Chapter Twenty-one
“So is this a reality check or what,” Marti said, her white jeans and white T-shirt offset by a pair of pink rubber gloves. The vacuum attachment she was ramming down the back of Pat’s worn sofa hit something and the motor screamed. An upholstery button was attached to the nozzle, a brighter green than the ones still attached to the sofa. It had been down there a long time. Marti removed it. “One hour you’re interviewing a mega-rich rock star, the next emptying twenty-five-year-old kitty litter.”
An exaggeration—the kitty litter was maybe a month old—but Elizabeth didn’t correct her because that would require taking a deeper breath, unwise when she was holding it at arm’s length and stumbling outside to the rubbish bin. She tipped the contents slowly and carefully, then slammed the lid down before the noxious dust could coat the back of her throat. “Ugh.”
Butterball sat on the fence between Pat’s house and hers, fastidiously licking a paw in the elaborate grooming ritual she’d been engaged in since their arrival. “You, madam,” Elizabeth accused darkly, “are all show.” The tabby yawned in her face.
Shaking her head, she returned inside and made a start on cleaning the cupboards under the kitchen sink, malodorous with the sour rags Pat used as dishcloths.
Every day at home provided a reality check, but spring-cleaning cupboards paled in comparison to yesterday’s catch-up with her university colleagues.
“…It must be awful trying to wring meaning from his self-indulgent monologues…”
“…I imagine it’s equivalent to teaching a toddler to use a sippy cup, getting Zander Freedman to string sentences together, let alone reflect in a meaningful way on his life…”
“…Is he even capable of speaking in whole sentences…”
They teased as good friends, in ignorance of a man they judged by media reports and Zander’s own delight in playing to stereotypes. And when she’d tried to set them straight, the dean of her history department soothed, “Hey, we’re just jealous. All of us would have sold out for that kind of money.”
And they asked when she hoped to return to meaningful work. “People like us need intellectual stimulation.”
People like us. In one form or another, Elizabeth had gotten that message all week.
Rational people, practical people, normal people. Realistic people. Her family delighted in their secondhand brush with fame, but saw it as a comic aberration on her part. Her real role was family confidante, reliable sister, slightly odd and needing direction because brainiacs didn’t always know what was good for them. Normal people weren’t meant to cavort with fanciful, farcical creatures like unicorns. Or rock stars. And if she had a slight sense of claustrophobia at being so accessible and taken for granted, she quelled it.
“Ugh.” Elizabeth recoiled when she came across mouse droppings. “Butterball, you fraud,” she muttered, reaching for a dustpan and brush.
For the most part, she liked who she was—in her family, her community, her “real” job—but amiable and clever, helpful and reliable wasn’t her only self.
Oh yes, she missed Zander.
* * *
Shopping bags bouncing against their legs, Stormy jogged down South St. David Street with a laughing Kayla. They were running late—literally—for Kayla’s rendezvous with Jared.
He’d asked her on a lunch date this morning when they were all chasing the kids around the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle and then sent her shopping with Stormy. Seth would watch the kids for an hour while Jared wrapped up a last interview with the French journalist, and until Stormy returned to the hotel.
He’d organized everything and told Kayla to expect romance. She was giddy with excitement. They’d gone shopping at Jenners, the elegant Edinburgh department store where Stormy had encouraged her boss to splash out on a cute dress. “You can’t go on a date wearing mommy clothes.” As they were leaving through the lingerie department she’d caught Kayla looking wistfully at a corset.
And now they were late.
One of Kayla’s trainers bounced out of her shopping bag and she stopped to pick it up, then leaned against a lamppost to catch her breath. “This damn corset is cutting off my air supply.”
“It’s okay,” Stormy said mischievously. “You won’t be wearing it long.”
Kayla laughed.
In the two weeks since her employers’ fight, she’d watched them treading on eggshells. Clearly they loved each other and it was wonderful to see them both trying to reignite the passion.
They reached the end of the street and paused to get bearings. Princes Street Gardens lay opposite, a vast tract of green and summer flower beds, and it wasn’t hard to spot the Scott Tower where Kayla was meeting Jared. As well as being over two hundred feet tall, the Victorian Gothic spire looked like it had fallen off the top of a cathedral.
As they hurried along the footpath looking for a break in the traffic, Stormy spotted Jared standing at the bottom of the tower’s wide steps bidding farewell to Giles and Simone.
“You know what?” Kayla stopped. “I’m in too good a mood to talk to her. Let’s wait until they’re gone.”
The photographer clapped Jared’s shoulder and walked to a nearby taxi rank. Perfect. Stormy would have no trouble getting back to the hotel with the shopping bags.
