Revenant Rising (69 page)
“I’m also grateful for tonight’s provisions,” Rayce continues. “Splendid tuck, innit? Hardly had to use any brown sauce at all.”
The aging rocker then explains that his current squeeze couldn’t attend because she’s studying for her A-levels. “I’m told that compares to your college entry exams here in the States,” he says, eliciting huge laughter when the age reference is grasped. The audience is eating out of his hand now, primed to laugh at anything he says, especially when he holds forth on rules of the road and the escalating penalty scale for infractions.
“You blokes of the brotherhood know what I’m talkin’ about—as do your wives and girlfriends, I’m afraid. Ear dangles it is for back-of-the bus quickies, bracelet for the inevitable overnighters, necklace for a string of overnighters, multi-carat dinner ring if the tabloids are onto the mischief. But if you’re luggin’ an orb and scepter home the end of a tour you might wanna be in close touch with your solicitor.”
In the prolonged laughing that follows, Colin returns to his seat and whispers in her ear that there is no high school–age girlfriend at home, but plenty of precedent for the orb and scepter-level payout.
Rayce carries on this way for another quarter-hour. With each additional line of patter and string of quips, Laurel becomes more convinced that Rayce is compensating—heavily compensating. But why should this matter? While she does consider herself to be his friend, she’s way too new a friend to be having such worrisome thoughts.
His transition from frivolous to serious comes fast and doesn’t last long. He speaks forthrightly of squandered potential, of second chances and the ability to recognize and act on both. An uneducated guess says half the people in the room could identify with these sentiments to some extent. The empathetic expressions on a few nearby faces seem to support that estimate.
The guest of honor reverts to clown and executes a series of exaggerated postures even Laurel can recognize as homage to the originator of his species. Another standing ovation precedes David’s return to the podium with a reminder about tomorrow night’s concert—as if anyone could forget after tonight’s lead-in.
There’s no general rush to leave, although crowd buzz suggests several more parties are underway at various locations around town. One segment of the crowd shows no intention of leaving anytime soon; a regular procession of petitioners closes in on Colin as though the ending of formalities signaled the opening of a marketplace. Laurel looks for Nate to run interference while Colin attempts to fend off a band of seekers promoting themselves as publicists, publishers, agents, stylists, and merchandisers, just to name a few. Unable to spot Nate anywhere, Laurel is about to step in herself when she sees David approaching.
“Lovely, great job, my dear,” David says to her in a soft aside before directing at Colin. “A word, please, if these fine folks will give us some privacy.” With little more than a lifted eyebrow David disperses the throng of mendicants and resumes speaking to Colin as though she’s not there.
“The shelter you asked for when we spoke earlier—I can guarantee it, but you’ll have to take the meeting yet tonight. I’m sure Laurel won’t mind. She let on earlier that she’s not really your date tonight, so let’s say your hotel in half an hour?”
“Yeh, if that’s the only way,” Colin says as though he too has forgotten she’s there.
If the bitches overheard in the bathroom are still present and observant, they’ve seen her go from outraged to crestfallen in a matter of seconds. But that’s over with; that’s all they’re going to see—that’s all anyone’s going to see.
“That works out just fine, Colin. If I may have the check for my coat, please, I’ll leave the way I arrived . . . by cab.”
The numbness that got her this far wears off upon entering her hotel room. Before removing her coat, Laurel calls room service for something to encourage another form of numbness and leaves instructions with the front desk to hold all calls. Shed of the coat, she’s embarrassed—no, mortified—by her unintentional resemblance to a famous painting. When room service arrives with vodka, ice, and setups, she capes the coat around her before answering the door.
She fixes a drink, turns on the music channel, and sits down on one of the beds with the drinks tray and the coat within reach. Through an approaching haze, she recognizes several of the video performers as having attended the fete for Rayce. For one brief interval Rayce himself fills the TV screen, putting to music the same themes touched on earlier—lost chances, missed opportunities, unfulfilled desires.
A half hour and a second drink have gone by before Amanda comes in, bringing with her enough afterglow to fill two rooms, along with the potential for the gab fest Laurel yearned for a week ago and rejected then for the same reason she should reject it now. Even though she and Amanda now move in the same social circles, Amanda is still a coworker; they’d still have to face each other in the cold light of a morning after.
“Don’t get mad if I say I’m sorry to find you here,” Amanda says.
“Don’t be surprised if I say I’m sorry you found me here.” Laurel takes the first tentative step toward the lay confessional.
“Wow! No kidding? I mean, were you like . . . finally . . . What
happened
there anyway? Right after you trailed the publicists into the ladies’ room during dinner I kinda lost track and then Nate and I were sent into exile and the next thing I knew you and Colin were going in different directions—him with David and the record exec and you with . . . nobody. Did you
really
have to take a cab back here? You could have ridden with us, you know. The only lewd suggestion I got from Nate all evening was a job offer.”
“Whoa! Slow down. I think you’d better start over. Before you do, you want some of this?” Laurel waves the vodka bottle at her.
“Do I
ever.
I hardly drank anything at the party for fear I’d say the wrong thing or miss something.” Amanda accepts a drink and plumps down on the other bed, “Okay, where should I start?”
“
What
publicists did I trail into the ladies’ room?”
