by BJ Knapp
I notice his eyes give me an elevator look, as my girlfriends in college used to say. They trace me up and down and up again. I am glad I wore this dress. Tim’s right: I rock this dress. And I think Keith thinks so, too.
“Come on, you look like a dork standing there. Close your mouth.” Tim puts his hand at the small of my back and gently guides me through the doorway. I am always amazed at how cool Tim is in situations like these. He kicks into politician mode and is suddenly invincible. I briefly imagine him shaking every hand and kissing every baby within reach while on his way to the bar, saying “Tim Dunkirk, candidate for State Senate” to each person he meets. He strides over to the bar and looks back over his shoulder at me, his eyes saying, “Are you coming?”
The butterflies in my stomach must have snorted meth. I walk behind Tim to the far end of the bar, paying attention to keep my stride casual and fighting the urge to squeal and run up to Keith. Or, even worse, squeal and run out of the restaurant. I clench my fists at my sides until Tim takes my hand and subtly straightens out my fingers. I need to kick in to publicist mode.
Normally I can just turn it on and be a competent professional. But right now, I can’t find that “on” switch. Where is my confidence? Keith Kutter is sitting at the end of the bar, and my mouth has dried out. He looks even better up close. He has a trace of five o’clock shadow on his jaw line, just enough to not look grubby. He still looks like he’s a sun-bleached blond, but I wonder if there’s some gray mixed in there. It’s winter in Australia, but he looks like he’s just spent months at the beach. I can see the veins on the back of his hands, pronounced from all the years of plucking strings on his bass. He has a tattoo on his right wrist, some sort of tribal thing maybe. He’s wearing what I think is his wedding ring, but it’s on his right hand.
Tim is the first to speak, but only because he probably knows I’d say something scintillating like “Woooowwww” over and over again. “Hi, I’m Tim Dunkirk.” He extends his hand to shake Keith’s. “This is my wife Brenda.”
“Hello, Brenda.” Keith greets my breasts. Is he seriously checking me out in front of my husband? His bodyguard clears his throat, and Keith’s eyes dart up to meet mine. “Yes, um. This is Greg, my bodyguard.” He gestures to the wall of muscle with a shaved head standing beside him; Greg nods at me but does not extend his hand to shake mine—a classic tough-guy move.
“It’s... um... very nice to meet you?” I like to think that what I said came out perfectly coherent, but I doubt it actually did. Tim looks at my mouth with a warning look in his eyes, which I take to mean, “Close your mouth.” I clench my teeth together for a few seconds just to get myself to shut up for a moment and collect my thoughts. This is going to be a long night, if I keep fumbling over every single thing I say. I really have got to get it together. He’s just an ordinary dude, out for a nice dinner. I need to calm down.
Keith sips his Scotch while we wait for my beer and Tim’s Gray Goose and grapefruit. I spaced and ordered a beer. Why? Am I at a frat party? I search my brain for something to say, something other than, “So, you’re a big rock star. What’s that like?” Nothing comes to mind.
Tim saves me with his gift for gab. “So, Keith,” he says, “I read online that you are a wine collector. Did you know that the Stone Yacht Club was awarded Best Wine List in all of New England for the last five years?”
Tim read up on Keith online? When could he have possibly had time to do that? I take his hand and give it a squeeze. I hope he knows that I am grateful to him for doing this with me.
“Actually, that’s why I selected it,” Keith says, taking another sip of his drink. “I heard a rumor about there being some Henri Jayer in the cellar here. I’d love to get my hands on a bottle of ‘87 Richeborg.”
The hostess, after seating the Van Martens, finds us in the bar and escorts us to a table.
“Would you two like to share the ‘87 Richeborg with me?” Keith asks, settling into his seat and picking up the wine list.
“Actually, I’m not really into wine,” I reply as I skim the menu, “but you guys go ahead. Tim likes it. I’ll stick with my beer.” I take a sip and smile. I should finish this, I’m thinking, and order a classier drink, like a martini.
Tim leans over to look at the wine list with Keith. “Doesn’t look like it’s on the list,” he points out.