“Go already,” Kayla muttered, drawing her attention. The Frenchwoman was clearly reluctant to leave, talking to Jared intently.
“What is she saying to him anyway?”
“I can’t help being so fucking pretentious,” Stormy said in a French accent and Kayla snorted. Both women froze as Simone pulled Jared’s head down to hers and kissed him.
One second, two, then Jared loosened Simone’s hold and gently pushed free. Even from here, Stormy could read his lips, “I’m married.”
“Oh, thank God,” she blurted, releasing the breath she’d been holding.
Simone touched Jared’s cheek, gave him a soulful look and then walked toward the cab. Full of male speculation, Jared’s gaze followed.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Stormy insisted.
“That I’m watching my husband wonder what it’s like to fuck another woman?” Kayla looked stricken.
Stormy made a movement toward her and she stepped away. “I know Jared would never cheat on me,” she said firmly and took a deep breath. Then exhaled on a shaky rush. “I just never expected he’d want to,” she cried.
“Kayla!” Across the street, Jared waved.
His wife looked around wildly. “I don’t want to see him.” Dropping her shopping bags, she ran into the nearest department store.
Looking after her, Stormy saw her disappear into the ladies’ room.
Jared arrived, smiling and handsome. “What’s going on, where’s Kayla?”
“What’s going on, dumbass,” Stormy said hotly, “is that she saw you lusting after another woman.”
He stared at her. “That’s bullshit. Now where’s my wife?”
She shoved her shopping bags at him, so she could pick up Kayla’s. “I’ll tell you if you admit you were fantasizing about having sex with that French homewrecker.”
He reddened. “I’ll admit Kayla was right about Simone’s intentions. The rest is neither true nor any of your business. Now where is she?”
Stormy wavered.
“Please,” he said. “She’s upset.”
“And whose fault is that? Come with me.” She marched through the department store to the ladies’ room. “Wait here while I make sure it’s empty.”
Inside, an elderly woman was reapplying her lipstick in front of a mirror. When she noticed Stormy looking around, she jerked her head toward one of the stalls.
“Thank you,” Stormy mouthed. After the woman left, she returned to Jared. “Third stall from the left. I’ll stand guard here.”
A minute later she heard him rap on the stall door. “Honey, come out and let’s talk about this.”
Oh hell, the acoustics meant she could hear every word. Stormy blocked her ears, but it didn’t help.
“You thought about what it would be like having sex with her, Jared.”
“No, I imagined her naked,” he replied. “And only because Simone caught me by surprise. You know what I imagined… Scrawny. C’mon, Kayla, open the door.”
Stormy heard the sound of a lock being turned.
A couple of teenage girls approached, their chatter drowning out the conversation inside. Removing her fingers from her ears, Stormy intercepted them. “Sorry,” she whispered, “a water pipe has burst. Use the bathroom on the next floor.” Assuming it has one.
“Why are you whispering?” asked one.
“I ah…don’t want to disturb the plumber’s concentration. He’s at a critical stage.”
She must have sounded convincing because they tiptoed away.
Stormy took up her post again.
“The world’s opened up for you,” Kayla spoke matter-of-factly. “Of course you’re tempted.”
Jared’s response was wary. “Where are you going with this?”
“We married young, we were each other’s first and only. Maybe we just settled for the best we could get.”
Outside, Stormy put her hand over her mouth. No, no, no.
“That’s bullshit, babe. I love you. I need you. You’re my anchor.”
Yes. Tell her that.
“And that’s exactly how I feel—like an anchor.” Kayla sighed. “Let’s admit it, Jared, my being on tour isn’t working for either of us. I’m taking our kids home.”
“It was one look, Kayla!” He was starting to sound desperate. “I’m still learning how to balance family and band commitments and yes, I’m making mistakes, but bear with me, okay?”
“It’s not about Simone,” she said, so quietly that Stormy had to strain to hear. “Or even you. It’s about me being around people who love me, not people who use me to get to you or tolerate me for your sake—your oh-so-lucky chubby wife. It’s about returning some structure and normalcy into our kids’ lives. I don’t want my kids exposed to excess and adulation, to groupies and exploiters. God knows our daughter already thinks she’s royalty without the encouragement of a private jet, a nanny and a rock-star godfather. So you stay and do your job and I’ll go home and do mine.”
“Don’t ever think you and the kids aren’t my life,” Jared’s voice was husky, coaxing. “I love you, Kayla. Please…don’t go.”
