Chase followed me as I trailed Tabitha outside. I didn’t know if Maxwell was already inside the limo or not, but as I approached on the street side, Tabitha’s window rolled down.
“Come on,” she said, “let’s get out of here and go to Robert’s, where we can do what we want. ZK will be there. He’s dying to see you.” As I processed that Robert’s was Robert Francis’s house, I began to panic. At 2 A.M., it was about the last place I wanted to go near.
“Think I’ll stay here with Chase,” I said as gently as I could.
“Who?” She scrutinized Chase in her drunken haze. “You’re the video shooter.”
“Yep, that’s me,” Chase said self-effacingly.
“You’re hooking up with a video shooter instead of ZK Northcott?” she asked drunkenly, sneering at me as if I were a lowlife. Chase took an immediate step back. I sensed he was embarrassed and maybe had a different orientation altogether.
“Tabitha, please,” I said and wanted to explain we were just friends when Mocha tapped the partition to get her attention. A police car was approaching.
“Suit yourself,” she said, silently closing her window as Mocha drove away.
“What’s this world coming to when a pop star can’t score a drink for an underage booty call?” Chase said as we watched her limo get swallowed up in the night. I assumed Tabitha figured it would be better to explain things to the cops when she wasn’t totally plastered.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. “You know, the Talkhouse is a pretty good antidote to the limos and McMansion parties, not that I ever go to those. But you look like you could use a change.”
“Sure, why not?” I shrugged. To think I had just arrived that day. Uh, it was 2 A.M. Okay, the day before.
As the East Hampton Police pulled up, we squeezed our way back in the door. Chase grabbed us a couple of beers and found a spot at the corner of the stage on the far left of the club near the soundboard. The flashing red police light reflected intermittently on the windows of the club, but everyone inside seemed to have moved on. The cops appeared content to confine their investigation to people outside. I wondered if they would follow up with Tabitha.
The whole club was so small you could literally step up on the stage if you wanted. It was only a foot or two off the floor and about twenty feet wide and fourteen feet deep. The ceiling was low enough to almost touch on your tiptoes.
Behind the stage was a backdrop, an ancient sepia-toned picture of a stoic man with long black hair, his shirt buttoned at the top with a scarf tied at the neck, holding a walking stick in one hand that almost looked like a rifle but wasn’t.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“That’s Stephen Talkhouse,” Chase told me. “He was one of the last chiefs of the Montaukett Indians. Where we’re sitting used to be their land, before the tribes of Laurens and Von Furstenbergs invaded.” I laughed.
“And what brings you out here?” I asked.
“I had a gig shooting a charity event that turned into a weeklong job,” he said. “I thought I’d hang out a little, get some sun, maybe pick up another gig before heading back. And what’s your angle out here?”
A seizure of insecurity washed over me, and I wondered if I had already let my guard down with Chase.
“Some family matters to clear up in East Hampton,” I lied, hoping to sound superior. “Then back to the city for Fashion Week.” His inquisitive brown eyes brightened, and he ran his hands through his tousled auburn hair.
“For Designer X?” he asked with a knowing hipster smile that renewed my fears he was on to me.
“Yes,” I said, leaving it at that. He had been following my blog. I worried why. Moments later, the energy inside the steamy club inexplicably ratcheted up as people started to clap in unison. Everyone seemed to know that the band was about to come out.
The first band member onstage was a hot-looking drummer followed by a tall, languid bass player who reminded me of Max from Tabitha’s band, then a keyboard player and the lead singer.
“With all these fans, they must be local,” Chase said. The lead singer picked up his guitar to wild cheers. I nearly spit my beer.
It was Jake.
He wore the same sky-colored Blue Note Records T-shirt he used to wear at the Hole. He threw a nod to cue the band, and the bassist slid his finger all the way down the neck of his guitar, thumping a low bass-line intro as Jake hammered four chunky power chords, then kicked the distortion pedal. Immediately, everyone was on their feet, dancing and singing along.
It was one of those classic guitar hooks you couldn’t forget, a throwback, like the opening to Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl.” His immediate feedback loop with the audience encircled the room. Preppies and locals were dancing together.
I was awestruck.
He had no idea I was standing a few feet away, and I hoped he wouldn’t see me. On the second chorus, Jake allowed the noise of the band and the crowd to build to a crescendo. Watching him move with such grace and power, I found I couldn’t swallow or speak or breathe. I could only remember my mistakes, starting with the fact that I just didn’t have the confidence to believe that Jake Berns was really interested in me.
I had been right about one thing though. Hearing his yearning, soulful voice opened a hole in my heart. The band joined in with husky harmonies while Jake’s distinctively silky lead guitar ripped across the melody. Why couldn’t I have confided in him? Why couldn’t I have let him know what was going on?
As he stalked across the stage, totally in his element, I had to admit to myself that I had always been hopelessly attracted to him and afraid of what that might mean. Probably like every other girl here, I guessed.
