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Tristan was efficiently polite. “Good to meet you, Julian. I appreciate your help in this. It won’t be forgotten. Thank you. Rick will make all the arrangements, right?”

Julian nodded, and Tristan and I followed behind the two of them, Rick and Julian. I watched them talk. They didn’t say a lot, but they obviously knew each other. At the lifts, Julian stepped aside, as did Rick, then Tristan did as well. All three of them. So polite. I smiled and said thank you, and walked to the back of the very small elevator. I had no idea what was going on, but if Tristan had thought of it, then I was curious. We went up to the sixth floor, where the woman at the desk gave us all a quick smile, before turning her full attention to Tristan. She was more formally dressed, in a white suit, with her name tag, and beautiful, her thick dark hair tied up in a neat bun. Tristan gazed at her appreciatively, shook her hand, and watched as she held open the white door for us, before striding into the long corridor-like section of the room.

Here, at the back, you had a view of the neighboring office buildings, their lights on in scattered patterns. We turned the corner, and there was the bar, and beyond that, the first glimpse of the view—a full-on panorama of St. Paul’s, the Thames below, the office buildings of the city, the metal lines of the cranes and their intersecting planes, the mix of old and new, glowing against the low level grey clouds, reflecting the light back, a hazy orange glow from the streetlights. The sky barely showed the outline of a few wisps that stood out from the black grey mass of heavy cloud cover. With the illuminated dome of the cathedral mounting heroically to the skies, there was an epic quality to the picture just outside the clear plate glass windows. The interior was barely lit, candles on low tables, the bottles behind the bar sparkling in the halogens, the mirror behind them casting a flickering mix of colors over the bar. Tristan stepped up to the stainless steel counter, and shook hands with both the bartenders, inviting them to the show tomorrow, thanking them for their generosity. I was sure he was paying for it as well, but it was a gesture of good will and they responded in kind. He glanced at the menu, ordered a good bottle of Spanish wine, and some olives and cheese, and then wrapped his arm around me, and steered me towards the deep maroon velvet couches directly facing St. Paul’s.

He pulled me to him, and kissed me, familiar and comfortable. “Surprise?” He grinned. I looked back at him. He shrugged. “It probably wasn’t a good idea to walk out tonight. Maybe I’m paranoid.” I shook my head, about to speak. “I’d love to see it all. Rotherhithe. The water. But I got them to open the Tate for us. Good trade?” He squeezed my hand. “I’ve always liked it up here. There’s something epic about it.”

I was about to say something, although I wasn’t entirely sure what, when our wine arrived. The bartender cut off the metal covering, quickly twisting in the corkscrew, and pulling it out with a satisfying pop. I looked over at Tristan. He had been watching as well, and was now looking down as his wineglass was filled with a small amount. “Let Lily taste as well,” he directed, and the bartender did as he was asked, pouring a small amount in my glass. I swirled it around, gently, as Tristan watched me. “Taste first, and tell me what you think.”

I took in the scent of the wine. It needed to breathe, but it had a deep earthy quality that was part of how the wine had been made, not added on with extra oaked barrels and additives. I drank a bit, breathing in. The wine had different notes, different levels, developing on my tongue as I swallowed, slowly. It was really good, and I said so, forgetting for a moment that he was the one in charge, the one with the plan and the money and the fame. Tristan smiled and nodded the bartender away. “If I can coax out your experience, your mind…” He crossed a leather covered leg over one knee and leaned back and shut his eyes. “This is good.” He looked tired again, and there was a line between his brows that wouldn’t smooth out, but his body was relaxed, his hand wrapped around the wine glass. The little bowl of mixed olives arrived, with the two white china dishes for pits, the cheese plate, the crisp linen napkins with a knife and fork. The delight, the anxiety, the familiarity of things done correctly, elegantly. I let out a long sigh, and drank more of the wine. It was getting even better as it aired out. I reached for Tristan’s hand, and he examined me, smiling, linking his long fingers with mine. We sat there, side by side, watching the clouds move past in the wind, past the bright white stone of the church. There was nothing to say, nothing that really needed to be said. His hand was strong, fleshy around the thumb, and I stroked the inside of his palm. It was soothing, his warm skin around me, his quiet reflection.

