Come Dancing
Page 18
“I can see the resemblance.” He had her arched eyebrows and wide smile.
Jack considered a sullen photo of him and Mark with some men in suits. “Busted,” he commented. “What a load of crap.”
“Did you have to go to jail?”
“Yeah, just for a few days. The buggers were only after making an example of us.”
He dug around in the box and gave me several shots of him onstage. “I liked that outfit,” he said, indicating a rhinestone shirt. “I always wondered where that got to.”
I selected a picture of him with an extremely thin blonde woman, both looking very stoned. “That’s Caroline. I went out with her for a while in my mid-twenties.”
“She looks like the model/heiress type.”
“She was sort of an heiress; her father owned a huge shipping company. So she was rebelling against all that. We split up before I moved to New York.”
“Why did you break up?”
“So you are interested in my past,” Jack said wryly. “We broke up because she started acting like a ball and chain. I thought she was a free spirit, but she really just wanted to play house. Eventually she reverted to type and settled down with a diplomat. A real prig, from what I heard.”
So that’s his way of letting me know he isn’t into anything long-term. All right—I’ve been warned.
I was quiet for a few minutes while we looked at more photos, Jack finding a recent one of his mother, some gray in her hair, and Sharon, a petite young woman holding an infant Emma. We came upon a shot of Oliver brandishing a toy truck, almost concealed by a mountain of wrapping paper.
“He’s adorable. He looks so much like you,” I said.
Jack beamed. “That’s what everyone says. I took him to the zoo when he was three, and the papers went wild, thinking they’d finally found my love child. It drove the attorney up the wall. Ollie doesn’t look a thing like him.”
“You really don’t care for Sharon’s husband,” I commented.
Jack scratched his chin. “He asked me once if I could get him some ‘backstage action’ when we had a gig in London. Like I’d do that to me own sister.” He dumped the pictures in the box. “I think that’s it for the blast from the past.”
The buzzer rang for the delivery. Jack looked in the takeout bag and removed two eight-track tapes. “Everybody thinks they’re a musician,” he said, shaking his head.
While Jack was having a joint in bed before turning out the light, I decided to tweak him a little about Freeman, since he’d made such a point of saying he couldn’t be tied down. “Did I tell you our big author’s in town?” I asked with a faraway look in my eyes.
“Who’s that?”
“Freeman Fyfe. He’s a rather glamorous guy, for a writer. Kind of debonair.”
“Sounds like you have a thing for him.” Jack drew deeply on the joint, making the tip spark.
“I have to admit I thought he was attractive at first, but then I realized he’s just a playboy. All the women at work think he’s sexy. But I don’t. Not really.”
Jack blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Are you seeing him while he’s in town?”
“We’re having a party for him next Thursday at Pierre’s. It’s a really fancy event; I expect I’ll wear that black dress of Vicky’s.”
“What time’s the party? I might stop by and check it out.”
This took me by surprise. “I don’t have the details yet,” I said, trying to backtrack. “There’s going to be press there and everything. You might start a stampede.”
“I know how to be cool,” Jack said, stubbing the roach in the ashtray.
“They sent out the guest list ages ago. I’m pretty sure you have to have RSVP’d.”
“I never RSVP.”
Chapter 19
The Harder They Come
I was changing in the office bathroom for Freeman’s fete, trying to shimmy into Vicky’s form-fitting dress in the cramped confines of the stall. Jack hadn’t mentioned the party again, and I was relieved he’d dropped it, imagining the flurry if he showed up.
I stuffed my pantyhose into my backpack and pulled out the garter belt and black stockings that I’d bought as a little treat for Jack, since I was planning to go over to his place afterwards. I had never worn one before, but imagined he’d seen a few in his day. I stepped into the garters and drew a stocking up my right leg. My knee bumped the toilet paper, which burst out of its socket and rolled under the door. No one was in the bathroom so I quickly scuttled out, holding up the hose with one hand while reaching for the roll. Just as I was standing up, Meredith walked in. I kept my grasp on the roll but not the stocking, which slithered down to my ankle.
