by Leslie Wells
“If we made those moves at the Palladium, we’d have every dude in the place salivating.”
I collapsed on my sagging couch. “I don’t think I want them salivating on me.”
“Why not? You’d have the pick of the litter.” Vicky flopped down beside me.
I peeled the label off my sweating bottle and smoothed it on my thigh. “All I want is one good guy who’ll appreciate what I have to offer. Once I figure out what that is.”
“I don’t get why you’re so particular. Sometimes it’s nice just to have a warm body next to you. Wards off the lonelies on a Saturday night.” She downed the last drop of beer.
“You have a point. But it would be good if it could be a little more meaningful.”
“It is meaningful. It means you got boinked.”
I laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind, Victoria.”
At eleven, we walked the twenty blocks north to the Palladium. The club had a cavernous ballroom on the main floor and an upstairs VIP lounge for private parties. The line to get in snaked around the block.
Vicky went right up front, ignoring glares from some overdressed women and their dates. “Hi Barry,” she said to the bouncer.
“Vicky. And Julia.” Barry grinned and moved aside. “Come on in, girls.”
“Hey, we’ve been here half an hour!” a guy in a suit complained.
“Go back to Wall Street,” Vicky muttered as I followed her through the entrance.
We shoved our way into the crowd, the music so loud it was useless to try to talk. I could feel the bass throbbing in my throat. The concrete floor was already sticky with spilt beer, the smell of sweat mingling with the cloying scent of clove cigarettes. We found a spot next to a man with a chain running from nostril to ear, his blond foot-high spikes glowing in the black lights. Vicky blissfully swayed her slim hips, and I shut my eyes and lost myself in the rhythm.
The video guy came around, aiming his shoulder-mounted camera at us. We kept dancing normally in the spotlight’s glare, unlike a lot of people who put on a show for him. It was distracting because our images were projected larger-than-life against the huge back wall, so everyone could see. Finally he moved on to some girls in tight rubber dresses who shook their booties at the camera.
As a Clash tune played I noticed a man standing near me, holding a drink. He touched my arm and started to say something, seeming to point at the ceiling.
“What?” I shouted.
“A friend of mine wants to meet you gals. We’re up there,” he said with some kind of Southern accent.
I wondered why this guy had to run interference, but Vicky was interested. “What’s going on in the lounge?” she asked.
“Just a little party.” He grinned and took a sip of his drink.
Vicky smiled her assent, and he started toward the stairs.
“I heard some rock and rollers might be here tonight; there’s a private party or something,” Vicky said as we followed him, weaving through slam-dancing bodies.
I wasn’t dressed to impress in my ragged leather skirt, but at least we might score a free drink. We went up to the dark lounge where a bouncer was sitting on a stool with a checklist. I wondered why they needed a door-minder, but once we got inside, the crowd was pretty upscale. Slick-looking SoHo types struck blasé poses, while the women circulating the room looked like models.
The Southerner turned to us, and the light from the window overlooking the dance floor shone on his face. “Name your poison. I’m Sammy, by the way.”
With a shock it hit me who he was; I hadn’t recognized him in the dark, with his soul patch and shorter hair. All of a sudden I was really nervous. I’d been a huge fan of the British group Four to the Floor since I was a teenager, like everyone else I knew. Vicky, as usual, kept her cool. “Good to meet you; I’m Vicky. I’ll have a tequila sunrise. Julia?”
“Vodka and tonic, please.”
“One party water and a Ta-kill-ya, comin’ right up.” Sammy went over to the bar, tended by a girl in a black leather bikini.
“Can you believe it? That’s Sammy Parnell,” Vicky said. “I wonder if the others are here.” She scanned the crowd. “Who do you think his friend is? He said someone wanted to meet us.”
“No telling. I can’t believe it’s him either.” Whoever this friend was, he was probably interested in Vicky. She tended to attract across-the-room attention with her waifish blonde hair and endless legs. I hoped I had enough for a cab ride if she wound up going home with him; I had planned on splitting the fare.
