Chapter Twenty-seven
Except for the side rails on a single bed, Zander’s room at Massachusetts General Hospital could have been any five-star hotel. A wall-mounted television screen dominated the room. Sheer drapes provided daytime privacy; blackouts blocked the city lights at night. The bedside table and chairs were vaguely Scandinavian, and aluminum wall sconces spilled light over artwork clearly chosen to complement the color of the drapes. In this instance, an eggshell blue.
Most people spent three days here post-op; Zander had booked five. Not because the hospital was at the leading edge for vocal cord surgery and he was improving his chances. In his bones, Zander already knew his singing voice was shot.
Not even because security was excellent, allowing him to post one bodyguard outside his door, instead of the three-man team necessary whenever he ventured in public these days. Not that he’d received any death threats—yet.
No, he’d chosen five days at Massachusetts General because it centered the vitriol on Boston rather than LA or New Zealand or anywhere else the people he loved, lived. Like a lone wildebeest he’d limped away from the herd and drawn the baying press with him.
Over the past week, since the scandal broke, the media had gleefully and comprehensively eviscerated his reputation.
Sometimes Zander felt like he’d personally disappointed the whole planet, everyone from a longtime Aussie fan who’d posted a clip of himself burning his Rage memorabilia to the bugle player in Oklahoma lobbying for Zander to be stripped of citizenship, and the psychology professor at Leeds University dissecting Zander’s ethics. Come to think of it, he’d made that guy happy—standing room only at his lectures.
Thanks to technology, Zander didn’t have to miss a single shitty thing said about him in any newspaper, fanzine or television show in the English-speaking world. Right now, for example, two days after surgery, he had the blackout curtains drawn against the sunny afternoon and was watching a chat show link forwarded by “A Devastated Fan.”
“He didn’t want to disappoint the charity and let the vets down.” A breezy brunette—Candy—rolled her eyes theatrically. “Oh pleez, give me a break. When has the most selfish man in rock ever done anything that wasn’t in his own interests? He’s another fame ho who wanted publicity at any price. And if his voice was so…” she drew speech marks in the air, “…damaged why didn’t he cancel and call in insurance, instead of delivering mediocre performances to his fans?”
“Now hang on, Candy,” her male co-anchor was trying not to laugh. “Complaints from fans only started flooding in after the story broke…”
Zander winced. He’d been an idiot offering to refund ticket prices. “…All the reviews at the time said he was in brilliant voice.”
“Exactly, Ron. So lip-syncing our national anthem makes no sense at all. And his sob story about having to meet financial targets to pay his people. If he cared so much, why didn’t he buy better insurance? Let’s cross now to someone who knows Zander Freedman better than anybody, former bandmate Travis Calvert. Travis, does this caring, sharing Zander add up to you?”
Zander slammed his laptop closed. He’d disregarded his own advice: Show weakness and they’ll rip your fucking throat out.
Kicking off the covers, he got out of bed and picked up the registered letter delivered that morning, the one he’d tossed across the room before he bellowed his frustration and screwed his recovery.
Even his publisher, Max, was wriggling out of their deal, citing breaches of contract he’d previously been happy to overlook—delays in delivery, the firing of two “authorized” writers and hiring Elizabeth without clearance. PS: Return the five-hundred-thousand-dollar advance.
Crawling back into bed, Zander reopened his laptop and copied the letter into an e-mail to Elizabeth, taking a long time over his covering note.
The good news is, I’ve paid all outstanding money I owe you under our contract, directly into your bank account. Feel free to use any of the material amassed so far in whatever way will recoup the loss of future royalties. The one thing I’m grateful for in all this chaos, is that we never went public. You were right. We had no future. It was an honor and a pleasure having you (and yeah, read some innuendo there) in my life. God bless, Zander.
He hit Send and wiped his eyes dry with his forearm, breathing through his nose because he couldn’t make a sound, not even a whimper for at least four days post-surgery.
Elizabeth had gone along with everything he’d suggested and he was glad. Really. His throat was tightening up, which hurt like holy hell, so Zander lay back on his pillows and took deep, careful breaths. Losing her was more painful than the death of his reputation.
He’d also stopped his mother and brother rushing to look after him by saying he’d convalesce in New Zealand as soon as the doctor cleared him to travel.
Zander had no intention of going. It was hard enough doing the right thing six and a half thousand miles away from Elizabeth. His altruistic muscle was still a ninety-eight-pound weakling, nowhere near strong enough to withstand the temptation of closer proximity.
His bandmates were sticking by him, despite his best efforts to distance himself from them. Publicly, he’d insisted they were young, impressionable and ignorant of his on-tour manipulations and they’d countered with, “Yeah, he’s getting senile and can’t remember how it went down. He was looking out for us and the crew. He’s a great guy.”
