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I sat there for a while, recovering from the panic, thinking about the small canal
and neatly groomed walkway outside our hotel window. Brownfield, no doubt. Perfect.
In the center of the shit storm. The stress was incredible. I could feel it. Connected
as we were, I could feel him. Feel the worry, even though he didn’t like to talk about
it. And there was AC. And me. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and he just wanted all
this to be a success. It was all like a ticking clock, every second ticking away another
chance to make it work, or another minor disaster, like nearly missed radio interviews.
It was a business. It didn’t seem anymore like you could roll up when you wanted,
blaming drugs and a disregard for the rules. Now you were expected to be all that,
a symbol of all rebellion, while keeping to a schedule and making sure the band got
on the bus and saying the right things, not the wrong things when you were talking
to yet another DJ on yet another corporate radio station. Especially here. Only 4
days left. It wasn’t that long. Why it seemed like we’d be lucky if we made it, I
wasn’t sure.

I looked at my phone. Right now Tristan was on the air. Today’s radio station. The
same questions, the same giveaways, the same smiles, the same handshakes. And I knew.
I knew it was too much. He needed an oblivion that music wasn’t giving him, and that
I couldn’t give him. And there was AC, his oldest friend in all this, who had been
there in the bad old days, who knew him. He knew how to handle him but he was also
blinded by his own needs. Like me. Trevor. Maybe Trevor. I got up and started walking.
I’d call him. I needed to clear my head first. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say.
I wasn’t sure I’d know until I started speaking. But I had the awful feeling that
I was going to burst into tears the minute I heard his distant, sardonic voice. He
had saved him once. Maybe he could do it again. If he even needed to.

The phone rang, oddly clearer than the last phone call I’d made to New York. The woman
who answered put me through right away. Perhaps Trevor had been waiting for this call.
Knew it was coming, like rain. The phone kept ringing though, and finally it went
back to the receptionist. “Look, just tell him Lily called. Can he call me as soon
as possible? It’s urgent.” She wrote down my number, just in case, and I pressed end
with a sense of fatality. Where the hell was he? There was no reason why he should
be available, just because I wanted him and Tristan needed him, but I wanted him to
be there. I walked for a bit longer, and when the lines of shops and offices petered
out into warehouses, and signs for the highway, I turned around. I crossed the road
at the next set of lights, and called the hotel for a cab to come get me. There was
a diner another block down, and I went in and sat at the counter and ordered a coffee.
The cab would have my number. There’d be other cabs. It didn’t matter. I half listened
to the guy with the Caterpillar t-shirt make chit-chat with the waitress. They would
go out. They wouldn’t have tortured sex. He wouldn’t be on the cover of a magazine,
or on the radio, but he wouldn’t have to fight the temptation of drugs either. Although
there was always the easy darkness of drink, unfaithfulness, violence. I turned away.
I wanted them to make it, irrationally. They probably barely knew each other. Were
probably married to other people. She came over and refilled my coffee and I tried
to smile. It felt like I was admonishing her. Don’t let him fail. Don’t lose him.

I drank my coffee, grimly. The cheerful bell sung out a welcome for every newcomer
who came through the glass and metal door. When the phone rang in my pocket, I ignored
it, thinking it was the doorbell. Then I wrestled it out of my pocket, and nearly
dropped it.

“Hello?”

The clipped, brisk tones of Trevor came across clearly through the air. “Good afternoon
Lily in America. I heard you called?”

For a moment I couldn’t breathe. He sounded so calm, so reasonable, so far away from
all this. “Trevor. Oh god. Thank you. So glad you called. Hang on a minute, I’ve just
got to pay—do you want me to call you back?” I fished out a five dollar bill from
my pocket and threw it on the counter, and slung my bag over my shoulder.

“No, Lily, that’s fine. Take your time. I take it something’s happened then?” Trevor’s
voice was like a balm. I was fighting the urge to blurt out everything, AC, this morning’s
weird sex, the drugs I was now sure were around all the time. I made it outside, but
my moment of silence had clearly said enough. “Tristan? Of course. You wouldn’t call
for yourself, but you sound awful. What’s happened?” He waited.

