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I AM LATE FOR WORK and scrambling out the door when the phone rings. I debate as to whether I want to pick it up until I see Del’s number on the caller ID. “Hey, Bren, listen, I have to go to New York for work. Keith and Greg are still here, and I have no idea how long they plan on staying.”
“Are you serious? Del, I am so sorry!” I haven’t heard from any of them in a few days. I had just assumed that Keith had found his own way back to his hotel room in Newport and moved on. I am not the only American fan he’s meeting; I think he was supposed to go to Indiana next. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to work. Keith and Greg have largely fended for themselves, anyway. They’re actually pretty good roommates. They clean up, keep to themselves. Keith’s a pretty good cook, too.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re having a good time at summer camp,” I say with a laugh.
“Oh, and Keith called the mothership to let them know he’s okay. Apparently, he’s no longer bleeding in a ditch.” Del roars with laughter.
“That’s good news.” I laugh along with him. “I was worried for a while there. God, how do these rumors get started?” I know exactly how: it all goes back to an overzealous publicist. In this case it could go horribly wrong and make Keith look like an attention whore, or it could be brilliant, and he could practically come back from the dead in the public eye. These are the things we debate in staff meetings just about every day at work—the fine line between just trying to get attention and trying to keep the world interested. Work. Crap, I’m late!
We hang up, and I peel out of the driveway and speed to the highway. The wind whips through my rolled-down windows. I slip my sunglasses onto my face and rest my elbow on the window frame. In record time, I pull into the parking lot. I know I should get inside and get to work. But how great would it be to just not show up to work and go to Del’s, instead? I could sit on the basement stairs and listen to new songs unfold all day long. I could be the first one to ever hear the new songs he’s working on; and then he’d take me aside and ask me what I think.
Offering my opinion on his new song is a very important job, and I’d take it very seriously. I’d sit at Del’s mixing board with my eyes closed and concentrate intently on the music. And then I’d offer some incredibly insightful piece of feedback, without which the song couldn’t ever possibly be a hit single. And then Keith would thank me in the liner notes on the CD. And I’d get interviewed by Rolling Stone magazine. They’d call me the Hit Whisperer. Then other bands would hire me, and I could make a career out of making rock songs into solid gold hits. I could live a life of unbridled creativity and travel the world. I see myself storming into a studio, casting aside my luxuriously-expensive purse, taking command of the room, and everyone in it standing up and taking notice.
It’s so quiet in the car, I can hear my watch ticking while I daydream; with each tick I am another second late. No, I can’t drive to Del’s today. I have a huge pitch meeting to prepare for that Amanda’s letting me take the lead on. I have to report back to my clients with focus group findings on their new test campaign. So much to do. And I love my job, really. But what would it be like to not have to go there and, instead, be the Hit Whisperer? I take a deep breath, pull my bag off the passenger seat and glance at my watch: five minutes late. Not too bad for a Wednesday. My footsteps echo in the stairwell as I walk up the stairs to the second floor, swipe my access card in the security door, and enter my workplace.
Today is the day that I need to prove myself worthy of that promotion. The Smile Airlines product launch that I coordinated right before the dinner with Keith is proving to be amazing. Every flight out of Providence has been full, and the standby lists have been out of control. Everyone in Rhode Island and Southeastern Massachusetts is dying to fly on Smile, and it’s all because of me. If I can get a few more wins like that, then Amanda will have no choice but to promote me. Amanda is normally an ice princess when it comes to work. She takes her business very seriously, and she projects a very cool, “don’t fuck with me” exterior. With her white-blonde hair, freezing blue eyes, and chiseled jaw, her poker face is impermeable. But the Smile Airlines launch broke through that icy exterior. She’s been smiling ear to ear, and the client has been singing our praises in the press, as well. We’re sure to get some more high-profile accounts out of this.
I blow through my emails so I can clear my deck for the rest of the afternoon and begin working on the pitch for Baxter Corporation. They are a Rhode Island-based furniture manufacturer and retailer that wants to go national. They need a few solid product launches in key markets like Chicago and L.A., and Amanda wants to ride on my success with Smile Airlines.
