Access Restricted (24 page)

I turned left, and walked along the canal, up over the bridge. There was a group, cheering on two guys who were standing on the railing of the walkway that went over the canal, poised to jump in. I stood for a minute and watched, wondering if they would really do it. The bridge was about twenty feet above the murky canal, and it was warmer out than the day before, but not enough to make the deep green water appealing. But after a steady round of cheering from the crowd, and the two guys realizing that they had a pretty large audience at this point, they nodded to each other, and then jumped, disappearing behind the mass of the crowd, and splashing into the water to even louder cheers. Everyone watching clapped, including me. They swam over to the edge, where their friends were waiting to help pull them out. They were lucky, I thought, that there were no cops around. Surely that would have gotten them some anti-social behavior order or at least an evening with the filth. I’d had a friend who got in a fight with her boyfriend and was totally pissed out of her mind, so she jumped in the canal, attention seeking. Except she had nearly drowned. They had to call 999, stomach pumped, nasty. But watching these guys climb out and shake themselves off, a little like happy dogs on an outing, it struck me that not every crazy action had to be the result of some deep depression. It could just be fun. Fun for fun’s sake. And maybe you could remember how to have fun again.

I turned away from the canal, and threaded my way through the stalls of food and jewelry, past the people drinking at the little tables in front of the waterfront pub, and headed over to the entrance to the club. Sure enough, there was already a group of people watching from different vantage points, and a line of people who were ticket holders waiting to get in. Lots of indie boys with tight skinny pants, and a range of Devised t-shirts that marked out the long-standing fans. There were a couple of Tristan t-shirts as well, his logo and a nice little line drawing. They were worn mostly by girls, but there were a couple of male fans proclaiming their allegiance as well. Crossover appeal—that was one of the reasons he was so famous. One woman was walking up and down, holding up a sign that said “will pay £100 for a ticket—help me out, please!!”

I stood and watched them for a while, feeling the buzz increasing with each new arrival, as they saw the already long line and all the people hoping they would get in. I spotted James Max, gesturing wildly to one of the bouncers, who was trying to keep the people who wanted tickets away from the people who already had them. The bouncer was huge, but Max pushed right past him. I saw who he was trying to get past the line—a tall blonde wearing a skin tight dress, who towered over him in her heels, but she didn’t seem to care and neither did he. She finally got through, the rope cord separating the inside from the outside was unhooked, and then she was bending down, the curve of her ass more pronounced as she leaned over seductively, and kissed the balding man on both cheeks. I laughed, and turned my head away, moving behind the very tall boy with the curly brown hair who was lighting a cigarette and talking to his friend, who had the same curls but blonde, in Spanish. I didn’t want to be spotted anyway, not yet. I was enjoying taking in the whole build-up. And it would go well in the article. I took out my phone and took a few pictures. Backup. The magazine might use one or two. Rough fan shots. The assortment of people who were either slowing down to watch or hanging around in the hope of getting in, somehow, was astonishing. There were the usual Eurotrash bunch, the indie kids complete with straw trilby or grey pork pie hat, super tight black jeans that seemed to only hold on to the last curve of their ass through sheer willpower, the girls in short shorts and ruffled tops. But there were also some old school rockers, jeans and band shirts, grizzled by experience and perhaps a few too many drugs. There were some lovely women, chatting while on line, obviously very happy to have scored tickets, definitely not concerned about what people thought. There was an older man in a wheelchair, with his partner, who had pushed him over the cobblestones and was now waiting to talk to one of the bouncers, probably to get a better place inside, maybe one where he could actually see. It occurred to me that it was a testament to Tristan’s intelligence that although aspects of his music had all of the simple straightforward appeal of the pop song, his lyrics as well as his complicated chord structures and syncopated rhythms were something you could go back to again and again and find more. Complicated ideas that seemed simple on the surface. It was pretty fascinating to see all these different people with different lives, different ideas—but the one thing that held them together was an intense appreciation of Tristan’s music. It made me hope that there was almost something here like a tribe, a group of people held together by an ideal, a stronger bond that could overcome the stupid little petty fights that tore most things down.

