Island in the Sea (15 page)

He opened the box and drew out a string of pearls with an antique clasp.

“Majorcan pearls are unique. They are man-made, but more breathtaking than anything you'll find in the ocean. I saw these at a jeweler in Palma and had to buy them.” He fastened them around Juliet's neck. “I never thought I'd come to Majorca to fall in love, but all I want to do is sit across from you at a café and share platters of oysters and bottles of rosé.”

He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips. He tucked her hair behind her ear and ran his thumb over her mouth.

“Can I take a rain check?” he whispered.

Juliet put the key in the door and smiled.

“I can't think of anything I'd like better.”

*   *   *

Juliet gazed in the mirror at her flushed cheeks and smudged lip-gloss and ivory necklace. She studied the necklace more closely, admiring the luscious pearls and ruby and gold clasp. She took a deep breath and felt strangely unsettled, as if she were perched on top of a Ferris wheel.

She walked to the closet and unzipped her dress, slipped on a cotton robe, and climbed onto the four-poster bed. She unfastened the necklace and placed it in the black velvet jewelry case. She let out her breath and fell asleep.

chapter fourteen

L
IONEL OPENED THE FRIDGE AND
took out a loaf of whole wheat bread. He spread it thickly with marmite and sat at the round kitchen table. He took a large bite and grimaced.

He stirred Ovaltine into a tall glass and glanced at the folder of glossy photos. He had dug them out of the closet to show Juliet his publicity shots. But now he couldn't look at the young man with curly dark hair and smooth cheeks without his stomach turning and the feeling that something was pressing on his chest.

He picked one up and frowned. He looked so arrogant, like a scratch golfer who expected to make every putt. He glanced at his reflection in the fridge and thought he hadn't really changed: his hair was still dark and his stomach was flat and he only had a few lines on his forehead.

But the expectation that his good looks and education would provide him every luxury had fizzled like dud firecrackers on Guy Fawkes Day. He turned the photograph over and wondered if every twenty-something young man with long eyelashes and a knowledge of Descartes expected the world to shower him with riches.

He ate another bite of his sandwich and thought it wasn't riches he missed. He had the Alfa Romeo sports car and Malibu beach house and pied-à-terre in on the Upper West Side. What he missed was the youthful ambition, the need to slip on leather loafers and grab a croissant and go out to make your mark on the world.

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

“I'd ask if you'd like a sandwich but unless you start eating marmite in nursery school, you couldn't swallow a bite,” Lionel said.

He glanced at Juliet's floral dress and strapless sandals and thought she never looked so young and pretty.

“The things we learn to love as children last us the rest of our lives. My mother used to pack marmite on white bread and an apple in my lunch box.” He dusted crumbs from his slacks. “Even when I was at Cambridge I kept a jar of marmite in my room. I'm glad I never had children, I would hate to subject a new generation to soggy white bread and those little packets of raisins.”

“What are these?” Juliet glanced at the photos.

“Gideon insisted we take publicity shots.” Lionel handed one to Juliet. “God, have you ever seen such arrogance? I have the strong desire to smack those perfectly shaven cheeks.”

“Your shirt isn't as tight and your hair doesn't touch your collar but you look the same,” Juliet mused.

“I don't care about the hair, and if I had to walk around with my stomach sucked in, I'd rather be fed by an intravenous tube.” Lionel shuddered. “It's the feeling of being important I miss. When you're twenty-three you're certain everyone you meet: the waitress offering you sunny side eggs, the drycleaner who presses your Turnbull & Asser shirts, the kid you hire to keep your sports car waxed, are put on this earth to please you.

“Then you turn forty and realize they didn't give a shit if you liked your eggs over easy or starch in your collars or lemon scent on your upholstery. They were just doing their job and they'll find some other young punk with too much money to work for.”

“You're still one of the greatest songwriters of the twenty-first century,” Juliet protested.