Email is tedious as hell, though. Email leads to procrastination for me. I’d rather research for hours before I answer the fifty emails in my inbox. Before I know it, I am daydreaming at my desk about how exciting it must be to work as Keith’s publicist instead of Baxter’s. Improving the reputation of a rock legend is way more interesting than trying to get the nation to buy furniture that is really an Ikea knock-off. There it is: my first order of business is to convince the world that Baxter is affordable and superior to Ikea. Okay, time to get these emails out of my inbox and get all up in Baxter. I turn off everything else in my head and focus.
“You ready for your practice session?” Amanda asks, popping her head into my cubicle. I will be taking the lead on the Baxter pitch, and she wants to make sure I am perfect before I do. This is my second of three mock pitch sessions. She completely dismantled me in the first one, so I’ve been preparing like I am getting ready to defend a dissertation. I am confident that I will be bullet-proof this time.
I follow her into the conference room, trying to mimic what I call her Viking Ice Princess Walk. Her back is straight, her gaze is straight ahead, and I am convinced that her eyes will bore frozen holes into anything in her path. We walk past the row of low-wall cubes, and I can see my co-workers’ puzzled expressions as two ice princesses walk by.
I close the conference room door behind me and proceed to demonstrate to her how Amanda Dixon PR will propel Baxter into the national spotlight. I whip out sample press releases, media schedules, web site mockups and an event schedule for store openings.
When I am done, I pause, waiting for her feedback. Her poker face is dead straight. Great, does that mean I sucked? Is she trying to figure out how to tell me that I can’t pitch them? Come on! Put me out of my misery.
“Bren, that was...” She pauses. I lean forward in my chair. “...incredible. It was perfect. My only recommendation is to lighten up a bit. You were folding your hands on the table so tightly I thought you’d break your own fingers. Yes, you need to be dialed in to the client’s agenda, but don’t forget to be personable, too. Show a little pizazz with your personality. Smile, for God’s sake.” After she says that, I cannot stop smiling. I fight the urge to skip all the way back to my desk. Vice presidency, here I come!
The adrenaline of nailing my mock pitch courses through me. I am like a caged lion until five, and I take off right at the top of the hour.
“Night, Bren,” Joy says as she’s loading her coffee cup into the dishwasher in the kitchen. “You have been a complete spaz all afternoon,” she jokes. “Get outside and enjoy that sunshine. Go run a marathon, for crying out loud.”
I think I could. In the car, I fight the urge to go to Del’s. I turn on NPR and hope that listening to All Things Considered will keep me from fantasizing about listening to Keith recording all night. When I get home, I spring Vito from captivity; we play outside until the phone rings. A male voice with an Australian accent introduces himself as Erik Murtaugh, Hydra’s manager. His voice doesn’t sound as authoritative as it was on the radio the other night. Instead, it’s a bit humble, and I am suddenly curious to know why.
“Brenda, I’ve got a favor to ask. If it’s too much of an imposition, I understand.” He pauses. “As you know, Keith’s been recording a new album at your friend Del’s house.”
“Yes, a solo album, right?”
“No, it’s a new Hydra album.”
“Wow, that’s fantastic,” I say, gushing.
“Yes, it is. The boys will be flying to Rhode Island to record in Del’s studio next week.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, but then I realize, of course he is. Erik is the band manager: he doesn’t joke about stuff like this. “Del must be thrilled!” Why hadn’t he said anything this morning? I would think he’d have wanted to shout from every rooftop.
“Yes, it’s very good,” Erik acknowledges, but he sounds distracted. “It’s always been Hydra’s policy to record in independent studios all over the world. So I am sure Mr. Riccio is thrilled to be selected this time around.” Is he reading from a press release?
