by M. M. Mayle
After wasting fifteen minutes on this fruitless meditation, he ducks into Sainsburys for a cheese and pickle sandwich. While there, he picks up a container of rhubarb yogurt, Amanda’s new favorite among flavors she’s never tried before.
Rain is bucketing down now, so taking the tube back to the office no longer seems like a cop-out. The ride from St James’s Park to Sloane Square takes just long enough to give rise to a fresh concern, whether he can conceal his mental disarray in Laurel’s presence.
An audible stir in the outer office alerts him to Laurel’s arrival. Her newly minted celebrity has obviously preceded her; the receptionist calls her by name before Laurel identifies herself as his next appointment.
Maybe to make up for going so far afield the last time they got together, she is all business. All business to the extent of not even offering a hand to shake, let alone a cheek to kiss. He matches her mode and replaces his work in progress with the several bound presentations containing the best reasoned options for her financial future.
Three hours later, she is leaning toward the most conservative plan, the one he favors that would see her retain interest in the family law firm as silent partner, invest other inherited assets in a diversified portfolio to include real estate development, long-term stocks, growth funds, municipal bonds, and select Internet start-ups.
She has few comments or questions until they get around to the subject of her personal real estate, which he advises her to liquidate in the near future. She agrees, but stipulates that it not go on the block until after the August wedding, reminding that August is the earliest she can make a firm decision about any of her ties to New Jersey.
The meeting winds down with him brushing off as much of her profuse thanks as he can and remain polite. At his insistence, she takes all of the bound proposals with her for review and allows him to see her into a cab.
“Bemus is already upset with me for coming here alone, but I reminded him he shouldn’t be seen in your presence, either,” she says as they move out to the street, where he’s lucky to flag down a cab on the third try.
“Two things,” he says before the cab pulls away. “Insist on a pre-nup, and tell Rachel I said hello.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Early evening, May 20, 1987
Nate somehow got through an unfashionably early dinner with the manager of the London office. They picked a casual spot on King’s Road, where food took a backseat to shoptalk. This did nothing to improve Nate’s growing sense of inadequacy after such a nonproductive day. But the interlude did move him closer to making the first decision of the day—a decision inspired by something Amanda said this morning, and by Laurel’s no-nonsense demeanor this afternoon.
Now, although the rain has stopped and he has time to burn, he takes a cab rather than walk from the restaurant to Albert Hall. He directs the driver to let him off on Prince Consort Road nearest the stage door, where he regrets not having left his raincoat at the office, along with his document case and umbrella. But it’s too late to do anything about that now. He’ll just have to put up with the encumbrance, and with whatever image a damp, wrinkled coat projects.
Why is he bugging himself about this anyway? No one will mistake him for a roadie. Or even a casual concertgoer. He drapes the coat over one shoulder before clipping an all-access pass to the lapel of his bespoke suit coat, and enters the hall with forty-five minutes to go before the scheduled start of the concert.
The phalanx of venue stewards and private security guards at the stage entrance processes him through as just another dignitary. Inside, he’s met with personnel who appear to know him on sight and take for granted he’s there in a professional capacity. That assumption holds when he moves along a low-ceilinged corridor toward the dressing rooms, where other early birds are clustered at intervals. A few acknowledge him; one sidles up to him, crablike in gait and manner.
“We should talk,” Saul Kingsolver says without preamble.
“That ship has sailed,” Nate says without slackening pace, pretending interest in the name placards on the dressing room doors. He confronts two more recording magnates, who similarly think he’s still the fast track to Colin Elliot. He brushes them off, intent on reaching a place where the organizers might be expected to congregate. He’s not really on the lookout for Amanda, he’s only collecting echoes of past experiences at this venue and acting as an unofficial overseer. That’s his story and he’s sticking to it.
