Resurgence

by M. M. Mayle

  “Maybe you should have made it your business, maybe you should have questioned because now that you’ve alerted me, I very much doubt it was Amanda’s service that rang, and I further doubt she went to New York to pay the bills, feed the goldfish, and sort through back issues of those fan magazines she gets off on.”

  “Don’t start.” Laurel shoots him a warning look. “Please,” she says without a trace of civility.

  “It all makes sense. Bemus said Nate left for New York on Friday, and all of a sudden Amanda developed this need to straighten out her personal affairs. Like the rotter didn’t summon her there to see to his personal affairs and further work his wiles on her like some fucking Rasputin.”

  “Colin!”

  “Yeh, don’t I know you’re firmly embedded in the Nate camp and never more so than during that bit of embarrassment—shit, that was humiliation—backstage at the concert for Rayce.”

  “What humiliation?” Laurel says. Fully dressed now, she rounds to his side of the bed, gets right in his face. “Are you suggesting I humiliated you in some way? If you’re referring to the incident when Nate came backstage and made obvious his romantic interest in Amanda, you did a superb job of humiliating yourself. You didn’t need my help.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “The hell you say! You’re the one who flaunted your ridiculous suspicions and invited negative comment from both Amanda and me. I, for one, continue to be disappointed that you think so little of Amanda you’re willing to believe she’d allow herself to be manipulated, and that you think so little of Nate—and so much of yourself—you’re willing to believe he’s attempting to control you from behind the scenes.”

  “You done?”

  “No, and I won’t be until you view Amanda’s ethics as unshakeable and recognize that Nate doesn’t want you back under any circumstances.” She unlocks and opens the door to the hall. “Take care of the sheets, will you? I think I hear Simon.”

  He turns his back on her rather than display a defeated expression like the one that overwhelmed him backstage at Albert Hall—the expression Nate had to have witnessed and correctly interpreted.

  He could spew a few choice curse words for all the good it would do, or go ranting after her, and that wouldn’t do any good either. He could drill his mom about the origin of the call Amanda received Saturday night, but that risks another rebuke and he’s got a better idea, actually.

  Once the bed linen is bundled together and left in the hall to mildew for all he cares, he ducks into Laurel’s nearby office where he helps himself to her Rolodex and Amanda’s home phone number. At half after nine a.m. New York time, Amanda can be imagined enjoying a leisurely breakfast or engaging in an early-morning romp. But not at this address and phone number. He nevertheless rings her home number, prepared to smirk when it goes unanswered. When it is answered—answered by Amanda—he’s smirkless. Speechless as well, because he’s unable to imagine Nate Isaacs shacked up in a low-rent Brooklyn flat.

  “Hel-lo?” Amanda says for maybe the third or fourth time, cueing him to either respond or ring off. She settles that emergency debate by herself ringing off, but not before he hears her mutter, “asshole.”

  Must be the company she keeps, he explains away her uncharacteristic profanity whilst confirming Nate’s home number in Laurel’s directory.

  Shit, he very nearly says aloud when Nate picks up on the second ring. Colin breaks the connection without hearing how Nate deals with heavy breathers, and gets the bloody hell out of Laurel’s office before he’s seized with another juvenile impulse.

  In his own office, he needn’t worry about continuing to play the juvenile—not when he sees the cover of a magazine someone’s left on his desk. Celebrity Sleuth, an unfamiliar publication from the States; the sort he’d be inclined to pick up by one corner and sail across the room if the banner headline superimposed across his picture didn’t hold such morbid fascination.

  “The Mature Colin Elliot,” the banner reads, along with a page number to turn to. “Mature”—not the best word to use when describing a rock musician, and not the sort of word that endears the writer to the subject. The effect it produces is akin to the shiver of mortality supposedly felt when one’s unopened grave is walked upon. The curiosity it produces is irresistible.