“I love you too, and that’s why I’m going home.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Before we hurt each other more than we can fix. I’m sorry, Jared, but I just can’t do this anymore.”
Stormy closed her eyes. Oh. Hell.
* * *
Zander had no warning.
At a rock concert after dark, what the crowd doesn’t realize is that the singer is all but blind under the glare of stage lights, his vision limited to the seething bodies in the mosh pit, moths dancing around the bright bulb of the stage.
Which was why, when his voice failed to hit the power note on ‘Summer Daze,’ Zander felt isolated in a nightmare.
He raised his arms like a conductor, encouraging the Glaswegian crowd. Fifty thousand voices filled the void, reverberating through the stadium in orgiastic fervor. Using one fist to punch them through the chorus, Zander gestured for water and gulped a couple of sips. Droplets glittered in an arc across the floodlights as he tossed the bottle aside.
Trailing the mike stand behind him, Zander strutted toward Moss and covered the mouthpiece. “Join me in the next chorus.” Then he spun round to render the hip thrust he was infamous for.
The crowd howled their delight.
Temples pounding, sweat streaming down his body, Zander opened his mouth to sing the final verse, not knowing what might come out. He struck the first note, sweet and strong, and climbed through the song like a man clinging to a precipice, each note a handhold that could fail and plummet him into the abyss.
His voice held.
Moss joined in the chorus, climbing with him. Approaching the peak, Zander lost his nerve. Letting the lead guitarist take the song, he strutted down the stage finger. Here, he could see the arena and the sea of people, each reaching out to him. If all else fails…
Planting his legs wide, his stance the epitome of rock ‘n’ roll arrogance, he ripped his shirt off. The crowd loved it. As he tossed the remnants into the audience, Moss found the power note, supported by a crescendo of drums.
Zander took the last line, an echo of the first verse, a sweet, soft good-bye to a lost summer love. He was still holding the final whispered note as the spotlights faded.
Head bowed, he stood in the dark, buffeted by wave after wave of thundering applause.
Adored and absolutely terrified.
* * *
“Awesome concert last night, one of your best.” Robbie tossed newspapers onto the coffee table in Zander’s suite before settling on the couch. “Reviews are fantastic.”
Ignoring the tabloids, Zander looked at his manager’s bulging briefcase. “Did you bring those reports I asked for?”
Robbie presented them with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “Sold-out arenas, no budget blowouts, ticket vendors timely with payments. It’s all good according to the bean counters. By the end of this tour, you’ll be rolling in euros.”
Running his eyes over the figures, Zander made his own calculations, factoring in sums his manager was unaware of—interest on his extended mortgages, the penalty payments if he canceled now. Even lightheaded after a sleepless night, the bottom line was clear.
Forget profit, he needed eight more concerts to break even and safeguard his homes, his investments, everything he’d built up over twenty years. And he wasn’t the only one affected.
In his desperation to tour, he’d bought the minimum insurance because failure wasn’t in his vocabulary. The big guys—promoters, stadiums—were covered. But not the little guys—the truckers, the caterers, local sound tech crews. A whole lot of subcontractors would be screwed if he couldn’t meet his debts.
And Zander remembered how it felt to rely on coupons for groceries, to pray for another mile from an empty gas tank and to wear jackets to bed because you couldn’t afford heating.
“Jesus, Zee.” About to light the cigarette hanging from his mouth, Robbie paused. “You’d think I was a doctor showing you a terminal diagnosis, instead of the best damn news anyone could get.” He lit the cigarette and sucked deeply before blowing a playful smoke ring. “But if you want to make more, there’s still stadium availability for second concerts later this year.”
Zander flung down the report. “I said no. Get off my fucking back.”
His manager’s smile faded to hurt.
“I’m sorry.” He pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples. “I’m tired and cranky.” The band would be arriving for a debrief any minute and he needed allies, not enemies. “Let’s not get greedy. I need to conserve my vocals.”
“Shit yes.” Robbie waved his cigarette magnanimously. “You’re performing for the President of the US of fucking A in a week.” For a Brit, he was awfully proud of throwing that around.
Zander’s charity appearance for war vets had been decided months ago. The national anthem, stripped to its bare essentials—his voice and a mike—before the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces at the Rockefeller Center in New York.
As a tap on the door heralded the arrival of the rest of the band, he shelved his anxiety under next week’s problem. Rage had another concert tonight.
He’d sung this morning, coaxing his voice through its range with no repeat of last night’s failure. But Zander couldn’t kid himself anymore—he was on borrowed time.
As soon as the guys settled on chairs and couches, Zander got right to it. “I’m changing the set list to the way it was in London.”
