Island in the Sea (13 page)

She walked inside and climbed onto the four-poster bed. She would worry about Henry tomorrow; now she had to figure out how to convince Gabriella to record a tape. She had to make her see that she had the most beautiful voice and she couldn't waste it.

chapter twelve

L
IONEL WARMED A SHOT GLASS
with hot water and filled it with brandy. He inhaled deeply, feeling the heat hit the back of his throat. He placed it on the tile kitchen counter and let out his breath. Heated brandy had always been the cure for his allergies.

He gazed at the shopping bag filled with eggs and ham and goat cheese and thought he already felt better. He'd make an omelet with the ingredients he bought at the market in Palma. He was about to crack an egg into the frying pan when he felt the next sneeze coming. He put the egg in the carton and took out his silk handkerchief.

*   *   *

He had started sneezing on the train to Palma. At first he thought it was the jasmine perfume the woman opposite him wore. He tried to move to another seat but the train was packed with tourists in straw hats and children with runny noses. Finally he turned to the window and covered his face with a copy of Dante's
Inferno
.

He continued sneezing while he waited at the doctor's for his checkup. He glanced at the red vinyl sofa and smudged magazines and thought no place carried more germs than a physician's waiting room.

He listened to the doctor lecture him on his cholesterol and the importance of daily exercise. Then he buttoned his shirt and hurried into the Plaza Maya. He tried on wool blazers at Hugo Boss and bought a pair of silk socks in Céline. He sat at a wrought iron table at Ca'n Toni and ordered eggs Benedict and smoked salmon. But the minute he sprinkled pepper on grilled tomatoes he started sneezing. He finally threw ten euros on the table and strode back to the train station.

*   *   *

He heard a knock at the door and called “Come in.”

“It's my mother's cold remedy,” he explained, clasping the shot glass. Juliet wore a red button-down dress and white sandals. Her hair was smoothed behind her ears and she wore a gold necklace.

“You go to the pharmacist and they recommend four different cough medicines. You end up buying all of them because you don't understand the ingredients. Then you read the labels more closely and realize they all contain the same thing: alcohol.”

“I didn't know you were sick.” Juliet frowned. “You said you went to Palma for your annual checkup.”

“I was perfectly healthy until I got on the train,” he replied. “I probably sat across from some Canadian who just visited the Roman Forum. Those germs have been around for two thousand years, they're hardly going to be vanquished by a dose of Nyquil.”

“Should I come back tomorrow?” Juliet asked.

“I'll be fine as long as I keep a brandy snifter under my nose.” Lionel walked into the living room and gazed at the crystal vase filled with yellow sunflowers. “Sometimes I long for England; it was impossible to have allergies when any pollen was drenched by a summer downpour.

“I was a very healthy child; the only times I visited the matron's office at school was when I gave her a Valentine's card. All the other boys had crushes on the music teacher but I longed for Rose with her Scottish accent and tight-fitting nurse's uniform.

“The first time I had allergies was when we arrived in Los Angeles. We exited the airline terminal and everywhere you looked there were tall palm trees and lush foliage. The driver handed Samantha a bouquet of freesias and I sneezed all the way to the Beverly Hills Hotel.

“But God, California was nirvana; the sun shone and the air was balmy.” Lionel sat on a striped love seat. “We lay on chaise longues at the hotel pool and I thought I landed in a Gidget movie. All the women had blond ponytails and tan cheeks and upturned noses.” He paused and his eyes clouded over. “But Samantha got terrible sunburns and I couldn't stop sneezing and sometimes I would have given anything for a marmite sandwich and a cup of Ovaltine.”

*   *   *

Lionel glanced around the hotel suite at the thick ivory carpet and pink silk drapes and framed Andy Warhols on the walls. He saw the marble sideboard set with poached eggs and Belgian waffles and blueberry pancakes. He inhaled the scent of cinnamon and fresh ground coffee and thought he had never been so happy.

They arrived in Los Angeles two weeks before and drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Lionel strode through the pink-and-white lobby and was positive he saw Tom Hanks, and then Julia Roberts. He clasped his gold hotel key and stopped himself from asking for their autographs.