Sammy returned with our drinks. “My buddy Jack’s over there. Why don’t you go say hello?” He jerked his head toward a dark corner where some women were standing before a low sofa. Could he mean Jack Kipling, the guitarist of the group? The vivacious clump of girls directed their enthusiasm toward whoever was sitting on the couch.
“Why don’t you introduce us?” Vicky said, smiling her Cheshire-cat smile that slanted her green eyes.
“Tell you what, I’ll just let him know you’re here.” Sammy went over and squeezed in between two twiggy blondes. A dark head of hair was briefly visible when the women parted. I glanced away, not wanting to seem star-struck, but Vicky continued to gaze in their direction.
“Oh my god! He’s looking our way now.”
“Stop staring. They must get that all the time.” I sipped my drink, which had twice the usual amount of vodka in it.
Sammy sauntered back. “Jack said to come say hi.”
Vicky had experience dealing with celebrities in her publicist role; I couldn’t imagine what I’d say to someone that famous. Nor was I in the mood to kiss up to some arrogant, obnoxious rock star who expected women to roll over and beg—even if I was a huge fan. “Go ahead. Maybe you can get an autograph.”
Vicky followed him to the sofa and exchanged a few words with Jack, who was still seated and mostly blocked from view. Then she laughed with Sammy for a few minutes and scribbled on a piece of paper. I polished off my drink as she came over smiling.
“Well, that was a thrill. Now I can tell my grandchildren that I met Jack Kipling. And Sammy Parnell. I gave Sammy my number.”
“Maybe they’ll both call you. Can we go downstairs and dance some more?” I didn’t want to blow her chances with Jack if he got unglued from his groupies, but I felt out of place in this fancy crowd.
“Let’s stay a few more minutes. Aren’t you going to say hi to Jack?” she asked, combing her fingers through her hair. “Is my lipstick smeared?”
“Lick your front tooth. There, it’s gone.”
“Listen, Jules, I think it’s you he wants to meet.”
I laughed. “Sure. He probably came here tonight hoping to run into me. I’m near the top of his list, just below Starlet Number One and Starlet Number Two.”
“I’m not kidding. He asked me where my friend was.”
I tried to take another sip of vodka before remembering it was all gone. So maybe it wasn’t Vicky that Jack had singled out when the video guy threw our images on the wall. He was standing now; I could just make out his bored expression as he faced his entourage. A girl grasped his arm, clinging tightly until he detached himself.
“Sammy’s coming back,” Vicky said. “Look who’s with him.”
My pulse bolted; Jack was heading our way. Wild dark hair shot up in all directions, an earring glinting through the tangle. His long legs were encased in skintight jeans, frayed at the cuffs over python boots. He had a few days’ stubble and dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept recently. When he stood next to me, I almost passed out. Even this disheveled, he was as rakishly good-looking as on his album covers.
“You made me lose my spot on the couch,” Jack said, his Cockney accent stronger than I would have expected.
“I’m sure they’ll let you have it back.” I forced myself to tear my eyes away from him. Projected on the outer wall, two girls in death-mask makeup were thrashing about.
“D’you come here often?” Jack said,
moving closer.
I tried to remember to breathe. “Fairly often. The music’s more danceable than some other places.”
“I noticed you dancing down there.” He gestured at the main floor with his drink. “Verrry nice.”
My cheeks flushed. “I was just trying to avoid a head-on with those slam-dancers.”
Jack laughed. “Why don’t we give you girls a ride home? I’m ready to split.”
I was so surprised, I didn’t know what to say.
“Jack’s car is right outside,” Sammy added.
“Fantastic,” Vicky said.
My heart pounded as we followed them to the stairs, Jack putting on sunglasses before he hit the first floor. The men hurried out to the street where a big black car was waiting at the curb. The driver opened the back door and Jack dove in, followed by Sammy. Vicky slipped inside and I got in by the window. The interior smelled of new leather, and had drink holders with various bottles and little lights along the sides. I think I’m in someone else’s movie, I told myself.
The driver turned to look at us through the open partition.
“Where to?” Sammy asked.
“If you could drop us at Mott and Hester, that would be great.” I’d walk the few blocks home from Vicky’s.