“The ones that used to work for Colin. They were at the meeting—you know,
that
meeting, the one where they were talking about Colin as though he wasn’t there and you shut ‘em down with your salmonella soup remark and a scolding for trying to objectify him.”
“Oh . . . I see. No wonder they seemed so eager to discredit me.”
“They
did
?” Amanda’s eyes round with amazement. “Are you saying there was a catfight in the john?”
“There could have been.”
While Laurel relates an abbreviated version of the near incident, Amanda runs through a kaleidoscope of expressions and settles on a frown.
“You should have confronted them,” Amanda says. “I would’ve paid money to see that.”
“And I would have lost any possible credibility by vigorous denial of their suppositions.”
“I get it—the ‘lady doth protest too much’ thing.” Amanda makes exaggerated air quotes while clenching her drink between her knees.
“Yes, something like that.” Laurel pauses to ponder in whose camp the disgruntled publicists belong, and the task proves too daunting. Instead, she pours herself another drink and refreshes Amanda’s. “Now, what was it you said about being sent into . . . Did you say exile?”
“That’s my word for it, and it wasn’t like we were literally banished, but Colin did make it pretty clear Nate and I should leave the table and not come back.”
“What the fuck! I
knew
Colin had something on his mind. Did he and Nate argue?”
“Not at the table, and if they argued before the party, Nate didn’t say.”
“Was Nate in on whatever’s happening with David and Sarjit Singh, the record exec . . . Is that where he is now, at this mystery meeting at Colin’s hotel?”
“I don’t think so, but you hafta keep in mind that although Nate’s confided a few things to me, I don’t exactly have an inside track.”
“He’s confided in you? Oh goody! That means he’s not just messing with you. Take my word on this, Amanda, Nate Isaacs is a
keeper
.” Laurel leans across the gap between the beds. “He’s a fine, fine man—finer than David when it comes to faith and allegiance and faith and commitment and . . . and faith and stick-to-itiveness. Never mind all the big bucks and the power, he’s the
real deal
,” she says right in Amanda’s dumbfounded face.
“You’ve gotta be outta your freakin’ mind to even
suggest
I could ever be more than an employee to someone like him,” Amanda sputters.
“No more outta my mind than you’ve gotta be for ever projecting me as more than a passing fancy to a bleedin’ rock star!”
“Bleedin’! You said bleedin’! See, you’re already talkin’ Brit English!”
By way of ignoring Amanda’s smug accusation, Laurel adds ice to their drinks and brushes a stray lock of hair out of her face before continuing in a low conspiratorial tone. “How obvious was it that I left the party alone?”
“Very.”
“Good! That’s the impression I want lingering in everyone’s mind—that I’m alone and intend to stay that way.”
“I’m glad I know you’re half in the bag because that’s not the way thing’s sounded when I got here.”
“What
ever
.” Laurel tops off both their drinks and sinks back on the pillows as Amanda segues into a lengthy roll call of the celebrities she either met or saw that night.
“That’s discounting industry heavies I can’t be expected to recognize,” the eternal fan sums up. “But I was able to identify a couple of supermodels and a minor movie star Nate didn’t know, so I suppose he might wanna take me on as a procuress.” Amanda lets go with a fit of giggles. “
Procuress
—is that a great word or what?”
“Brilliant! Right up there with biographer, actually.”
“Are we drunk yet?”
“I think we passed drunk and we’re on the way back.” “I didn’t know you could go full circle.”
“Neither did I, and if it works, we’ll be sober any minute now.”
Laurel tops off their drinks again; they recklessly clink glasses and contents slosh on the carpeted floor between the beds.
“Hey, we’re trashing a hotel room! We’re with the band!”
Laurel hiccoughs violently and spills the rest of her drink down the front of her wasted dress.
First thing Friday morning, with less than two consecutive hours sleep behind him, Colin resumes trying to reach Laurel. The result is the same as when he initiated the ongoing effort shortly after midnight: She’s not accepting calls and he’s unable to convince the hotel switchboard to overrule her dictate no matter who he says he is or how important his business is.
Leaving yet another message is demeaning. But that’s the whole bloody point, isn’t it—this taking him down several notches after he so fuckwittedly left her to fend for herself last night? He’ll be lucky if refusing his calls is all she makes him suffer.
He places what will have to be the final call of the current batch and on a whim varies his message enough that it might get results. “Laurel, sweetheart . . .
please
let me explain what went on last night and why. C’mon, baby, give me a chance and give yourself a chance. We’re gettin’ down to the wire, love, so let’s not waste the time that’s left. Be my darling girl and ring me back.”
That ought to do it. The liberal use of endearments should piss her off enough she’ll ring back, if only to give him hell for his cheek. That assumes she’s keeping tabs on the messages, however, and it soon becomes apparent she’s not. Either that or she’s too bleedin’ shrewd to fall for his little scheme.
Another fifteen minutes go by. He glares at the bedside phone, willing it to ring—daring it to ring—and if it does now, he won’t be half as contrite as he was a bit ago. As implied in all the messages left for her so far, there’s no time left for catering to her stubbornness. Particularly not on a day like today that sees him booked solid from thirty minutes from now till whatever time Rayce’s gig at the Garden winds down tonight.
