Access All Areas (4 page)

I looked down at my hands, so recently covered with his. They had work to do. The Isley Brothers song flashed through my mind. “I’ve got work to do…I’m out here trying to make it.” I suddenly wanted to know more than anything if he had ever heard that song, a million miles away from what they’d just been playing. But it was all music. More important than anything, genre, class, falling on your face in front of your heroes. “Knowing it means something,” I whispered to myself. I walked down the now empty corridor to the stage door, and pushed the metal handle and leaned on the door until it opened. The fresh night air, cool and wet after the rain, washed over me. The dry spot where the limo had been was evidence that any of this had happened. It did all mean something. And I was going to go home, and prove it.

“Hi,” I managed to squeak out. God, my voice. I had effectively managed to cut off the rest of my body. It was probably just as well. I had the feeling that some kind of groaning plea was still lurking just below the surface. I tried again. “How are you doing?” and attempted a rough smile. In my mind, I was busy slamming the gates on my otherworldly experience. I tried to think of something professional, something that would allow me to speak. I cleared my throat.

“Hi.”

“Yes, we did that part. I’m Tristan. And you are?”

Unfailingly polite. I yanked myself off the floor of shame, and met his eyes.

“I’m Lily…Lily Taylor.” I wondered for a moment if I should tell him we’d met before. I wondered if he remembered me. I thought about how many women he must have met, and decided against it. “The Core sent me to interview you. I’m sorry, I’m a bit early. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

His smile grew wider, and for a moment I thought he was going to laugh. “No, you didn’t startle me—I haven’t run off, have I?”

Now my determination not to make a complete fool of myself was wrestling with the fog in my brain.

“I haven’t either, so we’re both lucky.” My tone was more cutting than I had intended, and it had the horrible consequence of chasing away his teasing smile.

He looked at me seriously. “Let’s make a start then. I’ll show you around.”

He guided me through the long corridors, stopping to pop into little offices and introduce me. Everyone seemed very pleasant, but severely uninterested. Another journalist, come to flounder in an interview. I shook hands with his manager, James Max, who I thought looked vaguely optimistic until he said, “You won’t make this one of those hatchet jobs, will you?”

I assured him that I didn’t really believe in writing controversy in order to gain readers. I guessed it was the right moment for The Quote. “What was it Frank Zappa said? ‘Rock journalism is written by people that can’t write, about people who can’t talk, for an audience that can’t read?’ Or something like that.”

They both laughed. Tristan looked at me, quietly reflective. I could only glance at him out of the corner of my eye. The effect he had on me at this proximity was still too new, too overwhelming. His manager spoke first. “Well, doll, I don’t think you’ll last long as a rock journalist. But you’re a joker.”

Then I bristled, and snapped back at him. “Thanks so much. But this isn’t American Idol.” I gave him my best fuck you smile. “Your opinion won’t send me home crying.” It was impossible to let your guard down in these situations. “So, where’s this interview going to happen then?” I spoke more to the room than to either of them.

Tristan’s voice was neutral. “Leave it, Jim.” He stretched out his arm in the direction of the door. “Let’s go get a coffee and you can see my room.”

He turned quickly and began striding down the corridor. I followed him, two steps to every long one of his. He had reached the kitchen and was opening the cupboard, taking down coffee beans. “Fresh coffee all right?”

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” I looked around the room. It was a fairly spacious kitchen, with white linoleum tiles and white doors with chrome fittings. A large silver refrigerator was on the other side of the room, and I watched him cross the room in one motion and retrieve the milk. Each rack of the painfully bright white interior was filled with beer, and champagne and soda cans. No food. He turned to me and saw me looking. “It doesn’t bother me, all the alcohol, if that’s what you were thinking.” He stared at me, his eyes dark with challenge.

I looked back at him. “You’re right. But you’re wrong. I was thinking that actually, I still find it hard to be around a lot of drink.”

“Have you stopped?” Tristan asked.

“Working on it.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Just milk please.” So far the interview was looking like it was going nowhere. If he had already taken a dislike to me, and I was alternately angry and disturbed by his physical presence, it was unlikely we’d get anywhere. I felt there was nothing for it; I had to try and be honest with him.

I waited until he sat down. “I feel like we’ve started off badly, and I’m sorry for that.” I felt my face color. “I’ve been really looking forward to doing this interview—I’m a big fan.” I took a sip of coffee and felt his eyes upon me.

“Well thank you. Isn’t that something you have to say?” He sat back in his chair, hands around the cup, looking vaguely smug.

“I’m not sure I have to say anything. A bit like you perhaps.” I sat up straighter. If there was going to be trouble, then I was ready. “I’m not here to trip you up, but maybe you’d prefer that.”

He laughed. “I’m used to a fight. Maybe you want to get in the ring with me?” He winked.

“Oh just add me to the queue. But I don’t like waiting, so move me up faster, ok?”

“How fast?”

I looked at him. His eyes were sparkling with some kind of infectious glee. Jerk, I thought. Pretty jerk. “As fast as you like, darling.”

“Oh we’re on to darling now. That must mean we are making progress.”

“Aren’t we just? You make a mean cup of coffee. I feel so much more relaxed and welcome.” I raised an eyebrow. “This is great. Listen, why don’t we cut it, and you can tell me what you want to have out in the press, and I’ll try to ask some questions that you’ll deflect. But I warn you—although I’m tempted, I’m not going to label you an arrogant ass in the article, if for no other reason than it’s been done so often.”

He really began laughing then, and the sound of it bubbled up inside me and I couldn’t resist joining in. “You are funny. Come on, let’s do this.” And with that, he swallowed down the rest of his coffee. I found myself strangely fixated on his neck muscles and tried to cover my confusion by drinking down the coffee grounds at the bottom of my mug, which only made me cough.

