by Leslie Wells
I made a face at her. “Speak for yourself, Victoria. I’m really boring when I smoke pot,” I said to Jack. “I just giggle for an hour and then fall asleep.”
Sammy smiled. “Now, that doesn’t sound bad a’tall.”
“Leave her alone,” Jack said. “More for the degenerates.”
“She’s a lightweight,” Vicky said, passing the joint to Sammy. “But I mean that only in the finest sense.”
“How long have you two known each other?” Jack asked.
Vicky thought for a minute. “Almost a year, right? My first day of work, Julia grilled me on what books I liked. I was so grateful to have a friend, even if I hadn’t read half the intellectual stuff she had, like the Proust she’s so obsessed with. She introduced me around and told me which department heads to watch out for.”
“Then you cut out for greener pastures, leaving me to the wolves.”
“Yeah, the wolf named Harvey,” Vicky said, then caught herself. “I mean, and all the others,” she added lamely.
“Julia’s boss,” Jack said.
“He knows?” Vicky asked.
I shook my head at her and decided this would be a good time to use the bathroom at the far end of the loft. Peering into the spacious shower as I zipped my pants, I pictured Jack in there, water streaming down his face, plastering his hair to his bare shoulders … Shaking the image, I went out and tried not to look at his big, messy bed beyond an open door. There was another sitting area with what appeared to be a working fireplace. Guitar stands, a keyboard, drum kit, and amps were grouped around it; I wondered if the downstairs neighbors ever complained.
“Anyone up for going out for a drink?” Sammy asked after conferring with Vicky.
Jack looked at me. “Why don’t we stay here and listen to some more records,” he said softly. I felt a funny flutter in my stomach. I didn’t want to leave yet, and I knew from the mob at Fanelli’s that it might be difficult for him to go to a bar. But I was almost afraid to say yes.
I took a breath. “I can stay to hear the Leadbelly.”
Jack smiled, creating those sexy creases on either side of his face. “I picked out some things today. I’d forgotten half the stuff I had on my shelves.”
“Copacetic. We’ll see you all later,” Sammy said. They exited in a rush just as the album ended, and the apartment rang with the sudden silence.
“What’s in that backpack you’re always carrying around?” Jack asked.
“Just a book and my keys.”
“You planned on doing some reading over here?” He looked at me quizzically.
“In case I got bored … Just kidding. I always bring one along for when I get stuck on the subway, or in line at the drugstore. It’s Flannery O’Connor; Wise Blood. She writes about these really dark, twisted characters.”
“Dark and twisted, sounds good. Want to read some of it to me?”
I was taken aback. “Sure … I mean, or you could borrow it. I’ve read it so many times, I almost have it memorized.”
“I’d rather hear you read it, if you don’t mind.” He kicked off his boots and stretched out lengthwise on the couch. God, he looks enticing in that position.
I got the book and perched on the edge of my chair. “Guess I’ll start at the beginning.” I finished a page and glanced at Jack, who was lying there watching me. He made a “keep it rolling” gesture, so I continued to the end of the chapter.
Jack sat up, crossing his bare feet at the ankles. “That’s powerful stuff. You have a good voice but I can’t place your accent. Where’d you grow up?”
“A small town in western Pennsylvania. It has a couple factories, some scenic farmland. You’re from London, right?” I was pretty sure I’d read that about him.
“Forty minutes away in Hounslow, a dirty industrial burg. The sky always had this greenish cast like it was about to puke. Everyone worked in the factories there too, after they finished whatever schooling they’d suffered through. Most of the kids talked about going to London eventually, but hardly anyone ever did. I was lucky to get away.”
“And your first group was with one of your roommates?”
“Yeah, after the bands I had in school. I was in a group with a flatmate of mine who was a drummer. We got a few gigs, and one night Patrick saw us play in this little fifteen-seat hole. He asked me to come see his band, and the next day we decided to get together and ditch the others. And that,” he said, making a strumming motion, “was all she wrote. What about you, how’d you get out of western Pennsylvania?”
