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I giggled. “Is that so, master?” I was surprised to see his eyes darken instantly.

“Ah, dangerous ground. Don’t play with fire unless you’ve got the intention of using it.” And his mouth was on mine, warm, strong, faintly possessive, and making me ache again. We pulled apart, slightly out of breath.

There was a knock at the window. He pulled me to him and hugged me. “Call me. No matter what for, or when.”

I kissed his cheek, feeling the tiny bits of stubble around the moles by his ear. The things I knew about his body. Already. That I needed to memorize, right now. “I will, love,” I said in my best London accent. I pulled away from him, to see him looking slightly shocked, but happy.

“Ok—love.” He swatted me on the ass as I opened the door. I turned to look at him, but he was looking over my shoulder, mouthing, “go, photographers.” I nodded to him, quickly shutting the door, as he sunk back into the darkness, away from the window. As I stood there, slightly dazed, the driver handed me my bags, and I thanked him, watching him get in and the car pull away, turning the corner.

The doorman came over to me, said “checking in?” and I smiled and mumbled something, as I surreptitiously tried to look around for the paps. Yes, Tristan wasn’t kidding, there they were, over on the other side of the potted plants lining the staircase to the door, trying to look like they didn’t care, while, rat-like, they watched with beady eyes out the sides of their heads.

I followed the doorman with my bags up the stairs, attempting to steady my features into an indifferent mask, trying for an “I’m important, but I don’t care” attitude. It wasn’t me they wanted, anyway, right? I wouldn’t look at them. So I blinked hard at the flash when it came, unexpected, catching me off guard. I hoped it was on spec, and not because they knew something. Britain—the land of the press stalker. I wondered if my friends would see me in the gossip columns before they saw me in person. And I started to laugh, as the doorman opened the door for me. It was going to be an interesting weekend.

Chapter 6

I sat on the bed, suddenly exhausted. It was a big room, all pink and green and gold, a sort of tasteful cross between French Rococo and English Country. Big windows, big curtains, a large reproduction oak armoire against the wall next to the window, a desk next to the bathroom door, which revealed white tile, white towels, and little bottles of Molton Brown product in white painted baskets. A TV near the end of the bed, which faced one of the windows, which looked out on the square. One of the windows had the curtains drawn shut, which left that side of the room in a sort of shadow. It was fine. For London, it was actually very nice. But I didn’t really care. It was more than I was expecting, and I figured that was Dave’s fault. I’d been struck by how solicitous they had seemed during check-in as well, happy to accept me, room ready although it was too early for the regular arrival time, would I like it if they sent up some tea, was I expecting any calls. That last one made me stop and take a closer look at the receptionist. Yes, I could certainly see her supporting her income with a few tips passed along to the paparazzi. Sure. And I made a mental note to tell Tristan not to call me at the hotel, not that I thought he would. So any meetups probably wouldn’t happen here. Well, I didn’t expect them anyway. I thought of the driver, and hoped he was either honest or well-paid, because there was no way he hadn’t known exactly what was happening. I wondered how much you could hear up front. I’d have to check it out some time. Or not.

So I said no to the messages, yes to the tea, and no to the porter. I just wanted to get away and lie down for a minute. A moment of quiet, all alone, before I needed to start making phone calls. I had two interviews lined up for today—the band from Australia with the pin-up girl singer, and the first of the old band entourage—I’d figured I might as well dive right in. Then dinner with my friends, maybe a walk around some old haunts, and an early night. First thing tomorrow was the meeting with Trevor, which I hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed with, seeing as I was looking forward to it so much. That was for just after noon. Now. Shower and nap? Nothing? I looked at myself in the mirror. Ah, what an improvement from a just a few weeks before. Well fucked really did suit me, I sniggered at my reflection. And it felt better than a facial. But some of it did wind up on your face. Ok, delirious and jet-lagged. Not funny.