  He sits down, mutes the phone, and opens the magazine to the designated page, where he sees a center spread of himself in the before and after—numerous stock photos from the early days juxtaposed with recent shots from the Concert for Rayce. The contrast is obvious. Stunningly so. It’s not as though he went bald and portly in the interval; it’s not as though he’s stooped or gimped in any way, but even in these still photos, it’s evident that he doesn’t reign over the stage as he once did—in great leaps and bounds, antic whirls with mike stands, frantic glissades to the lip of the stage, and perilous flirtations off the edge of the stage.

  His eyes stray to the caption—“Less dominant, more in command.” Not words he expected to see. Not at all. Not words he’ll forget anytime soon, at least not till he decides what they mean.

  He flips to the next page and a picture lifted from television footage of him backing Laurel at the media session on the steps of The Plaza. This caption reads “Sterling choice,” whatever the hell that’s supposed to indicate, and resigns him to delving into the accompanying body of text for clarification.

  The resurrected Colin Elliot and his reassembled band, Verge, were the indisputable headliners in the field of headliners lighting up London’s Royal Albert Hall at the recent memorial concert for the late Rayce Vaughn.

  Elliot applied a steady hand and seasoned authority to the artistic production of the show and brought grounded confidence and finely honed musicianship to his and his band’s contributions.

  The instant standard that closed the show, “Angle of Repose,” written by Elliot for Vaughn and recorded with Vaughn only days before the senior rocker’s untimely death, embodies a depth and maturity not previously heard in Elliot’s compositions and hints of new strengths acquired during Elliot’s prolonged convalescence from injuries suffered . . .

  Colin skims through a rehash of what’s known of the accident and zeroes in when the subject matter shifts back to the present and includes Laurel.

  . . . Chandler of the prominent Manhattan law firm, Clark, Sebastian & Associates, was enlisted to write a long-awaited Elliot biography. That project may have been scrapped when Ms. Chandler and Elliot announced wedding plans after a whirlwind courtship. Informed sources say Elliot could not have made a more sterling or reasoned choice in Ms. Chandler, again attesting to a maturity that wasn’t always his.

  Elliot’s interim management team, headed by David Sebastian of the aforementioned Manhattan law firm, describe Elliot as a cool-headed individual, very handson, very involved in decision-making at all levels, and cooperative short of allowing full media access.

  Elliot’s fellow band members could not be reached for comment, but the evidence spoke for itself when Verge took the stage last week minus the transparent tensions and hostilities that characterized the waning days of their original incarnation. To see and hear them now is to witness a far less manic and attention-grabbing spectacle on behalf of each individual. Now they are a cohesive unit whose sum is truly greater than its parts.

  No one is talking about how long this cohesiveness may last—if it will outlast this summer’s European tour as fill-ins for Vaughn—or if this level of unification is only possible on a limited basis. No one is talking about whether the members of Verge, especially Elliot, want it to last.

  There’s more, but he can’t read it when all he can think about is who did this—who left this particular publication on his desk, knowing he would read it and learn from it. Never mind who wrote the piece and compiled the pictures. Fuck that. He’s only interested in who set him up for this little eye-opener.

  He scans over the text again, interpreting “depth and maturity” to mean the substance he’s alway
s strived for. “Whirlwind” as describing his courtship of Laurel can’t be seen as a negative because it’s true. The “when maturity wasn’t always his” comment undoubtedly alludes to Aurora, but it’s subtle enough to let slip through the cracks. “Cool-headed, hands-on, and very involved” can be let slip too, for having originated with his own people. But there’s no denying Verge was set to self-destruct before the accident decided the matter. And there’s no denying the band is better now that nothing’s hanging in the balance, nothing needs proving, and internecine warfare’s not about to break out. Spot on, the estimates about any future for Verge. No one does know. Least of all him.

  He flips back to the picture pages and sees through different eyes that the selections were not intended to depict him as gone stolid and static. Now the “less dominant, more in command” caption makes sense.

