by Leslie Wells
Chapter Twenty-One
Shattered
The next morning I dragged myself out to a deli to pick up some coffee and milk. Feeling like I could never eat again, I didn’t bother with food for my bare fridge. As I stood in line, my eye fell upon the Post headline in the stack of newspapers:
KIPLING DEDICATES SONG TO PHANTOM GIRL
My stomach lurched as I read:
Was Jack Kipling so high that he hallucinated a girlfriend during The Floor’s Madison Square Garden concert last night? But no matter—it turned out to be a prank. As usual the fans ate it up, along with the rest of the evening’s incredible mix of current and past hits.
I threw down the paper, paid for my items, and stumbled back to my empty loft.
All day my chest had a hollow ache, as if my heart had been clawed out, chewed up, and discarded. I was in a state of shock; I couldn’t believe that Jack had gone from saying he loved me and wanted to have a child with me, to having his manager evict me.
I tried putting myself in his place: sitting there onstage with thousands of fans laughing and pointing at the empty seat in the middle of the front row. Jack would have later realized they thought he was playing a joke, but at the time it must have been scalding. And although I’d never heard his new song, I knew how hard he’d been working on it. Suddenly I recalled Patrick’s snide comment the day he’d been over our place. Having been so eager to put down Jack’s solo efforts, he must have crowed about the fact that the acoustic piece didn’t get its world premiere. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the song didn’t get its commercial launch, either. Thousands of people who might have gone out and bought the single or requested it on the radio, now merely thought of it as a joke.
Then I recalled the piece in the Post. Any tidbits about The Floor usually got picked up in newspapers all over the country; over the years, the band’s wild lifestyle had made them gossip magnets. The snippet about Jack’s song was probably being reprinted all over—perhaps even internationally. I wondered if Jack had spoken to his mother and sister; I could just imagine their shock and dismay that I’d turned out to be such a traitor. I remembered Maggie’s comment about my being a career girl. This would prove that her reservations about me had been right.
But even as the horror of what I’d done hit me over and over again, I still wanted Jack to love me enough to understand that I couldn’t have missed seeing Dermot win. Ted and Perry would have had a fit if I hadn’t made it back to the Awards; as it was, I dreaded their questions on Monday about why I’d vamoosed before his speech was over. I’d have to tell them I’d felt sick and had to leave. But instead of taking all that into consideration—that my job really was on the line—Jack had decided I wasn’t worth it. Even with the crowd’s laughter, the humiliating article, Patrick’s crowing over his flop—I still would have expected him to forgive me. Or at the very least, to hear me out before he kicked me out.
All day, my mind whirled as I practiced speeches I wanted make to Jack, when I got up enough nerve to call him. I ran them through my mind as I alternated between crying on my couch and pacing my threadbare rug. My cold, narrow room seemed so bare and ugly to me now, after the vast expanse of Jack’s penthouse. My pathetic milk-crate kitchen “table”. The nails I’d driven into the walls to hang up my sparse second-hand wardrobe, since my bare-bones loft didn’t come with a closet. My lumpy futon, contrasted with Jack’s feathery king-sized bed. The wooden crates that held my books and records, which had once seemed so precious to me. I started to thumb through The Floor’s albums that I kept in a special box of my favorites, but then covered it back with the scarf, realizing it would only make me feel worse.
Vicky came over to my apartment that night. We sat drinking beer as we played blues on my stereo. I lay on the couch and talked to her for hours, tears streaming down my face. Only now did I truly understand what the musicians were singing about.
Later that week Suzanne called me from London, where she’d been staying with her mother ever since she left Mark. “Mary Jo told me you and Jack broke up,” she said after I’d asked how she was doing. “What happened?”
I described the MSG fiasco. Although she was sympathetic, I could also tell that she couldn’t believe I’d missed the song’s debut. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He’s probably just feeling burned. It must have been a real blow when the crowd started laughing, even if they thought he was in on the joke. And not to have you there, when he’d set it all up in advance…”
“I know.” My voice crumbled. “But I still can’t believe he broke up with me like that.”