I start to speak, then decide to wait for him to continue. I am beyond excited for Del; what an awesome opportunity for him. And to have Hydra recording so close by! The idea of crashing their recording sessions and hearing all the new songs before anyone else is now closer to a reality. My name in the liner notes is looking a lot more likely right now. Maybe Keith will put some sort of inside joke in there that nobody else reading it will understand. I need to make an effort to develop that inside joke. Erik is still talking; I need to pay attention.
“See, the guys prefer to stay in a house together, in close proximity to the studio. It has also always been their policy not to live where they are working, which is why staying at Del’s would not be suitable, and I understand that his house is far too small to accommodate all of us. How far is it to drive from your house to Del’s studio?”
“It takes about ten minutes. He lives about five miles away—“
“And Keith tells me that your home is large enough to accommodate the boys. How many bedrooms do you have?”
“Um...” I stammer, realizing suddenly where this is going. “Uh—we have four bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms.” I converted one of the bedrooms into an office, because I sometimes work from home when I want to focus on a project.
“Would you be so kind as to open your home to the boys?” he suddenly blurts out. He obviously feels nervous about asking me, a complete stranger, to house the men who he’s been in charge of for decades.
“Um...” I stammer again. “You mean, they’ll stay here?” I look around my house and try to imagine four aging rock stars sitting around my kitchen table. What would they possibly expect out of staying in my house? What kind of accommodations are they accustomed to? They’re probably used to room service coming and going at all hours, leaving wet towels on the floor, concierges to cater to their every whim, and mints on their pillows. I could probably get a box of mints. Hell, I could even splurge for new towels, the big fluffy ones that are the size of blankets.
My mind is spiraling until Erik interrupts my thoughts. “Keith insists on staying at your home,” he says, speaking noticeably faster. “The first song began there when he heard your wind chimes. He feels it is vital to the work to start and finish writing all his lyrics for a new project in the same place. Obviously, we would compensate you for the trouble and hire a housekeeper for the duration. How does fifty thousand American sound to you?” He pauses and then says, with more emphasis, “It is imperative that he resume the work on this album where it began. It’s his process, and we cannot afford any disruption to that process.”
“Um...” I stammer, yet again. “I need to discuss this with my husband first.” It surprises me that Keith is so superstitious about his process.
I take a look around at our house. When Tim bought this place, Portia made sure to help Tim buy a house large enough for a family of children that could fill out a soccer team. Obviously Erik knows that we don’t live in a hellhole; he probably looked it up on Google street view. Fifty grand. Wow. We could redecorate this entire house with that. Never mind what I could fetch on Craigslist for those stupid divans and chaises.
“Talk it over with Tim. They don’t need any disruptions to their work, so you would be obligated to put them up for the duration of recording. But just know that I need an answer by tomorrow, so we can make other arrangements, if need be.”
I click off the call and try to collect my thoughts, but my mind is racing. Wow. I mean, it was weird enough to talk to Keith on the phone and go to dinner with him. Serving him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my kitchen was, in my opinion, on the outer orbit of bizarre. But to have Hydra stay in my house? There is no way this is happening to me.
I look around my house and wonder how Tim and I can possibly accommodate a group of people who’ve grown so successful that they can afford to stay in—and trash—the finest hotels. Erik tried to downplay their expectations, but I am not stupid—I know they’d expect nothing short of perfect. Would the band think my house was a hellhole compared to where they live? It’s going to take more than big fluffy towels and mints. Maybe I should get the fancy chocolate-dipped mints, like the ones Tim’s mom finds at that gourmet chateau place where she buys all her food.
I should probably just call Erik back and say no, we can’t do it. It really is a crazy idea, and we have Tim’s campaign to think about. What if it gets out that Hydra is living here, while he’s trying to make a name for himself politically? Will that help or hurt his campaign? I also have Tim’s anxiety to think about. Tim gets edgy when we have friends stay for more than two or three days. At first, he passive-aggressively switches off the lights as our guests leave the room; then, toward the end of the visit, his jaw is clenched, and he’s tossing wet towels into the hamper moments after our guests are done using them. Honestly, Tim can’t deal with having others in his space for too long. How would he possibly deal with having four rock stars and their entourages around? And for how long? Erik didn’t say. How long does it take to produce an album, anyway? We’re expected to house them for the duration. But what does that mean?
