by Karen Booth
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Excerpt: Bring Me Back
Claire Abby spent her teenage years imagining British rock star Christopher Penman was her boyfriend. Two decades later, he’s about to turn her world—and her heart—upside down.
Foreword
March 7th, 1986
Dear Diary,
Scott from next door gave me a ride home from school today because I missed the bus again. (I know, I know. Big surprise.) I was kind of excited since he has his own car, but he was such a creep when we got home. He asked me about Banks Forest, which he knows I love because everybody knows they’re my favorite band. I told him how I can’t wait to see Banks Forest in concert and he put his hand on my boob. I told him he was gross and he got all mad and said I shouldn’t dress like Madonna if I don’t want boys to grab my boobs. He’s such an idiot. I haven’t dressed like Madonna since 9th grade.
Speaking of Banks Forest, (when am I not?), I rearranged my BF posters after school. I figured out that if I put the best poster of Christopher Penman (the medium sized one, without his shirt) on the wall next to my closet, it looks like he’s lying next to me in bed if I’m on my side and squint my left eye. What a babe. I look at him and I just want to die. Why can’t he go to my school? Wouldn’t that be amazing? If he was a senior, but still a super famous rock star and he was my boyfriend. The mean girls would hate me even more than they already do. My life would be perfect. I wonder if there’s any way I will ever meet Christopher. There has to be some reason that he and I are both on planet earth at the same time. It just doesn’t seem like that would be totally random.
XO
Claire
P.S. Only 27 days until Banks Forest live and I get to see Christopher Penman in the flesh! We will be in the same place, breathing the same air.
Chapter One
Twenty-two years later
After an extra-long morning run, also known as procrastination, I plopped down at my creaky desk and picked up the phone to call my dad. It was a task I’d put off for two days, even when I knew that every minute I delayed was only ammunition for him to guilt me about not staying in touch. The voicemail tone buzzed in my ear and I cursed myself for waiting so long. Crap. He beat me to it.
There were two messages, fewer than ten minutes apart, both from Patrick Collins, senior music editor at Rolling Stone. I’d long had the nagging suspicion that Patrick was humoring me, which made the desperation in his voice seem more like a practical joke than a plea for help. He’d never, in all my years of pushing for more than a token assignment, wanted a call back ASAP.
“Claire,” he answered, before I’d heard a single ring. “I’ve been trying you for an hour.”
“I went for a run. What’s up?”
“Another writer pulled out of an interview that’s scheduled for Monday. Are you available? I’d need you here in New York.”
I flipped through my planner, hoping the sound of rustling paper would make it seem as if I was impossibly busy and therefore, in demand. “I’d have to find someone to stay with my daughter for the night. Who’s the interview with?”
“Christopher Penman, from Banks Forest.”
I nearly choked on my own breath. “He agreed to an interview?” A long-forgotten hum surged through me, dotting my arms with goose bumps. “You’ve got to be kidding. He hates writers.” Everything I’d ever thought or read or seen of Christopher Penman brewed a frothy chaos in my head. “Really, really hates writers.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I think he’s hoping for some good publicity. He’s got a new record coming out.”
I knew there had to be a catch—a new solo album. His first outing without his band had been an unlistenable flop, panned by everyone, even me.
“It’ll be the cover if you can get him to talk,” Patrick continued.
“The cover?” I’d been dying for Patrick to give me a real assignment, but a cover? The adage about things that are too good to be true didn’t merely spring to mind, it set off sirens in my head.
“Yes, the cover, but I need an answer now.” He clicked a pen at his usual neurotic pace. “You know, you’re always begging me for something meaty.”
Meaty? You have no idea. “Let me think.” Would I be able to form coherent sentences? Would I remember how to put one foot in front of the other without making an ass of myself?
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I need someone with your experience. We both know that you’ll have to ask some uncomfortable questions. I don’t see him trusting one of the younger writers.”
“Oh, okay.” I’m thirty-nine. When did I become one of the older writers?
“I could really use you.”
This will never work. “Yes, of course. I’ll do it.”
“Great.” He blew out a breath. “I trust that you know this is a big deal, Claire.”
Thank you for the understatement of the millennium. “Yes. I’m well aware of what I’m up against.” The question is whether I will survive it. Or him.
“And you understand that I need you to ask those difficult questions, right? We need the whole story. Every last sensitive subject.”
“Yes. Got it.” Every last unbelievable drop.
“Okay, then. Christopher Penman is all yours.”
I hung up to silence, or perhaps I hadn’t noticed in all of the confusion that my brain had swelled and plugged up my ears.
Oh. My. God. Christopher. Penman.
I was seventeen when I fell ass over teakettle for Mr. Penman—madly, deeply in love. He was the dreamiest guy in the world—tall and handsome in a skinny boyish way, although there’d been no question that he was a grown man. He had a scrubby head of copper-brown hair, perfect for digging fingers into, and his bright white smile came as a flash, potent enough to melt me into a puddle, quivering and eager to surrender. I squandered embarrassing amounts of time gazing at pictures of him, captivated by his freakishly green eyes.