  “Bloody hell,” he approves.

  “Buddy heow,” Simon says, his nose just clearing the desk edge, Laurel standing a short ways behind him.

  “How long have you been—”

  “Long enough.”

  “You left this for me to see, then?”

  “Yes. It was in this morning’s delivery and I read it for the same reason I knew you would—to see what comprises the mature Colin Elliot. It’s the best unauthorized writing I’ve seen about you. Honest, perceptive, straightforward. I don’t recognize the writer, though. Brownell Gates, or something like that. Is he new to you?”

  “Wouldn’t know. I don’t pay attention to names unless I see something libelous.”

  “Then you didn’t see anything in the article you disagreed with?”

  “I wasn’t keen at first about being labeled mature, but there’s nothing here I can deny. Was that your point?”

  “My point?”

  “Your point in leaving this for me to see, to hammer those truths home.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hammer anything. I thought you might enjoy reading something accurate about yourself.”

  “You’re not still pissed, then?”

  “Pithed,” Simon says, earning Colin a lifted eyebrow from Laurel.

  “If you’re referring to our earlier conversation, I wasn’t annoyed, I was disappointed, and I feel sure it won’t happen again,” she says.

  “Probably not. Not since I rang Amanda’s Brooklyn number a bit ago and found her in residence, then rang Nate’s place and found him to be home as well.”

  “You did not!” Laurel says.

  “Yeh, I did. That’s how mature I am.”

  “What did you say? What reason did you give for calling?”

  “I didn’t say anything. To either one. Left them each thinking they’d harvested a crank call. And just so you know, I’m not making a whole lot out of their not being under the same roof, actually. And I’m not making a massive production out of their having the hots for each other. Nate’s better at separating business and pleasure than anyone I know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, thank this Yates bloke, this writer who’s made me take stock before I became a laughing stock.”

  “You were never close to being a laughing stock—not remotely—but you were close to becoming an incorrigible sorehead where Nate’s concerned, and an unrelieved skeptic about Amanda.”

  Simon sidles round the desk, rather creeps up on him and demands a cuddle, providing a nonverbal means of dropping the inflammatory subject. Dropping the copy of Celebrity Sleuth into the dustbin provides a definitive break too, but not before he observes that someone went to a lot of trouble to land this thing on his English desk so soon after its American publication. If that’s a detail Laurel missed, damned if he’ll bring it up now.

  Instead, he reminds her that he’ll be in London all day tomorrow, given over to the Harley Street physicians who will certify him for the tour.

  “Oh, that’s right.” She removes Simon from his lap and retrieves the magazine he just tossed. “Good chance to road test the new security measures Bemus proposed.”

  “There’s nothing to road test. You can’t seriously believe I agreed to additional manpower. Not on a regular basis, not for every little outing and errand. At concert venues, yeh. Whenever a mob’s assembled, I’ll go along, but the rest of the time I’m having none of this massive entourage shit they’re trying to stick me with.”

  “Shit,” Simon says with perfect mastery of the sibilant, but it’s the corrupting father who gets bopped on the head with the rolled-up magazine.

  “We’ll have to talk about that later, Laurel says. “I have an appointment with Anthony and I can’t be late—and you can’t let any more of those calls go unanswered.” She indicates the blinking lights on the muted phone and leaves him to decide just how hands-on, involved, and cooperative he really is.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Noon, May 27, 1987

  Much the way Laurel Chandler arrived here nearly eight weeks ago, Amanda flashes an enticing glimpse of leg when she alights from the cab right on schedule. As with Laurel, Nate refrains from dashing out of the building to pay the cab fare. He instead waits in the lobby where they exchange businesslike greetings, then maintain silent, stare-straight-ahead elevator etiquette on the quick ride to his floors.

  After that, it’s a whole new ballgame, with him lifting Amanda off the floor in a crushing hug and kissing her hard and long and deep.

  “Tell me that’s not gonna happen again anytime soon,” he says when they separate.