I roam through the house and end up in one of our guest bedrooms. We certainly have enough bedrooms to accommodate the band, if we convert my office back to a bedroom. I sit on the bed and try to imagine how this room would look to Keith, or even to Ben Taylor, Hydra’s lead singer. Is my house even good enough? What will they think of it when they first arrive? It’s thrilling to imagine Keith sleeping here. His head would rest on this pillow, and these sheets would barely cover his naked body, night after night, just across the hall from the bedroom I share with Tim. Again with the teenage groupie fantasy stuff. Why am I imagining Keith sleeping naked? He has those freckles on the edge of his T-shirt, and I wonder if he has them all over his body. I run my hands over the starchy duvet, also courtesy of Portia.
The possibility of the band staying here is pretty exciting. All I can really do is flop onto the bed, press my face into the pillow, and laugh. I’ve pretty much made up my mind: I am not calling Erik back to say no.
Then I spring back onto my feet and into action. My mind starts a fresh to-do list. The house needs to be cleaned from top to bottom, and not the bullshit “hide things when company comes over” kind of clean. I am talking spotless clean. Tim-worthy clean—which is a whole new level of housekeeping. I am sure that, over the years, I have stashed all kinds of random crap in the guest room closets and my office. They all need to be cleaned out to make room for rock star clothing. I try to imagine leather jackets and black T-shirts hanging from the rods. The office bedroom needs a dresser, and I could probably move one of the end tables from the living room into it to function as a night table.
The prospect of finally buying a piece of furniture for this house on my own, without Portia’s input, is delicious. For crying out loud, my name is on the deed, and I feel like I have to ask her permission to buy a piece of furniture! That’s got to stop. I stashed a few storage bins under the guest bed with things like my wedding dress; I need to find a new home for those, as well. Maybe I can get Tim to put those into the attic for me. The ceiling in the office is dingy as hell; it needs to be painted. And I can see the dust marks around the ceiling vent. That’ll take a day or so, once I get all the furniture covered. And at that point, I may as well just do the walls. Hmmm... yellow? I’ve always wanted it to be a bit brighter in here.
Then it hits me as I’m sitting on the day bed in the office bedroom: the first item on the to-do list is to convince Tim. There’s no way that he’ll be as excited as I am, so he needs to see why this is a good idea. I leap back into action when I realize that preparing for our rock ‘n’ roll house guests has to go back even further than I’d initially thought. The number one task is to make Tim’s favorite meal for dinner. I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach.
I grab my keys off the kitchen counter and notice a book of fabric swatches with a Post-it note stuck to the front that says, Timothy, pick from the colors with the paper clips on them. Kisses, Mother. When did this get here? Does she still have a key from when we went to Florida? I thought Tim got it back from her. And is she redecorating our house? Without my input? I thumb through the swatches she’s selected: beige, taupe, and ecru. No, no, and no—as far as I’m concerned. At least she’s gotten off her all-white kick. Everything in this house is too damned white.
No time for this. I gotta get moving. I jump in the car, and soon I’m speeding down Orchard Street, careening around the corner and into the parking lot of the Stop and Shop. I frantically shove my cart down the aisles and blindly sweep items into it, like risotto, scallops, and lemons. I am sprinting down the produce aisle and nearly take out a toddler who is stooping to pick something off the floor. I mumble an apology to his mother over my shoulder as I clamp my fist onto a bag of salad; I don’t even look at it to see whether it’s browned. In record time, I am swiping my card in the checkout line. Then I scurry out to the car and speed all the way home, my tires squealing a little as I whip into our driveway. Tim will be home late; he has a meeting tonight with Aria after the shop closes. I glance at my watch. I have about an hour to work my mojo and make Hydra’s moving in happen.
