by M. M. Mayle
“Whoa! Slow down. I think you’d better start over. Before you do, you want some of this?” Laurel waves the vodka bottle at her.
“Do I ever. I hardly drank anything at the party for fear I’d say the wrong thing or miss something.” Amanda accepts a drink and plumps down on the other bed, “Okay, where should I start?”
“What publicists did I trail into the ladies’ room?”
“The ones that used to work for Colin. They were at the meeting—you know, that meeting, the one where they were talking about Colin as though he wasn’t there and you shut ‘em down with your salmonella soup remark and a scolding for trying to objectify him.”
“Oh . . . I see. No wonder they seemed so eager to discredit me.”
“They did?” Amanda’s eyes round with amazement. “Are you saying there was a catfight in the john?”
“There could have been.”
While Laurel relates an abbreviated version of the near incident, Amanda runs through a kaleidoscope of expressions and settles on a frown.
“You should have confronted them,” Amanda says. “I would’ve paid money to see that.”
“And I would have lost any possible credibility by vigorous denial of their suppositions.”
“I get it—the ‘lady doth protest too much’ thing.” Amanda makes exaggerated air quotes while clenching her drink between her knees.
“Yes, something like that.” Laurel pauses to ponder in whose camp the disgruntled publicists belong, and the task proves too daunting. Instead, she pours herself another drink and refreshes Amanda’s. “Now, what was it you said about being sent into . . . Did you say exile?”
“That’s my word for it, and it wasn’t like we were literally banished, but Colin did make it pretty clear Nate and I should leave the table and not come back.”
“What the fuck! I knew Colin had something on his mind. Did he and Nate argue?”
“Not at the table, and if they argued before the party, Nate didn’t say.”
“Was Nate in on whatever’s happening with David and Sarjit Singh, the record exec . . . Is that where he is now, at this mystery meeting at Colin’s hotel?”
“I don’t think so, but you hafta keep in mind that although Nate’s confided a few things to me, I don’t exactly have an inside track.”
“He’s confided in you? Oh goody! That means he’s not just messing with you. Take my word on this, Amanda, Nate Isaacs is a keeper.” Laurel leans across the gap between the beds. “He’s a fine, fine man—finer than David when it comes to faith and allegiance and faith and commitment and . . . and faith and stick-to-itiveness. Never mind all the big bucks and the power, he’s the real deal,” she says right in Amanda’s dumbfounded face.
“You’ve gotta be outta your freakin’ mind to even suggest I could ever be more than an employee to someone like him,” Amanda sputters.
“No more outta my mind than you’ve gotta be for ever projecting me as more than a passing fancy to a bleedin’ rock star!”
“Bleedin’! You said bleedin’! See, you’re already talkin’ Brit English!”
By way of ignoring Amanda’s smug accusation, Laurel adds ice to their drinks and brushes a stray lock of hair out of her face before continuing in a low conspiratorial tone. “How obvious was it that I left the party alone?”
“Very.”
“Good! That’s the impression I want lingering in everyone’s mind—that I’m alone and intend to stay that way.”
“I’m glad I know you’re half in the bag because that’s not the way thing’s sounded when I got here.”
“Whatever.” Laurel tops off both their drinks and sinks back on the pillows as Amanda segues into a lengthy roll call of the celebrities she either met or saw that night.
“That’s discounting industry heavies I can’t be expected to recognize,” the eternal fan sums up. “But I was able to identify a couple of supermodels and a minor movie star Nate didn’t know, so I suppose he might wanna take me on as a procuress.” Amanda lets go with a fit of giggles. “Procuress—is that a great word or what?”
“Brilliant! Right up there with biographer, actually.”
“Are we drunk yet?”
“I think we passed drunk and we’re on the way back.” “I didn’t know you could go full circle.”
“Neither did I, and if it works, we’ll be sober any minute now.”