Of course, that hadn’t worked in the case of James Max, Tristan’s manager, whose jealousy, if that’s what it was, or meanness had almost derailed us from the start. And there he was over there. What had happened to the blonde? Or had he spotted me right away? The tall boys with the dark and light hair had moved while I was observing the crowd, and here he was, coming right for me. The smirk on his face, all thick eyebrows and balding skull, didn’t fill me with much hope that he was feeling the love.

He started speaking before he even reached me, making very sure everyone around us could hear him. “Lily. Lily Taylor. How are you? I thought I spotted you over here—you look different in a crowd. Didn’t you get an All Access? Did Tristan forget? Shame. That’s what he’s like with the female talent. But I’m sure I can do something for you.”

“You’re an asshole.” I had no time to think of some smart reply, just the first thing that came into my head. I turned away. There were already people looking and although I really wanted nothing more than to punch his face in, some smarter part of me really wanted to avoid a public scene. I started walking back to the canal, away from the venue. I guess I’d be later than I thought. But he was still following me.

“Now, Lily, honey, that’s no way to talk. I saw this coming. Dropped by Dave and Tristan. But I can get you in if you still want to lust over him. As long as you promise to let me taste what he left behind.” He ran a thick hand down my arm, while I stared at him, frozen to the spot with rage. I pulled my hand out of his grasp, feeling slightly sick.

“Listen motherfucker, isn’t there some bald dwarf convention that you’re late for? Fuck right off.” I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm, hard, and spun me around as I cried out. I still wanted to avoid a scene, but he was making it all but impossible. Before I could even think what I was doing, I pulled back and slapped him, hard, with the back of my hand. My rings hit his eyebrow, and I could feel the skin break before the blood started, spattering his face and my arm. I didn’t know which one of us was more shocked, but I went for it, while he released me to hold his hand over the cut. “I told you to fuck off. Touch me again and I’ll scream for the police.” I started to walk away again, shaking with rage.

But he had recovered as well. “You sad aging bitch. You don’t know, do you? You were watching, weren’t you? The tall blonde? The one with the gorgeous bod? Some reporter. You didn’t even recognize Tristan’s ex, did you? And you didn’t know he asked her to be here, did you?” I could hear him starting to laugh and I could hear his voice following me. “You thought you were in his league, what a joke.”

I just kept walking. I could feel the eyes of curious people on me, on us, how many people had heard him? Ten? Fifty? It hardly mattered. My fingernails were digging into my clenched palms, resisting the effort to go back and smash his face in, fighting against the effect his words had had on me, despite the raging argument now commencing in my brain. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. We had the hotel room. Smart move, Lily, I thought to myself. Good way to leave yourself wide open. But what about Trevor? The story? And he was so trustworthy. James has always disliked you. A smart girl would have tried to flirt him up, keep him on side. But no. You had to show him your true colors. And now? He was going in there. Covered in blood at least, I thought. Stupid motherfucker. Shit.

I kept walking along the canal, away from the lock, until I was nearly at Regents Park. It wasn’t far, but the distance felt good. A part of me never wanted to go back to the club. Another part wanted to go back, right away—and smash a bottle on his stupid head. Shit. I sat down on the thankfully empty bench at the corner, where the canal opened up and turned, and stared at the garish Chinese restaurant houseboat, moored in the little harbor. Fuck. I’d have to call Tristan. I didn’t think I could go right up there, alone. I thought about waiting for Nick and Sarah, but the fact that both James and Nick had pretty much said the same thing, didn’t make me feel like their support would be exactly what was on offer. Dave? No. Before I could think anymore, I brought up Tristan’s number and pressed call. Just hearing his voice would make it ok. Like it always did. I held the phone up to my ear, waiting through the rings. Then his voice came through.

