Island in the Sea (9 page)

“I forgot your name.” Henry jumped up.

“I didn't tell you.” Juliet frowned.

Henry slipped his hands in his pockets and smiled. “Then, we'll have to fix that.”

Juliet walked to the French doors and turned around. She gazed at the night sky full of stars and at the turquoise swimming pool and pink bougainvillea. She saw Henry's blond hair and broad shoulders.

“It's Juliet,” she called. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

*   *   *

Juliet slipped off her sandals and stood on the balcony. She felt her cheeks flush and her heart beat a little faster. It had been fun to drink a glass of rosé and talk to Henry. It was lovely to feel young and bright and pretty.

She pictured Lionel saying she didn't believe in love and flinched. She loved everything about her life: Yesterday Records' glass offices in Santa Monica, her studio apartment a block from the beach, and attending concerts and awards shows and nightclub openings.

Suddenly her head throbbed and her shoulders tightened. She walked inside and picked up a paperback book. She climbed onto the four-poster bed and began to read.

chapter eight

L
IONEL STOOD UP FROM THE
piano and walked to the marble bar in the living room. He poured a glass of scotch and gazed at the candy wrappers and crumpled pieces of paper scattered over the wood floor.

*   *   *

He woke at 3
A.M.
and couldn't go back to sleep. The house was quiet and he padded downstairs to the library and searched the shelves. He selected leather volumes of Oscar Wilde and Emily Dickinson and Wordsworth. Finally he tossed the books on the mantel and entered the living room.

The piano was open and he leaned down and inhaled the scent of mahogany and lemon polish. He sat on the wood bench and opened his notebook.

*   *   *

Now he carried his shot glass to the Regency desk and flipped the pages of the notebook. He read the verses quickly and felt his heart hammer in his chest. He read it again and let out his breath.

He thought of all the years he wrote love songs: the midnight snacks of sausage rolls and butterscotch pudding, the endless supply of scotch and cigarettes. He pictured his unbrushed hair and cheeks covered in stubble. He remembered the moment he knew he could discard all the scraps of paper because he had written the perfect song.

He gazed at the rumpled cushions and half-eaten Cadbury Fruit & Nut bar. Juliet would be here soon and he was too exhausted to clean up. What would she say if he told her he wrote the first song in twelve months and it was the best thing he'd written in years?

Then he pictured Gideon in his impeccable Brooks Brothers suit and shuddered. If he told Juliet she would insist he write more songs. And even if he could, would he really give them to Gideon? He sunk on the floral sofa and put his head in his hands.

He heard a knock at the door and jumped up. He scooped up the crumpled sheets of paper and tossed them in the garbage. He grabbed his notebook and shoved it in the desk drawer.

“Your day of rest seemed to do wonders.” Lionel opened the door. “You look like an ad in a glossy travel magazine.”

Juliet flushed and fiddled with her silver necklace. She wore a yellow linen dress and white sandals. Her hair was held back with a ceramic clip and she wore pink lip-gloss.

“It was just a summer cold.” Juliet entered the living room. She gazed at the open bottle of vodka and empty shot glass and raised her eyebrow. “You should open a window, it smells like a nightclub in here.”

“I couldn't sleep and sleeping pills can be so addictive. At least with vodka you wake up with a hangover; those lovely little pills look so innocent and the next thing you know you end up like Marilyn Monroe or Judy Garland.”

“I'll clean up if you want to go upstairs and get dressed.” Juliet picked up a stray piece of paper.

“No! We don't want to upset Gloria.” He grabbed the piece of paper and stuffed it in his pajama pocket. “The agency sent over a new maid yesterday; she's in her fifties with black hair and a mustache. I tried doing the dishes but she rapped my hands with a dishtowel and sent me out of the kitchen.”

“Why don't we go into the study,” he continued. “I'll get a pitcher of orange juice and a plate of muffins and we'll get started.”

Juliet entered the study and gazed at the turquoise rug and orange plaster walls. Yellow curtains opened onto the garden and a beige sofa was covered with brightly colored cushions. The coffee table held a stack of magazines and an enamel fruit bowl.