“I couldn’t wait to get out. I scraped my summer job money together and got a scholarship to a small state college.”
“Your parents couldn’t help you?”
“They broke up when I was fourteen, and I haven’t seen my dad since,” I said, feeling a familiar ache. “My mother tended to bounce around from job to job.”
“Mine split when I was nine. I had no idea what was going on; one day I came home from school and he’d moved out. I thought it was my fault because I’d done something bad the day before, tracked in a lot of mud or something.” Jack frowned. “I still saw my father on weekends but I started getting into scrapes, got known as a troublemaker. So I’ve had to live up to that reputation.” He raised an eyebrow as I laughed.
“Let me show you these records I found,” Jack said, untangling his legs. He scooped a pile of albums from the shelf and brought them over to the table. “You said you liked Billie, so here are a few of hers. And these are some early Robert Johnsons. Matter of fact, they’re kind of rare.”
“How about one of the Robert Johnsons?”
Jack put the record on. “I was messing around with some of those riffs this afternoon. Want to hear them?”
“I’d love to.” Shoot me now—he’s going to play the guitar only for me!
Jack glanced around the room. “Wonder where Carla’s hid me new picks. I thought I left them here.” He noticed my inquisitive look. “That’s my housekeeper; she deals with my mess. She’s got this peach of a little kid who loves our music. Carla and my manager Mary Jo help me keep it together.”
He paced around, lifting papers off the front table. “Where the hell are those picks?”
I followed Jack into the kitchen, and he started yanking open various drawers. It looked as if Carla had scooped up every smallish object from the surfaces of the apartment and dumped it in; keys on chains tangled with Zig-Zag rolling papers, pens, loose cigars, nail clippers, corkscrews. One that he opened revealed a cache of condoms mixed in with some salt and pepper packets. He quickly slammed it shut. I could just imagine how many women he’d had up here with him, and how many of those little packages he’d gone through.
“Here they are,” he said finally. “Right in with the knives. Unbelievable.”
Jack grabbed more beers from the fridge and tore open the bag of picks with his teeth. We sat on the couch, and he began strumming his Fender along with the record. When it stopped he kept going, eyes closed, his lashes a dark fringe over high cheekbones. As he shifted among bluesy chords, I observed the changing moods on his face. The soulful notes dripped from his fingers like melting tallow.
“That was really beautiful,” I said when he set aside the guitar. “I’ve always wondered how people compose songs. Do you stumble on the tune while you’re playing random notes?”
Jack thought about it for a second. “It’s… kind of like wandering around in a place I’ve never seen, yet it’s familiar. Like going for a walk in the woods and you take a path you haven’t been on, but suddenly you know the way. Once in a while something comes to me in the middle of a concert. Did you ever catch one?”
“Sorry, I never did.” I couldn’t afford the tickets, but I thought it would sound cheap to say that.
“We’ll be touring at some point. You should come see a few.”
“I’d love to. It must be a thrill to play for a huge audience. Do you ever get stage fright?”
“I did the first time we were in
something larger than a club. But then you bust a few strings and realize the show goes on, with or without you.” Jack drained his bottle and opened another. “So what does an assistant editor do?”
“Oh, type up letters and contracts; tell Harvey’s wife he’s in a meeting when he wants to avoid her. Edit his authors, and he takes the credit. He’d have me tying his shoelaces if he could. I need to acquire a book if I’m ever going to get promoted.”
“So why do it?”
“Well, because I love books. And authors are a fascinating breed, if a little high-maintenance. Plus occasionally you get to go to a glitzy party or awards dinner.” I took a sip of beer. “And I think I have a knack for editing. It’s the one talent I possess.”
“That’s the reason to do it, then. Only thing I was ever good at was playing and singing. Lucky for me, that worked out.”
“How did you connect with the other guys after you and Patrick got together? I’ve read a bit about it, but …”
“You can ignore everything you’ve read about me; they love to exaggerate,” he said with a twitch of his eyebrow.