  “What? What are you talking about? Kissing?” Amanda goes through the motions of patting her hair back into shape like a church lady making sure her no-nonsense hat is on straight.

  “Staying apart for the sake of appearances. I thought we were through with that shit after the backstage show at Albert Hall, and your weekend with Laurel and Colin when you presumably talked about—”

  “Precisely because of my weekend with Laurel and Colin, I decided a little extra caution was in line. There was no time I didn’t feel Colin was scrutinizing me for some sign I was receiving direction from you and I can’t be sure Laurel wasn’t enlisted to the cause when she took me on that forced march I told you about and interrogated me almost every step of the way, so is it any wonder I insisted on staying at home last night and it’s a good thing I did because I got a hang-up call this morning and I’m pretty sure it was Colin doing a bed check and drawing more wrong conclusions about—”

  “What time this morning?”

  “Around nine-thirty. It wasn’t you, was it?”

  “No, it was Colin. I’m very sure because I got a hang-up call a little after nine-thirty.”

  Amanda looks away for a second.

  “Go ahead, laugh. I would too, if I weren’t so goddammed tired of being viewed as a furtive puppeteer or something. I wonder what it’s gonna take to convince him I’m not.”

  They move from the foyer into the salon, where he expects a replay of her integration with the posh surroundings of his London hotel suite—a quick approving once-over designed to preserve cool and conceal novice status. But she fools him—delights him—with a full-scale eye-rolling reaction.

  “Omigod,” she exhales and does a slow three-sixty in front of the windows. “I knew your place would be off-the-scale-fantastic, but I didn’t know it would be painful.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s ever put it quite that way before. Should I say thank you or apologize?”

  “I’m sorry . . . This is stupid. Wouldn’t you think after all the grand places I’ve been lately I’d start getting used to . . . to this,” she stammers and windmills her arms. “But I’m not. I’m way out of my element. I don’t even know the right words to say.”

  “You’re fine, honey, you’re saying the right words.”

  He takes her by the hand and introduces her to the features designed to give rise to the kind of pain she’s speaking of. She’s visibly awed by the art collection there in the salon; in the library she’s stunned by the Klimt portraits.

  “Do yo
u ever get used to this?” She makes another swirling gesture to indicate more than just this particular room.

  “No, I’m happy to say, and now it’s all new to me through your eyes.”

  Before he altogether turns to mush, he leads her to the kitchen that she’s quick to recognize as a clone of Colin’s without showing any interest in its workings. And that’s okay. He has a cook.

  “How did you like the Concorde?” he says to bridge a sudden awkwardness.

  “I came over on a regular plane.”

  He might have known as much when she wouldn’t give him the flight number or arrival time so he could pick her up.

  He could light into her now about these extra precautions he thought had been ruled unnecessary before she left England, or he could commend her forbearance and her unwillingness to give even the appearance of serving two masters. Either expression has become tiresome from overuse, so he withholds comment other than to ask if she’d like to see the upstairs.

  “Maybe not just yet,” she says, coloring slightly at the implication. “I don’t think we should waste any more time. I’d like to go over your notes and hear your theories before we meet with the investigator—this Harry Newblatt guy. Did he say what he has for you?”

  “Not in so many words. When he called Tuesday—yesterday—he was in an outdoor phone booth and only stated that the info was promising.”

  “I have to admit . . . I’ve thought of little else since you told me about returning to the Michigan accident scene, and about the missing head. Godness Agnes . . . I mean, what were you supposed to think?”

  “Exactly what I did think, assuming I was capable of thought—that I was hallucinating when I initially saw her head attached. But that’s not what we should be dwelling on at the moment.”

  He leaves her in a chair at the breakfast table—by now a regular site for issuing disclosures—and excuses himself to bring his notes from the study. When he returns, Amanda is fishing through her handbag for writing supplies, and it’s only then that he realizes the handbag is her single piece of luggage.