“Even if I did write another song I've lost that youthful arrogance.” Lionel shrugged. “You have to believe you're the best at what you do or you'd never get out of bed. Do you think Ben Franklin would have run outside in a storm if he thought someone else could discover electricity? Would Madame Curie have carried radium around in her pocket if she trusted her husband to discover radiation? The young labor under the assumption they are the only ones who can achieve what they do.”

He ate another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with Ovaltine. He stretched his long legs in front of him and his eyes clouded over.

“If only I had realized someone else could write pretty verses, I would have hightailed it back to England while I still had the only thing that mattered.”

“What did Gideon do to you?” Juliet asked. “You couldn't return to England if you had a contract. ‘Going to Catalina' was poised to be a success, why would you want to leave?”

“I'm getting to that part of the story,” Lionel grumbled.

“You better get there quickly.” Juliet smoothed her hair. “Gideon doesn't consider patience a virtue. He said I wouldn't have an office to come back to if you don't deliver the songs on time.”

Lionel stretched his long legs in front of him and looked at Juliet. “Gideon still has a lot to learn.”

*   *   *

“Why does Gideon want to see you alone?” Samantha asked.

Lionel stood in front of the closet and glanced around the hotel suite. It was almost 10
A.M
., and room service had delivered poached eggs and sausages and blueberry pancakes. There was a pitcher of maple syrup and pots of orange marmalade.

He gazed at Samantha's ivory silk robe and thought he was glad Gideon hadn't found them an apartment. He enjoyed having
The Observer
delivered with his pineapple juice and his shirts wrapped in tissue paper. Mostly he loved seeing Samantha step out of the marble bathtub, her skin glistening with expensive lotions.

“He wants to discuss the music video.” Lionel smoothed his collar. “Donovan probably wants to show me how to hold the harmonica. Yesterday we did twenty takes; I wanted to shove it down his throat. I feel like a street performer in occupied France; these days no one plays a bloody harmonica.”

“It suits you.” Samantha stood behind him. “You could buy a beret and smoke gaulioses and drink absinthe.”

“You're trying to seduce me.” Lionel turned around and kissed her softly on the mouth. He slipped his hand under her robe and brushed her nipples. “I'll be back soon and we can have club sandwiches and gin and tonics by the pool.”

“I can't.” Samantha shook her head. “I have a noon history class at UCLA.”

“You're taking a class at UCLA?”

Samantha pulled on a pair of capris and a yellow cotton sweater. She wound her hair into a bun and secured it with a ceramic chopstick.

“I'm not going to sit here reading movie magazines while Gideon decides what color lipstick I should wear in the music video,” she said. “If I want to apply to university, I have to keep up with my studies. I'm taking a course on Elizabethan England.”

“That's a bloody waste of time,” Lionel grumbled. “How can a UCLA professor discuss the plague and London's squalid living conditions when everyone in Los Angeles is healthy as a horse and he can see the Pacific Ocean from his classroom?”

*   *   *

“Why did you fire another director?” Lionel asked.

He sat in Gideon's office, nursing a glass of sparkling mineral water. He gazed at the sun streaking through the floor-to-ceiling windows and wished he hadn't left his sunglasses in the car.

“I didn't fire Igor; he quit.” Gideon walked to the sideboard and selected a peach from a pewter fruit bowl.

“How hard is it to direct a music video? It's not bloody
Hamlet,
” Lionel scoffed. “These directors think they're vying for Oscars when they're selling a song. It's one step up from a Volkswagen commercial.”

“The first director, Jeffrey, quit too. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to upset Samantha.” Gideon rubbed the peach on his shirt. “They didn't think she was right for the part.”

“What do you mean?” Lionel asked.

“You and I know she's beautiful, but she belongs at the Royal Opera House swathed in diamonds.” He ate a bite of the peach. “We need someone with bouncing breasts and a golden tan.”

“How do you know if Samantha's breasts bounce?”

“Donovan and I studied the footage.” Gideon fiddled with his Rolex watch. “He had a suggestion.”

“What kind of suggestion?” Lionel raised his eyebrow.

“That we hire an actress to lip-sync on the video,” he replied. “Samantha would record the song in the studio, and she could have final approval on who we choose for the part.”

