LIONEL LIT A CIGARETTE WITH a pearl lighter and inhaled slowly. He picked up the magazine and turned the page. He tossed it on the glass coffee table and ground the cigarette into a silver ashtray.
He had slept remarkably well and woke up with new energy. He swam twenty laps in the pool and did sit-ups on the terrace. Then he poured a cup of fresh coffee and carried Gloria’s scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes into the conservatory.
He picked up the copy of Rolling Stone and glanced at it warily. He had stopped reading it years ago, it usually had articles with terms he didn’t understand and an undeserving artist on the cover. But now he couldn’t help turning the page, like someone curious to see his own obituary.
He glanced at articles about Lady Gaga and John Legend. He saw the picture of Gideon and sucked in his breath. Gideon wore a pastel Ralph Lauren blazer and stood in front of an ivory Bentley.
He remembered when he and Samantha insisted they would never own a Bentley; it was like driving around in an overstuffed living room. But now he gazed at the creamy interior and walnut steering wheel and felt a pit in his stomach.
He heard a knock at the door and called: “Come in, I’m in the conservatory.”
“It smells wonderful.” Juliet stood at the door. She wore a turquoise dress and silver sandals.
“Gloria makes very good eggs,” Lionel replied. “I taught her to cook with Tabasco sauce; my mother uses it on everything.
“Gideon is in Rolling Stone,” he continued. “Gideon and Amber and I were on the cover once. The headline said ‘Music’s Golden Triumvirate.’ It should have read ‘Svengali and His Puppets.’
“He must have made a deal with the devil, he keeps getting younger. His salt-and-pepper hair is from Fred Segal and his eyes are done by Dr. Andrew Ordon. I remember the first time he tried Botox, I wondered how anyone could inject himself with pig collagen.” He shuddered. “It’s bad enough eating pork, I wouldn’t want it living under my forehead.
“He always was an excellent dresser, he could walk into Fred Hayman’s on Rodeo Drive and select which Calvin Klein blazer was the must-have piece of the season.” He stopped and glanced at Juliet. “That’s a pretty dress, is it new?”
“It’s Nina Ricci.” Juliet blushed. “I bought it at the hotel gift shop in Marbella.”
“How was the getaway?” Lionel asked. “Did you sit on a chaise longue at La Cabane and watch sailboats glide across the Mediterranean?”
Juliet nodded. “Los Monteros was gorgeous. The gardens were full of birds of paradise and pink flamingos. The suite had a marble fireplace and a basket of mangos and papaya.”
“Did you dance to Ella Fitzgerald in the moonlight?” Lionel mused. “Should I be expecting an announcement in The Times?”
“I got sick during dinner.” Juliet fiddled with her necklace.
“You got sick?”
“I thought I was going to faint, so we went back to the suite.” Juliet paused. “Henry slept in the living room.”
Lionel sprinkled pepper on eggs and took a large bite. He blotted his mouth with a napkin and looked at Juliet.
“People think they can change but they remain as constant as the statistics on their birth announcements. Women try a dozen different hair colors but at the end of the day they’re still a brunette or redhead.” He paused. “I knew you didn’t believe in love.”
“Of course I believe in love, I forgot to have lunch and got too much sun,” Juliet protested. “Henry was a perfect gentleman and put me to bed.”
“If you are in love you’ll get soaked in the rain and ruin the leather seats in your convertible. You’ll scale an iron gate and get bitten by a German shepherd.” He sat on a silk love seat and stretched his long legs in front of him. “And only when it’s too late will you realize you would do it all again.”
* * *
Lionel walked to the marble bar and poured a glass of scotch. He glanced at the platter of stone wheat crackers and soft cheeses and realized he wasn’t hungry. He gazed out the window at the rain falling on the hotel swimming pool and felt a weight press on his shoulders.
* * *
Ever since they agreed he should go on tour, Lionel had felt a chill in the air. Samantha stayed on campus, claiming it was easier to read books in the library. Lionel ate cheeseburgers and steak fries alone and fell asleep watching old Gary Cooper movies. In the morning she was gone before he shaved and showered. He glanced at her porcelain coffee cup and inhaled the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon and thought he had made a terrible mistake.
