Access Restricted (The Access Series) Page 3

  It had been a bit tricky telling Dave I didn’t need a car at Heathrow. “Friends, Dave, friends, waiting to see me,” was what I said to him. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. What it was—sheer juggling. It struck me how casual I was trying to be about it. Trying. Denial. All those things. After the dinner with him, it seemed easy. I could almost hear my family shouting approval from the roof tops. Rich, connected, sensible. As opposed to what? Rich, connected, outrageous? I felt my heart constrict at the idea of even making the comparison. There was more to it than that, even if knew I couldn’t go there. Those feelings were safely hidden. I’d gone to bed early, trying to be sensible, pleased with my decision to be self-protecting.

  But I’d been woken up by a text in the middle of the night.

  Yes is a good word coming from your sweet mouth. But it’s so small. And lonely. Don’t forget your pick up at Heathrow.

  I sank back down into the pillows. Cute. Bossy. And pick up. What did that mean? I couldn’t think what to text back. Everything I thought of made me seem either desperate or uninterested. Finally I decided.

  Haven’t forgotten. Thanks for the ride.

  The reply came back in a flash.

  Don’t thank me until you’ve ridden.

  That answered everything and nothing. My heart started racing. Oh god. What happened to discreet? “Work first, then games”? I shut my eyes. I’d been working so hard on shutting him out. And the minefield ahead of us, me, whoever, fuck it. I resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. The truth was, I had no idea how I was going to react to him when I saw him. Would I stay under control? Keep it all cool and professional? Or was I just scared of what I wanted? I turned over in the bed and flipped my pillow over, trying to cool my overheated brain.

  When had I become so crazy?

  • • •

  Business class on the plane was good, and the stewards and stewardesses were a lot less stressed and a lot more friendly, than in economy class. I got to have my glass of champagne before take-off—civilized—and I could actually sit cross-legged in the seat, the way you used to be able to do. As the plane made its last turn to point its nose straight down the take-off runway, I felt that odd emotion of pain and excitement. The Earth, New York, everything suddenly seemed much more precious, even as the engines roared into life and the pulse of the sudden acceleration made action an imperative, a sharp want. It was what lay beyond the fear—the thrill of the unknown, the need for speed like in the comic books, the sheer power involved in getting something this massive off the ground. I watched the ground speed by faster and faster, the lights of Jamaica Bay and the Rockaways, flat and like part of the ocean go past, then tilt, as the plane lurched into the sky, jerk with the wheels being pulled in, and disappear as the plane banked to the North to follow the coast up to Canada. I closed my eyes. This part did always frighten me, and I drank down the rest of the champagne to try and dull the feeling. I wished I could be excited about seeing Tristan, but at the moment, it all seemed detail. Interviews to conduct, players to meet, speech to control and use to manipulate. I started to cry. The pressure, fuck, why couldn’t I just push it away? The plane began to ascend, then dropped for a moment, the way they always do. If I knew all this, why did it still get to me? Shit. The fear. I liked people. I was thrilled to meet some of these people. It would be great to get these insights into who and how. It was just that what I said would decide what they told me. And I didn’t always get it right.

  And then there was Tristan. The girls. The rabid fan girls. His own interesting tastes. I stopped a steward and asked for another glass of champagne. He came back, and placed the glass down on my tiny table, and his hand on my arm. “Are you ok? Can I get you anything else?” He looked concerned. I wondered why I felt guilty at the attention.

  “No, not right now, but thank you. Just having a bit of a moment.”

  “It’s a hard place to leave, and a hard place to return to.” He looked serious for a moment. “Let me know if I can get you anything.” His face returned to its professional mask, as he moved away to another paying customer.

  I looked out at the darkness, and tried to spot some stars in the sky, which was my home for the next seven hours. The constellations changed depending on where you were—in London I remembered being surprised to look up and see the Big Dipper—at completely the wrong angle and almost directly in front of my door. You didn’t usually see stars in the Big Smoke, that name for London that stuck, despite coal fires being made illegal—chimneys boarded up—it still didn’t make the thick mix of wet air and pollution clean.