“I didn't know you followed tennis,” Juliet said, as she picked up a tennis magazine.

“I've played since I was a boy.” Lionel carried a silver tray with a crystal pitcher and blueberry muffins and pots of butter. “It's one of the few sports where grown men don't fight over a ball. I attend Wimbledon every year; it's an excellent place to catch up on music gossip. Sting has his own box and Bono never misses a match.”

“I met him at the hotel last night.” Juliet pointed to the man on the cover. He had blond curly hair and wide shoulders. He wore a green Adidas shirt and white shorts.

“Henry Adler.” Lionel glanced at the magazine. “He was the boy wonder from New Zealand until he injured his back. Three grand slams by the age of twenty-five and a sixth-set upset of Federer at Forest Lawn. God I'd hate to be a professional tennis player: one minute you're an invincible god, the next some young pug who just learned to tie his shoelaces sends the ball over your head and makes you look like you need a walker.

“He's been out for two years but he's making a comeback,” Lionel continued, buttering a muffin. “I've read he's very unassuming. He's not one of those tennis Casanovas who thinks his racquet is some large appendage.”

“We just shared a slice of almond cake and talked about Majorca.” Juliet's cheeks turned pink. She picked up the magazine and studied it closely. “I wonder what it's like to have a whole stadium hold their breath waiting for you to serve.”

“You don't worry about the crowd when you're standing on center court, all you care about is connecting with the ball.” Lionel bristled. “It's like when you write the perfect song. You don't think about radio stations or music videos, you just want to soak up the words.”

“I always thought writing a song is like having a new lover: you let the porridge get cold and leave your socks in the dryer because all you can think about is her floral scent.” He paused and his eyes dimmed. “Later, you want to shout from the steps of Buckingham Palace that you're in love, but in the beginning you just want to memorize the shape of her neck and the curve of her thigh.”

“Speaking of love, how are the new songs coming?” Juliet asked. “Every night I go back to my room to a new e-mail from Gideon asking when you're going to deliver the lyrics. I wrote back you're inspired by the Majorcan sunsets and gorgeous scenery and working feverishly.”

“Just thinking about Gideon makes me ill,” Lionel said irritably. “I have no desire to make him happy.”

“Well I have a strong desire to have you fulfill your contract and keep my job,” Juliet retorted. “If I don't tell him something, he'll book me on the next Virgin flight to Los Angeles.”

“He won't do that, last minute reservations cost a fortune,” Lionel grumbled. “I'm fulfilling my end of the deal, I'm telling you about Samantha.”

*   *   *

Lionel strolled down Elizabeth Street and stopped in front of Baker & Spice. He gazed at the trays of hot cross buns and vanilla custards and strawberry tarts. He inhaled the scent of butter and cinnamon and thought he'd never been so happy.

May was usually filled with leaden skies and a constant drizzle. Eventually the news commentators on Channel Two would declare it the wettest spring in recent history. Suddenly it would stop raining and people would have picnics in Regent's Park, grateful the worst was over. Then it would start pouring again and not let up until August.

But for the last few weeks, Lionel had awoke to blue skies and fluffy white clouds. He jogged around Eaton Square and treated himself to poached eggs and hashers at the Ebury Café. He felt the wad of pounds in his pocket from his shift at Claridge's and felt rich and happy.

Next he would change into a shirt and slacks and climb the steps of the white Georgian manor. He and Samantha did everything together: they took Abigail and her friends to Madame Toussauds and to see the gorillas at the London Zoo. They visited the art galleries on Pimlico Street and spent hours browsing in Belgravia Books.

Lionel didn't even mind that they hadn't made love. He didn't want their first time to be on his narrow bed that smelled vaguely of disinfectant and Samantha refused to sneak him up the grand staircase to her room at Georgina's.

There was so much to discover about each other: Samantha grew up reading her brothers' adventure books:
Lord Jim
, by Joseph Conrad, and
Gulliver's Travels
. She dreamed of introducing a classroom of first formers to the joys of Mark Twain and Willkie Collins. Lionel admitted he got scared every time he read Edgar Allan Poe's “The Raven” and could never finish
Anna Karenina
without crying.