“Getting dolled up for the party?” she asked with raised eyebrow.
Of all the timing. “I just knocked the paper loose,” I said, retreating to the stall. After several attempts, I got the first stocking hitched in a way that would allow forward motion. Balancing on one foot, I leaned against the door and tried to wrestle the second one up my leg. It seemed to be several inches shorter than the other; I should have known better than to buy them at discount on Canal Street. Only by straining the belt could I get the elusive snap to reach the edge of the hose. The tampon box clanged loudly as I wheeled around trying to hook the one in back; I was circling myself like a dog chasing its tail.
“Those things are a bitch to get on, aren’t they?” came Meredith’s amused voice.
How utterly humiliating. “I ran out of pantyhose, and this was the only thing I had left in my drawer,” I replied lamely.
“Let me know if you need help.” It sounded like she was laughing.
At last I was fixed up, but with all the twisting and turning, I now had to pee. I pulled down my underpants, which came to an abrupt halt, trapped by the garters. Were you supposed to wear them underneath? Darn, I’d have to unhitch the things to get my panties down.
Now I really was in a rush. I decided to ditch the less complicated undergarment, realizing no one would ever know. I stowed the undies in my bag, got the garters sorted out again, and finally exited the bathroom. The day had turned freakishly cold due to a hurricane coming up the East Coast; I knew I’d be chilly in my strappy dress, but I’d just have to cope.
I caught a cab to Pierre’s with Erin and Rachel, shivering with the draft up my skirt. We said hello to the coat-check girl behind her half-door partition—a last-minute afterthought, but one Harvey felt necessary since it was so frigid out—and started stacking books that Freeman would sign for anyone who bought a copy.
People began filing in and Freeman arrived, escorted by Harvey. Freeman spoke to a couple of reporters, was photographed with our sales director, and then came over to kiss me on the cheek. “I really appreciated your careful editing,” he said courteously. “Your ideas about the ending rounded it out very nicely.”
“Thank you. I can’t wait to see the reviews.” I so rarely got this kind of feedback; his compliment made my day.
Rachel led Freeman away to meet some bookstore owners, and Erin and I commented on how well the party was coming off. Suddenly her face took on a strange expression. “Is that …? It can’t be.” I turned in the direction she was staring and was astonished to see Jack entering the room, Sammy in tow. Jack looked absolutely dashing in a sleek black suit that I’d never seen before, his long hair a sensual counterpoint to the formal attire. He stopped and gazed around, then strode over to me. As he kissed me on the cheek, I caught a drift of whiskey.
“Where is this guy? I want to meet him,” Jack said, oblivious to the swiveling heads.
“Jack, Sammy, this is my friend Erin. We work together.”
Erin’s eyes were glazed; she looked like she might pass out. “Nice to see you,” she said faintly.
“Hello, Erin,” Jack said.
“You want to meet Freeman?” I asked.
“Yes.” Jack crossed his arms.
“Okay,” I said with a smile. I led him and Sammy over, and touc
hed Freeman’s arm. He turned, his elegant white hair contrasting with his weathered face.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but a friend of mine wanted to say hello.”
Freeman took him in. “So nice to meet you, Jack; I adore your music. This darling girl was an enormous help with my novel.”
For a moment Jack looked flabbergasted, then his mouth stretched into a broad smile. “Good to meet you,” he said. “Julia has told me a lot about you. Here’s our keyboardist, Sam.”
Sammy stared at Freeman. “This is him?”
“I didn’t know Freeman Fyfe was friends with Jack Kipling,” someone said in a hushed voice.
“So you’re in from San Francisco?” Jack asked.
“Yes, I’ve lived there for thirty years.”
“It’s a great town,” Jack said. “Well, I know you’re in demand tonight. Congrats on your new book.”
“Thanks so much for coming,” Freeman replied.
Jack turned to me. “You little bitch,” he said, grinning. He took my hand and motioned for Sammy to follow.