“Tristan, it’s me…” But it was a recording. It had sounded just like his voice, live, but all he said was “hello,” then “if you need immediate assistance, call James Max on…” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I nearly threw my phone in the water. And I didn’t have Rick’s number, the fixer, the one that had booked the room, arranged our getaway, away from James’s prying eyes. He must have found out. That would explain the vindictive rage. But it meant I was on my own. And now another pair of eyes would be on me, sizing me up, looking for weak points and failings. Ready to laugh. Fuck. I crossed my legs up on the bench and leaned my head over and closed my eyes. Just a little moment of calm, and then I’d have to be up there fighting. Fuck.

Ok. I’d said this was showtime, and here it was. The moment everybody knows is coming, where everything you do is going to be scrutinized, and it may change everything, and if it fucks up, you’re going to know, deep in your soul, that it was your doing. Yes, lessons to be learned, karma, endless wheel. Yes. But on some kind of existential level, you’d blame yourself. And it would be pretty difficult to walk around spouting “life lessons” if you’d lost everything you’d ever wanted. Wanted. Needed? Maybe.

I really hoped it didn’t come to that. I stayed there for another minute, curled up, asking the universe for strength, trying to find some kind of energy and determination. Then I felt a light rain drop on the back of my neck, then another, then a few all at once. That was my signal. I uncurled myself, trying to believe that I probably had some wiggle room, that perfection was overrated and arrogant, and hoisted myself onto the tow path, along with the other revelers heading either into the bars of Camden or out of the rain.

I reached the lock in what seemed like record time, and thought briefly about going to get a beer. No. I had a mission now, and I wasn’t going to be shy or frightened. Or at least I was going to try really fucking hard not to show it. The line was still there and had gotten longer, as people placed themselves behind the diehards at the front who were hoping to be right on top of the stage, in the mosh pit, if there was one, singing along with and idolizing their hero. The light rain wasn’t diminishing the party atmosphere, although some of the hopefuls who were watching, just to see what happened, had drifted off. I saw a girl talking to another woman, who had been there before, shrugging, before she went off to unlock her bike. The woman gazed after her, possibly wondering if that was the right course of action, before advancing closer to the barrier that was protecting the little courtyard that they had created around the entrance. Slow and steady. I felt for her. It wasn’t easy to go to these things alone, keeping the hope and energy going. At least she didn’t have someone telling her she wasn’t in their league, I thought. And she wasn’t leaving, and neither was I. We were advancing on the bouncers and gate keepers with the invite list. Forget it.

I walked up to the two guys on the door, one white, one black. The black guy wasn’t as tall, but he looked like a boxer, solid and immobile if you tried to move him, fast if he wanted to move you. The white guy was having a cigarette and talking to a man who looked like he was the manager of the venue. He had the clipboard, so I headed towards them. Instantly, the first guy, the boxer, was in front of me. “Can I help you, Miss?” At least he was polite. And that was his job, to stop me. Now I just had to speak. Of course my voice came out in a croak.

“Hi.” I paused. “I’m on the guest list.” There, that wasn’t so hard. Hopefully James wouldn’t come out.

“Your name?” I told him, and he grabbed the clip board and flipped through a couple of pages of print out. Shit, they couldn’t have given away that many tickets—the whole place was going to be filled with record company liggers. Oh well. That’s the way it went. As long as my name was on there, and no one had done a little magic with the delete key, James.

The sound of his voice brought me out of my thoughts. “Lily…?”

“Taylor, yes, that’s right.”

“And you’re a guest of…?”

Hmm, that was a question. For the ticket? Tristan? Dave? I figured I’d try both. “Probably Tristan, but it could be under Dave Fanning and
The Core
magazine.”

“Yeah, got it. Lily Taylor. Right here.” He clipped a wrist band around my left wrist. He fished around in a bag sitting on the bar stool just behind him. “And your laminate,” he muttered, looking at me more closely. “AAA. Better put this one on now.”