They spent the first week browsing in Fred Hayman and Ralph Lauren. Lionel bought a pinstriped blazer and polo shirts and a selection of sunglasses. He begged Samantha to buy a Donna Karan dress and Manolo Blahnik sandals. She glanced at the price tags and selected white capris and a pair of Keds instead.

They ate pesto ravioli and rhubarb salad at Spago's and lingered over cheeseburgers and vanilla milkshakes at the Polo Lounge. Lionel squeezed Samantha's hand over the pink tablecloth and couldn't believe they were in Beverly Hills.

But the best part was lounging in the master bedroom with its ivory bedspread and cream satin pillows. He gazed at Samantha asleep under the wooden ceiling fan, and pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

*   *   *

“We don't have to be at Gideon's office until two
P.M.
” He sat against the padded headboard. “Why don't we stay in bed and order room service for lunch.”

“Men in white dinner jackets shouldn't deliver Cobb salads and Bloody Marys in the middle of the day.” Samantha sat at the dressing table. “Normal people grab a sandwich and go back to work.”

“The music business is different.” Lionel picked lint from his silk pajamas. “Music executives go to nightclubs and drinks martinis and listens to new bands. They don't wake up until noon, and the first thing they need is a cure for their hangover.”

“We've been here two weeks and only spent three days in the recording studio.” Samantha wound her hair into a bun. “At this rate it will take months to record an album.”

“Gideon says it's about creating an image,” Lionel replied. “We're going to be a brand and need the right packaging.”

“He was perfectly happy with the way we dressed in London.” She rubbed her lips with pink lip-gloss. “I'm not suddenly going to wear miniskirts and stilettos.”

“I would hate it if you wore miniskirts.” Lionel stood up and walked to the dressing table. “I'd much rather you be completely naked.”

Samantha giggled and he reached down and kissed her neck. He inhaled the scent of her lavender shampoo and ran his hands over her breasts.

Samantha stood up and pulled him to the bed. She tossed magazines and newspapers off the ivory bedspread and reclined against the silk pillows.

Lionel unzipped his slacks and lay beside her. He tugged off her cotton panties and found the sweet spot between her legs. He pushed his fingers in deeper and felt her tense and shift and shudder. Then he lowered himself into her, burying his mouth in her hair.

“I think the music business keeps excellent hours,” he mumbled, when they were both sweaty and spent. “Now, I think we should order T-bone steaks and ice cream sundaes.”

*   *   *

“Here are my two favorite people in Los Angeles.” Gideon stood at his office window. He wore a pastel-colored suit and soft brown loafers.

“God have you ever seen so much sunshine? Every room in my house has a skylight; you could get a suntan while you shave.” He walked to the sideboard and poured three glasses of sparkling mineral water. “Donovan says vitamin D is the cure for everything. If we had this kind of weather in England, the national health plan would go under because we'd all live to a hundred.

“The most important thing is keeping hydrated, drink eight glasses of water a day and you can party all night.” He handed glasses to Lionel and Samantha. “I had four kamikazes at the Troubadour last night and feel like I could hike the Pacific Trail. And you have to learn how to breathe; Donovan says exhaling correctly is like giving birth.”

“I think Donovan should stick to market research, I doubt he has much experience giving birth.” Lionel opened a bottle of Grey Goose. He poured a shot into his sparkling water and drank it in one gulp. “Samantha is concerned we haven't spent enough time in the recording studio.”

“That's what I love about our girl, her British work ethic.” Gideon beamed. “Donovan will be here any minute, he had a noon yoga class.”

There was a knock at the door and Lionel saw a man with short blond hair and tan cheeks. He wore a blue-collared shirt and pressed jeans and loafers without socks.

“I have results from our focus group.” Donovan waved a glossy magazine cover. “We took Samantha and Lionel's photo and pasted it on the cover of
Seventeen
. We circulated it at local high schools to judge their appeal to teenagers.”

“I didn't know teenagers were our audience.” Lionel frowned.

“Teenage girls are the biggest music market,” Donovan replied. “You didn't see thirty-something women ripping off David Cassidy's puka shells. We want them to dream of having Samantha's cheekbones and sleeping with Lionel's picture under their pillow.”