“Where are we going?” I asked as Jack pulled me toward the door. He continued down the hall to the cloakroom, his grip firm on my wrist, Sammy trudging behind us. Jack fished out some bills and gave them to the coat-check girl. “Take the rest of the night off, sweetheart. We’ll handle it from here.”
She stared at the money in her palm. “Thanks!”
“Coatroom’s closed,” Jack said to Sammy. “Stay here and stand guard.”
He opened the lower partition of the doorway, hustled me through, closed it, then shut the top half and locked the bolt.
“What are you doing?” I said.
Jack took off his suit jacket, tossed it over a chair and grabbed me, holding me tight. “’All the girls think he’s so sexy,’” he said in his high-pitched Julia voice. “’Then I realized he was just a playboy’… That guy must be seventy if he’s a day!”
“Were you a little jealous?” I asked, laughing.
“Was I jealous? What do you think? You’re gonna pay for this.” He swept a bunch of coats off the rack and dumped them onto the floor, the empty hangers jangling.
“Hey, those are people’s things!”
“This looks comfortable.” He seized a big mink and threw it onto the pile. “Now …” He spun me around and tackled me face-down onto the fur.
“Jack, we can’t do this here!” I cried, my cheek against the plush mink.
“Want to make a bet?” He lifted the back of my dress. “What’s this, garters? That looks so … My god, you’ve got no underwear on.” I heard the sound of his zipper.
“I was going to surprise you at your place tonight,” I gasped.
“I had no idea you were such a naughty girl,” Jack said. “Now you’re gonna pay for what you did.” He slid his hand underneath and played me as he thrust from behind, eventually strumming sounds out of me that I’d never heard before.
We lay there on the coats, panting. I heard Sammy arguing with someone outside. “It’s closed for now. Come back in twenty minutes.”
Jack gave a wicked laugh and pushed up from the floor, rearranged himself and helped me off the mink, which looked a little worse for wear. He knelt and clasped one of my garters that had come unhooked, then pulled my dress down over my hips.
“How’d that feel?” he asked.
“Incredible. But I hope I still have a job after this.” I tried to finger-comb my hair.
“Don’t worry. Just wait here and get yourself together. I’ll go out and be nice to all the old bags so they can talk about it to their friends. I’ll give them lots of signage too,” he said, making an autographing gesture. “You won’t get in trouble.” He unlocked the top partition and stuck his head out. “Sammy, we’ve got some coats that need hanging up in here.”
When I made it back to the party, Jack was in the middle of the room with his arm around Freeman, being photographed. Then he sat at the table, autographing each book and handing it to Freeman to sign. We sold more copies than we ever had at a publication party in the history of the company.
The whole time, Harvey looked like he was about to choke on his martini olive.
“Maybe that yobbo will leave you alone now,” Jack said as we rode to his place.
When we got inside, I opened my copy of Freeman’s book and showed him my name in the acknowledgments. “It’s my very first one.”
“That’s fantastic, Julia. You’re going to be a top editor. He’ll have to promote you now.” He looked at me for a moment. “We leave for the coast in a week and a half to do the mixing. We’re doing those concerts while we’re there too.”
My heart sank; I had wondered when they were going.
“It’ll be good to be onstage again,” Jack added. “Everyone claims to hate L.A., but I always have a great time out there. All kinds of crazy situations come up when we do a show.” He raised an eyebrow and grinned at me. I couldn’t believe he’d be so blatant about what he was planning to do, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of acting like it bugged me.
“That does sound like fun. I guess I’ll set up some things for that week, too. There are a couple of people I’ve been meaning to get together with, but I’ve been so tied up lately.” I sighed. “Sometimes I wish there were two Saturday nights a week.”
Jack eyed me. “I thought you said you didn’t go out that much on weekends.”
I smiled. “Not unless there’s something I really want to do. It’ll be nice to have a little space though; I hate feeling like I’m in a rut. I’m sure you feel the same way.”
“Yeah. You could say I like my space.”