We stood, and he put his arm around me. “Come on, I want to show you where I work.” I nodded. All my attention was on the warmth and size of his hand around my shoulder, the closeness of his body. I felt my face going a bit red again. Fuck, the man was a tease. I took a deep breath, and tried to relax into his arm. “It’s going to be ok,” he whispered in my ear. The rumbling velvet sound of his voice that close to me was screwing with my mind. I knew he knew it. I tried to breathe.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Sorry, I’m just not used to being touched.” He sprang away. Shit. Wrong answer. I turned to him. “No, it’s fine, it’s good, I’m just...”

“Just what?” He stayed very close to me as we went through a door and up a flight of industrial stairs. The large window, pierced through with chicken wire, let a white glaring light in that showed the hollows under his eyes. He really didn’t seem so bad. It wasn’t his fault that the press had fucked with him. That he was beautiful. He was human, and in the bright daylight of the stairwell, he looked exhausted.

We went through another door, and turned right. Tristan made a sweeping, old fashioned gesture as he opened the door. “My inner sanctum.” He smiled again, but his eyes were serious.

I looked around. It was a large rectangle of a room, with fairly high ceilings, the pipework and ducts visible. Filled with windows, it nonetheless had a dark feel to it, from the black leather chairs and the big stained oak desk. It was neat, an ornate rug in the center of the room, and a coffee table with a vase of flowers placed exactly in the middle. The papers on the desk were ordered and placed in open letter box type shelves. There were some posters on the walls from the first two releases, and a big picture of his old band over the sofa, on a white painted brick wall. But it was the smell that struck me, and I tried to pin down what it was. Some kind of mixture of expensive men’s cologne and Frankincense? Candles with flowers and pine? Something else entirely, slightly sweaty and musky? I stood there and suddenly realized he was looking at me, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

I smiled at him. “It smells wonderful in here.”

He looked animated. “Do you like it? It’s a combination I’ve assembled myself.”

“You’re bringing out a perfume?” It seemed so unlikely, such a sell-out thing to do. But maybe he was branching out, making the money while he could.

“You’re kidding, right? This is for me. Just me. Don’t write this down.” He sat down in one of the leather chairs, suddenly looking huge and forbidding.

I had to smile, but I felt the message. A little too well actually. In all the wrong places. “No, I’m relieved actually. I was having trouble figuring out how the infomercial was going to come across.” He laughed, an irresistible sound. Damn. Keep to the truth. “But if you ever have some left over, I’d love to have some.”

“I can think of ways for that to happen.” There was that look again, and now, alone in the room with him, the intimidation felt physical. I wondered if he ever took it further, and the look of him surrounded by leather, staring at me, made me think that he did. And made me wonder what I would do if he did. I ran a hand through my hair. Focus. And then he snapped me out of it. “Sit.” It was an order, and I backed up and collapsed into the matching leather chair that was behind me. It was soft and smooth, and against my legs, it reminded me of his hand on my shoulder, warm, strong.

I swallowed. “I’ll just get my notebook and recorder out, then.”

“Fine.” He rolled away from the desk and a bit closer to me. I set everything up, and asked him to say something to test the level. “Are you comfortable?” he drawled, his voice a kind of slow pouring velvet, and I felt like I’d crashed into a wall. I literally did not know what to do with myself, and felt dangerously close to losing whatever control I had. Avoiding looking at him, I shook my head, and turned up the volume on his deep voice.

He took the head shaking for discomfort, and jumped up. “Let’s go sit on the sofa, you can put the recorder on the table, and we’ll be closer—easier to talk.” He grabbed all my possessions, and brought them over, setting it all up. He flashed me a big smile, and looked delighted with himself, like a small child figuring something out. I couldn’t help but smile back. He really was adorable. Dangerous, but adorable. He sat down and patted the cushion next to him. “Come on, let’s do it.” He looked up at me from under his dark lashes.

Such a fucking tease, I thought. I’m being played like a piece of music. He smiled again as I sat down, and I tried to find some of the anger that pushed me to action before, but I couldn’t manage it.

Tristan jumped up again, startling me. “I’ll get us some water.” He was at a mini bar in the corner of the room, grabbing two small bottles of Perrier, and back in a flash. “Do you need a glass?”

“No, this is fine, thank you.” I needed the water, though. My mouth was completely dry. I had a moment of wondering if he felt any of the insanity I was experiencing, and searched his face for any kind of confirmation. I thought my heart stopped when I saw his throat again, pale and muscular, swallowing and I looked up. But now I was unable to tear my eyes away from his mouth, wet from the water. He put the bottle down, and his tongue darted out, quickly, smoothing over his lips.

I think I groaned. As I was opening the bottle at the same time, I prayed that whatever sound I’d made had been covered up. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth worried me though. I sighed. I was done for. The writer who became prey. Easy prey.

His voice broke through. “Shall we?” He pressed the start button, and before I had a chance to speak, he was all business—talking about the new release that was due out in a month, the direction he was hoping to take the music in. I made some notes, and was glad I was recording it all. He didn’t seem reticent, not the monosyllabic artist some interviews had said he was. He jumped up and went to his computer. “Do you want to hear some songs?”

Now I was excited, but for a different reason. “I’d love it.”

He smiled, and pressed play. “You will.”

The first song was driven by EDM keyboards but then turned into a spiraling rock epic, with hints of Queen and symphonic orchestras. The next song was a straight out punk rock shout, his voice the drawling snarl from the very first cd. It was amazing.