Neil averted his eyes as if to say, do what you want. The tension between him and S.J. was quickly becoming palpable.
“They covered Neil in this incredible documentary, if I remember correctly.” She leaned over to Neil, placed her hand on his, and murmured, “Please correct me if I get any of this wrong. I don’t want to exaggerate any of the details,” before she turned her attention to Simon, Christian, and Andrew with a conspiratorial smile and a wink.
“It was incredibly well done, almost Dickensian. I remember how the announcer went on and on. Bought up an orphan in London, lived on the streets, forced from foster home to foster home. Finally taken in by the St. Johns, a poor but good-hearted family in Oxford. God, you really should have had your own theme music. Isn’t that right, Neil?” She smiled serenely at him in the torturing style of an old acquaintance before she leaned over and whispered. “You see, gentlemen, the St. Johns never realized what a genius they had on their hands until young Neil went off to school. Brilliant, sucked it all up. He managed to get full scholarships through university. Then he shocked his family and decided he wanted to go into the music business, quite an unorthodox choice when he could have been a doctor or a lawyer, or even the Prime Minister if he’d wanted. Didn’t even finish school, left England in a flare of a rebellion. Left his family, left everyone. He never returned until years and years later.”
Neil had remained quiet at the growing grandiosity of S.J.’s story, but the laugh lines near his eyes had deepened, and for the first time Andrew could see his urbane façade slip. The street punk, all brains and stratagems, working the world to survive, had wormed its way to the surface.
“Well, the rest is history,” said S.J. airily. “Went on to show everyone, prove he could do it on his own terms. Hurray for you, Neil.” She raised her glass and they all toasted. “Although, I am sad about Faith. She was lovely, just lovely. Life is horrid that way.” She patted Neil’s hand again.
The waiter appeared with their entrees. S.J. chewed slowly. Neil hardly touched his food and ordered another drink.
“I think that’s commendable,” said Andrew, eventually breaking the silence. “Doing what you want in spite of what your family thinks. It takes guts.”
Neil looked at him as though he hadn’t heard him properly and blinked several times.
“I did the same thing. It’s not easy.”
“No, no it isn’t,” Neil replied quietly.
“I must say,” said S.J, slicing off the wing of her chicken, “I got a cut of your latest album. It’s remarkable, like nothing I’ve heard in a long time.”
Andrew didn’t want to look away from Neil. His face held something he had never seen before, but S.J. caught him off guard. “Though everyone knows there’s no money in recordings. They exist solely to promote you.”
Here she pointed to Andrew alone. “The question you need to ask yourself is how big do you want to get? If you want to remain breaking your backs, then keep playing those small venues. I’ll admit, you could possibly eke out a decent living, a good day job. But your talents are going to be wasted. The large arenas, the merchandising off of that, there’s where the money is.”
“We’ve never been focused on the money,” Andrew said dryly.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Simon, who seemed engrossed with S.J.’s speech. “Money’s not the root of all evil.”
“No, it isn’t. What I meant to say is that I care about our sound, our music. I’m not going to—”
“Sell out?” S.J. finished his sentence for him. “Do you know how many people end up in the dust bin and on VH1’s Where Are They Now? with that kind of attitude? Don’t be so naïve. You have talent, and a lot of it. You think anyone of any repute in this business wants to give it away for free? If you want your sound to be known, you have to get it to the most people possible. That’s where I can help you.”
Andrew could tell by the looks on Simon’s and Christian’s faces that her blunt approach had hooked them. Although Andrew was shrewd enough to know what she was saying was true, he just didn’t trust her. But he didn’t trust Neil, either.
Neil cleared his throat as though he wanted the conversation to wrap up. “Aren’t we here to talk about the photo shoot?”
S.J. placed her napkin on the table, meeting his frosty glance straight on. “A friend of mine works at Rolling Stone—you may have heard of him—Glenn Sommers. He also happens to adore your music. He’s—actually the magazine is—interested in doing a cover on The Lost Boys.”
All the motion at the stable ceased. A cover on Rolling Stone. Bloody hell. For a second Andrew let the almost-famous moment wash over him.
“With my representation, he could arrange for this to happen. Immediately, if not sooner.”
“The photo shoot, though, there wouldn’t be any obligation,” said Neil, an edge to his voice. “I was under the assumption that Rolling Stone wanted to do the cover, regardless. Right, S.J.? The Lost Boys could do the shoot and still have time to consider your offer before entering into a relationship, am I correct?”
