Access Restricted (9 page)
Authors: Alice Severin
Man, I hoped so, for Jim’s sake. They wouldn’t get another shot at this. One more quote. Maybe I could get the whole band to talk. “So, to wrap up, maybe each of you could send a shout out to your fans. Jim, let’s start with you.” I looked at him.
“Uh, yeah, thanks for coming to the shows and being there.” Great.
“Joe?”
He took a big swig of beer before he answered. “It’s a party, it’s all good.” Ok, that was a bit more promising, if unsurprising.
“Andy?”
“Love you, all the fans, just keep on coming.” Fair enough.
“And last but not least,” I simpered, “Fee.”
“All you guys, you’re the best, I wanna see more of you, and you’ll see more of me! Yeah!”
God.
I thanked them, told the manager I’d be in touch about the photographer for tomorrow’s show, and packed up as fast as I could. Even the air in the fetid little side street felt like sweet nectar after the fermented beer and smoke smell in the pub. I took a couple of deep breaths, which made me dizzy, and headed over towards Primrose Hill. I checked my phone. 3:30 p.m. No messages. Ok. I’d sit in the park for twenty minutes, then get a cab over to Notting Hill. I messaged Dave:
New band done. They thought they’d get to meet you. I sent your regards.
I thought about sending a message to Tristan. No. I’d sit first and clear my mind. Make some notes. Walking through the pastel colored stucco houses, and the curved road leading to the park, it occurred to me, not for the first time, what a city of contrasts London was. That all the tea and gardens, prettified urbanity, was just the organized surface, minutes away from dirt and disorder. And the Queen and country image only a very small part of what was out there. Maybe that was true anywhere. You could always be surprised by what lay underneath.
The interview had been strange, but ultimately, safe. Not so for the next one. I wondered what would happen. This time, I couldn’t predict what she was going to say.
Or how I was going to feel.
Chapter 8
Poppy, for that was her name, really, called me back to confirm while I was sitting in the park, fighting jet lag and looking around at the people walking by. Dog walkers, nannies with children, some German tourists, a few hipsters wandering around, their pork pie hats and brightly colored sunglasses looking weirdly over lit in the bright sunshine. I had almost not heard the phone ringing, lost in my own thoughts. But I managed to get the call just in time, and I must have sounded a bit breathless when I answered. Poppy was all kindness, thrilled to do this, about time someone started writing about the crazy scene that sprung up around the band. She sounded…wistful. I got the address, and arranged to meet her at her house around five. Fine. That gave me a little more time afterwards.
I walked up the hill and looked out over the skyline, completely altered in a very short space of time. Not that long ago, there were certain landmarks that stood out, being the tallest structures amidst the medium sized buildings of modern and old London. The BT, or Post Office Tower, London’s example of the 1960s craze to build towers that looked like communication posts with satellites, missiles, aliens. There were many of them scattered through the world. NY, Moscow, Berlin—each had an example. And then there was the icon, St. Paul’s Cathedral, its sturdy white dome a landmark, the sightlines to it still unobstructed. The Nat West building in the city, brown and black, striped, ugly modern. Then in the 1990s everything started to change. Canary Wharf, the mini version of New York, built in the Docklands. The London Eye, a weird, white Ferris wheel directly across from the Houses of Parliament. The 1970s modernist buildings around St. Paul’s torn down, replaced with newer, shiny structures. The Egg, or the Gherkin, the strange spaceship-like building in the city in tones of black and grey. Now, the odd pyramid of the Shard. And all the old buildings were fading into the background, and London was becoming an uneven line, bounded by Canary Wharf to the east, and the Eye to the West. Strange little flood plain, I thought. Not even beautiful, like Paris, or startling, like New York, but there was still something to it. What? I wasn’t sure. Maybe the visible signs of change, all fighting each other for space, waiting to grow and have their moment. I didn’t know.