“I know he really loves you, Julia. Just hold on; I imagine he’ll come around. By the way, Mark’s flying here next week. He wants to get back together.”
“Are you going to?” I was surprised, given her speech to me at the hotel.
Suzanne paused. “It’s complicated. I’ve missed him so much, and also I feel like, ‘Who am I, if I’m not married to him?’ I put my salon work aside to be the wife of one of The Floor. Who knows if my painting will ever take off? And—” She paused, and I heard the flick of her lighter. “I think he really needs me.”
“Let me know how it goes. I’ll be thinking of you too,” I said.
“If Mark wants me back, he’s going to have to work for it. And you hang in there. I’m sure that deep down, Jack knows it wasn’t your fault. He just has to get over himself.”
For the next few weeks I cried myself to sleep on my futon every night, and lived on toast and tea when I managed to get anything down. Over and over I had picked up the phone to call Jack, but each time I stopped myself. The humiliation of being told to leave his apartment—as if I was some clingy hanger-on that he’d ejected—stung my pride like peroxide on an open wound. I kept trying to imagine what I would have done if I’d been in his situation. No matter how angry I’d been, I was sure I would have at least listened to his side of the story. But the fact that he didn’t do me the justice of breaking up in person, made me think twice about calling him. I could just imagine the coldness in his voice when he heard it was me on the line. I could picture him cutting me off midway through my explanation about Dermot’s speech. I’m not going to beg, I told myself yet again as I laid down the phone halfway through dialing his number.
I dove into work, trying to distract myself. My disappearance at the Awards didn’t seem to have attracted much notice; everyone was so thrilled about Dermot’s big win that my lame excuse about feeling sick went over fine.
But every single moment that I wasn’t setting up dates with literary agents, sitting in meetings, or plowing through proposals, I was haunted by memories of Jack: his sexy British voice, his riotous head-thrown-back laughter, his sensual touch. At night in my lonely loft I spent hours recalling conversations, reliving intimate scenes. His ghost seduced me in my sleep, making every morning an awful new awakening to the fact that he was no longer part of my life. My third-floor walkup seemed so spartan after living in Jack’s spacious loft, but it suited my dark mood. I had returned to a monastic lifestyle devoid of pleasure, existing only to work.
As a distraction, one Saturday Vicky suggested we go to the Pyramid Club, a nightspot we liked despite its threatening location. The East Village was one big crack den, which meant you were taking your life in your hands by venturing there. Yet nowhere else in town could you find such cutting-edge entertainment. And since the Pyramid’s clientele was largely gay, I knew no one would hit on us—which justified the riskiness of entering Alphabet City after dark.
That night, I almost called Vicky to cancel. I hadn’t washed my hair in two days, nor could I be bothered with putting on makeup. But after going back and forth, I decided that a change of scenery might do me good. I put on my tattered leather skirt that I’d scored for a few bucks at Trash and Vaudeville, and a ripped Ramones tee-shirt. I dug twenty black rubber bracelets out of the top drawer of my three-legged dresser, the missing leg propped up with a brick, and scooched them up my arms. Then I step
ped into my scuffed low-cut boots.
I locked up and walked north to Eighth Street, where I was meeting Vicky. St. Mark’s Place was heavy with the dusky scent of clove cigarettes, the street dealers hissing “sens, sensimilla” to passersby; everyone from drunken NYU students to punks in chains to leftover hippies roaming around in search of a good time. Slouching in his doorway, the owner of the Music Exchange said hello as I passed. I was hit with a huge pang of sadness, remembering the last time I’d been there with Jack, rummaging through the stacks of vintage 45s. Don’t think about it now, I told myself. Try to take your mind off him, for a change.
Vicky was waiting on the corner in a short skirt and jean jacket. She threw her arms around me and gave me a big hug. “I was getting worried you’d flaked out on me. We’ll have fun tonight; you’ll see. Just like old times.”
“Thanks, Vick. It’s good to be out,” I said half-heartedly.
