Access Restricted (The Access Series) Read online

  And now he was here in front of me. Trying to impress me.

  I drank some more sake, and he refilled my cup. He turned his upper body towards me, and I pulled my gaze away from the beautiful fabric of his very light pink shirt, the Italian collar open, revealing a strong neck, and back to his eyes. He had a kindly expression on his face, and I could tell he was trying to put me at ease. He took another sip of sake, and smiled again. “This is a great place—their food is just fantastic. I thought you’d like it here better—more suited to your tastes.”

  I wondered what he meant. “It’s very lovely. I’ve heard very good things about it.” Damn, now I’d shown I hadn’t been here before. Well, my life hadn’t taken the same path his had, even if they had started out in similar places. I took another sip. Time to go on the offensive. But he was speaking again.

  “Of course I know about your background, your education, experience. Like me, your entry into writing about music might seem unexpected to some. But I think I understand it.” He looked thoughtful. “The usual paths set out for us don’t always provide a challenge, do they? Yet we still feel compelled to succeed, even while craving experience that throws us in at the deep end.” He refilled our cups, and nodded to the server to bring another flask. He spoke slowly and quietly, as though we were discussing some spiritual quest. I stared at him. Yes, it was true, but did he realize how much of what he was saying applied to my more recent and secret activities? Still, I found myself drawn to what he was saying.

  “Yes, I think that’s accurate.” I tried to find my voice and pull myself away from my other thoughts. “Were you groomed to be in finance? Or the Foreign Service?”

  “Very close. Politics, actually. My older brother managed it; he’s the state senator for Duchess County.” Now it was my turn to look surprised. “Well, the two worlds don’t always go together, although I’ve helped supply some bands to perform at fundraisers.” He looked at me. “The rest of it—the usual rock and roll lifestyle issues—he doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell. Not that I really get involved. But I see and hear a lot, as you might imagine.”

  “That’s why you warned me about Tristan.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Not so much a warning, as perhaps a very strange way of telling you I am looking out for your wellbeing.” He looked at me, settled and calm. “We come from a world of certain standards. One, not everyone shares them. And two, some people are so eager to get away from those standards, break the taboos, find the chaos. ‘Mon innocence me ferait pleurer.’ My innocence would make me cry—it’s…”

  “Rimbaud,” I finished for him.

  He nodded, smiling. “Just so, just so.”

  I felt torn. I liked him. In fact, he was everything I had been brought up to like, in many ways. Intelligence, stability, understanding. Money. Ambition. And was he kind? What were his motives?

  I felt restless before him, impulsive. No. Slowly. Carefully. I pushed down my impulse to demand what he knew, about everything. “Please don’t think I don’t appreciate your efforts on my behalf.” I tried to soften my features. “I do. It’s just that I’m, well, a little confused.” I stopped, and then stopped myself from drinking more before I spoke. “I think we both know James, Tristan’s manager, is not to be trusted. But Tristan?” I tried to think of something that would make me sound indifferent. “He seems…typical. Driven. Tortured. Un peu égoïste.” I grinned. Maybe the French would get him.

  His eyes lit up. “Mais oui, chérie, comme ils les sont tous. Après moi, le déluge. Mais moi aussi, peut-être je suis un peu comme ça?” He winked at me again. Oh, it did sound both better and so much more obvious in French. “Of course, my dear, they are all like that. No one else matters. But maybe I’m a little like that as well?”

  Maybe he was a little like them. Certainly he had an ego. He spoke French beautifully. Of course he did. I could get used to this, expensive meals, expensive clothes, and discussing French poets. Yes. Luckily, at that moment, the first fresh morsels of sushi were placed in front of us, the small grey and white shrimp that the chef had just plucked from the tank behind him and had quickly filleted and placed over the shining white sculptural piece of rice covered with bright green wasabi. We each picked up a piece, and with a glance, bit down at the same time. It was divine, and the strange energy that you could feel on your tongue from eating something practically still alive was oddly erotic. Cheating death somehow. It tasted of brine, the blood of the earth. I closed my eyes for a moment. It felt strangely healing.