When the waiter comes back, Keith asks for it anyway.
“That is a reserved bottle, I am afraid,” the waiter says, gesturing to the wine list. It’s not really a list; it’s more a book. “But we have a very wide selection. I can recommend something comparable.”
“Who is the bottle reserved for?” Keith asks. But before the waiter can answer, he starts in with, “Do you know who I am?” and raises his voice noticeably higher. I look over my shoulder, afraid that some of the other diners may have heard.
“I am afraid not, sir. Now, please, you may select a wine from our list. Our list is quite large—“
“I am Keith Kutter. Bass player from the band Hydra. I am here to have dinner with my friends. Now, the Richeborg, please.”
“I am sorry, sir, I am afraid that’s impossible.” I can tell that this guy has no idea who Keith is. And that is the precise problem Keith has right now. If we’d had this conversation even ten years ago, I am sure he’d have gotten his wine. Keith’s face is turning red. I wonder how many times this scene has played out in the last decade. I don’t think Keith even knows that he’s not famous anymore. The waiter is young, probably in his twenties, and probably has no idea who Hydra is. And now Keith is looking to cash in on his former glory, but the waiter is out of Keith’s league. Keith still thinks that Hydra are rock-and-roll sweethearts. But seriously, now this waiter is going to remember Keith Kutter for his tantrum, not because he’d once been Guitar Magazine’s bassist of the year.
I start to feel a bit sad for Keith—until he speaks again. “How can this place possibly claim five stars,” Keith fumes, “when their wine list is for shit?”
Greg fidgets with his bread plate; Tim and I exchange an awkward glance. I am bracing myself. Is Keith going to throw the table on its side and storm out? I want to slide under the table and hide; the conversation at the other tables has pretty much stopped. It’s one glance from Greg that stops Keith in his tracks. I doubt he’s ever gotten physical with Keith, but his look says, “Shut the fuck up, or I will shut you up.” His glare is laser-focused on Keith until he finally relents.
“Looks like I’ll have to settle for...” Keith says, turning the pages on the wine list. I don’t know what he’s complaining about. There’s no way that he can’t find something suitable to drink on that list. “I guess we’ll have a bottle of Le Pin.” Keith thrusts the wine list at the waiter in disgust.
Tim raises his eyebrows at me, which I take to mean that this bottle is impossibly expensive. But Keith’s dejected tone when he ordered it suggests it is vinegar.
I open my menu. I’ve never eaten at the Stone Yacht Club and try not to appear shocked at the prices. Tim used to come here with his parents for special occasions when he was growing up. The menu is mostly written in French, with English descriptions in delicate-looking italics. To me it suggests, “If you’re an idiot and can’t read French, here’s the English version for you uncouth Americans.” The menu includes things like confit de canard, escargots de Bourgogne, and boeuf en meurette. I minored in French in college, so I know that these items are duck, snails, and beef. I settle on the coq au vin, because that is the cheapest thing on the menu. The practical side of me cannot justify ordering anything else. I wonder what the chef could possibly do to a chicken breast to make it worth ninety dollars.
A few moments later, the waiter returns with the bottle of Le Pin. He shows the label to Keith, who frowns and waves him on. We all watch as the waiter cuts and removes the foil, then deftly extracts the cork with a quiet pop, setting it on the table before Keith. He picks up the cork and makes a big deal of sniffing it before grunting an
d tossing it back onto the table. The waiter pours a small amount into Keith’s wine glass, then waits patiently while Keith swirls the liquid around in the glass and holds it up to the dim restaurant light, inspecting it carefully. Then he brings the glass to his nose and inhales deeply before, finally, emptying the glass into his mouth. He coughs, sniffs, frowns, and sets the empty glass on the table.
“It’ll be fine when it’s had a chance to sit, for like an hour,” he says with disgust. The waiter nods without expression and sets the bottle on the table next to Keith’s glass, after which he brings out the wine list and sets it in the middle of the table, presumably in case we want to order something else.