Some chick in a cropped shirt in the front row got up on the other end of the stage and started dancing, and he played off her excitement. The crowd loved it. At the end of the song Jake politely escorted her offstage, and that’s when he caught sight of me. He appeared shocked momentarily but recovered immediately, turning away.
I don’t think anyone noticed except Chase.
“Do you know him?” he shouted above the music. I shrugged yes, hoping I didn’t look as totally undone as I felt.
Jake’s whole set was mind-blowing with its emotional anthems and flat-out rockers. I was standing so close that I could almost touch him.
He pretty much avoided looking my way through most of the performance, although he gave me a soft smile near the end. Just enough to be kind, I thought. He leapt around the stage with his unassuming charm in the same old tennis shoes he used to wear at the Hole.
The Rockets finished with a rollicking dance song that everyone in the crowd seemed to know by heart. As soon as Jake ripped the last chord, the Talkhouse was on its feet, demanding an encore. After a few moments, the band gave them what they wanted: two more songs.
Still, they asked for more. These were his fans, his following from all walks of life, not just locals. They wouldn’t let him go.
They began to cry out for a third encore.
“One night! One night!” they chanted. I didn’t know what that meant, but even when the houselights went on, the fans wouldn’t let up, they wouldn’t stop. Usually when the lights come up people leave, but no one moved an inch.
“One night! One night!” It seemed like a song they had come to expect.
Finally the lights dimmed, but the band didn’t come out. Only Jake. The audience quieted down as soon as they saw him.
He plugged the lead to his Sunburst electric into the amp and flicked on the power switch.
“Okay, I wasn’t going to sing this one tonight, but I guess I will,” he said in his soft, melodic voice. He was looking down at his guitar, adjusting the tuning. “This song is for a friend of mine.”
Even though I was standing right next to the stage, what he said didn’t register in my mind until he lifted his head and I saw that Jake was looking at me.
“You know when there’s someone so awesome and you love her with all you
r heart and it doesn’t work out?” The crowd moaned, but I barely heard them. The room seemed very far away, like I was alone in a tunnel with Jake Berns at the other end.
“Take me, Jake Berns, I’m yours!” someone yelled in the back and everyone laughed, but then got real quiet again.
“This song is for that girl,” he said, and I had to look away. I didn’t want to see him looking at me. “It’s about what didn’t happen … that one night.”
With a palm-muted intensity he played the solo rock chords on his guitar and started singing.
One night the look in your eyes was like a light,
It shined so bright that I couldn’t see,
That … one … night,
The whole audience sung along to the chorus as it repeated.
That … one … night.
Jake poured himself into the song, singing to me as if no one else was in the room. Chase knew—I could tell by the way he was looking at me. The crowd didn’t know why Jake was staring offstage, and they were straining to see who he was looking at. I wanted to run out, run away, but there was nothing I could do.
You know the clothes you wear?
The color in your hair?
You were so damn fine,
That … one … night.
Though muted, Jake rocked through the mournful chords of the bridge. He had everyone in the room completely under his spell.
Hey I was the one,
I was the one with the bird in the hand that let her get away.
His voice went into a dark, haunted place and then rose back up only to plunge again, and everyone was singing along …
That … one … night.
He kicked into the bridge, and the crowd knew every word.
Time heals everything; it truly does.
Time heals everything, but love.
There was a serious key change, and Jake cut off into a sailing riff on the guitar, spinning around onstage until he jumped and landed right in front of me, and somehow they turned the spotlight on us.
We both knew he was singing to me and only to me, driving his muffled guitar down to almost nothing. I was flat-out embarrassed, trying to keep my composure, but I couldn’t turn away.
Hey I’m the one,
I’m the one with the bird in the hand that you let get away,
One night,
Just one night,
That one night.
Everyone knew every single word to the song but me.
They were all singing along to a song that was about that night in the parking lot behind the diner when I ran away. And as Jake sang, I knew the real reason I fled. I thought I was going on an adventure to the Big Apple. I thought I was Being Audrey—and I was—but, more than that, I was afraid of Jake Berns, afraid of how he made me feel and afraid of how he felt about me.
He repeated the chorus one more time.
One night,
Just one night,
That one night.
He allowed the final chord of the bridge to ring out, and it was over. Jake exited offstage, never glancing back.
As soon as the crowd began to leave, I tried to run out. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, but Chase stopped me.
“You have to stay,” he said and handed me a handkerchief. I hadn’t realized I was crying.
“Why?” I said. “I can’t.”
“You’ve got to say hello to the guy,” he said. “Whatever you guys had, he put his heart out on the line.” Through my tears I nodded no, looking at Chase as if he were crazy. It was too much to ask.
I couldn’t handle it, but we stayed as the club goers poured out onto the street. I tried to pull myself together as best I could.
“Here he comes,” Chase said. We saw Jake, wearing one of his vintage flannels, enter the wings on the other side of the stage, about to walk our way when someone called him from behind and he turned.
As I feared, the woman from Reilly’s, the one in the swag cowboy gear, appeared. She came running up to him, giving him a kiss.
It was more than I could stand.
Even Chase stared in stunned silence.