I was interrupted by a knock at the door. Tea. Of course. I went over to the door to answer it, and was greeted by an older man carrying a tray. I instantly felt suspicious, and yet I couldn’t say why. I gestured to him to put the tray down on the desk, and went to get my bag, walking backwards as I did so, keeping an eye on him. Stupid, maybe. But I just didn’t want any hastily snapped phone pictures of my bedroom used. I wasn’t anyone, not really, but if they wanted to turn this into something, they could. I knew the tricks. I fished around for some pound coins and dropped them into his hand, after I herded him back out the door. Hmm. I might have to switch hotels. Then I suddenly had the thought that maybe this wasn’t the paps, but Dave. Dave wondering who I was meeting, wondering if they had come up with me, Dave keeping an eye on me. Ok, I needed to slow down.

I poured myself some tea. Fancy hotel, fancy tea—no muddy thick builder’s tea here. That meant I wouldn’t have to add milk, the traditional English way. I’d never really liked milk in tea. After all that time here, I tolerated it. And as I stirred in one of the brown sugar lumps, I thought about my paranoia about the hotel and the staff. Just because you were paranoid, didn’t mean they weren’t out to get you, right? I sat on the bed and finished the tea, trying to clear my thoughts. Tired. I was just tired. I was in London, about to do the piece of my career, and I was worried about the guy with the tea tray. Wow. I put the cup down, a little too hard, and went to wash my face. And changed my mind. I’d decided against washing off Tristan. I needed his scent on me, like a protective mark, for me to know, no one else. No one else would know.

Oh fuck, I was so screwed. I knew how I felt. I knew. I knew all this went against everything I’d ever learned, or been told. I should be the hardass, devoted to my career above all else, except for my primitive search for a mate, looking for the perfect man, who in this scenario, was Dave. Money, respect, above judgment. The right choice.

The thing was, I’d never cared less in my life. About any of the shoulds. Instead, with Tristan, every transgression, every moment when he called me on something thrilled me, woke me up in a way I’d never expected. This morning, those moments, the way things seemed…altered, somehow. Tristan. His eyes, the way they had looked when I kissed him, his hands holding mine, the way he laughed at his thumbs up to the man in the car. He was a little crazy, of course. And sharp, witty, and fucking sexual dynamite. And this connection…and I wasn’t going to go there. Stop thinking. It was going to be my little secret. But I lay there on the bed for a moment, remembering his hands all over me, feeling the ache as I stretched out, and wished he was there, over me, reminding me who was in charge, and why.

And as I finally sat down at the desk, and flipped open my laptop to send a few confirmation emails, and get some phone numbers, I tried not to smile, thinking of him, pushing the feeling away, to keep it safe. I called Dave’s number at the office and left a message on the machine, to let him know I’d arrived safely, thanking him for the upgrade on the flight, and saying I would update him once I’d had some meetings. I might have been crazy, but I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t going to fuck this job up, not if I could help it. And if playing by some of the rules got a result, then this was one little test I intended to pass. High marks. I poured out some more tea, and phoned the agent for “Tits from Oz” as I was calling them in my head. I wouldn’t be using that in the article, but I wished I could. Maybe I could. Easy laugh, too easy, but not wrong. We’d see.

I listened to the foreign ring tone and reflected on how not so long ago, it was the American trilling that had sounded strange to me. A man picked up, saying hello with a strong Australian accent. I put on my best “I care but not really” journo voice, and stifled the impulse to ask for Tits from Oz. “Hello, may I speak to Rod Seger please?”

“Speaking.”

“Hi there, this is Lily Taylor from
The Core.
I’m calling to confirm our interview this afternoon.”

“Oh hello there. God, it’s today is it? Oh right you are, it’s Thursday, isn’t it.” He paused for a moment. “I hope you understand. They’ve been touring. And they’ve had a night off, you know how the kids are.”

That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. “Right, of course. Ok, but where are they now? Can we round them up? The magazine is holding space for them, but it won’t last forever.”

“Sure, sure.” He cleared his throat. “Are you the secretary? Hey, we were expecting Dave to talk to us directly about a cover shoot. I thought he was coming out with Matt to do the interview.”