“I'm the songwriter,” Lionel protested. “No one is going to see my face.”

Gideon and Donovan looked at each other and Gideon fiddled with his Rolex watch.

“We decided you're going to be in the background on the music video,” Donovan continued. “White T-shirt, blue jeans, and a navy blazer. And don't cut your hair, teenage girls love dark curly hair.”

“But the song is about a young woman's lost love,” Lionel said.

“You'll hum the chorus, maybe playa harmonica,” Donovan mused. “We had some pushback on Samantha's photo; the girls liked her Lacoste dress but the hair was too severe. This isn't Hyannis Port and she's not a Kennedy.”

“I supposed I could wear it down,” Samantha suggested.

Donovan nodded. “We're thinking a pixie cut with bangs. It would be great if we could make the hair a statement like Jennifer Aniston and you'll need to start working out. Your legs are fabulous but they need to be toned.”

Lionel saw Samantha's eyes flicker the way they did when she was angry.

“We got a membership to Gold's Gym,” he said quickly. “It has more contraptions that a torture chamber. And we're going to start Rollerblading on the Venice boardwalk.”

“We need to work on Samantha's suntan.” Donovan ate a handful of Brazil nuts. “That creamy skin is perfect for a soap commercial, but the song is ‘Going to Catalina.' We need a California tan, perhaps with a few sun-kissed freckles on her nose.”

Samantha put her glass of mineral water on the sideboard and smoothed her skirt.

“Is there anything else?”

“The study showed there are too many syllables in your name,” Donovan replied. “Unless you're Madonna we need something shorter, preferably with an ‘i' or a ‘y' at the end.”

*   *   *

Samantha folded cotton sweaters and linen capris into her suitcase. She gathered her lace underwear and bras and stuffed them in her carry-on.

“What are you doing?” Lionel paced around the hotel suite, clutching a brandy snifter. All the way back from Gideon's office, he kept sneezing.

“I'm leaving,” she said. “There's a British Airways flight at nine
P.M
. If I'm lucky, Georgina hasn't hired a replacement nanny and she'll take me back. I can take Abigail to school in the morning.”

“You can't leave.” Lionel sneezed into a silk handkerchief. “We signed a contract.”

“It didn't include changing my name and cutting my hair and reshaping my legs.” Samantha fumed.

“You have better legs than Tina Turner.” Lionel sighed. “I could write a song about your legs.”

“Donovan isn't interested in your lyrics or how I sing them. He wants a Barbie and Ken to stick on the album cover. I knew I shouldn't have come.” She zipped up the suitcase. “I wasted two weeks I could have been studying for my entrance exams.”

Lionel put his shot glass on the glass coffee table and walked to the closet. He selected a navy dress and handed it to Samantha.

“Put this on,” he insisted.

“I never wear a dress on the plane, it gets wrinkled.”

“Put it on and come with me.” He patted his cheeks with aftershave and slipped his handkerchief in his pocket.

*   *   *

“What are we doing here?” Samantha gazed around the Polo Lounge.

It was early evening and the room was filled with men in wool blazers and women in chiffon dresses. Lionel saw bartenders mixing brightly colored cocktails and waiters delivering platters of smoked salmon and tuna tartare.

“I'm not the slightest bit hungry,” she said. “I'll have Yorkshire pudding on the plane.”

Lionel walked to the bar and ordered two gin and tonics. He handed one to Samantha and led her to the white baby grand piano.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I'm going to play and you're going to sing.” He sat on the wood bench.

“We can't do that,” Samantha protested. “They'll throw us out.”

“We don't need designer clothes or mod haircuts or new names,” he said. “All we need are your voice and my lyrics.”

Lionel saw the maître d' stride over to the piano. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers over the keys.

Samantha began to sing and the whole room grew quiet. People sat in leather booths, craning their necks toward the piano. He saw the bartender clutch a martini shaker and the coat check girl hug a mink stole to her chest.

Lionel played the last note and the room burst into applause. Men whistled and women wiped their eyes and reapplied their lipstick.