by BJ Knapp
“Perfect. So call. Thank him for the flowers. It’s only polite, right?”
Tim’s right: that is a great way to start the conversation. But then what do I say? When I call up strangers at work, I always have a plan. This time I don’t.
I take the phone from Tim and walk out onto the deck. Tim follows me and sits down in one of the patio chairs. I look out over our back yard and watch a few hummingbirds buzz around the feeders, trying to collect my thoughts. What the hell am I going to say? I hold my finger over the keypad; really, it’s now or never—just like when I sent the letter to him to begin with. I dial.
“It’s ringing!” I squeal. Tim leaps up, runs inside, and grabs the other cordless extension from the living room so he can listen, then comes back out and sits down again.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice with an Australian accent answers.
My mouth goes dry. “Um, hi?” I squeak, and then clear my throat. “Hi. I’m Brenda Dunkirk.”
“Of course, Mrs. Dunkirk,” she says. “How are you?”
“Honestly, I’m a bit confused.” I laugh.
“I’ll just put Keith on and he’ll explain everything.”
“What? Wait. You mean Keith Kutter?”
“Hold please.” The phone clicks, and then music blares into my ear. It’s the B-side to “Battleground Zero.” I haven’t heard this one in ages. I should see if I can find it on iTunes.
“Oh my God,” I say to Tim. “She’s putting Keith Kutter on.”
Tim nods and smiles his encouragement, his red hair glowing in the sun.
“Hello, Brenda,” a male Australian voice purrs in my ear. He definitely has my attention; his voice is deep and velvety. I imagine being able to lounge comfortably inside of it on a rainy afternoon. And that accent is making my heart race. I wish I’d put more thought into this call. I am sitting here with my mouth hanging open. “Brenda? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I squeak again.
“This is Keith Kutter. I was hoping you’d call.”
“Um, I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect to ever speak to you on the phone. I’m a little flustered.” I pause to collect myself. I need to get it together; I must sound like a complete loser.
I grimace at Tim, and he gestures as if to say “Keep it moving.”
“Thank you for the flowers,” I say. “They’re beautiful?” I plant my palm against my forehead and grimace again. Okay, time to take a breath. I lean back on the wicker loveseat, also in white. I feel the wooden slats dig into my back then sit upright again and clear my throat. I can’t have a serious conversation with a piece of wood jabbing into me.
“You’re very welcome,” Keith replies. “Thank you for your letter. It made my day.”
“So, um, how are you?” I ask, for lack of anything better to say.
Tim chuckles and whispers, “You are so bad at this.” I glare at him for a second, and he stops laughing.
“I am well,” says Keith. “Listen, Brenda, I sent those flowers to you because I wanted to thank you. Nobody sends letters anymore, and the fact that you took the time to do it means a great deal to me.”
“You’re, um... welcome,” I stammer.
“In the last few years we haven’t been so great at showing our appreciation for our American fans. You took the time to appreciate me, so now I wanted to take the time to appreciate you. I would like to visit with you in Rhode Island, perhaps take you to dinner?”
“Really?” I need to pay more attention—there’s no way he just said that he wants to have dinner with us. “Okay,” I say, trying not to sound skeptical. But I am. Surely there is more to it than sending a letter to a has-been rock star and having him fly halfway around the world to take me to dinner. This probably has everything to do with all the shitty things that people are saying about them in social media. Am I expected to talk about what a cool guy Keith is at dinner and get some positive buzz out there? Is this what this feels like to the people I ask to do this sort of thing at work? I don’t want to feel like he’s trying to use me. What he’s doing makes a lot of sense, I get that. This seems like a genuine effort to get the band to go out into the world and make good publicity happen for themselves. I need to get over the awkwardness and decide whether or not I want to be the one to help him generate that buzz. I mean, this is what I do professionally. I can help, right?
“Are you sure? You sound hesitant. It’s just dinner.” He laughs. “My assistant, Toni, will call you to coordinate the details.