“Mott and Hester, Rick.”
The driver maneuvered expertly through swerving cabs as we flew downtown.
“Do you two go dancin’ a lot?” Sammy drawled.
I glanced over; Jack was leaning forward, looking at me. I felt my face get hot.
Vicky smiled. “When I manage to drag Julia away from work.”
“Where do you do your woork?” Jack asked, drawing out the word.
“She’s an editor at a publishing house,” Vicky said.
“An assistant editor. Vicky’s in publishing too,” I added.
“Publicity. Not the brainy stuff,” Vicky said.
“So you’re a brainy gal,” Jack said to me.
“Only on days that end in ‘y’.” I managed to smile at him despite my butterflies. The driver stopped at Mott and I got out. The door on the other side opened and Jack emerged, trailed by Sammy.
“Thanks so much for the ride.” I waited for Vicky on the sidewalk.
“Hold on a tick,” Jack said in a low voice. He ambled over to me, stepping into the light from a storefront. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned halfway to his waist, revealing a thin chain with a slash of lightning dangling from it. He ran his hand through his hair, making it stick out even more. “Why don’t I see you home? Make sure you get in safely.” He cocked his eyebrow and gave me a wolfish grin.
“Um, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.” I was way too nervous to bring Jack Kipling home with me, no matter how sexy he was.
Jack’s face took on a puzzled look. “But … “
If I waited any longer, I’d be tempted to take him up on it. “Thanks again!” I said brightly. I grabbed Vicky’s arm and drew her along, leaving them staring after us.
“Are you insane?” she asked as we rounded the corner. “You could be ripping off his clothes as we speak. And Sammy and I could be getting to know each other. In the Biblical sense.”
“If we’d gone for the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, do you think we’d have ever heard from them again?” I said as she groped in a pocket for her key. “We’d be just another notch on their guitar necks. Plus I haven’t shaved my legs in over a week.”
“So what? I hope you haven’t blown it.” She pushed the door open. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
I hurried down the block, swerving to avoid a man rummaging through a tipped-over garbage can. How bizarre to go out for a typical Friday night, and then meet not one but two members of the Floor. The four of them—Patrick, lead singer and bass player; Jack, guitarist and back-up vocals; Mark on drums; and Sammy, the lone American of the group, on keyboard—had started in Britain, and then exploded in the States. I’d pored over their album liner notes so many times, I knew them by heart. And it was amazing to have met Jack, who’d always been my favorite.
But that was in terms of their music. I’d read about the band’s excesses, particularly Jack’s; he was the epitome of the bad boy rock and roller. Even though at this very minute I could have been wrapping my fingers in that wild mane of hair, I knew I would have felt awful the morning after. Aside from my fling with Eric, I’d seen my mother mope around lots of times after sleeping with a guy and then never hearing from him again. Let’s just say I’d learned from her example.
Maybe I’m not really missing Art after all this time, I thought as I clumped upstairs. I was probably just lonesome from the solitary weekends spent editing. But I wasn’t about to have a one-night stand with a rock star, no matter how much I liked his music. That would be the dumbest thing I could do.
Chapter 3
Wrong Idea
“I just read in the paper about that rich New York bachelor who’s in real estate,” my mother announced when I picked up the phone the next morning. “Why couldn’t you go out with someone like that? He’s with a different girl every week.” Hearing the strike of a match, I pictured Dot, her hair dyed a brassy shade, lit cigarette in the ashtray at the Pennsylvania plumbing supply store where she worked.
“I don’t think he’d be interested in me, Mom. His taste runs to blonde bombshells.” I started to tell her I’d run into Jack Kipling, but I was too tired to answer a zillion questions about someone I’d never see again.
“Well, you have to get out more. You won’t meet anyone stuck in your apartment. Time goes by really quickly, believe me. When I was your age, I was married to your father, and you were three.”
I pictured myself walking into the office, dragging a screaming toddler attached to my leg. “I’m focusing on my career right now. Anyway, it’s hard to meet people here. Publishing isn’t exactly a hotbed of romance.”
