CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I pour a glass of wine and plop back on my bed with the magazines and discs, chewing on these few new tidbits about Lulu. I crack open the CDs to page through the liner notes, scanning for Lulu’s name.
I read every credit: every musician, producer, and sound mixer who worked on the CD, and find nothing.
Until the end.
Cover design: Luke Cowdin. Cover photography: Jessica Naslund. Cover model: Lulu Stirling.
Jackpot.
Lulu wasn’t just Gavin’s muse. She was the cover model for Feast—the naked body covered with sushi.
On a hunch, I rip open Beast and flip to the end of its liner notes. Gotcha. Same designer. Different photographer. Same model: Lulu Stirling.
I take a moment to study the second cover. She’s scowling, angry, as if she were ready to attack the imaginary lion that mauled her. She looks thinner, too; her cheekbones are more pronounced, her eyes sunken.
She looks haunted.
I flip open my laptop and get ready to Google more about Lulu Stirling when a G-chat window pops up.
Gavin: Beryl.
Across ten thousand miles, he calls my name and my heart leaps. How can I let him affect me like this?
Me: I’m here.
Gavin: What are you doing?
I hesitate, unwilling to admit my full-court-press toward stalkerdom.
Me: Looking at magazines.
I push Spin aside guiltily.
Me: Picking out your new furniture.
Gavin: I wanted to talk to you more. I found another Internet connection.
Me: We can chat. What are you doing?
Gavin: I’m going to head west today, toward Lake Victoria. I need to listen to Maasai songs.
Me: Why do you need that?
Gavin: I need new music. I need a new inspiration. I’m stuck.
Me: That sounds familiar. I was stuck too, you know.
Gavin: How?
Me: My life. I was stuck being the manager of a coffee shop. Stuck in my hometown, which compared to New York is small and boring. I was stuck until last week, when my Uncle Dan offered me a job. This job.
Gavin: I got you un-stuck?
Me: Yep. Thanks for that.
Gavin: Beryl, you don’t know how fantastic that is.
Me: I do. I feel more daring and adventurous than I’ve ever been in my whole safe, sane, responsible, boring life.
Gavin: I need to get un-stuck.
Me: ???
Gavin: That’s why I’m here. Why I’ve been traveling. Partly to forget, to get away. Partly to get un-stuck.
Me: Why are you stuck?
Gavin: I lost my muse.
Me: Lulu?
Gavin: Yes.
Me: What happened?
Gavin: Overdose. When Lulu died, I freaked out. I tore up my house, I tore up myself. I went on the world’s most disgusting booze-and-takeout bender. You have no idea.
Me: Actually, I do.
Gavin: Oh. Yeah. Sorry.
Me: Trust me—it gets better. Never all the way, but different.
Gavin: But it might get worse. There was a reporter. The first day I left my apartment after Lulu died, he followed me and pushed a camera in my face and asked me if I was responsible. He accused me. And I was so freaked out that I ran. I got a flight to Madrid, and then hopped to Rome, and then Istanbul, Jerusalem, Cairo, and Nairobi. I just kept going.
Me: You left Jasper. That sucks.
Gavin: I know. I feel terrible about that. I just couldn’t take it. He was a constant reminder of her.
Me: He was Lulu’s?
Gavin: I got him for her. I thought that might bring her back from the edge, give her someone to take care of, someone who loves her unconditionally.
Me: The edge?
Gavin: I admit that I’m no angel. I hit booze. Some pot. But she went deeper. Heavier. She was an addict. She couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. I saw her wasting away, the drugs eating her up. I couldn’t bring her back and I’m afraid I didn’t try hard enough.
Me: Sounds like you loved her.
I feel tears leaking from my eyes as I write that.
Gavin: I did. We were together for a long time. And even when she was using, I needed her. She inspired almost every song on my albums, or helped me work them out somehow. And she never wanted credit for helping me write. So I gave her credit with the album covers themselves. Made her the art that went with my music.
Me: Did you ever try to get her help?
Gavin: Of course I did. But it was always on my terms—I couldn’t let her get far enough away from me in a closed treatment program.
Me: You blame yourself.
Gavin: Yes. I kept her close to help my music, and that kept her close enough to the lifestyle. She decided she wanted drugs and their dealers more than she wanted me.
Me: You can’t let the guilt eat you up, Gavin. You tried to save her. Some people just don’t want to be saved. What happened with the reporter? Did he ever write the story?
Gavin: No. But I keep wishing he’d ask me again. Like, I’d just run into him in Nairobi and he’d ask me if I was responsible for Lulu’s death, and I could finally say yes.
Me: Yes?
Gavin: When treatment didn’t work, I got her the drugs.
Me: You did? What the fuck, Gavin?
I feel my heart racing, panicked. I was almost ready to forgive Gavin for all of his other selfish, slovenly behavior, and all the shit he left me to clean up. But to think he was responsible for Lulu’s death—I’m not sure anyone can be forgiven for that.
Gavin: Don’t you dare judge me. You have no idea what it’s like to watch the person you love killing themselves, little by little, every day.
Me: So it’s suddenly OK to enable them? Hand them a time bomb and walk away? She was an addict!
Gavin: I thought that was the only way to keep her safe—off the street, away from dealers who took advantage of her.
Me: Or maybe it’s just like you said—you needed her to help your music. She needed a hero, and you took advantage of her.
I’m seething as I type. I want an explanation, something that will reconcile his unforgivable actions. But as my eyes flash over our chat, I see that he’s given me the explanation and it’s an ugly truth.
He’s not the hero. He’s the villain. Maybe his self-imposed exile is not too harsh a penalty. Maybe he deserves it.
I wait, my heart begging him to type something to redeem himself. But I get nothing. His green bubble goes gray.