I ran out of the club as quickly as I could and kept running.
54
The next morning, I slipped out of Tabitha’s house before anyone could see me. Zoya was up, but everyone else was snoring away. I hadn’t been able to sleep for all the obvious reasons.
Chase had been unbelievably cool about the Talkhouse, especially since I had all sorts of regrets and paranoid fears afterward. I was worried that Chase would be faced with the fact that I’m a fake from New Jersey. I’m not sure he had put that together or cared to.
He had given me a ride home in his equipment van and, to change the subject, pitched a video concept for my blog if I wanted to try it.
“You could be exceptional on camera, totally fierce,” he said. “It would be great for your blog and not bad for me, either.” I was too messed up to talk about it but promised I would consider it. He was going back to the city soon. He had hoped there’d be more social events to cover in the Hamptons, but he was finding it hard to get into most of them. He promised to check up on me before he went back to the city and gave me his number in case I needed it.
I called Courtney while walking into town. I didn’t think she’d even answer that early in the morning, but I needed to hear a familiar voice, even if it was just voice mail. I didn’t want to call Jess. There were too many things I hadn’t done for her show, and I felt guilty still hanging out in the Hamptons. I was surprised Courtney picked up. Her voice seemed totally different on the phone, totally upbeat.
“How are Mom and Nan getting along?” I asked.
“There have been a few big fights,” she said.
“Who’s winning?”
“Unclear. But Ryan finished summer school.” That alone was remarkable. “Nan says hi. You should call her,” Courtney said.
“I will,” I said, feeling guilty.
In town I found a coffee shop in one of the stores on Amagansett Square and tried to regain my focus. In the frenzy of last night, I hadn’t noticed a text I received from Jess.
“WE GOT THE GALLERY !! ☺”
I texted back. “For fashion’s night out ?! :) :)”
She responded a few minutes later. “Working on that…”
Thankfully I had something to think about besides Jake. I’d planned to make a few entries on my blog and prepare an announcement for Designer X’s pop-up show. Playing on the flash-mob idea, I hoped I could intrigue my followers to show up spontaneously and make the event something that they all had a part in making happen.
If the gallery would give us Fashion’s Night Out, I’d have to get back to the city in three days at the latest. I posted my first tease.
Designer X Unmasked! Exclusive Pop Up Show near the High Line. Your presence required. Details to come!
Then another text from Jess popped up on my phone.
“R u ok?” That simple question gave me pause. Don’t ask why, but my gung ho spirit deserted me, and feelings from last night opened up like a trapdoor beneath me. What could I say?
I found myself pathetically googling Jake Berns and his band. Their Web site popped up. The press clippings revealed how far the Rockets had come over the summer. They’d been picked by WFUV’s Internet feed as a band to watch and were being mentioned as opening acts to all kinds of great bands. I knew the gigs probably didn’t pay much yet. I wondered if Jake still worked at the Hole. It was painful seeing him play for the first time in the Hamptons of all places.
There were a half dozen pictures of the band. I scoured them for any sign of Monica in the background or nearby. She was in two of them. Always wearing that swag country style. She certainly dressed as if she had some serious money.
It was hard to believe I had just arrived in the Hamptons a few days before. It was so fabulous and hopeful when I was sitting with Flo talking about click-throughs. Yesterday morning I could do anything, and now I
felt worthless. Closing my eyes, I’d see Jake singing to me and, just a moment later, kissing her.
It was self-torture, but I downloaded “That One Night” from the iTunes store in the Indie Up and Coming section and played it over and over until I felt sick.
Walking back to Tabitha’s, I saw an East Hampton Town Police car pulling away. So I assumed the police were following up on the Talkhouse dispute. I wondered if it had hit the local newspapers and New York gossip blogs yet. Mocha, standing guard, nodded as I entered the house and headed toward Tabitha’s bedroom.
“You don’t want to go in there.” I heard someone say. I turned to see ZK.
I was so glad to see him that I threw myself into his arms, hugging him so tightly I almost knocked him down. I could tell he didn’t quite know what to do—the man who always knew how to handle everything.
“Oh I missed you,” I said.
“Has it been that long?” he said, smiling.
“I don’t know. It feels like forever.”
“Well I’ve come to whisk you away.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Where’s Tabitha? I need to talk to her first.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Robert’s in there. She called him.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t feel bad. There’s nothing you can do. Tabitha’s always been this way,” he said. “Robert’s here to pick up the pieces and get her going again.”
“I should have stopped her somehow.”
“She would have just punched you instead. Talk to her later, after she’s rested. In the meantime, I’m here to entertain you.”
“Really? What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s see, first I’ll have to get you something white.”
55
ZK became the antidote to how adrift I felt, not because he was so much more together than me, but because he felt the same way. After I grabbed a white tennis skirt, white socks, white tennis shoes, and a white blouse from the Maidstone Club tennis boutique, ZK showed me to the dressing room. I reappeared dressed for the part, ready to play but without a clue how to even hold a tennis racket.
Being Audrey Hepburn Page 28