Laurel tops off their drinks again; they recklessly clink glasses and contents slosh on the carpeted floor between the beds.
“Hey, we’re trashing a hotel room! We’re with the band!”
Laurel hiccoughs violently and spills the rest of her drink down the front of her wasted dress.
SIXTY-SIX
Early morning, April 10, 1987
First thing Friday morning, with less than two consecutive hours sleep behind him, Colin resumes trying to reach Laurel. The result is the same as when he initiated the ongoing effort shortly after midnight: She’s not accepting calls and he’s unable to convince the hotel switchboard to overrule her dictate no matter who he says he is or how important his business is.
Leaving yet another message is demeaning. But that’s the whole bloody point, isn’t it—this taking him down several notches after he so fuckwittedly left her to fend for herself last night? He’ll be lucky if refusing his calls is all she makes him suffer.
He places what will have to be the final call of the current batch and on a whim varies his message enough that it might get results. “Laurel, sweetheart . . . please let me explain what went on last night and why. C’mon, baby, give me a chance and give yourself a chance. We’re gettin’ down to the wire, love, so let’s not waste the time that’s left. Be my darling girl and ring me back.”
That ought to do it. The liberal use of endearments should piss her off enough she’ll ring back, if only to give him hell for his cheek. That assumes she’s keeping tabs on the messages, however, and it soon becomes apparent she’s not. Either that or she’s too bleedin’ shrewd to fall for his little scheme.
Another fifteen minutes go by. He glares at the bedside phone, willing it to ring—daring it to ring—and if it does now, he won’t be half as contrite as he was a bit ago. As implied in all the messages left for her so far, there’s no time left for catering to her stubbornness. Particularly not on a day like today that sees him booked solid from thirty minutes from now till whatever time Rayce’s gig at the Garden winds down tonight.
He returns to the bathroom, has second thoughts about going unshaven and about the length of his hair, which he meant to have trimmed a good ten days ago. Too late to do anything about either one now, and too late to make a production out of what to wear. If the blokes shooting the video don’t fancy his clothing choices of jeans, standard T-shirt and last night’s tuxedo jacket, then let them come up with something better. And he doesn’t much give a shit what his first appointment of the day thinks of his appearance.
Whilst he’s rather relishing freedom from hair stylists and wardrobe specialists, Bemus comes in to remind he’s not altogether liberated.
“We better get movin’ or the boss’ll be dockin’ our pay,” Bemus says, without knowing why a tired old joke gets a laugh this morning of all mornings.
The ride down Fifth and over to Broadway goes quicker than anticipated. Tom Jensen, who’s done the driving, lets them off in front of Nate’s building with minutes to spare. On the way to the massive brass doors, Bemus stares down any passersby inclined to gawk at the celebrity crossing their path.
On Nate’s floor they’re left to cool their heels in an otherwise unoccupied reception area furnished by Mies van der Rohe and decorated by Marc Chagall. Impressive as hell, if that’s where a bloke’s taste runs. Lillian, Nate’s PA, whom he’s only ever talked to on the phone, comes for him at the stroke of nine a.m., leaving Bemus free to contemplate whether the mobile suspended from the fourteen-foot ceiling is a Calder or a good imitation.
Nate’s private office is no less posh—which co
uld start a bloke wondering just how much of this poshness comes from music business earnings. But percentages were never an issue; at no time in their long history have they ever mixed it up over money, and the trust that’s now lacking in their relationship is not of the sort that would have him calling for an independent audit.
Nate stands to greet him. “When I fielded your crack-of-dawn message earlier, I was pleasantly surprised that you wanted to meet here instead of your hotel.”
“I’m not doin’ you a favor, I’ve got other business that brings me in this general direction.” Colin takes a chair and assumes an insolent posture.
“May I offer you a light breakfast? Coffee? Perhaps a little hair of the dog after last night’s festivities?”
“I didn’t have any dog last night. Too much else to see to, same as today, so we can skip the refreshments interval and get right to it.”