He passed out copies and watched the frowns appear.
Moss spoke first. “I thought we’d agreed throwing a ballad between the power numbers didn’t work.”
Ty nodded. “It kills the momentum for the finale.”
“I think I’ve got more experience judging pace in stadium shows than you do.” Strung tight with nerves, his curtness sounded dismissive.
Looking at the resultant scowls, Zander knew he had to be smarter than this to avoid dissension in the ranks. Because he could not cope with another fucking thing. “My voice is playing up—nothing serious—and three screamers in a row puts too much strain on it.”
“Is that why you pulled me in on ‘Summer Daze’ last night?” Moss asked.
“Yeah, thanks for helping me out. You did an awesome job,” Zander glanced around the circle, “all of you.” Now he sounded like Kayla talking to her kids. Good job! He gestured to the newspapers Robbie had brought. “We had terrific reviews.”
“I’ve got an alternative.” Absently, Seth rubbed his morning stubble. Zander had never noticed how red it was before. It made him ache for Elizabeth. “Keep the set list as is and use instrumental solos as a bridge to give you a vocal breather.”
“Go on,” Zander invited. Thank God Doc wasn’t here to get embroiled in this mess.
“Moss could do a guitar solo between the second chorus and third verse of ‘Blow Hard.’ I’ve worked up a kick-ass drum solo that could create a break between ‘Speed Up’ and ‘Summer Daze.’ And if you need variety, Jared wrote a power number that he and Moss sing. It would slot in perfectly between any of those songs.”
Surprised, Zander looked at Jared. “You’ve been working on new material?”
The bassist’s dark eyes were wary, almost apologetic. “It’s not to your level—”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Zander tossed him his iPod. “Everybody, go put what you’ve got on this.”
He listened to it later in the gym, grunting through weights. Dimity came in to confirm his appointment with the Italian vocal coach.
“She’s insisting on the same fee even though she doesn’t have to travel.”
Zander finished his sequence of lat pulldowns with a grunt. “Give her whatever she wants.”
His PA hovered as he replaced his ear buds and knowing full well she’d been sent to assess his reaction to the music, he kept his expression neutral. “Tell Robbie and the guys I want them in my suite in forty minutes.”
After she left, Zander rested his forearms on his knees and simply listened. Damn, but he could pick talent. Recalling Elizabeth’s artless description of his bandmates as journeymen, he frowned. He’d dismissed her comment at the time because he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that Rage’s resurrection was all about him—his goals, his glory, his financial security.
Lifting his head, he stared at himself in the gym’s mirrored wall. What about theirs?
They’d entrusted months of their lives and all of their hopes to him. Jared’s marriage was in trouble because of the band. At the very least, he owed them a fighting chance.
“Green light on the instrumental solos,” he said when they’d gathered in his room. “And Jared, let’s throw in one of your original ballads. You sing it. Moss, I’ve got a song I wrote recently that will suit your voice with Seth on harmonies.”
They stared at him.
“What will you do?” Jared spoke first.
“Play tambourine.”
Unsure how to respond, they exchanged looks. Doc would have got the joke. “I’ll play electric acoustic,” he said patiently. He added with an attempt at nonchalance. “And there’s one more change to the set list. I’m dropping ‘Summer Daze’ for the next couple of shows until the vocal coach can tweak my technique.”
“Holy shit, Zee!” His manager found his voice first. “You can’t drop a fan favorite.” Robbie glanced around the band, who nodded agreement. “And yeah, I know you don’t want to hear it,” he added with increasing confidence, “but we should talk to the sound technician and set up syncing.”
The band immediately stopped nodding.
“I don’t lip-sync in live performances ever.” Zander spoke for all of them. His voice was the one pure thing about him and he wouldn’t hide behind auto-tuning or techno crutches. “It’s against my religion.”
“Damn right,” said Moss, relieved.
Seeing he’d lost the others’ support, Robbie focused on Zander. “But ‘Summer Daze’ is Rage’s signature,” he argued, stabbing out his cigarette in a floral display on the coffee table. “It’s like going to Springsteen and not hearing ‘Born to Run.’ No, don’t shake your head, listen. Your problem’s at the top of your range, right? So get the sound mixer to switch for the sticky bits. We’re talking no more than five percent of your performance. And if you think you don’t need it, you signal him.”
“No. That’s a line I won’t cross.”
“How about we keep doing what we did last night?” Moss leaned forward. “Let the crowd take over or signal me and I will. Then you’re not faking anything.”
Even the thought of singing ‘Summer Daze’ was enough to make Zander’s throat close in terror. But he nodded…faking it.