On the arena floor, he moves toward the roped off VIP seating near the stage. It’s safe to say the organizers went for the exclusive let that provides five thousand-plus seats, which are already starting to fill. They probably went for the whole show package, too. The stewards and full complement of labeled dressing rooms he saw earlier would attest to that. And that means they also have use of any available function rooms.
He considers taking a stroll on the Grand Tier to see who might be schmoozing in the Prince of Wales Room, say—not that he’s looking for anyone in particular. Not just yet, anyway.
Before leaving this level, he surveys the entire amphitheatre, recalling his initial distaste for gilt and crimson ostentation that now doesn’t seem quite so vulgar. Within this panoramic view, he takes in the large acoustic diffusing disks suspended beneath the domed roofline to reduce echo, and they look less like a fleet of flamboyant flying saucers than they used to. The dominant pipe organ isn’t as imposing or churchly as remembered. Tonight, the elaborate arched Gallery, refuge of standees, doesn’t strike him as a laughably pretentious irony, and the voluminous drapes in the boxes don’t seem like the archaic affectation he once thought them to be.
In this forgiving mood, he bucks throngs of incoming concertgoers to get to the elevator lobby, where he might also find a cloakroom and be rid of the damp raincoat.
He finds what he’s looking for, hands the coat off to the attendant, and recoils from a firm grip on the shoulder just relieved of the coat. No one who knows him would dare lay a hand on in that manner, so when he turns around he’s prepared to confront a stranger, not Brownell Yates, last seen when he followed through on the porn purchase from Sid Kaplan’s girlfriend.
“What the fuck?” Nate distances himself from the surprisingly well-groomed, well-dressed contact who’s sporting the credentials of Celebrity Sleuth, a semi-reputable rag with a name that says it all. “What in hell are you doing here?”
“Same as you. Keepin’ nose to the wind, ear to the ground, and eye to the keyhole. That is what you’re doin’, isn’t it?” Brownie says. “I’ve been watchin’ you check out the scene like you figured the baddie was waitin’ in the wings or somethin’, and you may not be far off on that.”
“On what?” Nate steers the resurrected scribe into an alcove where they’re less likely to be overheard. “What baddie?”
“You know. The guy we both think did the three over in the States and maybe could be tied to an unfortunate death over here, and maybe could be lookin’ to do your boy some damage.”
In another setting, Nate would frogmarch the overreaching asshole out the door, inform him their spotty history does not entitle him to this much latitude. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I doubt you do either,” he says instead.
“Sure you do. Sure I do,” Brownie says. “I’m talkin’ about what could happen if a certain investigative journalist took his act on the road, out to the boondocks and maybe—”
“What are you saying? Have you got something? Something concrete?” Nate gets right in Brownie’s face, smells his surprisingly gin-free breath.
“Bimmerman concrete enough?”
“Jesus!” Nate can’t pretend this cattle prod of a remark hasn’t jolted him to the core. “No . . . no, don’t say anything else. Not here. Not now.” He fumbles a business card from his breast pocket.
“Call me tomorrow.” Nate hands Brownie the card without elaborating and heads back the way he came. All pretensions are gone now. Now he’s openly looking for Amanda. Eagerly looking
for Amanda.
Backstage is alive with artists, technicians, and heavy security. If he can pick Bemus out of the herd, he’ll have a starting point. But it’s David Sebastian who’s the beacon. David, who used to stand out in any crowd as an adversary, is about twenty yards distant, heads together with the event manager, so Amanda can’t be too far away. Nor can Colin.
Several headliners extend high fives as Nate moves through the assembly. He probably should be paying closer attention to who they are, and calculating who among them could be looking for new management. Amanda would know; Amanda would know to a month—to a week—when any given contract expires, and to a man which ones are shopping for new handlers.
This sidebar to his thinking—this demonstrable truth— already has him smiling when he spots her, positively aglow amidst a trio of her idols. He elbows Chris Thorne aside, and shoulders past Robert Palmer and Michael Hutchence to get to her.