“By all means.” Nate resumes his seat, displays a quizzical expression, the only indication he’s not in complete control of the meeting.
“You happen to work out this morning?” Colin says.
“No, why do you ask?”
“If you had, you would’ve seen that your housekeeping staff’s let you down. Rubbish was left lying round your gym where just anyone could see it. Sloppy, actually.”
For a ridiculous tick or two Nate appears to think a complaint’s been lodged about untidiness. Then, as full realization takes hold, Nate doesn’t so much as blink. “The investigator’s report on Laurel—the letter from the Icon people,” he says in a calm matter-of-fact way. A maddening way.
“Yeh. You might wanna stay close to your radio and keep an eye on your fax machine today.”
“If you haven’t already spread the word, I’ll save you the trouble. You can have my resignation right this minute. Let me call Lillian in to—”
“That’s it? No arguments, no pleadings?”
“What for? I’m guilty as charged. I went against your express wishes and had Laurel investigated. While I am profoundly sorry an operative with paparazzi ambitions may have caused her some unnecessary concern, I’m not at all sorry I ordered the background check. Given your history, I’d have been remiss not to. And if you’re so inclined, you can undoubtedly bring charges against me for misrepresenting your wishes to the organizers of the Icon Awards show. So . . . there you have it. Shall I have Lillian bring in the—”
“Yeh, have her get on it straightaway and when she’s done she can bring it to reception where I’ll be waiting.”
“Bugger all,” Colin grumbles when he’s out of earshot and feeling cheated. Aside from not engaging in a battle of words, he didn’t get to deliver the big farewell speech that gave credit where credit was due for Nate’s unquestionable saving of his life and fostering of his career—both before and after the accident—and went on to talk of the sort of indebtedness that can never be repaid and the sort of management that can never be tolerated.
Bemus, who’s not been told the reason for the stop here, looks surprised to see him back so soon and even more surprised when he plunks down in one of the architectural chairs like his appointment’s been deferred. Telling Bemus can wait. Telling other close associates can wait. But telling Laurel of the ending of an era and all those other things she needs to know can’t wait much beyond now if he’s ever going to settle down enough to get through the rest of the day.
He helps himself to the phone in a nearby conference room and figures out how to get an outside line. A call to Laurel’s hotel comes up against the same roadblock as before; a call to her office comes up empty, even though it’s now past nine and business hours should have begun.
“Shit,” he mutters and moves to rejoin Bemus, inwardly cursing the unbreakable ten o’clock booking that will see him trapped in a film studio instead of breaking into Laurel’s hotel room.
“Nate said to give you this.” Bemus hands over a sealed business-size envelope. “He said he didn’t wanna disturb you while you were on the phone.”
“Of course he didn’t, because by not disturbing me he’s managed to disturb me even more.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“No. C’mon, we’re done here.”
As seen from the Queensboro Bridge, the Long Island City landscape matches his frame of mind for bleakness and incoherent development. Alone in the back seat of the hired Jaguar, Colin scowls at the massive Silvercup sign when it looms up, pointing the way to their destination. He waits for one or the other of the lads to joke that there’s more bread in not making bread, but the only comment is Tom Jensen’s wondering aloud which part of the former bakery houses the music video stages. That question is answered when they spot a pair of limos disgorging Rayce’s usual retinue and Rayce himself.
“Bloody hell,” Colin says, “he’s not supposed to be here.”
“That’s not the way I heard it,” Bemus says.
“He’s not supposed to be here yet, fuckwit. He may have aided in piggybacking what I wanted on top of his studio time, but I didn’t cut any deal calling for him to be in the audience. Or in the video.”
Bemus and Tom exchange mock-alarmed looks, but they’re both smart enough to keep any wise-arse remarks to themselves as he exits the car, a bit befogged by something he’s loathe to call stage fright even though there’s no other name for it.