He remembered when his parents left him on his first day at boarding school. He pictured watching their Range Rover roll down the driveway and being gripped by a terrible panic. He remembered telling the headmaster his Irish setter was having puppies, and he had to go home and be with her.
He tried to think of the reasons he should go on tour, but they evaporated like rain after a thunderstorm. He could always write songs and find artists to sing them. It didn’t matter if he was a footnote in Billboard’s page for 1997 as long as they were together.
* * *
Now he drained his glass and knew he couldn’t go through with it. He would tell Gideon he didn’t care if the second album sunk faster than a torpedo. He couldn’t possibly leave Samantha and he was crazy to think they could be apart.
He poured another glass of scotch and felt his shoulders relax. He had realized his error before it was too late, and everything was going to be all right. He picked up the phone and put it down. He would drive to Gideon’s house in Beverly Hills and tell him in person. Then he would come home and he and Samantha would open a bottle of Möet & Chandon.
He drove down Gideon’s long gravel driveway and buzzed the intercom. He gazed at the tall iron gates and sighed. Since Gideon had a stalker a few months ago, his house was as impenetrable as a medieval fortress. He climbed into an oak tree and grabbed the top of the fence. He tumbled onto the grass and was met by a large German shepherd.
“Hans Solo, it’s me, Lionel.” He rubbed his shins. “I’m the guy who insisted Gideon feed you proper Alpo dog food instead of that spirulina crap Donovan recommended. I told him you’re a dog, not bloody Popeye.” He paused, watching the dog sniff his leg. “You’re upset because you’re wet, I hate this weather too. If I wanted rain, I would have moved to Oregon, though I don’t know if I could live somewhere where they pillage Shakespeare. Othello wasn’t meant to be performed in a redwood forest by a bunch of actors wearing hemp shirts and Birkenstocks.
“If you let me get up, I’ll tell Gideon to bring you inside and get you a towel and a brandy.” Lionel’s teeth chattered. “There’s nothing like a warm fluffy towel right out of the dryer.”
He rang the doorbell and waited for the door to open.
“Inga is probably in the kitchen making strudel.” Lionel glanced at the dog. “I don’t know why Gideon needs a house with more rooms than Versailles.”
He rang the doorbell again and felt the rain fall on his shoulders. His Paul Smith shirt was wet and his Santoni loafers were ruined. Suddenly he turned and saw a car in front of the garage. He looked more closely and saw it was Samantha’s yellow Honda.
He stepped back as if he had been punched in the stomach. Samantha said she was studying and then had a late semantics class. What was she doing at Gideon’s?
He pressed himself against the entry and wondered what to do. He could wait for someone to answer but he already felt feverish. He glanced at Hans Solo’s sharp teeth and worried the dog might blame him for being left outside and take a bite out of his ankle.
He would drive back to the Beverly Hills Hotel and take a hot shower. Samantha must have a simple explanation; she was planning a surprise party for his birthday or hosting a going away dinner at Spago’s. They would laugh and climb into bed. Lionel would drink heated brandy and try to stop shivering.
He gazed up at the stone turrets and slate roof and wanted to leap through the window. But he saw the iron bars and thought it would be as easy to storm the house as to infiltrate a terrorist cell in Iran. He ran down the driveway and climbed over the fence. He put the car into reverse and roared away.
* * *
Lionel sat at the glass dining table in the suite’s living room and cracked a soft-boiled egg. He sprinkled it with salt and took a small bite.
He remembered when he was a child and came down with the flu. His mother promised him ice cream when he got better. When he was finally well enough to sit up and eat a bowl of chocolate ice cream it made his throat burn. He pushed it away and drank a cup of warm milk with honey.
Now he glanced at the table set with rashers and whole wheat toast and pots of strawberry jam, and his throat closed up.