“Trevor. God. Tristan. No. He’s fine. Well, no. He’s not fine. But nothing has happened.
Not yet.” I retraced my steps along the street. Damn the stupid cab. “But…”

Trevor interrupted me. “It’s the stress. That’s why we started with a small tour.
I figured you having you on board would help as well.” He paused. “But it hasn’t?”

“I don’t know, Trevor. I’d like to think it has. I’m there, I listen. Eyes open, mouth
shut.”

“But he’s said or done something you don’t trust and you’re frightened.” There was
such an air of finality in the way it said it. I hung my head. I’d failed, clearly.
I wasn’t supposed to be asking for help.

“He’s going over the edge. I think he wants me to go with him. Like a test.”

Trevor’s response was instant. “Then that’s a test you’re going to fail.”

“But I’ll lose him.”

“Is that what you’re frightened of? Or is it that you want to see how bad it gets?”

I was silent. I thought of this morning, and suddenly wished I’d never called. “I’m
not going to lie. That doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be safe.”

Trevor was quiet. I thought I heard the sound of a match being struck, at a distance
of 5000 miles and a great deal of technology. Finally he spoke. “Fair enough. Bravely
said.” He inhaled again. “One of your best qualities.”

“Thanks. I guess.” I didn’t feel particularly brave. “What do I do?”

“What do you think you should do?”

I laughed, nervously. “Really? I think I should spend one more night on the fun ride,
and then say I’ve had enough. I think you should come. I think he trusts me enough
to use me. And I’ll let him. But I shouldn’t.”

Trevor sighed. “I knew I’d have to come over early.”

I tried to reassure him. “Look, it’s fine. There’s only a few more days…”

Trevor broke in. “And then there’s L.A. The awards show. And the reality is that he
needs to tour.”

“It is about money then.” I waited for the light. There was a car rental place on
the corner. I was almost tempted to hire a car and just disappear. Get the hell out.
While I was still able to drive.

“Ah, is that what he said? Not the old ‘contractual obligation’ speech? Listen, Lily.
It’s what he needs to do. What he has to do. No one stops being a musician or an artist.
What the hell is he going to do, buy a trout farm? Open a restaurant? Fuck off.” He
paused. “Not you. I apologize. But you must see that we have to make this work. There
is nothing else. It’s his life.”

I felt the tears start.

Trevor must have heard something, because when he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“Lily, love, it’s ok. You were right to call. Ticket in place. I just need to move
some things around. L.A. already a definite. Seven days. A week. I’ll be there. If
anything happens in the meantime, call me. Call me anyway.”

I murmured a thank you.

“And Lily? It will get crazier. Just hang on, but leave when you can’t see the way
through—and when you think he’ll notice. I’m going to find a new manager. It’s time
to recall James. Permanently, I think. I’ll see what I can bait the trap with. You—just
stay close, and stay calm. What did Bob Marley say? ‘Everything’s going to be irie,’”
he chuckled.

I tried to manage a laugh. “Ok.” I didn’t feel convinced, but the fact that he knew
felt like a huge weight off my shoulders. “Thank you Trevor. I will keep you posted,
I promise.”

“Yes, please do. I’ll call you in New York in a couple of days.”

“But I’m supposed to be here,” I protested.

“We’ll see. Talk soon, Lily. Look after yourself.” And with that, Trevor was gone.

I walked for a while, in a daze. When I looked up again, there was one of the black
and yellow cabs, with the name painted in yellow on the side. Thunder Cabs. He probably
wouldn’t pick me up, but it couldn’t hurt to try. I waved. He pulled over and rolled
down the window.

“Can you take me to the Residence Inn? In Bricktown? I’ll pay extra.”

He looked at me quizzically. “Did you call for a cab about 20 minutes ago? To go to
that hotel?”

“Yeah, that was me. Sorry, I had an emergency phone call. Can you still do it? 20
bucks for you on top.” I suddenly wanted nothing more than to get back and face whatever
was going to happen.