  I opened my eyes to find him looking at me, his pupils dark, his face normal in contrast. He said nothing. I looked back at him. Silence was power. I wasn’t going to break the moment, but let him feel what he was feeling. Clearly.

  He returned to himself a moment later, with studied poise. These people never lost control. Or did they? I wondered what it would be like to see him, losing it. Would he resent me? I recalled the quote I had once heard a society girl in London mutter over her champagne, sitting at the next table to me, at Prince Charles’ favorite wine bar, if such a thing could be believed. Certainly it had been filled with the braying long range voices of London’s favored classes. And what had she said? “Sex is a great leveler.”

  I wondered what he would say if I repeated it. I wondered why I was wrestling with the urge to shock him out of his cultivated demeanor.

  His voice was calm and soothing, and I felt guilty for my thoughts. “It’s delicious, isn’t it? Their food is so…I don’t know. Healing.”

  Startled, I exchanged a look with him. “I was just thinking that. How strange.”

  “I told you, I think we have a lot in common. Here, let me pour you some more sake, and tell you about my ideas for the tour.” He looked around, and within moments, our plates were whisked away, and the server was pouring freshly warmed sake into our cups.

  “That sounds good.” I wanted to trust him. I felt like I was going to need an ally in the weeks to come. I was entering potentially dangerous territory. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, Tristan and I not knowing each other. I was beginning to see Tristan’s stance as self-preservation. Now that I had more to lose, it made more sense.

  Our next course had arrived, and over delicate nibbles of sashimi and ginger, I listened as he outlined his plans. He knew that James intended to embarrass Tristan in some way, but he wasn’t sure why. He looked at me quizzically as he said it, but I tried to involve myself in dipping some black cod into the bowl of seasoned miso broth to avoid looking at him. When I was certain my face was calm, I took a bite, and turned towards him again.

  “No, it seems odd.” Offense. “I think he feels protective of him, in some way. And perhaps he feels I might be a danger, although I can’t think why. Perhaps it’s all journalists he doesn’t trust.”

  “Maybe.” He watched the chef for a minute. “I want all interviews to be vetted through me first. Prevention being better than cure, as they say. I think he…” Dave stopped and wiped his mouth with his napkin, delicately. “Perhaps you will uncover his motives. But keep your eyes open. A bit of a detective game for you.”

  I nodded. What did he know? I tried to pretend I wasn’t concerned. We set up the meet with the Australian band with the girl singer. “Flash in the pan, but the latest eye candy for this week.” He stopped and considered something. “No, she’s not important enough, otherwise I’d suggest taking her to the after party for Tristan’s concert. But she doesn’t belong there, however much it might add to your story, watching him and the girls.”

  The girls. God, there was that phrase again. “The girls?” This seemed a neutral ground to begin interrogation on.

  “Oh, yes. You don’t know the rumors then. Or the facts. Well, I won’t go into huge detail, but obviously,” and here he paused again and gave me a pointed look, “his fan base does consist in part of, how shall I put it—excited females. No, I jest. But he does give off quite a, let’s call it a blatantly physical, sexual aura?” He gave a half laug
h. “That’s what makes a good front man. But some people, if you give them the candy box, they’re flattered. They pick. They choose. Others eat the entire thing. And some,” he continued, “think of new ways to use sugar. Seeing as it’s running hot and cold all the time, if you’ll forgive that revolting mixed metaphor.” Now he did laugh.

  I tried to laugh. This time I did drain the small cup. I hoped Dave would see it as a sign of my offended sensibilities. He refilled my cup, and was silent for a moment.

  “I hope I haven’t shocked you. But you are going on the road with them. And James wants you to interview some of the groupies, although that’s not what anyone calls them anymore.”

  I felt sick again. I focused on the elegant crispness of his appearance. That was what I wanted. Safety. Elegance.