He had come home from Gideon’s and saw the light blinking on the answering machine. He glanced at the familiar red button and his breathing relaxed. Samantha had left a message saying her class was canceled, and she stopped by Gideon’s to pick up Lionel’s new songs. She’d ask if he wanted anything from Safeway or Walmart and she’d be home in a minute.
But when he pressed PLAY he heard Gideon’s voice on the machine.
“It’s perfectly safe to come tonight. There’s a baked chicken and roasted potatoes and a bottle of Rémy Martin. Lionel will never know.”
He played it over and over like Sherlock Holmes deciphering a clue. But no matter how many times he listened to Gideon’s clipped British accent, he said the same thing.
Lionel finally climbed into bed and drew the white cotton sheets over his shoulders. He woke in the middle of the night with a terrible chill and saw Samantha’s side was still empty.
For two days he lay in bed and shivered. He waited for Samantha to appear but no one knocked on the door except the maid service with fresh sheets and fluffy white towels. He called Gideon’s house but there was no answer. He tried his office but his secretary said he was away.
“I need to know where he is.” Lionel gripped the phone. “I have something urgent to tell him.”
“He left instructions that his location was confidential,” Rosemary replied.
“I’m his best friend,” Lionel protested. “I have the spare key to his Aston Martin.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just following instructions,” Rosemary said. “If he calls in, I’ll tell him you are trying to find him.”
Lionel put on his dressing gown and grabbed his keys. He would go to Gideon’s office and insist Rosemary tell him where he was. He would camp out in the lobby like John and Yoko performing a sit-in.
But his eyes blurred and he felt his forehead. He climbed back into bed and poured a glass of water. He swallowed a couple of aspirin and prayed he could get rid of this fever.
* * *
Now he felt well enough to eat a soft-boiled egg. He glanced at Samantha’s pile of textbooks and couldn’t believe she hadn’t come home. He called the police but they said statuesque blondes go missing in Los Angeles all the time. They were usually found ensconced in a movie producer’s Malibu beach house.
He was supposed to leave on the first leg of the tour in the morning. He had called Donovan and said he was recovering from the flu. Donovan replied that unless he was in intensive care he better be in St. Louis or Yesterday Records would sue him for half a million dollars.
He pictured Samantha’s car in Gideon’s driveway and thought about the day John Lennon died. He remembered staring at the television and seeing the bouquets of flowers in front of The Dakota and thinking there must be a mistake. The greatest songwriter in history couldn’t have been killed by a madman wanting to impress Jodie Foster. Just because he didn’t want to believe something, that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. There was no explanation for the message on the answering machine and Samantha and Gideon’s disappearance except that they were having an affair.
He entered the bedroom and pulled his suitcase out of the closet. He folded Ralph Lauren shirts and cashmere sweaters. He picked up his copy of Shelley’s sonnets and put it down. Samantha was reading it for her Romantic lyricism class and might need it.
He walked back into the living room and sat at the table. If he was going to perform for thousands of screaming teenyboppers, he needed his strength. He ate a small bite of toast and marmalade and put it back on his plate. He glanced at the thick sausages and bowl of cut strawberries and wondered if he would ever be hungry again.
* * *
Lionel glanced at Juliet. “You look a little pale. I’ll ask Gloria to make you some scrambled eggs, the Tabasco sauce will put color in your cheeks.”
Juliet shook her head. “No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
Lionel lit a cigarette and blew a thin smoke ring. He walked to the window and gazed at the turquoise swimming pool.
“If I could relive that day I would have driven to Gideon’s office and demanded that Rosemary tell me where he was, I would have waited for Samantha to come home and begged her to tell me the truth.” He paused. “If you don’t love Henry, you have to tell him. It’s like putting your beloved fifteen-year-old Irish setter down. It breaks your heart but it’s the only kind thing to do.”
“Thank you for the advice but we need to talk about your contract.” Juliet stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Gideon called me this morning, he wants to know when you’re going to deliver the new songs.”
Lionel ground the cigarette into a glass ashtray and glanced at the copy of Rolling Stone. He looked at Juliet and his shoulders sagged.
“Tell him he’ll get his new songs when hell bloody freezes over.”