Her mouth forms a silent “o” when she sees him closing in. Then her expression shifts from surprise to wariness as he slips a proprietary arm around her waist and bends down to kiss her. She complies, but only for a moment.
“Omigod,” she says loud enough to be overheard. “I thought you said we shouldn’t—”
“I’m guessing he said you shouldn’t be seen together in public or I’d get wind of it, think he was behind this whole bleedin’ affair, and act accordingly by takin’ a walk. Am I right?” Colin says from somewhere behind him.
Amanda’s stricken face mirrors the full-bore glare she must be receiving from Colin. Not for long, though. Her chin comes up and her mettle surfaces.
“Yes,” she says,” squaring her shoulders. “That is what Nate predicted and I didn’t want to believe him because that doesn’t speak very well of you.”
“Indeed it does not!” Laurel materializes from behind David, who has now crowded in to see what’s going on.
The moment for direct confrontation with Colin has arrived. It won’t get better than this; it couldn’t get better than this, because when he turns to face Colin, it’s obvious that his revised estimate was on the money. Colin’s cowed reaction to Laurel’s reproach confirms Amanda’s early morning assumption that Laurel would figuratively kill him if he pulled any typical rock star shit. Valuable information to possess should the need to use it ever arise.
Now Colin’s back to glaring. But before the little drama can escalate beyond an exchange of daunting looks, David taps his watch face and disperses nonessentials either to seats in the audience or less congested backstage areas.
With only ten minutes until show time, there won’t be an opportunity to give Amanda much of an update, but he pulls her aside and whispers just enough to make her eyes widen with the potential he describes.
He’s filled with something like hope himself when he slips into one of the last seats in the VIP section, just in time to see the large video displays go live with towering images of the honoree at the peak of his powers. “I’m on it, dude,” he’d like to shout and probably could without being overheard as the audience erupts in cheering to befit a World Cup soccer win.
TWENTY-SIX
Evening, May 20, 1987
Laurel is watching Nate when the concert begins. They are seated at opposite ends of a VIP row on the floor of the arena. Now that the audience is on its feet, raving approval of the Rayce Vaughn performance footage emanating from huge video screens and countless speakers flanking the stage, she has to crane her neck to see Nate at all.
She’s been stealing glances at him ever since his blatant display backstage with Amanda suggested he was deliberate about seeking a confrontation with Colin and confirming rumors of his relationship with Amanda. Odd behavior for such a buttoned up individual unless he had another purpose. A purpose she’ll have to guess at later because a booming voiceover stifles those thoughts and quiets the audience with a summary of Rayce Vaughn’s accomplishments.
As the unidentified narrator booms on, comparisons to the Tavern on the Green tribute are inevitable. Anyone who attended that portentous event is forever doomed to remember it as a preamble to this one—and wonder if Rayce grasped it as an opportunity to appear live at his own wake. But that wouldn’t be true unless Rayce did commit suicide, an inadmissible thought under any circumstances, least of all these.
Laurel bows her head for a minute as though to apologize for entertaining such a notion. Susa Thorne, seated next to her, assumes she is overcome with emotion and offers a tissue and an understanding pat on the wrist.
She is overcome, but the emotion coursing through her doesn’t match the occasion. Something stronger than worry and weaker than fear has crept in. For no good reason, because the boys are in the competent care of their grandmother, the security around Colin is three deep, and she is herself within the protective custody of venue personnel.
Earlier today, routine calls to her brothers and sister and her father’s nursing home determined them all to be in fine fettle or unchanged and stable, as would apply. And a subsequent call to the Kent manor house established everything there to be under control. So what’s the problem?
This afternoon’s scuffle with an overambitious fan when Colin left the hotel didn’t amount to much; the near incident a little while ago when the crowd broke though police ranks at Albert Hall was just that—a near incident. For having relieved him of Colin, as they once joked, has she now taken on Nate’s overdeveloped concerns for him?