I clear my throat. Where the hell did this lump come from? Why is it that, at work, I speak to strangers all the time, and I can do so competently, but then one rock star invites me to dinner and my mouth is dry? I play it cool. “Sounds good, Keith. Looking forward to it.” I look at Tim, and he just shrugs his shoulders.
I click the “end” button and stare at the phone. Then I look up at Tim. I hope that I am not hallucinating this whole thing. Maybe the phone call didn’t end with an invite to dinner after all. I replay it in my mind for a minute and then shake my head. “What the hell was that?”
“Sounds like you’ve just made a date with a rock star,” Tim teases.
Chapter 7
A FEW DAYS AFTER my phone conversation with Keith, his assistant Toni calls me to coordinate the details of the upcoming dinner. She must have been his assistant for a long time: she plans every single aspect of his itinerary and doesn’t leave anything to chance. But really, am I having dinner with a rock star or embarking on a covert military operation? I am actually surprised she doesn’t say things like, “Keith will land at oh-nine-hundred hours.” She explains that Keith will fly into Providence on July 9, but that we’ll meet at the Stone Yacht Club in Newport on July 10, so he’ll have a day to adjust to the time change and rest.
An hour later my phone’s email notification dings. She’s sent me an itinerary. It tells me what time to get to the yacht club. She’s even added Google map directions from my house. Also included on the email is a list of topics that I should not bring up at the dinner. Of course, his son Damien and his ex-wife are at the top of the list. I scroll further through the email and read a list of his allergies. I wonder how many items on the list he’s actually allergic to, or whether they’re just foods he doesn’t like. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone who is allergic to Brussels sprouts—but apparently Keith Kutter is. She has covered every single angle and then some. Though I wonder how many of the items on here are actually for his safety—I am sure that most of them are for his comfort.
On one occasion at my job, I saw the list of “requirements” that a celebrity demanded while she was participating in a benefit concert in Providence. It included things like “only white flowers, only white furniture, and only white linens” in her dressing room. At the time, I’d felt guilty when I’d had to call the director of facilities at the Providence Performing Arts Center to tell them about the diva’s dressing room requirements. The disbelief in his voice when he confirmed with me that yes, he had to move all the furniture out of the dressing room and replace it with another set in the required color, horrified me at the time. Now I can look back on it and laugh. I didn’t think that stars actually had requirements like that in real life. I had heard rumors about celebrities wanting things like only red Skittles in bowls in their fitting rooms and the like, and each time I’d thought it had to be a joke. It always makes me wonder whose job it is to isolate the red Skittles out of the bag, and how long that must take. As I read Toni’s emails, I imagine that Keith’s list of demands has grown longer and more obscure as his popularity has risen. It probably makes Toni’s job very difficult.
I close the email and call out to Tim, who is hunched over his computer on a Skype meeting with his campaign manager, “Honey? Don’t make any plans for the tenth. We’re having dinner with Keith Kutter.”
“Who?” I hear Aria bellow through Tim’s laptop speakers. “Did she just say Keith Kutter? The guy from Hydra? Why didn’t you tell me you knew hi
m? Can we get his support?”
Tim rolls his eyes at me. “Never mind” he says to Aria. “Where were we?” Soon enough, they’ve continued their meeting. I try to occupy myself until their meeting is over, but I’m really just reading the same paragraph over and over in a magazine. My mind keeps wandering to the meeting with Keith. What will he really be like? What can I eat that I won’t end up getting all over me? What does one wear to dinner at a five-star restaurant with the best rock and roll bassist in the world? (Wow, I could spend days on that question!)
While I’m thinking, I watch Tim conduct his meeting. He’s completely focused on the discussion; he doesn’t seem at all fazed about the idea of dinner with Keith Kutter. I can’t imagine how he can possibly be so calm, knowing that we are going to be meeting a rock-and-roll legend. I’ve already bitten three fingernails down to nothing without even realizing it.
***
The night of the tenth rolls around before I even know it. And there is nothing in my closet that I even want to wear. There’s a pile of discarded clothes draped over the chair and on the bed. I haven’t had time to shop because of the launch of Smile Airlines at work. Product launches are what we call a “BFD” at work, meaning it’s a “big fucking deal,” and I, along with everyone I work with, basically have no life until the work is done.