  Seeing the stars directly overhead had made me feel strange. Something so eternal and fixed, yet altered in a significant way. There had been a time when every summer had meant knowing where I could find my handful of constellations, looking at the sky, imagining what lay out there, what lay ahead for me in my future, which would naturally be well cared for and warm and fed. There were the sounds of the summer; the crickets, the mooing of a cow waking up in the middle of the night, a car going by every so often on gravel and dirt roads. And the smells—the fresh green warmth of clean air and summer breezes. And then September would come, and the return to the big bad city, hot and dirty and exciting. And the steward was right. It was hard to leave and hard to come back—no matter where you were. But I always wanted both—the adventure and the caring. The fields and the streets. Well, you managed one of them, anyway, I thought to myself. Don’t complain. Don’t remember.

  I looked at my bag and thought about making some more notes. Going over my list of questions. I put down the glass and massaged my forehead. And don’t think about what you want, besides another glass of this when this one’s done. But there was another voice underneath it all, wet and dark and angry. Tell me what you want, it said. Don’t lie.

  But I pushed it aside, and stared out the window, resolute. They came around with some nibbles and refills of champagne. I took both, but ignored the roll filled with whatever it was filled with. Eating. Meant comfort. And there was none. Nor was there likely to be any for the next few weeks. Years. Ever. I sighed and closed my eyes. Focus on drinking some more, and sleeping. He may be there. In the car. Maybe not.

  And will he play you like an instrument? I felt like I knew the answer to that one. The real question was whether I’d let him. And whether I’d like it.

  The answering voice inside my head came up too quickly. You will.

  I pushed around the food, drank two of the little bottles of wine, and put on my headphones and covered myself with the blanket. Them Crooked Vultures. That would erase thinking. I could fall asleep to any music—the fact that it was loud was a positive in my book. The drums alone would remove the buzzing from my head. I put it on repeat, and pulled the blanket so it was forming a hood over my face. I didn’t want to see, didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel.

  I dropped into a kind of fitful sleep, where pink shirts hung dully in beautifully neat closets, and leather jackets were removed and sent away. I was running around, shouting, but when I woke up, I couldn’t remember what I was saying. I was upset, that was all.

  The lights were being turned on, and the breakfast was being handed out—even in business class, it wasn’t a lot more than a packaged muffin and fake juice. I chose the coffee, as it drowned out the taste of the water more than the tea, and nibbled at a piece of the muffin. I was starting to feel a little bit excited. London. Again. Once, my favorite place in the entire world. Now? Landscape for confusion, I thought. And scribbled the phrase down, along with some fragments of the dream. A few questions for my interviewees.

  I pulled together my makeup bag, and went to the toilet to work on myself. At least up here, there were really no lines. I waited for a moment, then went in. Yup, I looked like I’d been drinking and up all night on a plane. Shit. Oh well. The rock and roll lifestyle. Here it was. I brushed my teeth and cleaned my skin, threw on some foundation and eyeliner. A little better. More rocking than homeless. I fixed u
p my hair, and tried not to feel my heart beating. Would he be there? Was I ready? Did I have a choice? That last thought, funnily enough, calmed me down. I had agreed. Therefore there was no choice, I’d already made it. And I was stepping further into the unknown. As far as Dave and I were concerned, there was nothing. I wasn’t cheating. I wasn’t doing anything that anyone needed to know about.

  I sprayed some Jo Malone, everywhere, and reapplied the lipstick. Yup. Ready for battle. And hopefully too tired to fight. I made my way back to my seat, swaying with the turbulence in the plane, and tried to read a magazine for the next half hour, before the real descent happened.

  Chapter 4

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to London’s Heathrow Airport. Please remain in your seats until we have safely reached the gate and the seat belt sign has been switched off.”