She again glances in Nate’s direction, relieved that he’s still blocked from view in case he’s giving off some sort of visual contagion only she can see. The event announcer recaptures her attention with the sepulchral declaration that Rayce Vaughn now belongs to the ages, has now been added to that elite registry of rock and roll heroes claimed by gross misadventure.
Gross misadventure? That term might be stretched to describe the deaths of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, Duane Allman, and Jim Croce, to name a few of the better known crash victims. But what of Elvis, Janis, and Jimi? And how about Mama Cass, Keith Moon, John Bonham, and Jim Morrison? Where do they fit in?
Are drug overdoses, choking incidents, and heart attacks nothing more than extreme bad luck? Should John Lennon’s death be attributed to nothing more than happenstance? If so, is anyone immune? Is anyone ever safe? Should she be on constant lookout for someone carrying a copy of Catcher in the Rye, ever vigilant for those advocating helter-skelter, and the all-purpose reprobates distributing free samples of illegal substances?
Perspiration beads along her hairline. She wipes it away with the tissue Susa gave her and casts about for another form of relief. She thinks she’s found it when the narrative tapers off in a eulogy laced with more verbal filigree, and the first act takes the stage to renewed crowd roar.
They are from the States, a young attractive band whose name escapes her at the moment. The name of the song they’re performing doesn’t come to mind either, but the mournful tone of a refrain likening rock bands to outlaws, catapults her thinking back to where it was and expands the death toll to include politicians and other public figures. The assassinated Kennedys come first to mind, then Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, Harvey Milk, and George Moscone.
After that category, she counts woundings and near misses: The Pope, of course, then, in no particular order, President Reagan, George Wallace, Larry Flynt, Gerald Ford, Margaret Thatcher, and the less prominent souls targeted because of what they believed in or what they represented to a warped mind.
The American band follows up with another song containing lyrics that could be bent to serve her present mindset. To resist that impulse, she remains silent when the lead singer exhorts the audience to join in on the final chorus of “Surviving Chance.”
“Ridiculous,” she whispers into the tissue, thereby dismissing the whole unfortunate word association game.
But a British group, introduced as Slice, offers up their current hit, “You Died In My Dreams,” and she’s helpless to resist the images these prompts sugges
t.
In the name of self protection, she tunes out the next three acts—all headliners among headliners—and barely listens to Alliance, the Australian band that’s traveled farthest to participate.
She’s still on guard when a supergroup with a Biblical name comes on stage to deafening crowd noise; she’s only wavering on wary when they’re followed by Irish chart toppers, who are upbeat in every sense of the word. She’s ready to pay full attention when a lone female artist struts into the spotlight, her spectacular physique commanding as much attention as her ability to belt out soul classics and contemporary rock.
When an acknowledged guitar god teams with the female superstar for a duet that’s as much about competition as harmony, Laurel is absorbed to the extent that she’ll be able to supply an accurate account to her siblings, who will forever bemoan school schedules that prevented their attending the concert.
The guitar god remains on stage to perform his signature tunes, one of which contains a gun reference she’s able to ignore in favor of his breathtaking skill. She pronounces herself free of the dread that still has no logical origin, and warms to a local band’s renditions of a pair of crowd favorites that jibe rock stardom. Midway through their second number she thrills, as does the entire audience, to the surprise appearance of another solo artist who needs no introduction when he lends his highly recognizable falsetto to the chorus.
Now she’s hit her stride; now she’s ready for anything. But that’s not the case when the stage lighting dims to a single spot washing over the surprise guest as he renounces falsetto to deliver a stripped-down, deeply affecting interpretation of the Eagles’s great standard, “Desperado.” A gut-wrenching interpretation.
Susa is weeping when the song ends. So are most of the other wives and girlfriends seated nearby. The hush imposed on the audience seems to last for minutes. But once the audience reconciles what it’s heard with what it feels, the proverbial rafters are shaken with a response that does last for minutes and sets the stage for the final act, the reunited Verge.