“Yeah, no problem. Get in—I’ll tell the dispatcher I found you.”

chapter sixteen

Houston

The flight down to Houston had been uneventful, even if it was a little weird looking
down and seeing the ground go past so quickly. The spaces that had been overwhelming,
almost suffocating in their endless horizons were now divided into different colored
sections, like some child’s puzzle. Maybe it had been a good idea to get some distance,
from everything. Tristan was still jittery. I didn’t think it was helped by the double
vodka, and two trips to the tiny airplane bathroom. Even if we were flying in first
class, I was a little worried that he was being too obvious. On the last trip back,
AC had stuck out his arm, and stopped him. It was the first time I’d seen them touch
in a couple of days. They’d been so careful. AC put his hand on Tristan’s arm. AC
didn’t say anything, his eyes deep and expressive, focused on him, a slight frown
marring his smooth forehead. Tristan looked back down at him. I watched as he shut
his eyes for a second and gave an imperceptible nod. The whole encounter must have
lasted 10 seconds, if that. AC removed his hand, and Tristan sat back down next to
me, staring into space, his dark hair a contrast against the beige seats, and the
almost opaque protective paper on the head rest. The front of the plane was shaped
into a point up here. If you looked forward, it was like being on a rocket. Headed
into space, but unable to see where you were going.

Houston was hot, and the little crowd of fans at the airport were polite, but eager
to get a photo of Tristan and AC as we made our way out to the waiting car. They both
signed autographs, and posed for a couple of pictures together, their arms around
each other like the world was a party and everything was fun. Both their faces changed
in front of the cameras, like they both knew which angles suited them best, which
expressions gave which impressions. But when it was time to stop, and the airport
security guard stepped forward to separate the fans from their prey, they both returned
to their normal expressions, and it was if a light had been switched off. They needed
it, but it could be a parasitic relationship. The fans fed on their host, and if they
didn’t limit it, there would be nothing left. Sometimes you felt that the fans wouldn’t
mind, that they’d like to see them crumble and die, the desire to take everything
apart, destruction a part of the passion.

The hotel was pleasant. James had flown down with us, and checked us in, while we
waited in the bar. AC ordered for all of us. For someone that outwardly, at any rate,
did not give the same impression of command as Tristan did, AC managed very well when
he wanted to take control of a situation. Maybe it was the sense he gave off that
if it had come to this, it was serious, and he wouldn’t tolerate any arguments. Or
maybe it was that he knew when to push, and when to let it all go. Watching Tristan
look gloomily at his vodka tonic—with extra tonic—was almost funny. But they had another
radio interview to go to before the sound check and a quick record signing at a store
near the venue. AC caught me eyeing Tristan’s pout, and with an amused expression,
he winked at me. “Only one bottle for baby. Even if he throws all his toys out of
the pram.” I laughed.

“Shut up, both of you,” Tristan said miserably. AC and I looked at each other, eyes
big, fake shock written over both our faces. AC mouthed “ooooh” at me. I tried not
to laugh.

* * *

“His name was always Buddy…and she’d sigh like Twig the Wonderkid.” That portion of
the line was running through my head over all the other sounds as I walked up and
down the street outside the radio station where Tristan and AC were. I turned my headphones
up louder to drown out the clank clank clank of the nearby roadworks, the buses going
by, the cars, the people. It wasn’t even that busy, compared to New York, but it felt
like it. There was a guy coming my way in a cowboy hat. I couldn’t help it, I laughed
out loud, and the man in the hat gave me a dirty look. It was hot, and it was dusty,
and beyond the buildings, I knew there was just land, and oil derricks, and cattle
waiting to be turned into cheap frozen burgers, and ancient burial grounds, and dirt.
Land. And the lizard-like waiting and hot rock heat.

It was almost 2:30 p.m. The day winding down, the interview would be over, and the
car would be there to take us back to the venue for the sound check before tonight’s
show. I felt guilty. I was writing of course, but it wasn’t the same as having to
spew out the same old set of answers to an endless parade of interviewers, asking
the obvious, looking for the hopefully shocking angle that would add nothing to the
world’s knowledge, but would keep them in bread and butter for the foreseeable future.
Now that AC was going along, I wondered if some interviewer was going to get more
than he or she had ever wished for.