I sat there for a bit, lost in my thoughts and the residue of jet lag, trying to feel the Druidic energy of the place. Finally, I walked back down Primrose Hill and got a taxi down near the Zoo. I gave the driver the address, and leaned back, exhausted. I’d keep an eye on him, but at least I knew he’d know exactly where he was going. All the cabbies, for black cabs anyway, had to do the training called The Knowledge, where they’d spend all their free time whizzing around on little mopeds, their maps in front of them, learning every one of the 25,000 streets and over 300 routes that were required in order to pass the test. Some of the cabbies had to retake the test ten times to finally master it. Now all I had to worry about was if he’d be taking the long way around. But I was so tired, it hardly seemed to matter. Dave was paying, after all.
Tiredness was also helping me not think too much about this meeting with—the woman. Yes, she sounded fine. I just wondered what she was going to come up with. She’d obviously met the whole band. I wondered if she still talked to any of them, Tristan included. What did she think about the break up? I could deflect her a little bit, but the focus of the article was supposed to be Tristan, so we would have to discuss him directly. Oh hell, I couldn’t avoid it. And did I even want to? There was a kind of morbid curiosity, to know exactly what he had gotten up to. The jealousy that would arise would be a kind of burn, maybe. Cleansing. Or maybe it was going to be like meeting the family; slightly embarrassing, horribly revealing, but again, building on a bond, the kind you only created when you did know things. Or nothing. Just an interview, about a band and their lead singer. Another one. I could just disassociate myself completely from it all.
The cab was making the twists and turns through Kilburn and was heading down by Westbourne Park, over the railroad bridge and by the bus station. I’d once stood there, kissing a guy, both of us a bit drunk, not wanting to go anywhere, or take it any further, just enjoying kissing, late night, pubs shut. A few people heading towards the Tube had whistled at us, I remembered, and we just ignored them. Not that long ago. Of course I wasn’t as pure as I thought—what the hell was I doing judging him and his conquests? Wasn’t it just life? If you were ok looking and could get people to want you, didn’t you carry through with it? He wasn’t a saint—here I couldn’t help smiling, thinking of him gesturing at the man in the car—and didn’t I like that? A lot? I’d probably get further if I just opened my mind, and stopped being so fucking frightened and judgmental. I could do this. I was going to listen, and not be critical, and learn something, for once.
We pulled up in front of a small purple cottage, one of a multi-colored row, just ground floor and first floor, with white painted window frames and a climbing white rose reaching over the doorway to the upstairs. Showtime, indeed. I paid the cabbie, and steadying myself, walked up to the door. Open minded, right. Not purposeful, or sarcastic, or fearful. Open—to whatever she had to say. I was a journalist, right? That was supposed to be my job anyway. To transmit as truthfully as I could what I saw. With atmosphere. Yeah, but it’s you seeing it. And you are compromised, way deep. So I am, and I thought back to our latest limo ride. And I like it, it’s hot. Open mind, open mind, I kept repeating to myself, as I rang the white ceramic bell surrounded with enameled flowers. Pretty. Beautiful, even. Like she’d be. I knew it.
And I wasn’t wrong. The woman who opened the door was lovely. Long, carefully highlighted blond hair, small sculpted nose and mouth, warm hazel eyes, lightly made up. A flowered dress, gauzy, boho, falling to mid-calf. She’d made an effort, but it was obvious that she probably looked like this all the time. She greeted me warmly. “Lily, so glad to meet you. Welcome. Come in. Can I get you some tea? A glass of wine? Come, follow me, we can sit in the kitchen, the doors are open to the garden, it’s quite warm out really, isn’t it? So glad you’ve gotten the good weather, we’ve been having nothing but rain.”
I followed her in, faintly amused at her patter about the weather. I always forgot how the British really did talk about the weather to get social interactions going, and how you had to answer back with something, or else the conversation would die out, as though you had to say the magic words before you could step through to the next level.