Lionel glanced at Gideon to see if he was joking. He walked to the sideboard and opened a bottle of vodka. He added it to his sparkling mineral water and drank it in one gulp.

“You want to hire an actress to play Samantha?”

“It's done all the time.” Gideon shrugged. “Do you think all male rock stars have golden manes and washboard abs? Most of the time you put a line of pretty girls in front of them so no one notices their receding hairlines, but sometimes it's best to use a stand-in.”

“Samantha is a stunning blonde with legs up to her shoulders and eyes like amethysts,” Lionel spluttered.

“But she's wrong for the video, we need a girl you'd find behind the counter in a soda shop,” Gideon said slowly. “We can record the album without a video, but these days radio stations are reluctant to take it.”

Lionel gazed out the window at the tall skyscrapers and lush palm trees. He put his glass on the sideboard and suddenly longed for London's narrow alleys and dull gray skies.

“I'm going to sit in a dark bar and drink straight bourbon.” He walked to the door. “All this bloody sunshine and sparkling water make my stomach queasy.”

*   *   *

Lionel sat on a sagging vinyl sofa in Book Soup and flipped through
Don Quixote
. Ever since he discovered the book by Cervantes when he was in third form he took comfort in his mad adventures. He turned the page and rested his head against the cushions. He thought about his conversation with Gideon and his stomach heaved.

He had left Gideon's office and debated going to Spago's for a chopped salad and dry martini. But he didn't want to watch valets in gold uniforms park Bentleys and Aston Martins. He didn't want to listen to music executives talk about
Billboard
charts and wild parties in Laurel Canyon.

He strolled down Sunset Boulevard and entered Book Soup. He gazed at the bookshelves crammed with Penguin classics and felt his shoulders relax. He selected Dickens and D. H. Lawrence and walked to the back of the store.

He pictured Samantha's slender cheekbones and small pink mouth and thought he couldn't possibly say Gideon thought she was wrong for the music video. He would tell her the deal was off and they were going back to England. He would make up an excuse: his great-grandmother in Scotland had mortal influenza and he had to be with her.

He opened
Little Dorrit
and thought maybe it had all been a waste of time and he should go back to university. He pictured the leafy lanes of Cambridge and thought it would be lovely to spend the summer rowing on the Cam. He imagined eating bread-and-butter sandwiches with Samantha and taking her to King's College Chapel.

Then he thought of his room above Penelope's garage and his long shifts at Claridge's. He remembered the hissing space heater and nights stacking Louis Vuitton suitcases. Could he really give it up when he worked so hard?

He glanced at the orange spines and thought what if Nabokov had abandoned
Lolita
and gone back to teaching university? What if Shakespeare decided not to risk the plague and stayed home in Stratford-Upon-Avon? What if Oscar Wilde was too afraid of being outed as a homosexual and became a Parliament member?

He had to make Samantha see that the music video was like the silvery wrapping paper you crumpled and tossed in the garbage. It was the lyrics that got under your skin and made your heart beat faster. It was Samantha's high, clear voice that made you feel like you were on top of a roller coaster.

He looked up and saw the clerk frowning at his pile of books. He gathered
A Tale of Two Cities
and
Lady Chatterley's Lover
and took them to the counter. He handed him a twenty-dollar bill and walked into the sunshine.

*   *   *

“You were gone a long time.” Samantha looked up from her textbook. She wore a red dress and white sandals and her hair was wound into a low chignon. “I've been studying all afternoon; I thought we could get dinner at Cantor's Deli.”

“I brought you a present.” Lionel presented her with a green velvet jewelry case. “I passed Harry Winston's and fell in love with the piece in the window.”

Samantha snapped open the box and drew out a diamond tennis bracelet. She turned it over and admired the platinum clasp.

“I realized I haven't gotten you a proper gift since I gave you peonies from Penelope's garden and home-baked butterscotch biscuits.” Lionel fastened it around her wrist.

“It's gorgeous, but I thought you spent the afternoon with Donovan, practicing your harmonica,” Samantha replied, admiring the sparkling diamonds.