  We bumped along the runways, heading for the gate, and I could feel my heartbeat start to skyrocket. Here. All that. Him. Would he be in the car? I suddenly wished I had taken this more seriously, drank less, stayed focused. I shut my eyes, and heard the engines power down, immediately followed by the metallic click of 300 people unbuckling their seat belts. A part of me wanted to jump out of my seat, grab my bag, and push past everyone and everything just to get to him. Instead I sat there, trying to stretch, watching everyone else drop things and wait in line. Deep breath. There was a song running through my head, but I couldn’t place it. All I could remember was just the beat of the drums, over and over. Shit. Enough. Now. I felt like I’d been pricked with a needle. I needed to know. And I rose up out of my seat, and reached for my bag out of the overhead locker. In a moment, the steward was there, helping me get it down. I looked at him, and nodded my thanks.

  “No problem. Enjoy your stay in London.” His voice was gentle, his eyes full of compassion. I wondered why, and who he was, and what he saw in me that made him look that way.

  “Thank you. I hope I will.” And I turned, knowing that I would never lay eyes on him again, and walked through the spaceship-like hatch to the plane and away, onto the gently uphill carpet of the gateway.

  Long. Very long. The walk to immigration. The wait. The turbaned man examining me and my credentials. His brief question—you’ve lived here before, are you intending to stay this time? My curt answer. The stamp. Passing through the small space between his lectern-like desk and the one next to it. Forward, and left. Everything seeming yellow and beige. Down the stairs. Which carousel was mine? 8. Fine. Walking straight ahead. Carts. Families. Voices. The black rubber of the belt, going around, empty. Boxes coming out first, wrapped in plastic and the colored tape of the airline, bringing color to the monotony of the black circuit. The silver edge. Suitcases dropping down the slide, around. Once, twice. More suitcases. I struggled to remember what color my bag was. Right. Purple. That one. Where was I? It felt like a hundred years ago, and it reminded me of when I had first moved back here. Stepping through time, in and out of memories, of standing exactly here, waiting for my bags. Excitement. Fear. I moved closer to the edge, someone bumped into me. I didn’t even look up. Just staring, watching the bags go around. Breathing. In. Out. Not thinking. No. Not yet.

  Finally, my bag slid down, and I pushed my way through to the edge. People didn’t move, I nudged them, excuse me please, nothing, and pushed harder. Grabbed my bag. Go. Wheeling through customs. Nothing. No snakes. No food. No drugs, even though I felt stoned. I felt the eyes of the officials on me as I walked through the crowd. The air around me felt shimmering and unreal, and old and recycled. It was like being on speed. All there was—my heartbeat, reminding me to breathe.

  I walked through the doors, and was instantly overwhelmed by the noise, and the number of people waiting. And there we were, the arrivals, on show as we walked through the gated off crowd, craning our necks to look for people who were hopefully glad to see us. I headed towards the line of drivers, holding up cards with names. My name, the magazine’s name, his name, they all blurred together. I stopped and ran my fingers through my hair. Breathe. He said he would send a car. It will be here. Or you will get a taxi, calm down. I looked around again. I felt so out of it, like I couldn’t connect with my surroundings. I retraced my last few steps, and began the search again. There. Right there, Lily. Jesus.

  I went up to the driver, who looked at me, and smiled. “Right this way, love.”

  Ah, it still made me smile. Old customs, old habits. I always liked being called love, missed it when people stopped saying it as much. Sexist? Yeah, like being called beautiful is an insult. Oh god. Beautiful. Should I ask the driver? Or be surprised. We weren’t walking to the car park. Oh. That would mean that…someone was in the car.

  We went outside and there was a policeman by a limo, with a tall, dark haired man next to him, chatting amicably. We walked up to them, and I watched the unlikely couple, one short haired and in uniform, one with hair brushing the back of his neck, and in leather, shaking hands, the cop smiling. “Thanks for the passes, mate. Brilliant. Have a good trip over here.” And he nodded to me and walked off.

  I looked at Tristan, and my heart stopped. He smiled, a big happy smile. And then we were hugging. His arms around me. My head on his chest. That liquid feeling of warmth and safety ran through me. He smelled good. He held me more tightly. Then he kissed the top of my head, and let go. He looked down at me, smiling. There was no guile, no worry. He looked amazingly young actually, and fresh, and had a sort of brightness around his eyes, that hadn’t been there before. God he was beautiful. I beamed back at him, blissfully unconscious of everything around me.