“Yes, very lucky. I was just enjoying the sunshine, trying to get over my jet lag with some fresh air. Has it been a slow spring here, then?” We had reached the kitchen now, a big long room, with a skylight overhead, a long pine table, a red Aga stove against the wall and a big SMEG refrigerator. Ok, money Notting Hill. Although it might be old money. She seemed very relaxed. I looked around for the requisite dog, and found an empty padded dog basket. “What kind of dog do you have?”
“Oh, you saw the basket. Where is she, I wonder? She’s lovely, an English Retriever, so loyal. Just a lovely dog. I’m sure she’ll come down. Do you like dogs? What can I get you to drink?”
I really wanted a drink, but it was too dangerous. I’d relax. I’d fall asleep. Worse, I might talk too much. “Tea is fine, thank you. Yes, very fond of dogs. Keep meaning to get another one, but I travel too much.” This was turning into a conversation. I was almost reluctant to get out the equipment, feeling it would change the mood. But I didn’t trust myself to remember it clearly. I wanted to have the proof, as well, of whatever it was she was about to say. I watched her busy herself with the kettle on the stove, pulling out the brown teapot. This was real England, real London here—or at least the way it used to be. It felt more real to me, anyhow. She was tall, taller than me, I noticed unhappily, and cringed inwardly. No, I would not do this to myself. Open mind. Happy. I’d just read an article about a woman who had said all pretty women saw each other as competition. I would not be that shallow.
I might as well just dive in, I thought. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? It does make it easier for me to ensure everyone is quoted correctly.”
“No, not at all,” she trilled out. “Sugar?”
As I got out the equipment, I thought she sounded amazingly unperturbed by any of this. Perhaps it was an act. Perhaps it was her personality. We’d see.
Finally, everything was set up, the tea poured out, the dog, who was named Scone, patted and sleeping in the basket, a plate of biscuits arranged neatly, the radio turned off. She looked at me expectantly. Right. Questions. My turn. I took a deep breath. Did she look…amused? I felt instantly irritated, and tamped it down. Let the woman speak.
“Could you do a little introduction? You know, your name, what you do now, your connection to Devised? I’ll just test the levels.” I nodded to her to start.
“Hello, I’m Poppy Gough, I’m currently a PR consultant for various bands and fashion designers. I was the head of the fan club and I did PR for Devised in the UK and Europe.”
“Great. Ok, so, how did you first meet the band?”
She laughed a little. “I was the booking assistant for the university pub bands. It was fun, I wanted to get into the business of promotion, and I liked music. So it was perfect. Most of the bands were your run of the mill pub bands, but every so often we’d get someone that was obviously on their way up. Coldplay, for example. I booked their first gig here. Chris was so nervous! But a lovely guy, really. Amazing eyes.”
I nodded encouragingly. “And Devised?”
“I still remember it quite clearly.” She was looking off into the distance, as though she were revisiting the entire time. “It was the end of the day, and I was in the little office off from the Student Union just getting things sorted out. It was a Tuesday, nothing on. Slow day. And the phone rang, and it was Working Class Records. The man himself, Trevor. Of course everyone knew his name, including me, so I was pretty surprised. But I asked him what I could do for him, on a rainy Tuesday.” She looked up at me. “I had no idea that phone call was going to change my life.”
Dramatic. Well, she knew the game. This one would write itself. “And what did he want?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer, of course.
She smiled, Cheshire cat like. A feline sleepy smile, with a hint of danger. There were claws behind this one. And suddenly, all my danger signals were on alert. I’d been lured in, and now I was trapped. I was going to have to hear it all. I tried to calm the panic I was beginning to feel, along with the impulse to run for the door.
“Of course, you know, he had a little band he had just signed. They hadn’t played here yet, and they needed a gig to start up. Could we slot them in for tomorrow? Cancel what we had on? He’d send over some posters. Could I make some phone calls and talk it up? He was sure it was the start of something big, and if I could get some motion going on it, he’d make it worth my while.” She paused. “Of course, I was intrigued. Naturally. But then he said something that surprised me.”