I had a feeling they hadn’t exaggerated much. “I’ll forget what I’ve read if you’ll tell me yourself.”
“Okay, how we got our start. Patrick and I brilliantly realized we needed percussion if we were going to do anything more than strum’n’ hum, so we found Mark. Then we required a keyboardist. At first we weren’t going to go with Sammy because we thought an American might not blend in with us blokes. But when he drank us all under the table, we knew he’d fit the bill.”
“What was he doing in London?” I’d always been curious why the group included one non-British member.
“Getting the hell out of Marietta, Georgia,” Jack said. “He’d been kicked out of military school, if you can believe his parents thought that would work out. His mama figured he might pick up some culture if he spent a few months in England.” He paused to down a slug of beer. “I’ve always felt Southerners are akin to the Irish. The best ones are bullshitters, lushes, and underdogs. I’ve got some Irish in me, so watch out,” he added with a grin.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling back at him. Our eyes met, and I had trouble pulling mine away.
Jack reached for his guitar. “You ever listen to anything other than blues?”
Was he fishing around about his own music? I didn’t want to turn him off by sounding like some gushing fan. “I like jazz, although I need to get more educated about it. And rock, of course.”
“So you do listen to rock and roll. Who do you like?”
No way was I going to admit I owned every one of their albums, and had played them until the grooves were worn thin. “All the great ones,” I said. Jack looked a little disgruntled, but I left it at that.
“You ever played?” he asked, thumbing the strings.
“Only some piano lessons when I was young. After my father left, we didn’t have the money for it. Did you take guitar lessons?”
“Nope, never had one in my life. I don’t read music. I always figured it was more in the attack than the technical stuff. Here, give it a try.” Before I could demur, he laid the guitar in my lap. Reaching for his beer, he took a sip and put the bottle between his thighs.
“I’ll show you a one-four-five blues progression. Put your hand on the neck.” He leaned in and positioned my fingers. “You have to press hard; that’s where it all flows from.” He started to place my other hand over the middle.
“Aah, I can’t do it backwards.” Jack moved closer and put his arm behind me, his left hand covering mine on the guitar neck. He looked over my shoulder. “Put your fingers here,” he said, reaching around to position my right hand on the strings.
His chin brushed my shoulder; I felt his warm breath on my cheek. I started to scoot forward a little, but his arms tightened around me. “Now hold these down and strum.”
Awkwardly I tried to pluck the strings. If I turned a fraction of an inch, my face would be touching his. He seemed intent on teaching me the chords, when all I could think of was the intoxicating heat of his body.
“All right, that was your A. Sort of. Now we’re gonna situate you …” He repositioned my left hand, his voice soft in my ear, “… so you can play a D.”
His chest pressed against my back, his heartbeat like a drum kick through my shirt. My stomach was doing somersaults.
“Just hold those in and then strum. That’s your basic D.” When I didn’t move, he stroked the strings for me. His arms encircling me felt like an embrace. Why is he showing me these stupid chords when I’m dying for him to kiss me?
“Next you go to an E.” He lifted my pointer and positioned it, then my middle finger, then my fourth. “Don’t be afraid of it, Julia,” he said in a low timbre, his lips brushing my cheek.
Suddenly my skin prickled with goosebumps, and I gave an involuntary shiver. I couldn’t stand the tension any longer. As I turned toward him, the guitar clanked against the bottle between his legs and knocked it sideways.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!”
Jack grabbed the frothing bottle and slammed it onto the table. He stood up, his jeans soaked. “Well, that cooled me down. Let me go change.”
He went back through the loft to his bedroom. What a klutz! I can’t believe I dumped a whole beer in his lap. He must think I’m an idiot! I stood and paced around the table. How moronic! Maybe I’d better go before I make an even bigger fool of myself. I waited a few more minutes, but when he didn’t return, I grabbed my bag and punched the elevator button until it came.