  I took a deep breath, and tried to swallow down some of the tofu. It was delicious. It felt like Styrofoam in my mouth. I hoped it wasn’t obvious that I felt like I was chewing pellets. I glanced at him. He looked happy. Smug, even.

  I regained my composure. “Let me ask you—what is the angle the magazine wants on this? Presumably not a hatchet piece.”

  He laughed. “No, no, of course not. But in the same way that all the stories about Led Zeppelin created this aura of mystery and sexual excitement around the band that lasted for years, to this day even, some might say, I think we can take what James hopes for, which is to shock you and threaten Tristan with blackmail, and turn it into a marketing dream, both for us and for Tristan.” He looked excited now. “That circulation increases the minute fantasy and sex are placed into the equation is nothing new. But the curiosity around him, the failed marriage, the rumors—pure sex, drugs and rock and roll. Nothing’s changed.” He glanced at me, and the look on my face. “And we will sell more records for him that way. The music is unique, inspiring, monumental.” He nodded to the server, who cleared away our plates again. “I’m a big fan, always have been. And AC, who’s a family friend, could use the boost, quite frankly. Which is why he will be joining the tour,” he lowered his voice, “unexpectedly, for a few dates. Surprise guest. His music is not as commercial, or as inventive. But it’s solid, and he’s a good person.” He paused, and raised his cup. “So that’s our job. Reminding everyone of the history, while steering them to the present. Teasing them with tales of debauchery, while proving nothing. Making them feel like they are there, and that it could happen to them.”

  “And I’m the right person to do this?” I couldn’t help it. “Why?”

  Dave looked at me. “You’re beautiful and talented and honest. You will do a fantastic job, because you have a gift for detail and atmosphere. And—Tristan wants you. So he’ll be more open.” He watched the chef again. “Now why do you think that might be?”

  I quailed, inwardly. Discreet. Discreet.

  “You don’t know? That’s good. But I’ll give you my take on it. He sees your talent, that’s been proven by the last interview. He wants the approval only an established enterprise, as the magazine is, can bestow. And,” he turned and took my hand in his, leaving me staring at his fingers on mine, “you’re a challenge for him. The unattainable, intellectual woman. What he’s never had, what he can’t have.”

  I followed his hand still joined to mine as he raised it to his lips and our eyes met.

  “Je ne suis pas prisonnier de ma raison.”

  I couldn’t help it. I looked up at him from under my lashes, playfully. “Evidemment.” He was still holding my hand. “What should I say?”

  “Say you will come out with me again when you get back from London. And not talk business.” He suddenly looked tall and imposing, yet the expression on his face was boyish and pleading. God it could be so simple. An elegant, comfortable relationship, the lid closed on the Pandora’s Box of curiosity and risk I’d kicked open. It made so much sense.

  “I’d love to.” I smiled at him, as he kissed my hand again, and placed it carefully back in my lap.

  “I’m delighted,” he answered. And he did look happy. He called the chef over and introduced me and watched as the chef bowed and smiled at both of us, as though something had been settled. The server came over and poured us some green tea, which I drank as Dave pulled out a black card to pay for our dinner. My jacket appeared. We walked out of the restaurant, his hand guiding me lightly on my back, the other diners watching. There was nothing discreet about this; it was going to be a piece of news passed along. I glanced over. There was frank interest on the faces of the women, a strange acknowledgment on the faces of the men, who returned more quickly to what they were doing. The tunnel seemed endless, but at last we were out, leaving behind the echoes of the hostess wishing us well again, out on the streets, the cold dirty air clearing away the haze of the sake.

  He looked at me. “Let’s walk a little bit, get some air. The car will follow us.” And he pulled out his phone, gave instructions, and put his arm around my waist, carefully. “Did you enjoy that?” He was all solicitude.

  “I did, thank you.” Ah this felt good, crossing the avenue, heading east, the car somewhere nearby, this tall elegant man holding me protectively. “It was a lovely evening, I really enjoyed it.”

  “I’m glad. I did as well. I’m glad you said yes.”