When they meet at the entrance, Rayce is as subdued as he ever is and without explanation for his early arrival. As they’re escorted—minus respective retinues—by a Silvercup rep to a destination deep within the building, Rayce’s chatter is minimal, touching only on what a long day this will be and what a long night last night was. Colin has even less to say. Especially about last night. All he can focus on now is finding a phone. Public will do, and if one can’t be found, he’ll pull rank and demand use of a private one.
But it appears phoning will have to wait when they’re ushered into a smallish studio where the band’s already set up and the technicians are making last-minute adjustments to the lighting. The setting is as asked for, a rather barebones audition-tape sort of backdrop with no otherworldly ornamentations in evidence or blue screens indicating the filmshoot could be morphed into one of those concept videos that would have him dancing on the ceiling or romancing a cartoon character.
“Ready when you are, Mr. Elliot.” An assistant director shows him where to position himself on a worn oriental rug that’s a touch of home. A soundman mics him, checks for feedback and echo; a guitar technician hands him an instrument belonging to Rayce that’s the next best thing to one of his own, so he has no good excuse for the uneasiness assailing him. And Rayce has disappeared into the dim beyond, so it can’t be the ancient hero–worship bugaboo making him feel nervous as a novice condom user.
The hastily made arrangements are without detectable fault. The musicians are beyond reproach, as was amply demonstrated by their performance at Static Studios a few nights ago. The director is a household name amongst discriminating filmgoers, and with time of the essence, there is no adequate reason to stall longer than the minutes already wasted on trying to pinpoint what’s wrong.
At the director’s go-ahead and a nod from him, the keyboard intro commences, joined by bass and drums that announce his lead and he knows in a flash what’s wrong. The words coming out of him are banal greeting card sentiments at best, unadulterated dreck at worst, and the snap decision to make this video for Laurel has to be the lamest most cowardly effort since Chamberlain sat down with Hitler.
He stops cold, prepared to walk away from the project regardless of cost to pocket or reputation, and a familiar overused voice from somewhere out there shouts, “Go to it, lad, or I swear to god I will.”
If any of the lot know what Rayce is referring to, they’re not letting on. The musicians regroup as a matter of routine.
“Ready when you are, Mr. Elliot,” the director repeats the phrase of the day with practiced forbearance and they begin anew. This time he makes it to the bridge befo
re words that sounded good enough when written a week ago and still acceptable ten minutes ago, again come across as trite and ineffectual. He perseveres only because he knows like he knows the Queen is Anglican, that if he doesn’t see this through, Rayce will make good on his threat and take great and devilish delight in portraying a musical Cyrano on his behalf.
Three more takes put him in better synch with the director. With each repeat he’s less critical of the lyrics. But the longer this drags, on the more he feels he can do better—that inspiration doesn’t always guarantee excellence. In that respect, Nate could be in the room, eternally faultfinding and pushing for him to surpass himself—one of the reasons Nate is not in the room. In the midst of realizing he was also cheated of the chance to apprise Nate of the other changes brought about last night, he’s summoned back to the present by the assistant director.
“Fifteen minute break,” the bloke says and points to an overlooked bank of pay phones in a far corner of the studio when asked.
Colin dials Laurel’s office number first. At a bit after eleven she must be at work and maybe even eager to hear from him by now. Amanda picks up, confirms Laurel is indeed there, but indisposed, whatever in hell that’s supposed to mean.
“Are you sayin’ she won’t take my call? Did she tell you to say that?”
“She wasn’t specific to you but—”
“Then put me through.”
“I should warn you, she’s not herself.”
“Who the hell is these days? Now let me talk to her.”
“Okay, but you may be sorry. She has a killer hangover.”
“Well she didn’t get it from me.”
There’s a lot of muffled background talk before Laurel comes on the line “Yes?” she says as though she can’t possibly imagine why he’s half mad with trying to get through to her.