Oh, nice, I thought. In your dreams, mate. Cover shot. And Matt Black. Numero uno. Almost as famous as the people he interviewed. Matt talked to Bono, not a bunch of drunks on a rider, with one single released. God, why was the world filled with assholes? I smiled at the phone. Reminding myself to be pleasant. It was their future after all. “Really? Who told you that? Well, Dave sent me personally. I am sure he’ll be very disappointed to hear that the band didn’t want the interview. Not a problem,” here I was counting in my head to see how long it would take before he backtracked. “I’ll just move on to my next appointment then…” He spluttered. There we go. What was he, drunk or stupid? That took more time than he had.

But his attitude had altered somewhat. “No, no, of course we want the interview. The band’s been really looking forward to it, um…what did you say your name was again?”

My voice was crisper this time. “Lily. Lily Taylor. I’ll need them in an hour; I’ve got a very full schedule on today.” I pronounced schedule the British way. I didn’t think he’d notice, but any chance to wind him up a little, make him realize his huge, huge mistake thinking he was dealing with some newbie girl.

“Uh, they’re having breakfast in the pub…I’m just going to meet them there now.”

“Fine. Get a table for all of them, and I’ll meet you there. Where are you going to be?” I felt like I was talking to a complete idiot. Tell me the right answer. Slowly.

“The Good Mixer, in Camden. Do you know it?”

I laughed. “Yeah, I know it. I’ll see you there,” and pressed the red button, cutting him off in mid goodbye. The Good Mixer. God. The place used to be a hangout for musicians, now it was a meeting place for old smack heads and Japanese tourists, taking pictures of each other where Oasis had once stood, hoping for a glimpse of someone, anyone. It was a dive. Especially at lunch. I knew that first hand. Great. Fine, it’d be quick. Get the pics taken at their show tomorrow. I looked at my phone. 12:00 p.m. And they were already there. Well, they’d be worse for wear. Maybe they’d say something sound bite worthy. Or outrageous. Either one would do.

“On, on, on to the next one.” I sang the snippet of Foo Fighters to myself. Next I had to call the woman who had started and been head of the fan club over here when Devised first came out. This, I was not looking forward to. I figured this was the real beginning—where all the stories were finally going to come out. Had he slept with her? I drew in a breath. Ouch. The thought actually hurt. But I wasn’t going to let my weakness fuck this up for me. I stiffened up. Ok bitches. He was with me now. At least for now. And it was fucking brilliant. And that was that. End of thinking. A little voice in my head said, yeah for now. And he’ll still be pulling the girls when you’re telling the story drunkenly to your flat mates as they creep out, leaving you passed out in your own aging memories. I shook my head. No. I wasn’t having it. Any of it. But the music business had its own little secrets. For instance, that for all its supposed cutting edge, change society and feed the world, did you say you wanted a revolution bullshit, the business was as traditional as a fairy tale. Macho intimidation and sex-as-a-weapon girls with an early sell-by date. Very few managed to get out of that little tradition unharmed. I was not going to be my worst enemy on this one. Fuck them, fuck all of them. I wasn’t dead yet.

I sat on the edge of the bed, crossed one leg over the other, and stared towards the street through the gap left by the curtains. The usual street clatter, another day already heading past its apogee. A few black cabs went by. I punched in the number and pressed the button with the green phone receiver on it. Ringing. What to expect. Answerphone. Light, breathy voice. Cultured accent, but not too much. Sounded a bit tired. “You’ve reached Poppy. You know what to say.” Do I now, I thought. I left a brief message with my phone number. We were due to meet around five, where she lived in Notting Hill. I wondered if she was money Notting Hill, or holdover Notting Hill, from when it was street, and Reggae and Rasta and Rock and Roll, so different from now. Another mystery. I wondered if she was pretty.

Tossing aside that thought, I marched into the bathroom, rinsed out my mouth, put on some fresh lipstick and touched up the eyeliner. I looked rough, but a kind of sexy, dirty around the edges rough. Perfect. I came out, zipped my suitcase up and put it on the rack next to the oak wardrobe, and zipped a tiny bit of toilet paper into it, by the corner. A little James Bond, but better safe than sorry. I’d like to know if someone was sniffing around. Laptop back in case, planner back in case, and I was ready to go, the recorder was already in there, all charged.