They rode the escalator at Harvey Nichol's and ate warm chicken sandwiches at Harrods's Tea Room. Lionel convinced Samantha to put on a silk dress and heels and have dinner at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester. He ordered a bottle of Château Margaux Cabernet and a plate of escargots and felt drunk with happiness.

After dinner they strolled back to the Georgian manor and lingered on the stone steps. Samantha let him kiss her a little bit longer, her fingers stroking his hair. Lionel inhaled her scent of jasmine perfume and groaned.

Samantha gave him a final kiss and entered the double front doors. Lionel glanced up at the light flicker on in her bedroom and thought he never realized heaven could be so close.

*   *   *

Now he reached into his pocket for a pound note and took out a folded-up piece of paper. He scanned the page and grimaced.

He had finally written the song that would make him famous. He was as certain as he knew Sri Lanka would win the Cricket World Cup and Boris Becker would lose at Wimbledon. Every time he reread the six verses of iambic pentameter his chest expanded and a lump formed in his throat.

He needed to find a woman with a perfect voice and record the song in a studio. Then he could send it to producers in London and New York and Los Angeles. He put an ad in the
Telegraph
and got one response from a twenty-something woman from Newcastle. She weighed two hundred pounds and ate a whole tin of shortbread during their interview. He murmured he didn't think they were a match and tossed her résumé in the garbage.

*   *   *

He stuffed the paper in his pocket and glanced at a flyer in the window. He read it carefully and felt his heart pound. He ran the last three blocks to the white Georgian manor and raced up the stone steps.

“We're not going to see
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
tonight,” he said when Samantha opened the door. She wore a cotton sweater and capris and held a packet of colored pencils.

“That's fine, I have to go to Abigail's sports day this afternoon. Four hours of three-legged races and wheelbarrow races. I'll need a cup of hot tea and a warm bath.”

“We're not going because we're going to the grand opening of the Chelsea Karaoke Bar.” He showed her the flyer.

“I'm not fond of karaoke bars.” Samantha hesitated. “They're noisy and people get so drunk they pass out in their chairs.”

“We're going.” Lionel spun her around and kissed her on the mouth. “Because we are going to find the ingénue who is going to make ‘Rainy Sundays' the most requested song in England.”

*   *   *

They sat at a round table near the stage and drank bottles of brown ale. They listened to men in polo shirts and loafers belt out the chorus of “Bohemian Rhapsody” and young women in mini-skirts croon “Eternal Flame.” Lionel peered through the smoke and wondered which girl with a shiny face and red lipstick would make his song a number one single.

“Your turn to go onstage,” a man said to Samantha. He wore a plaid shirt and blue jeans and had an apron tied around his waist.

“No thank you.” Samantha shook her head.

“Opening night rules,” the man insisted. “All the lovely ladies have to perform.”

“Then we'll leave, thank you.” Samantha stood up and grabbed her purse.

“We have to stay,” Lionel protested. “Somewhere in this room is a woman with the voice of an angel.”

“I don't want to go onstage,” Samantha frowned. She wore a yellow blouse and white slacks and yellow sandals. Her hair was knotted into a low bun and secured with an enamel chopstick.

“You only have to perform for a few minutes,” Lionel begged. “Sing ‘I Will Always Love You,' it's everyone's favorite.”

Samantha walked onstage and Lionel took out his cigarette case. He dropped his silver lighter on the floor and bent down to pick it up. He heard a voice coming from the stage and froze.

He sat up and saw Samantha clutching the microphone. Her cheeks were pale and her lips quivered, but she had the most glorious voice he ever heard. He glanced around the room and saw men and women transfixed, their cigarettes dangling from their fingers. Even the bartender stopped pouring drinks and stared at the microphone.

She finished the song and the room erupted in applause. She put the microphone on the stool and walked back to their table. Lionel gazed at her wide blue eyes and pink mouth and slender cheekbones. He threw a ten-pound note on the table and grabbed her hand.

*   *   *

“Why didn't you tell me you could sing?” he asked, pacing around his room above the garage.