• • •

The next morning, I woke up late, the sound of birds from the gardens directly outside, the big bed already empty. I could hear the water running in the bath, but I didn’t rush over to see him, but stretched out across the mattress, the sheets smooth and cool, but warm where the indent of his body had been. So he hadn’t been up that long then. I closed my eyes, and wriggled under the covers. We’d stayed at the Tate until we had to leave, then did actually walk to Tower Bridge, holding hands as we finally went by the river. Late at night, it was fairly quiet, groups of friends heading home after a night out, some couples, a few lone souls heading somewhere. Rick trailed at a distance—I turned around once to catch sight of him—but he was a distant presence, stopped at the corner of a building to light a cigarette. I felt his annoyance when he saw me looking.

Tristan and I hadn’t really talked much. Little kisses, and his hand wrapped in mine, and the cold damp air sinking into my skin, his warm skin a ball of warmth that kept me going. We walked under the bridge, and down past the sculptures, over the little bridge by the old warehouses that were now flats. “I like it here,” Tristan said suddenly, and stopped and kissed me, right in the middle of the tiny bridge. The tide was coming in, and the lapping of the water was soothing, slow. We stood there, listening, holding each other. Tristan kissed the top of my head, and held me a little closer, and neither of us moved. Then a group of guys came along, laughing and swearing, and we moved aside to let them pass, looking out at the river, any couple of lovebirds out too late at night, maybe with nowhere to go. After the sound of their voices faded out, we carried on for a while longer, but it was late, and Rick was edgy. So we headed up to the main road, and a cab came just as Rick was about to call a service.

We didn’t get back until nearly three in the morning, and Tristan threw his clothes off in a straight line as he headed to the bedroom. “Bed, doll. Come on. I’m completely done.” By the time I’d brushed my teeth, he was already asleep, that line in his forehead still there, the circles under his eyes huge and dark. I turned off the lights, and opened the window slightly. It would be dawn soon enough. I got in next to him, and straightened the covers. He murmured something, and rolled up against my back, the long warmth of him like a protection. And I hadn’t moved again, until I woke up to find him already up the next morning.

Tristan came out of the bathroom, and fell on the bed, pulling the covers down, tickling me with cold hands. I shrieked, and swatted him away. “Cold!” He laughed, and crawled under the covers. I rolled over towards him. “Hi,” I said. I suddenly felt shy.

Tristan kissed me. “Hi yourself.” He rolled over on his back, and bent one arm behind his head. “Did you have fun last night?”

“It was wonderful.”

“Even the surprise?”

“Absolutely the surprise.”

Tristan was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry I crashed out last night. That wasn’t…,” he pulled me closer to him, then continued, “…what I had in mind. Sometimes I just lose it though. It’s taken a lot out of me, all this. It’s been more than I thought it would be, the concerts, the shows, everything coming up. I should know by now…know what it’s like. The stress. Switching back and forth between music and media. But it still surprises me.”

I hugged him. “It’s ok, you know. I fell asleep right after you. It’s all good, sleep, you, the whole thing.”

Tristan lay quiet for a moment, his hand running up and down my back, tracing patterns that only meant something to him. Then he spoke. “I don’t want to disappoint you.” I started to protest, and he stopped me. “You say this now, but people sign up for the whole dream. Sometimes they aren’t too happy to wake up.”

I leaned over his face, and looked at him. “I’m awake.” And I crawled on top of him, and put my head on his chest. “I don’t want to pressure you. But I’m here, ok? I think I get it.”

He breathed out. “There’s a lot going on. It gets to me. Not all the time. Still.” He closed his eyes. “Still.” I watched him as he squeezed his eyes shut. Without any warning, he flipped me on my back, and he was hovering neatly above me. “Still.” He laughed without any warmth. “It pays the bills, and gives us the nice room, and the respect of our peers.” He leaned down and kissed me, quickly. “I’ve ordered some room service, I’ll grab a piece on the way out. The label set up another interview—a little TV time. The next time you see me, I’ll be covered in pancake.” He sat up, cross-legged. It was a little distracting. He saw me looking, and pulled the covers over him, then just as quickly threw them off again. “Hell, doll, look all you want.”

I blushed. “You’re awfully attractive. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. If I had more time, you’d be doing more than looking, I promise.” He leaned over and kissed me. “I promise.”