Fortunately, the press and public appreciated their loyalty, however misguided. They might still have careers in the music business.
A nurse bustled in with the cheerfulness that seemed mandatory to her profession. “How’s the pain today, Mr. Freedman, on a one-to-ten?”
Existentially? Eleven.
Matching her professional smile, he held up four fingers.
“Aren’t we doing well?”
When she’d left, he picked up his guitar and started improvising. With each chord, he evoked an inexpressible longing, a lingering regret, an aching loneliness. Zander built the sadness and when it verged on unbearable, he layered in uplift, wove in some lyrics that were circling in his head.
Never meant to fall in love
With anyone apart from myself
You’re my salvation
My regulation
My way to be understood
My resurrection
My validation
Threading through the fear with joy…
Zander stopped. It wasn’t a Rage song, not raw enough, tough enough, rough enough. He grabbed a pen and notepad and wrote it anyway.
* * *
Elizabeth had worried she wouldn’t recognize Max from Zander’s party, she’d been so distracted by their impending reunion, but she spotted the publisher as soon as he pushed through the tinkling door of the New York deli.
Impeccably groomed, with a Van Dyke beard and a hairline that receded as neatly as an ebbing tide, his eyes were both friendly and cautious behind large, steel-framed glasses as she waved hello.
Putting down her menu, she slid out of the booth and stood to shake his hand. “Perfect timing,” she said, “you can tell me what a knish is.”
“A dough-covered filling, a little like a pie,” he settled in opposite. “Eastern European. It can be filled with practically anything and is baked, grilled or deep-fried. Potato is traditional.”
“Then I’ll have one of those.” She gave a passing waitress her order. “And for you?”
“I don’t have much time, so coffee. Black, thanks.”
She’d guessed he wanted to keep this short when he’d suggested meeting here instead of his office. Much easier to make an escape. Elizabeth waited until the waitress left and smiled at him. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“I’m not sure what it will achieve,” he said wryly. “As I explained on the phone, the rescinding of our contract with Zander Freedman in no way reflects on the quality of your writing. I’ve already told you I’m interested in hearing historical pitches for our literary program. In relation to Zander’s memoir, you aren’t under contract to us, which was one of many issues that concerned us. Zander ran roughshod over our agreement whenever it suited him.”
And you canceled it when it suited you. Elizabeth wasn’t here to argue. “I understand that, but I’m confused. Doesn’t controversy sell memoirs?”
“Zander polarizes people, he always did. But the lip-syncing debacle has inflated the ranks of his haters. Frankly, we’re not sure enough people will buy the book to recoup our investment.” He paused as the waitress delivered their coffees and Elizabeth’s knish. “But it’s entirely possible that in a year or two when the storm dies down, we’ll revisit the idea. Zander has a talent for resurrection.”
Elizabeth dug a fork into her knish and watched the steam escape the pastry. And that’s why he’d agreed to see her, to keep her sweet in case it did. “A year or two won’t work for me.”
She’d been patient, following Dimity’s advice and her own instincts. She’d been good. Meanwhile, the backlash was getting louder, more vociferous and more entrenched. And the worse things got, the less likely it was that Zander would accept her avowal of love. He was too proud.
And Elizabeth wasn’t willing to wait a year or two for him to redeem his reputation, before declaring herself. She wanted to be there to support him, to help him; she wanted to see what Zander did next. It was time to take matters into her own hands.
“So if you’re not interested in working with him on this project”—she tasted the knish, savoring the new textures and flavors—“how about working on it with me?”
Max blinked behind his glasses. “Excuse me?”
“What if I wrote it as a biography, not a memoir? The rise and fall and predicted rise of Zander Freedman. He’s already given me permission to use any of the material amassed so far. I’m a free agent.”
“It’s a fascinating concept, but we commissioned a populist bestseller, not a literary one.” He added simply, “They generate more money.”
She recalled something Zander had once said. “Because they spin stories of excess, drama and broken dreams?” Learn the rules, he’d said, and you can turn that to your advantage.
“Sex sells.” Max shrugged. “What can I say?” He reached in the pocket of his overcoat and produced a wallet.
“My treat,” she insisted. It was now or never. Do something you can never take back and then I’ll let you preach to me about courage. Elizabeth took a deep breath and put down her fork. “But before you leave, Max, I have one more idea to pitch.”
* * *
He was expecting his speech therapist; that’s the only reason Zander opened the door on his housekeeper’s day off. Security made sure no unauthorized persons made it through the main gates, but he had no desire to see authorized persons either.