In between stirring the risotto and pan-searing the scallops, I scrub the kitchen counters, clean up my collection of shoes by the back door (I can tell the ever-growing pile is starting to annoy Tim), and re-load the dishwasher. I set the table, light candles, and fix Tim a plate. I just barely have time to swipe on a fresh coat of mascara and lip gloss and spritz on his favorite perfume before he walks in the door.
“Mmmm... smells good,” he says. He goes upstairs to change, and I crack open a bottle of white wine that he left to chill in the fridge. He comes back downstairs, freshened up, and I hand him a glass of the wine and pop open a beer for myself.
Time to slow things down a bit. I’ve been frantic for the last hour. Now I need to make this evening all about him. I hand him some water crackers and brie to nibble on, while I plate dinner and carry it into the dining room.
“We’re eating in the dining room tonight?” He follows me in from the kitchen. “What’s the occasion?” He kisses me on the cheek before taking his seat at the table. “Mmmm... You smell good, too.” He squeezes a fresh-cut wedge of lemon over his dish, bites into a scallop, and groans with pleasure. “I just might marry you someday,” he says jokingly.
I dig in to my risotto. “How was the meeting with Aria?” I ask. I’ve been trying hard lately to get over my feelings about her. Nobody likes a jealous wife. I was starting to get irritated with myself, too.
“It was good. The campaign planning stuff is all going so fast. I can’t keep up with her half the time. Is this how your clients feel, working with you on your publicity campaigns?”
“Probably,” I say, laughing. “Amanda has two speeds. Fast and hyper-fast.”
“I can see that.” He bites into another scallop and smiles at me. “This is really nice, Bren. Thanks for making such a nice dinner. It really is great to come home to this. It’s perfectly done.”
I smile at him. It’s nice that he noticed that I worked so hard on this dinner. But I don’t think he knows I have an ulterior motive. I watch him enjoying his meal for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to start the conversation. Maybe, I think, if I stare at him long enough, he’ll ask me what’s going on.
But after a minute of staring, he doesn’t say a word. Now I am waiting for the perfect opening, like, “So, then, how was your day?” And then I could say, “Funny you should ask. I received an interesting proposition today...” I clear my throat, and he looks up at me from his salad. He has to know I have an ulterior motive to have gone to all this trouble.
“Is there something you want to say, Bren?”
I am not sure where to begin, so I just start talking. I am doing exactly the opposite of what I did today in my mock pitch at work. Amanda would kill me if I did this in the Baxter pitch. I don’t even know how long I’ve been talking. “...So, I’m not sure how many people on the crew they’ll bring or if it’ll be just the band or what. But I think we could at least fit the band members upstairs in the bedrooms. We have that daybed and the pull-out underneath it. We’ll probably have to squeeze in a twin bed in the other bedroom—it might get kinda crowded with the queen in there. Maybe we could put the queen in the attic and find two twins for cheap on Craigslist.” I feel like I am rambling out of control, and I know I should stop talking because, if I keep yammering on, I am going talk him out of having Hydra stay here.
He’s not saying anything. I stop talking somewhere after the to-do list for the guest bedrooms. I’ve probably just blown it. He raises his eyebrows at me after I am done speaking. Is he relieved that I am not his campaign manager?
He spears a scallop with his fork, and I can tell he’s overwhelmed by what I’ve been saying. Not a good start. “Whoa. Slow down,” he says. “Start from the beginning. What do you mean, they want to stay here?”
He’s right. Slow down. I need to step back and take another approach. I’ll go for methodical this time around.
“Okay, so the band wants to record at Del’s house, which, as you know, isn’t far from here. They want to stay in our house, because Keith started writing the first song on the album here. He wants to write the rest of the songs here, as well, because that’s an important part of his songwriting process. He does it all in one place.” I watch Tim’s face, trying to pick up any clues about what he is thinking. His expression is frozen on a mixture of analytical and skeptical. I need to get him off skeptical. Okay, let’s bring out the pros.