We strolled arm-in-arm past the eclectic East Village shops; Electric Circus, Love Saves the Day, and Screaming Mimi’s, where I’d bought some of my second-hand clothes. Glancing into the window, I almost tripped over a bong dealer who’d spread his wares on a soiled tablecloth on the sidewalk.
“Let’s cut over on Third,” Vicky said. We turned the corner and went past the Hell’s Angels’ headquarters with its row of gleaming hogs parked outside. We’d been told that it was a safer route to take because muggers were afraid of them. In the daytime I liked to walk across Second, which was empty but for one long wall of ever-changing graffiti.
We ran the last few blocks to the Pyramid’s dented metal doors and ducked inside. It was too early for anything to be happening, but there was no cover charge if you got there before eleven. We took a seat, ordered three-dollar drafts, and spoke to Clarence for a few minutes. Despite his appearance—his right nostril was safety-pinned to his upper lip, giving him a permanent snarl—the bartender was a friendly guy who sometimes gave us a drink on the house.
Vicky’s green eyes glowed in the low light of the votive candles. “Are you feeling any better? You look so thin. Have you been eating?”
“It’s like all my senses have shut down. I feel pretty dead inside.” Despite myself, I choked up.
“I know it’s hard, sweetie.” She gazed at me in concern. “This is worse than when you guys broke up last fall; at least back then, you hadn’t been living together. Give it time, though. You’ll meet someone new, and Jack will become a distant memory.”
“It’s hard to picture that. Right now I feel like I’ll never get over him. I just can’t believe he decided one screw-up was reason enough to ditch me.”
“Well, it was a pretty big screw-up. Exacerbated by the fact that it happened in front of thousands of his fans.” Vicky took a sip of her draft and crossed her skinny legs on the bar stool. “Why don’t you call him? Maybe you can clear it up if you apologize.”
“I did try calling, the other night. He wasn’t there.” Gloomily I stared into my glass.
“Maybe you should waylay him in his building,” she suggested. “Have it out in the lobby.”
“But it would be so embarrassing if he didn’t want to see me. I’ll just try calling him again.” I aligned my beer on its cardboard coaster.
“At least Dermot won the award,” Vicky said.
“Yeah, if I can ever get this new novel out of him, next year we can nominate it for Most Procrastinated.” I managed a weak smile.
“Now, that’s a good sign. You just made a joke.” Vicky arched her eyebrows. “Keep it up, and soon you’ll be back to washing your hair every night.”
A couple of six-foot ladies came in, and we made room for them to clamber up on top of the bar. The music got louder and they started to dance. Sporting elaborate blonde beehives, faces shaven smooth under heavy foundation, they seemed much more feminine than any of the girls I knew. Vicky and I watched, in awe of the way they shimmied in their stilettos without knocking over the drinks. There seemed to be a haunted look in their eyes—or maybe in my bleak frame of mind, I was just imagining it. Perhaps they were perfectly content, waxing their chests and getting dolled up in their gowns. Maybe they were happier than most people I knew; at least they were free to express themselves.
Stella, one of the regulars, took a break and climbed down from the bar. Vicky and I pooled our dollars to buy her a Mai Tai. I always felt a little intimidated by her; she was exceedingly angular, and wore the most fantastic gear. Tonight she had on an evening gown in an eye-popping shade of puce, paired with dangly rhinestone earrings and six-inch heels. “How’s it going?” I asked.
Stella lowered her eyes, her false lashes brushing against her powdered face. “I’m a little down tonight.” She took a delicate sip of her drink. “I met the sweetest guy a few days ago, but he hasn’t called. You know how that goes.”
“We sure do,” Vicky said. “That color’s great on you.”
“Thanks. I found it at my special little place. The owner always holds things in my size.” Stella finished her drink, her Adam’s apple bobbing. Then she unwound herself from the seat, hiked up her dress, and put one heel on the stool. I held it so it wouldn’t spin, and with an agile bound, she was back on top of the bar. A guy with stiff green spikes gelled ten inches off his head took her place, his studded jacket clanking as he sat.
“Is it eleven yet?” I asked Vicky. I still hadn’t gotten my watch fixed. As if on cue, the Meat Puppets started blasting from the back room.