“Yes, of course, but we’ll deal with the minutiae later. The most important thing to concentrate on now is the next steps. To start, I’ll get in touch with you about the dates and arrange a meeting with Glenn. We should probably do that at my San Francisco office. It’s smaller, of course, but it’d be easier than L.A. Until then, please think over what we’ve talked about. Not to brag, but I am in demand, and I don’t play with boys I don’t like. Either way, you gentlemen can’t hang out here forever. This isn’t the Summer of Love—you need to be out there in front of your fans on a national tour. A real tour. Rolling Stone is just the beginning.” Her eyes fell to Simon. “There will be the financial implications of how to properly invest your increased cash flow, and I can hook you up with some brilliant financial advisers who work miracles. Of course, you’ll need to allocate some to your increased security detail in order to keep those fans of yours from tearing your shirts off, but that’s only to be expected.” She smiled, and the sunlight glimmered off her straight, too white teeth. There was a slight space between the front two that Andrew hadn’t noticed before. Her lips covered them when she saw his eyes lower to it, as though she had long practiced keeping the imperfection hidden. She kept speaking, her gaze shifting nearly imperceptibly to Christian. “But seriously, the countless fans you’ve never reached before will be amazed by your talent. I can’t explain the feeling. I’ve seen it so many times with my clients, of how proud the people you love will feel to see you up there and know that you’ve realized your dream.”
She began to tie the scarf around her neck as she set her sights on Andrew. “But at the end of the day, there is nothing like success to really prove you’re worth it. That despite whatever anyone else says, your music is good. There won’t be a person out there who won’t know the beauty of it, or know who you wrote it for.”
With that, she stood and released them from her spell. They fell back to their chairs. “Thank you, gentlemen, it’s been a true pleasure. But I apologize, I must be off, I’ve got a four-thirty in Atherton. Neil. Andrew. Gentlemen, I’ll be in touch.” Her hand brushed Andrew’s shoulder, and she left them with a smile.
The whole table seemed to reach for their drinks at once. Neil looked troubled, while Simon and Christian looked like a bomb had dropped on them. And Andrew realized that this S.J. Gordian, whoever she was, spoke the truth. She could change their lives forever. And she wanted to. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, his fingers reached back to the outer pocket of his coat to touch Emily’s ring.
16
* * *
IT WAS ALMOST TEN in the morning when Emily awoke from a dream, her body twisted in the sheets, her skin sweating. Her vision contained no sunlit rooms, however, no gramophones warbling, no breeze from open windows rustling the curtains as she had experienced before. No, this dream was dark, more sinister. Andrew in a long, black coat, his figure stalking closer and closer to a woman she couldn’t se
e. She watched as his hands grabbed hold of the unknown woman’s and held them against a brick wall, his eyes liquid in the light of a streetlamp, his fingertips blazing up the bare skin of her thigh. “Be still,” he hissed, his mouth a flame’s breath away from the woman’s. “Don’t move, understand?” His hands snared her wrists. He shoved her hard against the bricks, burning into her, and kissed her fiercely.
Emily struggled to reach him, but when she did he recoiled from the sight of her as if she were poisonous. Then before her eyes, the corporeal nature of his body began to dissipate. She cried for him to stay, but he staggered backward, clutching the dream woman to himself until only mist remained.
“No!” She sat straight up. The chipped and peeling paint on her bedroom walls had replaced the brick wall from her dream. The muted sounds of morning came from outside her window, the piercing song of birds and the faraway rush of cars, instead of the silence of the night.
In a savage mood, she threw herself from the bed and caught sight of her reflection. There, in her floor length mirror, a creature stared back at her. It was full of wild, unkempt curls, a face overtaken by luminous eyes ringed in thick black lashes and the thin arch of brows. Her fingers reached to touch the flush of the woman’s cheeks, the terror of her hair.
“Dreams are a manifestation of the fears and wants of our subconscious,” she whispered to herself, remembering what Vandin had once said. “Nothing more.”
Wanting was not new to Emily, but this kind of nameless longing was. It gnawed away at her like a hunger. She hated the hold Andrew was fast having over her, she hated the idea that his life meant him spending stretches of time away from her, and she hated the fact that this didn’t bother him, that he could easily live a life free to enjoy all his desires. Usually calm and levelheaded, she was fast becoming greedy and petulant. She didn’t like being in second place.
Hoping to alleviate the tension twisting within her, she headed for the shower and let the hot water pour over her neck and shoulders. She concentrated on the pressure of the stream, focusing on everything that had happened to her in such a short period of time, as if she were scripting her own Gothic novel. The man of her heart had found her and taken her soul in the process. Meanwhile, her psychotic professor was out there somewhere, and God only knew what would happen when he returned. Add to that her personal quest to unite dead lovers who were half in this world, half out, and who also happened to be haunting her home, and she raised her head, closed her eyes, and let the white-hot water pound her face, hoping she might drown.
From somewhere in the house the phone rang. Once the answering machine refused to pick up the call she shouted out to her roommates, but it continued to ring off the hook. Wrapped in her robe, she trudged down the hall to the kitchen dripping wet and grumbling curses, her toes curling on the cold floor as she snatched the phone.
“Yes!”
“Hello, may I please speak to a Miss Thomas?”
“Speaking.”
“Emily?”
Part of her froze—for a split second she was convinced it was Vandin’s voice; it had the same halting nature, the same cadence. But this voice was lighter, calmer, and almost familiar, with the hint of a Brooklyn accent. She chastised herself for her nerves, and wondered if she would ever stop jumping at ghosts that weren’t there.
“Yes, this is Emily. Who am I speaking with?”
“I’m sorry. It’s Detective Obester, Anthony Obester. I’ve been assigned to Laura Schandler’s case. You probably don’t remember me, but your father knew mine really well. They taught together at NYU. We lived in the brownstone across from you in the West Village.”