We’ve been working until nearly ten each weeknight—as well as every weekend—for the last month, coordinating a press event that took place in the Marriot adjacent to the airport. I am pretty psyched about how the press event turned out. Smile Airlines set up a life-sized model of the cabin of one of their airliners in the parking lot of the hotel. The press could go inside it and see what the cabins actually look like and then report to the public about how spacious and modern they are. We had a video created that played on a loop on the seat-back screens, so the members of the press could sit in the seats, watch the video, and be served a non-alcoholic Smile-tini. Coordinating all of that meant that I had no time or energy to go to Macy’s or TJ Maxx to get something new.
Tim walks in, catching me on the verge of tears as I frantically shove my clothes aside, trying to find that one perfect outfit. At least the product launch went well. Very well, actually. Amanda’s been dropping hints at promoting me. The client is over the moon with their results—and I’m the one who orchestrated every single part of it. I actually got high-fived all the way from the kitchenette to my cubicle by every single one of my co-workers. Joy, the receptionist, told me not to forget the little people when I get to the top.
Why can’t meeting a rock star be that simple?
“Just put something on,” Tim urges. “We’re going to be late.”
“What the hell am I supposed to wear? Why did I agree to this?” I sit on the foot of the bed and let my face fall onto my knees. I am on the edge of hyperventilating, and the room’s starting to get spinny. Why didn’t I at least set aside a few outfits to pick from? Normally I prepare my outfit for big meetings at work—I iron, I brush away stray pieces of Vito’s fur. As a result, I go into the meeting calm and confident. Tonight, I am going to fling entire outfits all over our bedroom and still end up hating what I wear.
“Just wear what you would normally wear to a nice dinner,” Tim suggests, rifling through the clothes on my side of the closet and the pile on the chair. “Here.” He holds out my vintage turquoise dress with brown flowers on it. “You look hot in this one. Put it on, let’s go.”
“Shoes.” I hold out my hand. He hands me the brown strappy sandals I normally wear with the dress. I slip the dress over my head and let it fall over my hips. I tug at it to settle it around my waist. Tim’s right: it is the perfect dress for tonight. It fits me beautifully. I catch him eying me in the mirror. Good choice, Tim. I hold the sandal straps in my hand and let the shoes dangle then head to the jewelry box. I paw around for a matching pair and scowl at myself for not being more organized whenever I put my earrings away. My mom used to clip her earrings together after taking them off; another habit I really should adopt.
“Bren, come on. Just put something on, and let’s go.” He grabs the white gold hoops he bought for my twenty-fifth birthday from my jewelry box. “Wear these. Come on, we’re going to be late.”
On the way there, I sit in silence while Tim drives the truck over the Newport Bridge. “You okay?” he asks as he steers us down the off ramp.
“Yeah. Nervous,” I sputter.
“You are freaking yourself out,” Tim warns. “Just relax and be yourself. Let’s just have some fun. He’ll probably just talk about himself the whole time, anyway. Let’s take it as an opportunity to have a fabulous meal.” He takes my hand and spreads it out over his thigh, then methodically rubs the back of it with the heel of his hand. It’s amazing how calming this feels. I draw in a deep breath in through my nose and blow it out in a narrow stream from my lips. Then he lightly massages my neck with his right hand while driving with his left. “Come on, Bren. Loosen up.”
My mind is a terrifying blank by the time we turn onto Bellevue Avenue, where Newport’s legendary mansions line the street. Some of them have been converted into museums, while others are still lived in—like Portia’s very large white brick Victorian on the corner of Dartmouth Street. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to live in those houses day to day. I imagine enormous bedrooms, quadruple the size of the one that Tim and I share—which is still larger than most—and being able to soak in an enormous bathtub all the way up to my chin. But then I figure that the wall-to-wall marble floors must be freezing in the winter. Sure, they have the windows that were part of the original construction; some are now tinted lavender from age. But they’re probably drafty as hell when the cold ocean breeze kicks up in the doldrums of February. The people who live in these houses are wealthy enough to have another house somewhere warm where they can stay for the winter. I wish Portia would do that.