  “Come on, babe, let’s get in the car. Otherwise I’ll have to give away more tickets. I told John here that I’d watch the car—didn’t realize how lucky I was to find a fan. Thought they were going to arrest me.” The driver—John—went to open the door, and Tristan waved him off. “I’m good,” he said, and held the door open for me. I quickly scooted in, and he followed, shutting the big door briskly behind him. The driver pulled off, and I didn’t ask where we were going. I didn’t really care.

  He was pulling me close, and I leaned against his shoulder, filled with a sense of wonder at all this. I looked up at him, and before I could say anything, his mouth was on mine, a sweet kiss, as soft and tender as he had been passionate before. I opened my eyes to find his were already open, looking at me. I pulled away so I could see him better. I wanted to see him. I needed to talk.

  “I’m glad to see you.” I smiled at him. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

  I was instantly sorry I’d said it, because his eyes became instantly less glowing, and more suspicious. I tried to say more. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here, or…”

  “Or what I’d want?”

  I nodded. Fuck fuck fuck. Why had I said anything? I wanted sweet Tristan back, happy, soft, smiling.

  “What did you think, I’d meet you with a pair of handcuffs, and a list of demands?” He pulled away and rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Is it the stories you’ve heard about me already? Or just that you think I’m a monster all by yourself?” His eyes were black and he was biting his lip. The expression was menacing and defiant. My brain was warring between finding him incredibly sexy, and wanting to pet and cuddle him, go back to what it was, or could be, two lovers meeting up and being happy.

  I burst out with my thought before I realized what I was doing. “Can’t we find a way to be happy?” He said nothing. I swallowed. Now I was in it. I blustered on. “Yes, I wondered. Yes, I was nervous. Did I expect you to look so happy? No, but it felt good while it lasted.”

  His face twisted into a smirk and I shut my eyes. “So, I’m not a monster?” His voice was teasing and dark.

  I breathed in again. Every moment felt like the edge of a precipice. Somewhere between fear, and annoyance, and jet lag, and delirium, and my own sense of pride, I tried to find something to say that would show I was ready to fight back. Fucking with my moment of happiness. Fuck.

  I stared at him. “No, Trist
an. Not a monster. Despite everything I’ve heard. I’ve been warned off you.”

  He laughed again, that bitter bark. “Have you now? I suppose Dave whispered in your ear while you were having sushi?”

  My face said everything.

  He took my hand. And stroked it, gently. “Just tell me, and I’ll believe you. Did you fuck him? Or did you just want to?”

  “Fucking hell, Tristan. No. Absolutely not. It’s not like that. He’s not…”

  Here he cut me off. “But you are? And you were worried about acting like a whore with me? Interesting.”

  It was a low blow. I felt my face going red and my fists were clenched up. “Oh fuck you, seriously. You’re the one stalking me, and you’re judging me. But you know the worst thing—I don’t think you even care.” I paused, looking at the reaction my words were having. I carried on. I didn’t think he was getting it. “You don’t trust me.”

  “Give me a reason to trust you.”

  “Ha. I know what this is about. While I’m being told stories that imply you fuck groups of women in strange positions like some people buy assortments of chocolate,” I laughed at my own joke, “your manager has been telling you I’m another creepy soul-sucking witch journalist à la Jim Morrison, and I’m going to bring you down. Nice.”

  He looked out the window. Direct hit, I’ve sunk your battleship.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  He was silent, his lips a thin line of distaste. The car was entering London, and the traffic had brought us nearly to a standstill. The Great West Road. Not so great.

  He finally turned to me. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is a bad idea.”

  I felt all the blood rush to my feet. There were black spots in front of my eyes. Shit. I couldn’t handle this. “I didn’t say that!” I grabbed his arms and made him face me. “Why were you so happy to see me this morning then? Why?”