep it light. “I don’t think you need any help. You seem to be doing just fine.” If he expected me to say anything precise, he was very wrong. But I still tensed every muscle in my body I could feel. Letting go. The hardest thing for me. My demons. “But you probably need some space. That’s fine.” I had my phone out, my finger on speed dial. “It’s the last nights of the tour. I’ve seen the shows, had the bus experience. Next week L.A. I’ll see you there.” The voice on the other end of the phone was cool. Dave’s secretary. Used to the sudden emergency. “Ginny. Lily here.” We were on first name basis now. Would that still hold true if I wasn’t fucking the star? Didn’t matter. But given my part in the whole production, I’d have to insure that held true. Ironically, continuing to fuck the star now seemed to depend on not doing it. Yin Yang, I thought. It’s balance. “Can you book me a ticket out back to New York tonight? Houston, that’s right. Yes, I will hold.”
Tristan watched me, a slight flicker in his swirling eyes. I pretended not to notice. This game depended on me holding my ground. “Yes? First flight out tomorrow morning at 7? Sure, that’s fine. Ticket in my email in an hour? Great. Cheers, Ginny. Appreciate it. Say hello to Dave for me. Thanks again.” I pressed the end call button with a bit more ferocity than usual. “Ok, tomorrow a.m. I’m out of here. And now I’m going to do a little shopping.” Tristan raised his hand as if to stop me. “No, it’s fine. I’ll see you later—either at the show or after.” I went over to him and hugged him, as though I was heading for a shower, rather than leaving. “Have a nap. I’ll get someone to give you a call when it’s time to head out.”
Tristan leaned his head into my neck. “You scare me a little, you know.”
I laughed. “Yeah, me too.” I kissed him and grabbing my bag, I headed for the door. “It’s all good, love.” I blew him a kiss from the door, and shut it carefully behind me. I walked down the hall, made it to the elevator, then collapsed against the wall. I had to do it. He had to make the choice, not me. I wasn’t going to jail anyone against their will. Before I could think any more about it, I pressed the button for the elevator. I rode down in silence, making up my mind. When I got down to the lobby, I asked the concierge to get me a taxi to the mall. I didn’t think I’d need 5 hours in the mall, but then again, I didn’t think I needed to hang about watching the show either. Probably the moon-eyed wonder had gotten old. It didn’t matter. I sat down in one of the big chairs by the doors, waiting for my ride, and pulled out my phone again. Another speed dial button, and it struck me that it really was true, when you really loved someone, you did want them to be happy. Mostly. Even if that didn’t always get you everything you thought you wanted. But it also didn’t mean you gave up yourself. What a fucking moment to learn that lesson. At any rate, I’d had enough of half-measures in my life. I wanted the passion, I wanted the truth. I listened to the voice answer the phone.
“AC? Lily here. Yes. Look, he’s alone. And he needs you. No, everything is fine. But I think he’s freaking out a bit. I have a feeling you’ll know what to say. No, really it’s ok. I’ll see you both later. No, I won’t be at the show. Taking a break. Going to eat some ribs. Shop for luxury goods. Be good to each other, ok?” And I rang off. Outside, a black town car was pulling up. The doorman waved to me after getting the nod from the concierge, and as he opened the door to let me slide into the air-conditioned darkness, his deep voice said, “Have a good evening, Miss.”
Well, I’d started something. Now to see whether it was good, or not.
* * *
I’d turned off my phone in the film. I didn’t want to look. But now that I was outside, trying to remember the title of what I’d just seen, determined to distract myself and kill time, weaving my way through the
crowd of people laughing and talking, I had to. I wanted to. I’d been good. I switched it on, and watched the emails and DMs add up, a little like the spinning wheels of a slot machine. Then the voice mail—only three. I pressed it and watched as it went to the list—it was AC, not Tristan. I pressed play before I had a change of heart or a chance to think about what that could mean.
His voice was clear. “Lily. Come home. He loves you, so much. And so do I, and not just for being that constant in his life. You’re rad. Seriously. Touring really gets to him. He thought it’d be easier this time around. He didn’t tell you. And someone was trash talking the band. He’s got to sack James, he’s a fucking time bomb. Now he’s spending time chatting to Jack. No good will come of that. Fuck it. But come back. Come now. Ok? Please?” I listened to it again, walking towards the exit of the mall, watching the couples and the high school kids strolling by, heading home. I called for a taxi, and stood outside, breathing in the warm air, the dark sky, watching the headlights come on the different cars as they started up and headed off. But it wasn’t until my cab had turned up, and I’d given the guy the name of the hotel, which luckily I’d saved on the phone, that I texted AC. On my way. I added the next part more slowly. For now. And hit send before I had a chance to change my mind.
It took about half an hour to get back. It was before midnight. I figured I had time for a shower, and a chance to collect my thoughts before I needed to deal with either of them. I could pack. The flight left at 6:40. One stop, no plane change. Seemed fair. I was thinking about what I’d say to both of them. I was hoping it wasn’t going to be too hard to leave. Or too easy. I turned my feet away from the elevators, and towards the bar. I needed a drink, and to try and remember what it was like to be on my own. Watching. Thinking. On my own time.
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