I glance at the list and notice that the Le Pin costs two thousand five hundred dollars. How in the hell can Keith possibly not enjoy a wine that costs that much? I watch Tim pour himself a half glass and take a sip then I watch his face for a more realistic reaction. He closes his eyes and holds the wine on his tongue for a moment. I can tell he doesn’t want to contradict Keith by outwardly enjoying the wine; but I know he is in fact enjoying it.
The waiter pulls a small leather folder out from behind him and, opening it, announces that he’d be pleased to take our orders, if we are ready.
Tim orders Wagyu short ribs, braised in a burgundy wine—one of the most expensive things on the menu. I raise my eyebrows at him. That’s the thing about Tim. He’ll take full advantage of a situation like this and order something spectacular, while I’ll feel guilty about spending so much money on something as frivolous as a fancy meal. Tim always says that it’s not about the actual chicken breast and vegetables; it’s the experience of eating it and the preparation of the food that I am paying for.
That’s the difference in how Tim and I were raised. As a result of Tim’s dad’s success, Tim routinely enjoyed the experience of expensive gourmet meals. My parents, who lived comfortably within their means, usually ate dinner out based on the price and not the presentation of the meal. They often shared their entrées to save even more money. I was relieved, when Portia first met my parents, that my mom didn’t insisted on bringing a coupon to the restaurant. Dad couldn’t stand the coupons; Mom had them all over the house as a constant reminder to save money. After Mom died, he threw them all away.
The other diners are speaking in dignified hushed tones to the point where I don’t want to speak up and order my entrée. Instead, I point to it.
“Oh, the coq au vin,” the waiter says to me, smiling. “A wonderful choice. It is one of Chef Emile’s specialties. Madame will love it.”
“Thank you, I am looking forward to it.” I hand my menu back to him.
I try to relax, but, really, I feel entirely out of my element. I’ve eaten in fancy restaurants with clients before. But in those sorts of situations, I am there for work, so I pay more attention to remembering the purpose of the meal and staying on top of my game. But tonight, I am seated in one of the most exclusive restaurants in New England with a famous musician and the upper crust of the northeastern United States. I feel like the other diners are staring at me, after Keith’s hissy fit over the wine. I take a deep breath and try to enjoy the various aromas of the steaming entrées carried past our table. I smell garlic and lemon. I look around the room and try to take it all in. I haven’t been here before, and I’m in awe of the silver vases and white roses on every table. The bread plates are so delicate that I’d swear I could see light through mine if I held it up. I am sure many a dishwasher has been fired over breaking these babies.
After the waiter leaves, the silence at our table is awkward. I don’t know what to say to Keith, and apparently he doesn’t know what to say to me. I don’t want to engage in a discussion about his obvious disappointment in his crazy expensive wine. He glances at Greg, who merely shrugs. I turn my attention to Greg and smile, and I can tell he’s bored out of his mind. Tim gives me one of those “What the hell is wrong with these people?” looks. We’ve already chatted about Keith’s flight to Providence and the fact that it is winter in Australia. What else is left? I rack my brain and try not to cringe at the lack of conversation.
Finally, it’s Keith who speaks up. “You know, I have spent the last thirty years of my life simultaneously avoiding and seeking out my fans. I never imagined I’d randomly sit down to dinner with one.”
“Is it everything you thought it would be?” I ask, then laugh and bite into a warm dinner roll.
“Well, really, it’s dinner with a stranger,” he says. He looks like he’s choosing his words. It’s one thing to be rude to the waiter; it’s another to be rude to the people who are supposed to help you to become famous again.
Mercifully, our entrées arrive; now, at least, we can talk about our food. Out of habit, Tim scrapes his veggies onto my plate and takes any offending onions off of mine. I catch a faraway look in Keith’s eyes and wonder if he and Tamsen shared a similar pre-dinner ritual. He’s probably remembering something about her right now, but I know I can’t ask. Instead, I smile at him and make eye contact for a moment. Hello, confidence. How nice of you to return. At that moment, the bubble of uneasiness that has been hanging over our table pops and dissipates. It’s like Keith finally remembers the purpose of our dinner tonight—he’s here to meet us and get to know his American fans.