He’d become good at stalling—the band, Dimity, his manager. It helped that he couldn’t talk at all for the first week, and only in small amounts through the second. Easier to e-mail or text at this stage, he’d informed everybody. Dimity would have ignored him but she had a cold and was high-risk for someone whose vocal recovery depended on not coughing or sneezing.
He’d been careful to e-mail well-wishers in return, wisecracking about his situation so nobody suspected he’d given up. There would be no comeback, no fight, except against the insurers who were citing “pre-existing condition” to slide out of cancellation payouts. Even recluses needed food and shelter.
Zander knew he was depressed, because for the first time in his life he lacked drive. Rigorous exercise was out in the recovery period anyway, but he could barely drag himself out of bed and spent most of the day lying on the couch in the library, spinning one of his collection of world globes.
Yesterday, Constanza had discovered his uneaten meals in the shrubbery outside the dining room and stood over him, scolding, until he’d eaten enough to satisfy her. She’d done the same this morning. “You eat,” she warned, “or I’ll tell Dimity…everybody…and you’ll have no peace.”
“You’re giving me no peace now,” he rasped. He was allowed to speak quietly for increasing amounts of time each day and had worked up to ten minutes in the morning, ten minutes at night.
His speech therapist had confided yesterday that she hadn’t expected him to be such a model patient. Zander didn’t tell her he simply didn’t care anymore. About anything.
But when he opened the front door and saw Elizabeth, feeling rushed in so painfully it took him several moments to remember he wasn’t allowed to love her anymore.
“Can I come in?”
Her cheerful smile was like sighting a fire after trudging for hours through a wet, cold and miserable night. But warming himself before the flames would only make his return to the wilderness harder.
“Why are you here?”
She raised her brows in surprise. “I’m your biographer, I’m here to chronicle your comeback.”
Zander stared at her. “I e-mailed you. The publisher canceled the book contract.”
“Which has nothing to do with our contract.”
Had she been living under a rock? “Doc, no one will buy it. The whole world hates me.”
She waved his objection aside. “Like that’s never happened before. And it’ll blow over, it always does with celebrity. Besides, everyone loves a redemption story.”
“And who’ll tell it? I can’t talk, except for short periods.” Which reminded him. Zander glanced at his watch. Eight more minutes.
“Making the written word even more important as a means of restoring your reputation,” she said reasonably.
“You don’t understand.” He started to get desperate. “I’ve burned my bridges.”
“So build others. Dig a tunnel. Use a hot air balloon.” She exuded the optimistic persistence of a door-to-door salesman. “If anyone can come back from this, you can.”
Clearly, she’d been misinformed. Zander forced himself to say it. “There’s a sixty-forty chance I may never sing again.”
“Phhh,” she said. “Easy odds for Zander Freedman. But if that happens, you’ll do something else extraordinary.”
Not misinformed. Insane. “I’ve given my whole life to Rage. I don’t know how to be anybody else. Don’t you understand?” Zander concentrated very hard on not raising his voice. “I’m nothing if I can’t sing.”
“You’ve been watching Stormy’s soaps, haven’t you?” she said kindly. “That’s why you’re making such a melodrama out of this.”
Even in the depths of despair, she made him want to laugh.
“The insurers are disputing my claim. I’ll probably lose everything.”
Elizabeth’s expression didn’t change from mild interest. “Down to your last mill, poor baby. You can stay with me in New Zealand if you lose the roof over your head.”
Zander lost all desire to laugh. “Now you decide to give me a second chance, now when I have nothing to offer you?” He checked his watch. “I have another thirty seconds of talking this morning, so listen hard. Even you can’t love the fuckup I’ve become. Go home, Doc. Save yourself.”
He started to close the door and she put her foot in the way. “As heartening as it is to hear your arrogance is still intact, I’m not here to rekindle our romance. Must I remind you again of our contract?”
Zander stared at her helplessly. “I’m done,” he said. “It’s over. I’ve been hit too hard, too many times.” He’d lost faith in his own infallibility.
“Bullshit,” she said. “My instincts on love are lousy, my professional instincts impeccable. I accepted you as a subject, ergo, you are not a quitter. I have hours of interviews, hours of research on you and if there’s a theme, it’s that Zander Freedman prevails. Now let me in to do my work.”
If she’d made this personal, he’d have blocked her. She did not. Elizabeth stood patiently, weekend bag in one hand, laptop in the other and waited. All he saw in her face was a calm certainty that he’d conjure a Plan B, C and D. That he was still a scrapper, a brawler, a survivor.
“I burn in the sun,” she reminded him. “Just saying.”
Emotion seared Zander’s chest in a simultaneous realization that yes, he had to get up again, and feeling so much love for this woman who’d just proved he’d never be remotely good enough for her.
All he could do was help her reach the same conclusion.
He stepped aside.
Even if it meant telling the truth.