“How long are they going to stay?” he asks. “A weekend? A few days?”
“I have no idea. But they’re going to pay us $50,000 and hire a housekeeper for the duration,” I say, quoting Erik.
“For the duration? And you have no idea how long that duration is,” he repeats.
He makes a good point. And I can see where he’s going. He hates having houseguests for too long. I need to find a way to turn this around, but he interrupts my thoughts.
“Bren, I don’t know about this. Don’t you think this is kind of crazy? We don’t know these people. What if they trash our house? Don’t rock stars mess up hotel rooms all the time?” I can tell that his mind has gone right to the stereotypical ‘80s rock stars getting high and lobbing TVs out of high-rise hotel windows. I can also see his mind going to people being in his space for longer than three days, which, I am guessing, is precisely what is now causing that anxious crease between his eyebrows.
“But think about it. We would be part of helping Hydra create something great. What if this is the best album they’ve ever recorded? The album started here when he heard our wind chimes, and they want to finish it here. It messes up their process when they have to make a change, like where they’re living.”
“They can still record the best album ever if they aren’t in our house, Brenda. I don’t know. And that bit about their process is bullshit. They’re professional musicians who’ve toured the world. There’s no way that changing their living situation will mess them up that badly. This is a bad idea. Think about it. We’re going to have four rock stars and their entourages coming and going at all hours. It sounds like it’ll be a major pain in the ass, if you ask me.” He pauses to chew. “And they’re probably messy. They probably won’t give a shit about cleaning up after themselves. I don’t want to live on MTV Spring Break.”
I wait for a few moments before speaking again. We’ve been together for a long time; I know that when he’s making a big decision, he needs a few minutes to let the information sink in.
“They’ll hire a housekeeper for us. We don’t have to worry about the mess.” I lean over my plate and try to soften my approach. “Tim, think about how awesome it would be to contribute to what could possibly be Hydra’s comeback album. We could help them do that.”
My mind drifts to late-night lyric writing sessions with Keith and going to Del’s studio to critique their latest ideas for a song. I can barely contain my excitement. But I need to. I can’t turn this into an emotional conversation. I can appeal to his more practical side—using the money to make home improvements, which will increase the value of our home. The thought of doing that without Portia’s input is so liberating. Maybe I should just go for the gold and tell him how we can invest that $50,000 and diversify our investment portfolio. He loves that shit.
He meets my gaze. My knee is bouncing under the table. I know he can feel it vibrate under his own feet, which drives him crazy when we’re sitting next to each other, but I can’t stop doing it. “Bren, I don’t know. Is this something you really want to do?”
“Yes, I do. I think it’ll be an amazing experience.” I set down my fork. “I watched Keith pull a song out of thin air when I went with him to Del’s house. It was one of the most incredibly creative things I have ever seen. And now I have the chance to experience that every day. I think this is going to be one of those things that I’ll regret if I don’t do it. We have the opportunity to help one of the greatest rock bands of all-time record an album. And just think of the money they’re going to pay us. I mean, it’s a win-win!”
“This goes against my better judgment. I think this is probably a very bad idea. But if it’s what will make you happy....”
I leap from the table before he even has the chance to finish; my chair falls backward and clatters against the floor. He cringes at the noise—I’ve probably just dinged the finish on Portia’s obnoxiously-expensive dining room chair. Then I jump into his arms. “Really? You’re okay with it?”
“No. But yes,” he says, sighing. “You’re going to owe me. Big time.”
“It’ll be great, you’ll see. I think this will be one of those things we’ll look back on when we’re old and be glad that we did it.” I hug him and thank him, and he responds with a distracted “Mm-hmmm.”
I push a scallop around on my plate, my mind immediately going back to the supporting role I will play in the creation of this album. I look across the table at Tim and catch a brief skeptical look cross his face. I look away. I refuse to allow the thought to enter my mind that he might be right and that inviting rock stars to stay in our home may turn out to be more than we’ve bargained for.