Greg hands Keith a set of silverware he has stashed in his messenger bag. Really? He brings his own silverware? Does he think he’s going to contract some disease or be poisoned by the utensils at an expensive restaurant?
“How long have you two been together?” Keith asks flatly. It’s a basic question, but I feel like he’s just humoring us. He probably couldn’t care less about how long Tim and I have been together. Tonight is all about him. He sips his wine and grimaces. Come on, dude, get over it and enjoy. Greg passes Keith a quick admonishing glare. Keith’s expression changes; it’s as if he’s just remembered that he needs to feign interest in us for his great publicity stunt to work. But at least he’s trying to break the ice.
“We’ve been together for twelve years,” I say, “but married for seven.” I cut into my chicken then bite into it and slowly chew, trying to take Tim’s advice and enjoy the experience of the food. He may be on to something: I’ve never known that chicken could actually melt in my mouth. I can’t ever get chicken to come out like this without its turning to mush. And the flavors: it’s like an explosion of savory spices, the tang of lemon, and something else a tiny bit sweet that I can’t quite place.
“By the time Bren relented and married me, we had a house,” Tim says. A house that your mother insisted on decorating, I want to add, but then figure it would probably tick Tim off. We’ve actually had a few conversations about how decorating our home has been worthwhile, something to keep Portia busy and happy, as she has so few hobbies since Tim’s dad died. I maintain that, since it’s our house and we live in it, it should reflect our taste, and not something she’s seen in Paris Architectural Review.
“So, how did you two meet?” Keith asks. He’d been busy cracking his lobster; now, I notice that he puts down his utensils so that he can listen to us undistracted.
“When I was in college,” I say, “I used to perform at an open mike night in a coffee house in Providence. It was there that I met the guys in Tim’s band and became friends with them.”
“By the time I joined the band,” Tim adds, “Bren was opening for the band at almost every show. I loved her voice. She never bothered to tune her guitar very well, but her singing voice is amazing.”
“I had no idea, Brenda!” Keith picks up his fork again. Wow, this is getting to be a pretty nice conversation.
Maybe we just got off to a bad start with the wine tantrum. I thought that Tim and I would have to kiss Keith’s ass tonight, but now I actually feel like he’s interested in what we have to say. I still can’t help but wonder if it’s a bit of an act, though. And, the way his eyes keep wandering to my breasts, I am starting to wonder if one of them is completely exposed. I can’t get a rea
d on him. Is he some asshole rock star? Or is he a nice guy? Greg apparently notices Keith ogling me and glares at him again.
“Then we both got dumped at the same time by our respective significant others,” I say, “and ended up commiserating together. It’s amazing how what you think will just be a summer fling ends up being forever.” I smile at Tim and caress the back of his hand.
I once Googled the boyfriend I had before Tim. I managed to find his mug shot. Apparently, he’d tried to rob a liquor store with a baseball bat and been caught trying to run through the snow after breaking his ankle. Bullet dodged. Tim’s ex-girlfriend, however, is a model and has posed for the cover of Italian fashion magazines since their breakup. I know this, because Portia keeps copies on her coffee table.
“So you aren’t going to tell him the rest?” Tim asks.
“What do you mean?”
“The part where you invited yourself to my parents’ cabin in Vermont.” He smiles and raises his eyebrows provocatively.
Keith sets down his fork and leans in closer. “I am a sucker for party-crashing stories. I’ve never been brave enough to do it on my own. Do tell.”
“For what it’s worth, I was invited to Vermont, thank you very much.” I stick my tongue out at Tim. “And I still can’t believe you guys call that place a cabin. You don’t use the word ‘wing’ when talking about a section of a ‘cabin.’” Keith nods in agreement. It’s nice to see him on my side—although I’ll bet his house in Sydney has wings.
I still remember that weekend when I arrived at the “cabin.” Tim’s mother had told me that I’d be sleeping in the east wing, while Tim and his parents would sleep in the west one. I should have known then how things would turn out with his mother and me, as the east wing was also where the housekeeper and the chef stayed. It’s also important to note that cabins don’t have housekeepers and chefs.