I’d been politely banned from interviews after Kansas City. It was clear to the record
company that it was only my gender they could rely on, and barely that. Trevor had
congratulated me when I’d told him the news. “One interview, that’s fantastic. Of
course, the bloke handed you the Yoko poison pill, so it wasn’t entirely your own
doing. Still. Well done.” Apparently he’d told Tristan that if he wanted any more
proof that I wasn’t in it for the celebrity, he was out of his mind. And Dave had
mentioned that there was now a Tumblr called “We Are All Yoko.” I’d just laughed when
he told me.

I looked down the street. A tall dark head had just emerged from the building, followed
by a slightly shorter blond head of loose curls. They were quickly surrounded by a
little crowd that I knew would contain two bodyguards, and a small loyal group of
fans who had waited for Tristan and AC to emerge. I came closer. There was the car.
They were standing chatting with the fans, posing for pictures, the girls eyeing Tristan
for the most part, with a couple clinging on to AC adoringly. He looked amused. And
the two more menacing members of the group were keeping a close eye on the proceedings.
I was grateful for them, whatever impulse made this their calling. It worked for all
of us—they banked on their natural ability to inspire fear and obedience, not to mention
their unspoken enjoyment of this power. I banked on the fact that it worked, and kept
Tristan safe. And AC.

There had been a couple of instances where a fan had drifted right over the edge into
fanaticism. It was almost understandable. Tristan’s profile, emerging into the everyday,
standing a head above almost anyone in the street, the long lean line of his thighs
in the tight black trousers, the leather jacket taunting the heat, his half-smile
hinting at a multitude of feelings while coaxing everyone else’s to come out of hiding,
to come into the light from the dark playground of their bedrooms, the internet sites,
their personal blogs, their secret dreams. His hands, actual skin, reaching out for
a pen and the album covers, magazines, CDs, tickets, pieces of paper, fan art, t-shirts,
clothing, skin waiting to become tattoos, hands, arms, phones, cameras, all reaching
out for him, all wanting that piece of the divinity that meant they’d been validated,
that some part of their lives at last was bigger than all the rest.

I approached only at the last minute. A gesture from Tristan was enough to tell the
bodyguard to let me through, which he did, a protective arm around me. I got in to
the car last, and as I sank down to the level of the seats, for some reason I turned
back to look at the little crowd. One of the women was inspecting me, her expression
a mixture of envy and confusion and want. Sheer want. I wanted to tell her, it’s not
as easy as it looks, it’s not as much fun, it’s actually a lot more like real life
than you’d think, there’s jealousy, and fear, and uncertainty. But she’d never believe
it, I thought, not as the bodyguard shut the door with a sharp click, and the car
pulled away slowly. Then Tristan took my hand and smiled at me, and I thought, all
except for this. His mouth, his strong hands, and mostly the look in his eye when
he found me next to him, safe and happy. This didn’t feel like real life at all. But
maybe it felt like love.

* * *

Tristan was fidgeting on the bed, flicking through the channels, propped up by the
three extra full pillows he had asked housekeeping to bring up. Everything was done,
the radio interview, the sound check, the record signing, So we were biding our time,
watching TV and waiting for the main event. I was working on some voice-over sections
for the documentary, the on-again, off-again project, which now, according to Dave,
was on again. It didn’t seem possible, but with the success of the Stone Roses documentary,
hot on the heels of the award winning look at Freddie Mercury, it appeared that the
public was ready for more rock history, even of fairly recent date. I was scribbling
away, vaguely aware of Tristan’s increasingly speed-driven flick through the channels,
when the sound of the remote smashing against the wall made me shriek. I had caught
the tail end of him raising his arm, but it all happened so fast, I couldn’t make
out why he had done it, or what it meant. Now we sat there in silence, staring at
the black scrape on the wall, and the shattered pieces of the plastic casing half
lost in the deep pile carpet.