Vicky drained her glass. “Close enough. Let’s try to get Bruce to play something decent before midnight.”
We went to the small dance floor and found an open spot next to a bald woman with striped stockings flashing above combat boots. For a while we moved around to some songs that were so off-the-wall, it made The Slits seem like bubblegum. After that, we pogoed to the Fleshtones, Liquid Liquid, The Piranhas, and Swollen Monkeys. My love of dancing momentarily overcame my sadness, and I lost myself in the pounding rhythm.
Eventually Vicky and I left to refuel at Kiev, the all-night Polish diner on Second Avenue. It was crammed with people in dog collars and chains from CBGB, but we managed to nab a table and split an order of pierogis. Afterwards I took a cab home since it was four a.m., and I was utterly beat.
Several weeks later I was in a different cab, heading uptown. Ted had come into my office that morning with the news that Dermot was finally ready to turn in his first draft.
“He wants you to go to his apartment and pick it up.” Ted took off his glasses and gnawed the earpiece.
“Couldn’t I send a messenger?” I had tons to do, and it seemed odd to have to go to his place.
“He’s too superstitious to trust a messenger with his only copy. I know, he should have gone out and made a xerox, but we have to humor him. He said he’ll leave it downstairs with the doorman. Just keep the cab waiting while you run in, and expense the trip. Thank god he’s ready to let go of it.”
I’d finally had to admit to my boss that I didn’t have any of the book yet. Ted had been asking me daily for updates—so a lot depended on the outcome of this errand.
Zooming up Park Avenue, I looked at the yellow tulips that filled the median strip. April had arrived with warmer weather, but it had done nothing to thaw my frozen heart. I was still bitter over Jack’s not understanding my inability to be two places at once. He’s just a spoiled rock star—used to getting what he wants, regardless of what anyone else needs, I reminded myself.
Shaking off my gloomy thoughts, I got out at Dermot’s imposing East 84th Street building. The doorman gave me a blank look when I said I was there to pick up a package. He buzzed upstairs, and after a brief conversation, told me go up to the eighth floor. I started to reach for the house phone to ask Dermot to bring it down, but the doorman had already hung up. I’ll tell him the cab’s waiting and I have to make it quick, I thought as I got in the elevator.
Dermot answered my knock, looking rumpled in a wrinkled button-down shirt and khakis. His furnishings
were luxurious and formal: Persian carpets, gold-framed paintings, and polished antiques. A huge desk held piles of paper massed around a big black typewriter.
“Come into my humble abode. I’ve been revising nonstop.” Dermot made as if to take my jacket, but I shook my head.
“The taxi’s waiting with the meter on. I’m just here to fetch the manuscript and go back to the office. I have a meeting in half an hour,” I lied.
Dermot frowned. “I thought we could discuss this one last issue with the plot. I’m not sure I’ve resolved it properly.”
Desperately I looked around the room for signs of the manuscript. “I can’t stay. I’ll start reading tonight, and then we can talk. Ted’s very anxious about it.” I hoped the mention of my boss would add urgency to the long-put-off delivery. I had to get it now; with all the delays, we were dangerously close to missing our pub date.
“Don’t worry. It’s right here.” Dermot moved aside to indicate a suspiciously thin manila envelope resting on the desk.
“Is that…all of it?” Please tell me it’s not, I thought. Maybe he’s divided it into two packages.
Dermot crossed his arms. “It’s a little less weighty than my last couple of novels, but I think that’s the way of the world these days. I’ve noticed some very slim books hitting the bestseller list.”
This looked more like a novella to me—but I’d take what I could get. “I’m dying to dive in,” I said, reaching for it.
“Hold on. First, a little reward for all my hard work.” Dermot took my outstretched hand and pulled me toward him. To my shock, he planted a big, wet kiss on my lips. He tried to force his tongue in my mouth as I struggled against him.
“Dermot!” I broke away. “I’m not—I’m your editor!” I fumbled for words that would flatter him. “You’re our most important author. I would never do anything to compromise our working relationship.”