The name rattled around her brain until a memory of her old street came to life. “The big kid with the curly hair and the braces?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Ah, I remember you. You used to walk me down the block to get ice cream.” She let loose a huge sigh and smiled. “So, Anthony Obester, what brings you all the way to San Francisco?”
“Fell in love with a girl out here and never left. Two kids and two mutts later I’m still in the department, haven’t managed to wrangle myself out of here yet. Listen, I wish this were a social call, but like I said, I’ve been assigned to that case and I have some questions I need to ask you. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Dr. Vandin is still out of the country.”
“Yes…London, I think, on business. He said it was a conference.”
They spent the next few minutes reviewing the details of the case. The detective verified Emily’s position as his assistant.
“There’s nothing much we can do until he returns, but we’ve also made a few inquiries around campus. It seems the man’s a player, cycles through students on a pretty regular basis. Do you know of anyone else we might be able to question?”
“No, no I don’t…I didn’t realize. I didn’t think he ever acted on anything, truthfully. When I first met him, I thought it was all bravado, part of his image. He can come across as very charming, larger than life, and I can see how women are drawn to that.”
“Did you two ever have a relationship?”
“No, of course not, no! He kissed me—once—when I first started to work for him. I was surprised. He caught me off guard.”
“Did you say anything to him afterward? Was he under the assumption that you wanted to pursue a relationship?”
“I made it very clear I didn’t. And I don’t see how this matters at all in this case. He shouldn’t have done what he did to me or to Laura.”
“I don’t mean to upset you, Emily, but you need to understand that his lawyers will use every trick in the book to make you out to be a liar. They’ll try to make it look like you have an axe to grind and you’re getting revenge by colluding with this girl to invent a story. Just wanted to let you know that being a witness is going to be a difficult experience for you.”
“I know, but I couldn’t sit back and do nothing.”
“No, you did the right thing. But if he contacts you in any way, let me know immediately. From what we’ve dug up, the man’s got a temper, so be careful, be aware. There were some rumblings from the last post he held that weren’t too nice. Don’t go anywhere alone if you can help it. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“And one more thing. If you leave the city, let us know where you’re going before you leave, just until we can locate Vandin. Plus, it’ll keep your dad from killing me if he thought I wasn’t looking after his kid. Look, you can always call the department, but I’ll give you my personal cell too. Best to use that one—you can reach me there day or night.” She scribbled the number down on a nearby notepad. “I’ll be in touch. Sorry it had to be under these circumstances, but it’s great hearing a voice from back home. Take care of yourself.”
He hung up, leaving her to stare at the phone, a knot tightening in the pit of her stomach. Vandin was out there, somewhere. The call had only solidified the feeling that she would never be free of him, that he would never leave her alone. The house seemed hollow and cold, and she glanced up at the ceiling devoutly wishing she was in Andrew’s bedroom, under his warm covers, nestled into his side, and his lips on hers telling her everything was going to be all right.
“No,” she said to herself, putting an end to her self-pity. “Take care of yourself.”
She closed her eyes and went over the call again in her mind, detail by detail. She thought of her parents. Take care of yourself—it was her mother’s mantra. They were the words of a woman who did not believe in warm covers or nestling, whose relationships were known only for their long years of silence interrupted by acute periods of politeness.
The reality of her mother’s inner life was not lost on Emily, who noticed everything. The novels left on her mother’s nightstand whispered of desires and passion far more chaotic than she would ever allow in her own home. Whether she was telling Emily take care of yourself and love
will follow, or take care of yourself so love won’t, Emily could not decide. But either way the message was clear. After all, when Andrew went back on the road, she wouldn’t have him to rely on. Why was she even thinking like this? Austen was right: women’s minds jumped from admiration to love and from love to matrimony in a moment. Andrew and she had just met, and here she was wondering what they would be like when he returned to the life he had been happily living long before there ever was a they.
Take care of yourself.
Yet how could she think of being without him? They would have to make it work—it was their only choice—but she knew long distance relationships rarely worked for long; she had told him as much. It was an artificial life, one of trying to fit weeks into days and days into hours until the goodbyes were wished for, if only to speed along the pain of separation. But the life he had on the road involved throngs of adoring, screaming women, all night, every night. She had seen him perform and witnessed it. How could she even hope to compete with that at her writer’s seminar, typing away on her laptop? What kind of connection could that possibly provide?
Before she knew what she was doing, she had dialed her parents’ phone number. She hadn’t spoken to them in weeks and readied her mental checklist that she used for every conversation: grades, graduate school, the weather, and an occasional attempt at tenderness. The phone was answered on the fourth ring.
“Mom?”
In the background she heard the drone of female voices, a sharp laugh, the clink of glasses. “Emily? What a surprise—your father and I had you down for dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Stop being facetious, dear. Now isn’t a good time, my book club is wrapping up. Can you call back tomorrow? No wait, that won’t work, I have my seminar. This is all very annoying. I don’t have my planner handy.”
“No, no, Mom, is Dad there? I need to talk to Dad.”
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