I dreaded seeing Harvey the next morning; I suspected he’d have some caustic comment about Jack, and he didn’t disappoint. When I went to empty his outbox, he glowered at me, the skin around his cold little eyes puffy from all the drinking the night before. “How on earth do you know one of the Floors?” he asked. “I didn’t picture you as a groupie type.”
“We met through a mutual acquaintance. We’re just friends.”
“I see.” He watched as I backed out of his office.
At lunchtime, Erin and Rachel crowded into my office, wanting to know how long I’d been seeing Jack. Again I played it down, saying that we were just acquaintances. They seemed to accept the explanation—and why not? It was more plausible than thinking a rock star would be romantically involved with a lowly publishing drudge.
When I went to give Meredith some flap copy, she gestured for me to shut her door. “So that’s who you’ve been seeing. I’m so impressed; I love their music. Is he nice? He has such a wild reputation.”
“I don’t know about ‘nice’. He’s definitely one-of-a-kind. I’m trying not to get too carried away.”
“Well, good for you. I heard Briar interrogating Erin about it this morning; she seemed to believe Erin had mistaken him for someone else. She kept saying, ‘You think Julia is going out with Jack Kipling?’”
I had to laugh at that. “I keep asking myself the same question.”
Chapter 20
Talk of the Town
Twice I’d reminded Jack about watching the band rehearse. At first he told me he’d be too distracted with me there, but finally he said I could come. After work I swung by my apartment to change into jeans, and then walked up to Eighth Street. I heard the entwined jangle of guitar and bass as I followed the guard inside. Jack came out looking tired, his shirt wrinkled, hair standing up in back. “C’mon, you can sit with Mary Jo. I asked her along to keep you company.”
My mood plunged at this; I didn’t look forward to another run-in with his manager. We went into the studio, where several people were sitting on the sidelines. Mary Jo nodded as I took a folding chair next to her. Jack put his Gibson strap over his shoulder and held the pick in his mouth as he tuned the strings. Patrick, wearing a silk shirt that looked as if it had just been pressed, not a blonde hair out of place, was laughing with Sammy as he poured a glass of ora
nge juice and vodka from the array of bottles on top of the keyboard. Mark sat at his drums, creating a whispery beat.
“How is it going?” I asked Mary Jo in a low voice, hoping to start on a friendly note.
“They bicker a lot, but it’ll be unbelievable when they’re onstage.”
“So where were we when we got interrupted?” Patrick asked in a petulant tone, picking up his bass.
“You’ve been interrupting all day. We were at that bit in the middle of the five bars,” Jack said. “We should do it as it was originally.”
“Do it my way again,” Patrick said. “Dropping back to the fade.”
Jack made a face at Sammy, who grimaced and stubbed out his cigarette. Jack hit a few chords, Sammy fingered an octave, and they swung into one of the tunes I recognized from the Mudd Club tape. Mark came in on the backbeat as Patrick strummed his bass and belted out the lyrics. Seeing Patrick perform blew me away; the minute he opened his mouth, his presence took over the room. His voice was at once insinuating, insulting, arousing; one moment velvety, the next a snarl.
When he suddenly stopped singing, I realized I’d been holding my breath. Patrick stepped back from the mic and shook his head. “It’s too fast. You’ve gotta slow it down.”
“That’s how we did it for the album,” Jack replied.
They argued for a minute, then seemed to reach a compromise and ran it at a more moderate tempo. Patrick gyrated before the microphone; Jack paced, crouched on the floor, took a belt of whiskey, all the while teasing out a complex tangle of notes. Mark gazed at the ceiling as he played, Jack shut his eyes, and Sammy kept his glued to Patrick.
“Let’s move on,” Patrick said after the fifth repeat, his voice raspy. “Can someone bring me a tea with honey?”
“Lillian,” Mary Jo said over her shoulder.
A girl sitting behind us jumped up to fetch it. Jack unplugged his guitar from the amp and batted at the strings, making a scratchy noise.