I kissed him back, gently. I did want him. But I didn’t want him to think I was just there for the incredible sex. I wasn’t.

Suddenly he held me tighter, and I grabbed back with all my strength. He buried his face in the corner of my neck, and there was something desperate in his touch. I held him as tightly as I could, until he finally, slowly let go. He looked at me, a world of emotion in his eyes, now light, a mix of colors, the circles underneath still dark. He kissed me again. “I’ve got to get going, Lily. You’ve got everything you need, right?” I nodded.

I watched him grab a new pair of black and white boxer briefs from his leather duffle, and dress himself, following the trail of clothes he left behind last night. When he got to the shirt, he looked at it skeptically, and tossed it over a chair, coming back to the duffle for a soft black v-neck that seemed to meet his standards. He ducked down and kissed me again. “Lily, I…” he started. I looked up at him. He shook his head. “No, it’s ok. Now’s not the time. I’ll call you after this.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “TV! They’ll do it for me.” He made a face, stuffed his wallet and his phone into the pockets of his leather jacket, and undid the lock, waving as he left.

I lay back on the pillows. I could hear a bird in the garden, just over the rapid beat of my heart.

Chapter 19

The Roundhouse, in Chalk Farm, had been a building site for years—used for neither trains nor anything else—until the funding finally started coming in, as well as the political will to do something with it. It was a fairly large venue, but it was split up into different areas. After the Barfly was ruled out, Tristan’s concert was going to be in the studio theatre—about 200 seats. He didn’t like it there because of the fixed seating, but it was a great place otherwise, and very central. But he had insisted, and threatened to pull out altogether, telling the radio station XMM and his management he’d do a late night radio concert instead, that he didn’t play where he didn’t want to be.

So the place that had finally been chosen for the show actually wasn’t that far from the small bar where Devised had had their first gig. It was small, and a bit of a dive, but central to all the action. Tristan had told me that all the tickets were going to be released either to friends of people in the business, which he wasn’t that happy about, but recognized that it was part of the whole thing, always had been, always would be, or through XMM, where he’d spent the afternoon playing records and taking calls, announcing to the lucky fans that they were going to see him. I had wanted to hear what he sounded like on the radio, one distance removed from reality, his voice going out on the airwaves to belong to everyone, while I listened, knowing him that much better.

But I was listening to Trevor’s revelations instead. I wondered if I would have rather heard screaming fans or the truth. Put that way, it actually made it all a little more complicated. What did I want to know? I had to share him with the world, but in some ways, the difference between me and the fans was the level of trust he had in me. I hoped that wouldn’t change once he knew the full extent of what Trevor had revealed. I had the impression that there had been some kind of unwritten agreement between them, that Tristan had thought unbreakable, and Trevor hadn’t. Or hadn’t for the right person. Oh fuck. I really had to stop over thinking it.

The staff at the hotel called me a taxi. They were efficient and distant, which I supposed was part of the price that was being paid for the room. No photographers here. And it was restful, if a little cold, the way so many places that cater for the rich and famous can be. No rough edges.

I had the cab drop me off by the Tube, and I walked up the high street, past the shops selling pins and t-shirts, the usual Union Jacks and “my friend went to London” sorts of things. Now they were joined by more crass displays, like the one that said “I love sushi” and had a graphic of a stick figure man with his head between the legs of a stick figure woman. Lovely. There were still a few punks around, enjoying it secretly when they let the tourists take their pictures for a little beer money. The rest were mostly tourists and kids roaming in packs, feeling they were free and somewhere important, outside of the familiar safe influence of home. I looked around to see if there were any likely early arrivals for the show, but all the people just seemed one mass of moving, pulsing humanity. It was still early though, not even 7:00 p.m., and while the hardcore fans would be outside, either waiting, or hoping they could blag a ticket, or catch a glimpse of their hero, the people on the guest list wouldn’t show up until the very last minute, hoping to evidence their cool, and show how little this kind of thing really meant to them, seeing as they had basically an open invite to anything they wanted. And the guest list—I didn’t want to think about how they’d all be there. I’d checked my phone for messages before I left the hotel, but there hadn’t been any updates from Dave, and Tristan didn’t need to contact me—I knew where he was. I had a vague wish for how it was before, when everything seemed kind of new. Now I felt in it so thick.