“I don’t see how it can be that hard. New York is overrun with men. You’re going to be twenty-five next year, Julia. Around here there’s something wrong if you aren’t engaged by then.”
I twisted the phone cord around my finger. “It’s different in New York, Mom. Not everyone’s biggest goal in life is to get married.”
“You were dying to move up there, but I don’t see that it’s doing you much good. You could be spending weekends alone back here in Pikesville.”
“I’m not spending all weekend alone. I went to a club with Vicky last night,” I retorted.
“I still don’t get why you dance with girls. I think it sends the wrong signal.”
Our erotic grind would’ve given her heart failure. “It’s not like that here. I can dance with whoever I want. People aren’t hung up over it like they are back home.” I heard cooing, and waved my hand to shoo a pigeon off my open windowsill.
“You’re not … attracted to Vicky, are you?”
I couldn’t resist. “Well … she is pretty cute. Those long legs of hers are kind of a turn-on.”
For a moment Dot was silent. “I was worried something like this would happen. I guess up there, anything goes. Now I’ll never have grandchildren,” she said glumly.
“But just think, you’ll never have to put up with a son-in-law who leaves his shavings in the sink.”
“What am I going to tell Paulette and Joan?” she wailed.
“Mom. I’m kidding. I still like guys. You don’t have to tell your friends anything.” I waved my arm again, and the pigeon flapped off.
“Well, that’s a relief. I mean, I’m pals with a bartender at Buck’s who swings the other way, but…”
“You can relax. No one of either gender has been beating down my door lately.”
“I’m going to have to pay you a visit soon,” she said, exhaling smoke. “Get you out of your rut.”
This proposed trip came up often, but I had mixed feelings about it. I knew she’d turn up her nose at my cramped living quarters, not to mention the way she tended to make loud comments about passersby.
“I’m rea
lly busy with work right now, but maybe later in the fall. My place is tiny, though; I don’t think you’d be comfortable,” I said.
“Oh, you know me. I can curl up and fall asleep anywhere.”
I certainly did. “What are you reading this week?” She kept up a steady stream of novels that she swapped with her friends.
“I just finished one of Joyce Sutter’s. This sea captain meets a young girl whose father owns a sheep farm. He doesn’t want her seeing the captain, but one day she goes for a ride on his big stallion …”
My mind wandered as she described the plot.
“… then in the end they get married on the poop deck,” she concluded. “I’ll have to loan it to Paulette; her husband was in the Marines.”
“That sounds like a good one. Have you had any interesting customers lately?” My eye fell on the piles of paper spread across my futon, awaiting my marking pen.
“There’s a guy who’s doing the plumbing for a mall in Uniontown. Turns out he was an engineer at Bethlehem Steel before he got laid off …”
My mother could strike up a conversation with anyone, and lack of knowledge about a topic never held her back. She was the least self-conscious person I’d ever met, which had mortified me as a teenager. I often thought I must have inherited my entire persona from my father. But when I tried to recall specifics, his memory seemed to fade faster the harder I tried to hold onto it.
“I bet you sold him more stuff than he even needed. Well, I guess I’d better get back to this manuscript.”
“All right, Julia. Talk to you tomorrow.”
I tried to call my mother several times a week since I knew she got lonely at night. She wasn’t drinking as much as she used to, but she still tended to have a few too many. She liked to sit on a stool nursing her rum, chatting up anyone within earshot. Buck’s Bar & Grill had been her hangout ever since my Dad moved out when I was in ninth grade.
As a teenager I’d saved what I could from my after-school job bagging groceries; my only splurge was those contact lenses right before I left for college. To my relief, I got a scholarship to a small in-state school and a job in the campus cafeteria. It was a delicious freedom to live where no one knew my mother, or that I’d been a four-eyed bookworm who never had a date in high school. I made good friends in my dorm and picked up some culture from my French professor, who took me under her wing and taught me which fork to use. I also managed to lose my virginity to a sweet guy who worked with me in the cafeteria. By that point I was just relieved to get it over with, even though no bells had gone off. I’d been so put off by Dot’s flopping around with various and sundry, I’d come to dread the whole process.