I’d been a devoted fan of his band, Banks Forest, and spent hours every day in my bedroom, high on ditz and hormones, listening to their music. My preoccupation coincided with a few sub-par report cards, but I’d felt that homework time was better spent writing my married name, Claire Louise Penman, in my best cursive. My dad had made no effort to understand me at all. My argument that he should encourage my appreciation of the arts never seemed to get me anywhere.
Christopher was my respite at a time when boys were a constant disappointment. He was the ultimate imaginary boyfriend, fiery and intense during the dreamy liaisons I concocted in my head, with an uncanny ability to satisfy my every need, emotional and physical. Although I had far less real-life experience than I would have liked, Christopher taught me everything I needed to know and I was a quick study under his skilled tutelage. He was always tender afterward, making me laugh and telling me that I was the most incredible girl in the world. Everything about our illusory love story had been perfect; no-birth-control-necessary sex on a puffy cloud.
Of course, Monday would be anything but a day-dreamy frolic through cumulonimbus. Agreeing to interview Christopher Penman was the professional equivalent of jumping out of an airplane with a second-hand chute. He was notorious for his secrecy and he hated the media, writers and photographers at the top of the list. You couldn’t blame the guy. He’d suffered through years of rumors and innuendo about his private life, drugs, and his nightmare of an ex-wife. I wasn’t being sent in to help his situation at all. Despite what Christopher’s agenda might be, nobody would care about the new solo record. People would only want to know if the filthy personal stuff was true.
* * *
My cranky Volvo station wagon wasn’t a grand statement about individ
uality, it was more a product of my finances, but it had helped me stubbornly dodge the modern definition of suburban mom for years. Granted, I would have needed a husband to fully participate in that stereotype. Lining up behind the minivans at school, at least I could take comfort in the fact that I had resisted the temptation to assimilate.
My darling Sam, flanked by her best friend Leah, sauntered through the double doors, Sam’s buoyant blonde curls responding in time to every step. The pair was a flurry of conversation, but came to a halt the instant a pack of boys crossed their path. A seemingly undernourished boy in baggy-butt jeans stopped to talk and the girls smiled in gleaming white, long enough for their lips to stick to their teeth.
Sam was a junior, recently seventeen. Knowing we had only two more summers together before she went off to college was more than a thorn in my side—it made me queasy. I’d felt too young to become a mom at twenty-two and now I was unquestionably too young to live out my days in a nest for one.
“Hey, Mom,” Sam said as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Can I sleep over at Leah’s tonight?”
Leah waited at the curb, cheeks turning red from the blustery March day. She granted me half of a wave as she checked her cell phone.
“Sure, honey.” Another Friday night alone, but at least I could work on my Christopher Penman interview without the motherly guilt.
Sam gave Leah thumbs up and slammed her door.
“How’d the English test go?” I asked. A mom in an Escalade, yelling at her brood to get in the damn car, blocked my escape from the car circle. I considered laying on the horn, but decided I didn’t dare risk my already tenuous social status with the PTA.
“It was fine,” Sam said. She took a piece of gum from her backpack and crumpled the wrapper before dropping it in the cup holder. “I think I did okay, but I won’t find out until next week.”
“How was the rest of your day?” I asked, turning out of the school parking lot. Whenever I could convince Sam to take a ride home after school, that ten-minutes was a gift, a veritable parental goldmine. She found my thirst for knowledge less menacing when it was acceptable to avoid eye contact and I, happily, deflected the title of grand inquisitor.
“Okay.” Her deep blue eyes found mine for an instant. “Remember Andrew Mills? He hung out with Leah and me at lunch for a while. I forgot how funny he is.”
“Gotta love a funny guy.” I regretted my choice of words as soon as they left my mouth. Any enthusiasm on my part might sour her opinion of the unsuspecting Andrew.
“He’s cuter since he got his braces off. He started a band with some guys from school. They’re practicing this weekend.”
I was a predictable sucker for any guy in a band when I was Sam’s age, which made me assume that Andrew would be a shoe-in, but I didn’t push the subject once we got to the house—our cute and tidy, albeit tired, nod to a normal life—white with faded black shutters.
I’d purchased the house when I moved to North Carolina and Sam was a baby. The down payment had come as an uncharacteristically lavish birthday gift from my dad. I’d feigned refusal, but he insisted that my mom, if she’d been alive, would’ve wanted it that way.
Once inside our Fifties-era kitchen that I’d decided long ago was retro and not run-down, Sam rummaged through the fridge. Her cell phone buzzed and I caught her fighting a smile.
“Change in plans?” I flipped through the mail and set aside several letters for her from far-off schools.
“No. It’s, um…” She beamed at her phone. “It’s Andrew. He wants me to watch his band practice tomorrow.”
“Sounds like fun. I’ll drive you. I haven’t talked to his mom since our book club imploded.” I hadn’t laid eyes on Andrew in two years. A reconnaissance mission was in order.
“Mom, please. Can’t I take the car by myself?”
“No way. I’m still recovering from the trip to the grocery store last weekend.” I caught her reaction and reminded myself that the eye roll was nothing personal. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when we need to leave.”