Outside it was pouring rain, so I sloshed over to the subway. I got on the train and stared at the graffitied doors as the crowded car lurched its way downtown. Only I could blow a night with Jack Kipling. He probably wishes he hadn’t invited me over. The doors slid open and people shoved their way on. A couple with safety-pinned eyebrows sat across from me and started making out. A bedraggled guy came through ranting about rent control and shaking his cup in people’s faces. The passengers studiously ignored him, and each other. I got out at my stop and slogged over to Broome, thoroughly disgusted with myself.
The phone was ringing as I turned the second lock. I peeled off my dripping shoes and got ready to settle in for a long call from Dot. “Hi, Mom,” I said.
“I’ve been called a mother before, but not in that sense of the word.” Jack sounded amused.
“Oh! Hi. I can’t believe I spilled that beer all over you. I hope I didn’t ruin your jeans.”
“My jeans have survived worse. You vanished on me.”
“I’m sorry, I was just so embarrassed. I didn’t even thank you for playing the music.”
“Glad you liked it. Listen, I have to go to this thing next weekend, this… birthday thing for one of the guys in the band.”
I started to get excited, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Jack paused for a moment. “Do you want to go?” he said. “All I have to do is show up. Then we could get something to eat. Play some more blues.” I felt my pulse thumping. Did he just ask me out?
“I’d love to.” Suddenly I envisioned a bunch of rich rock stars and their girlfriends at a bash. My raggedy punk stuff probably wouldn’t cut it. “What would I wear to something like that?”
“Wear anything you want. So I’ll pick you up Saturday after I get out of the studio, and we’ll go to this shindig. I’ll call you when I’m done, around ten-thirty. Want to give me your office number too?”
Breathlessly I recited it to him.
“Now I can track you down, day or night. All right. See you Saturday.”
I hung up and did a little spin on my worn rug. Having his arms wrapped around me had felt incredible. What would it be like to kiss him … to touch his chest? It had been months since I’d made love with anyone—not that my sleepover with Eric even fit that description. I had a feeling Jack would be amazing, if we ever got to that point.
I put on my favorite Floor ballad and sat in the open windo
w looking out at the taxi lights coming on further down Broome. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much, but this was the kind of Cinderella story you read about in New York; somebody from nowhere suddenly met someone famous, and all their dreams came true. I just hoped I’d have a chance to really connect with Jack before the pumpkin imploded and all the mice scattered. Enjoy it while you can, I told myself. And whatever happens, don’t set yourself up for another heartbreak.
Chapter 7
Welcome to the Working Week
I was so distracted the next day, I made about a zillion typos. As I was redoing a letter for the third time, Harvey came into my cramped office.
“How’s the Collins novel coming along?”
“I’ve been whacking away, but it’s slow going.”
“Well, keep at it. We can’t miss our call-to-print.” His gaze dropped to my chest, and I hunched my shoulders to slacken my blouse. “Tell you what. Why don’t I take you out for a drink Sunday? A reward for all the extra editing.”
Ugh. He’d mentioned several times that his wife took their kids to her father’s Park Avenue townhouse for dinner on Sundays. “That’s my laundry night,” I said.
Harvey’s schedule was packed with meetings on Tuesday, so he had no time to harass me. On his way out to his midday boozathon, he stopped by my desk.
“I’m taking an agent to the Four Seasons,” he said, unfolding his sunglasses. “Don’t wait up.”
I just rolled my eyes. After he left I browsed through the Post, my secret vice. I always kept it tucked inside the New York Times to avoid comment from my highbrow colleagues. An item on Page Six caught my eye; former sitcom actress Isabel Reed was up for a role in a new big-budget film after several years below the radar. The last line mentioned that she lived in the Chelsea Hotel in Manhattan, and was working on a memoir.
When I was growing up, Isabel Reed starred in my absolute favorite TV show about a schoolteacher who sang the lessons to her kids. I’d never missed an episode, and the theme song was wired into my subconscious. I wonder who her literary agent is … probably her book has already been sold. Harvey’s words echoed in my mind: Come up with your own ideas … Maybe it was worth spending ten minutes trying to track her down, once I got back from my own lunch date.