As I gaze at the mansions, I am thankful for the house that Tim and I have, where our feet don’t freeze in the wintertime—even if Portia did insist on decorating it for us, and I hate what she’s done with the place. I mean, does she think we live in Versailles? What is with all the creepy old-guy paintings she’s put up? I’ve moved most of them to areas in the house where we don’t spend a lot of time, because I’ve gotten very sketched out from feeling as if eyes are following me all through the house. I would love for our house not to echo when I get home. It feels lonely with the sterile hardwood floors and dainty antique furniture everywhere. I am so tempted to buy a ratty old La-Z-Boy off of Craigslist and plop it right in between her chaise and divan.
Then my mind drifts to what Keith’s house in Sydney must look like, and I wonder if it is at all as extravagant as the ones on Bellevue. I’d be willing to bet it overlooks the ocean somewhere just outside of Sydney. It probably has a wrought iron gate at the front to keep out the creepy stalker fans. Maybe, if this publicity stunt works out, his home will be featured in MTV Cribs. Is that show still on?
We turn off Bellevue and pull up in front of the Stone Yacht Club. Tim hands the keys to the waiting valet. I compare Tim’s dingy pickup truck to the gleaming BMWs and Benzes in the parking lot, and for a moment I wish I’d thought to take my car. But then, I kinda like it when we take Tim’s pickup to Newport; it totally rattles his mom’s socialite nerves. Surely some of her friends are at the Stone tonight, and they’ll report back to Portia about Tim’s filthy truck pulling in. Then at least she’ll hassle Tim about being unrefined for a change, and not me.
When we get into the restaurant, we play a bit of cloak and dagger. Toni instructed me to ask for Michael Andrews, apparently Keith’s code name.
“Mr. Andrews is expecting you,” says the hostess. “He’s at the bar.” She gestures toward the doorway to the right of her podium, and then immediately turns her attention to the old-money couple behind us and smiles broadly. It’s a very casual snub, executed perfectly. “Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Van Marten, your usual table is ready. Right this wa
y.” She gestures gracefully to the door on the left.
I tug uncomfortably at my dress, fidget with my hair, and wonder if the Mr. Van Marten walking past me is the Edward Van Marten, the infamous investment banker accused of running a multi-billion dollar Ponzi scheme with his clients’ money. I check out the gigantic diamonds dripping from Mrs. Van Marten’s ears and her perfectly matching diamond necklace and bracelet and figure she is probably wearing about fifty carats. The amazing thing is that her carat weight fits right in at the Stone Yacht Club. I wonder what Tim’s mom wears when she comes here with the ladies who lunch. I can’t help but feel a bit inadequate next to Mrs. Van Marten. I really need to snap out of this. I can’t go in to meet my lifelong hero feeling this way.
Still, I can’t help whispering to Tim, “Do you think that’s...” while nodding toward the Van Martens. He nods back and warns me with his eyes to keep my voice down and my mouth closed. I fidget with my dress again.
“My God,” he hisses at me, “would you stop with that already?”
I stop fidgeting when we walk through the doorway into the bar. Actually, I freeze when I see him sitting on a stool at the end. He is sipping a Scotch when he looks up at me. I recognize his face from the pictures on my old cassettes, even though now he has a few more deep-set lines around the eyes and mouth. I didn’t expect him to look so normal, wearing a jacket with no tie.
“I think that’s him,” I whisper to Tim. “I never expected him to look so—I don’t know—normal?”
“Well, what did you expect?” Tim says. “That he’d show up in a bandana and eyeliner, looking like Keith Richards? He probably wants to fit in a bit, don’t you think?” Keith Kutter is maybe ten paces away from me. After all those mornings I woke up to his face staring down at me in my childhood bedroom, now I am about to shake his hand. He sips at his Scotch at the far end of the bar, looking dignified yet still ruggedly sexy. His naturally wavy hair is pushed back, kind of like he’s just been swimming in the ocean and pushed it off his face. I can picture the water streaming down his chest. Wow, am I seriously standing here imagining Keith Kutter without his shirt on?