I had an hour until Sam would need a ride to her sleepover, so I tucked one leg under the other, typed “Christopher Penman” in my browser’s search box, and settled in for the start of what would likely be a sedentary weekend. The official Banks Forest website had what I’d expected, a discography and a timeline, details I’d memorized long ago. There were hundreds of old photos too, including the quintessential shot of the band, Christopher with his shirt blown open by a tropical breeze to reveal what made a perfunctory appearance in every video Banks Forest made—his smooth, broad chest.
That image in particular was as familiar as my own family photos, the shots of my sister Julie and me at the Grand Canyon, both of us wearing striped orange and brown tank tops and khaki safari shorts. Julie had her lustrous golden hair in braids, but Mom made me wear my dishwater blonde in pigtails. She’d spared us the tube socks, but otherwise dressed us like boys, a hippie theory of hers about not forcing gender rules.
The Christopher Penman website was next, complete with a scheme of smoke and mirrors to prop up his first solo outing. In the interest of journalistic thoroughness, I carefully studied every image of him in the photo gallery. I’d forgotten how sublimely his well-made jaw paired with the mole on his left cheek.
The search results that followed were an ocean of muck: fan pages, gossipy entertainment sites and links to tabloid articles. I was already at a disadvantage; I’d only sporadically witnessed the more dubious years of Christopher’s public life. Banks Forest had released the first of their two “Best of” albums well after I was out of college and they were no longer legitimate in my burgeoning music writer brain. He seemed to embrace every Rock ‘n’ Roll cliché during that time, much of it captured quite poignantly by the paparazzi. He and his then wife even made a couple’s trip to rehab.
“Mom?” Sam popped her head into my office with a bulging purple duffel bag over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go. We decided to catch a movie. Leah hates it if we miss the previews.”
Sam and I ducked through icy rain, tiny pellets hitting the back of my neck as we dashed to the car. The Volvo’s heat refused to kick in and I was forced to steer with my knee while warming my hands in my jacket pockets.
“Mom, please drive like a normal person,” Sam begged, as if she had any business criticizing someone else’s driving.
“Oh, sorry.” I shook my head to clear it, placing my hands on the wheel. “So, honey, I need to fly to New York on Monday morning to do an interview. Do you think you can stay with Leah?”
She clucked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “I’m old enough to stay by myself.”
“But I’ll be so far away. What if you need me?” I glanced over and wondered if she’d gotten taller since that morning.
She wagged her cell phone in the air. “I know how to order a pizza. I’ll be fine. I won’t get any homework done if I stay with Leah.” Sam was much more responsible than I’d ever been. Her guidance counselor had said she’d likely have her pick of schools. The trick would be whether I’d ever find a way to pay for any of them.
“Okay. If you say so.”
“Who are you interviewing?”
A stupid smile crossed my face, not my usual reaction to most work assignments. “Um, Christopher Penman. He was the guitarist in a British band called Banks Forest. They were my favorite band when I was your age.”
“I know Banks Forest! Leah made me an ‘80s mix CD with some of their songs on it. Is he, like, really old now?”
“No,” I huffed. “He’s only five years older than me. I think he’s even better looking now than when he was younger.”
“So, that’s who you were drooling over on the computer.”
“I wasn’t drooling.” I crinkled my lips. “It’s called research.”
She pretended to stick her finger down her throat. “You’re such a bad liar.”
* * *
After hours at the computer that
night, leftovers seemed appropriate while I suffered through the last half of a mindless romantic comedy on cable, all about a scatterbrained woman finding true love with the bookish, yet ruggedly handsome, guy working in the next cubicle.
It had been six months since the end of my most recent romantic comedy, with Kevin, a fellow music writer who lived in LA. I should have recognized that we were doomed from the start. I’d never been able to make the long-distance thing work, especially not with a daughter at home.
I hated myself for being drawn to him at all—he was hopelessly cocky about his writing ability, which he tempered by falsely dismissing his good looks. My only excuse was that he’d had a soft spot for me and that had been hard to resist. There were even times when I wondered if being with Kevin was what being in love felt like. Not that it mattered. Love or not, I fell out of it after learning he had a soft spot for several other women, too.
I’d tried and failed at love so many times that I’d often wondered if I was too picky, but my boyfriend wish-list was only designed to weed out the really bad ones. I didn’t need the world. All I ever wanted was funny, smart, tall, employed, patient, non-judgmental, good kisser, able dishwasher, music fan, reader, and a healthy libido. Maybe I would never find a man who could send flowers and be monogamous, but I had to keep trying.
The movie credits rolled and I stretched and turned off the TV. I stalked up the stairs to my room, still reeling from the idea of what was going to happen on Monday. Of course, meeting Christopher Penman wasn’t going to play out as I’d once imagined. We were not being brought together by some magical, romantic set of events. This assignment was more about dumb luck, even if I’d worked my butt off for years for a cover story this big.
Perhaps my luck wouldn’t end up being dumb—maybe I’d nail the interview and still manage to nab a stolen moment with Christopher. I’d dreamt of the latter countless times—a laugh or a smile, a blissful instant of flirtation—it wouldn’t need to be much to last me a lifetime. Although, no matter what happened on Monday, I’d surely be left wanting more.