“Fuck this shit,” Tristan said, strangely out of breath. He looked over at me, then
shut his eyes tight, flinging his head back against the pillows. “I can’t do this.
All this domestic.”

I stared at him, silent.

“No, that’s not what I mean. No. I love you. You know that. But this,” here he swept
his hand through the air, in almost the same gesture he used to obliterate the remote,
“the waiting. The steady meals. Destinations. Fuck.” He sat up, his hands brushing
through his dark tangled hair, “I want to get wasted. Do crazy things. I don’t know
if I know how to be like this. Sensible.”

I breathed out, slowly. “Maybe you’re just bored. Nervous about the awards show. Finding
it weird that someone is making a docu-drama of your messed-up rock and roll life.”
An edge had come into my voice. I thought of that girl looking at me, longingly. I
wondered what she’d do, face to face with the ever-growing monster that on-tour Tristan
was threatening to become.

Tristan looked at me, surprised. Then his face hardened. “Yeah. I am all those things.
But. I want to be the other. I want to write some songs, I want to play, I want to
go crazy. I don’t know how to do it like this. That place seems very far away, when
I’m lying here next to you, ready to order room service, no band mate to put under
the shower, no half-naked girls to be escorted out.”

“Is that what you want? And the drugs?” I paused. “I thought that was already taken
care of.” He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “Women? It wouldn’t take a lot of
work to get back there. A quick phone call, and you could have the local talent here
in a heartbeat. I was under the impression you were already working at full capacity
though.” I got up. “Getting there is easy. It’s getting back that’s tricky. But if
you want me gone,” I started picking up my papers, “It’s easily done. No one said
I had to be on tour with you every day, every night.” I walked over to the minibar,
and pulled out a little bottle of vodka, which seemed to be today’s drink, and a beer,
and went and sat on the sofa. I rifled through the papers, unseeing.

Tristan got up, and started pacing. Then he stopped by the window, to look out at
the 24th floor vantage point. I’d stood there myself when we arrived, watching the
grid disappear into the horizon, half listening to Tristan making his phone calls.
Now I didn’t know if he wanted me to fight him, or let him have his way. Teach him
a lesson, or prove love by acquiescence. What I did know was that he couldn’t feel
that I was holding him back from anything. That would be disaster.

I thought back to the talk Trevor and I had when I’d flown out to see him in London
before the tour had even begun. Now his words seemed oddly prophetic—“don’t let Tristan
feel he has either the upper hand or the lower. In other words, don’t hesitate to
remind him that he has made all these choices.” He had laughed. “Nothing a rock star
loves more than to risk, to threaten to give it all up. Make sure when he wants to
go there, he knows that no one will stop him.” Trevor had gazed at me. “It’s not true,
of course. We’ll stop him. But god help us if we fuel him by restriction.”

I had turned towards Trevor then, really uncertain of what he was telling me. “But
your story? Tristan crying…”

Trevor shood his head. “If we want to keep them, we raise the alarm—but we get out
of the way. Then we pick up the pieces.” He saw the look on my face, and carried on.
“There’s nothing we can do but pray they listen.”

“But you…you practically staged an intervention. How can you let him go, if that’s
what he is going to do?”

“Because Tristan will dance his own dance. Be the music—not the steps.” He had reached
out for my hand. “You’re sensitive—as he is. I trust that you will respect his demons
as you do your own, my dear.”

And here was the moment Trevor had warned me about. I hadn’t really understood what
he had meant. Now I did. Tristan. Always wanting more than he had, feeling that insane
pressure, needing to act, to do, to make something happen, almost anything. Trevor’s
voice echoed through my head—“respect his demons as you do your own…” I took a deep
breath. How many times had I felt trapped? Those long, late night walks home alone,
where the silence and the isolation had been what I wanted, when I didn’t know how
to deal with what people wanted. Their idiocy. The want. It seemed to me it was the
same problem. This didn’t need to escalate. Maybe. I opened the beer and drank half
of it before I answered him. I hoped he couldn’t tell how much I was holding back.

“Maybe you aren’t sure what I want. Or what you want. But you’ll never figure it out
watching reruns of
Ellen
.”