  “Are you?” I looked up at him. He was tall and handsome, the light and shadow of the night giving his face depth. There were no passions etched there, no torments, aside from a certain set to the jaw and the brow which made his face seem immobile and solid, somewhat like his presence. It was comforting, rather than exciting. But not boring.

  No, not boring.

  We walked over to Second Avenue, while he told me funny stories about meetings he had had with different musicians, their demands, their quirks. He asked me about my French, and we began a reminiscence of moments we had spent in Paris. It turned out we had both lived there for a time. It was his friend, whose father was the head of Publicis, the largest advertising agency in France, with offices all over the world, who had given him the idea to go into media.

  “We must be there together sometime,” he said, his face serious and still.

  I looked at him, surprised. He shrugged, a very Gallic gesture, and smiled. “You would be fun to go out with in Paris.”

  “It’s a beautiful city.” I tried to think of something light to say. “It’s a place one is never sorry to visit.”

  “Soon,” he said, as though we were discussing something else entirely. “But New York is beautiful as well.”

  I looked around, from the cars racing past, heading downtown, to the broken awnings, the neon lights, the corner market and the white plastic tubs of flowers, the twenty different varieties of people walking past, and up to the silver white lights of the Chrysler Building. “It is,” I sighed. “It really is. Strange and beautiful.”

  His phone buzzed and he answered it. “Yes. Second and Twenty-Third. Yes. Five minutes.” He closed his phone, and placed it carefully back in his inside pocket. “Lily, the car is going to meet up with us. I’ve got an early appointment, and you—well, you’re flying out to London.”

  I sighed. Yes I was. Ready or not.

  He took my sigh for something else. “Lil, I’ve had a wonderful time tonight. Brilliant.” He held me at arms’ length and looked at me closely, then held me to him for a brief moment, and kissed me on the cheek. “Soon,” he whispered, “I don’t like to rush.”

  Then he stepped away, and took my hand again. “If you need anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to call. Even if it’s just to hear a normal voice.” He laughed. “Here’s the car.”

  I protested.

  “No, I’m walking. The driver will take you home. At least then I know you’re safe for part of the journey. And he will personally pick you up tomorrow for the trip to the airport.”

  “You don’t have…” He interrupted me.

  “Yes, I do.” He kissed both cheeks again. “Be good chérie. And good luck.” I got into the car and looked up at him as he shut the
door. He smiled down at me.

  I started to give the driver the address.

  “No, ma’am, I know it already. Just relax. Mr. Fanning told me to take very good care of you. Precious cargo.” And he turned around and gave me a happy, toothy smile. He seemed genuine, but I wondered how big a tip had gone into that smile.

  And as I sank into the leather seats, I wondered, yet again, what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

  I checked my phone, involuntarily. Of course no messages. He was in the air. Away from it all.

  Yes.

  Chapter 3

  The ride to JFK was smooth and problem free, and I thanked Dave inwardly for the chance to relax. I’d spent the day running around like mad. I had the tickets, the schedule, the hotel information, a list of contact numbers, the password for sending updates, the contact at the record company, and a list of times when I’d be interviewing various people. The one I was actually looking forward to was the head of Working Class Records, Trevor Sears, the first person to sign Devised, back when they were just fresh faced kids with a lot of drive and a knack of being in the right place at the right time. He was famous in his own right, a track record and history that made him one of the major players in the game over what was now a long period of time. He had the gift—knowing what was important—and maybe more crucially, trusting in his own judgment. He had been behind Devised and the early breakthrough. They were just another band to him though, however good they were. He’d been responsible for getting some of the most revolutionary and subversive acts out there, and turning them into mainstream success stories. I really wanted to ask him what he had seen in them that made him think of some of the great bands of the past, because that’s why he always said he had signed them. If I could pin him down on a chord progression, or a lyric, or even a vibe, that could be the hook for the rest of the story. I had made notes—I had the entire flight to write things down. I looked out the window. I was thinking too fast. I needed to calm down.