A Song for Julia (16 page)

Then I felt a tiny little arm snake around my waist, and I looked down to see Alicia Mosier.

Oh, damn.

Alicia had been a mistake, on too many levels to count. She’d shown up backstage one night after we played next door at Lansdowne, and I’d been sitting, drinking, of course, and she just climbed into my lap. I don’t usually turn down that sort of offer. Redheaded, five feet tall, and with a wicked ass and perfect tits, she’d been a firecracker in bed. A lot of fun. Until the next morning, when she somehow got the idea that we were a thing. 

I’d received a lot of dark looks the rest of the day from my bandmates, because they’d all been awakened by the screaming and shouting. Not to mention the coffee mug she threw at me, which shattered into a million pieces against the backsplash in the kitchen.

“Crank!” she said. “How you doing?”

Pathin’s eyes widened at the sight of her, and Mark took a gulp of beer. “Be back in a minute, gotta hit the head.”

Coward.

“Hey, Alicia … what are you up to?”

“Just out having some fun, you?”

I couldn’t very well say to her, I’m about to run like hell, so I said, “Just grabbing some drinks.”

“You want to dance?” she asked.

“Not feeling well,” I answered. 

She slid her hand into my back pocket. Oh, for God’s sake. Then she got up on her toes, which brought her to about the level of my shoulder, and stage-whispered, “I could make you feel better.”

Pathin groaned, and I gritted my teeth. The thing was, I was seriously torn. Alicia was wild in bed. I mean, seriously wild. And despite my headache, the fricken’ traitor between my legs was starting to respond to her curling up against me. She was rubbing her hand in my back pocket in a way that … well, shit.

I’d regret it in the morning. I repeated the thought to myself to underscore it, give it plenty of weight. If I could put the message on a flaming arrow and shoot it right into my forehead, I would. I’d regret it in the morning. But oh, man, was she hot.

I was wavering, big-time, when Mark showed back up. 

And that’s when I heard a voice I didn’t expect to hear at all.

What are you afraid of? (Julia)

Dinner wasn’t exactly a disaster, but it came close.

First of all, I was still a mess. After that long, wrenching cry, I withdrew, embarrassed. Jemi didn’t push it, which I deeply appreciated. I went to sleep for an hour then was back up, getting a shower. The lack of sleep was not good. I could feel the weight of my eyelids and a little bit of heartburn. I really, really did not want to go out. 

I was still in the bathroom, getting myself together when Barrett showed up ten minutes early. Jemi answered the door, and in a surprised voice called out, “Julia … there’s someone here to see you.”

“I’ll be just a minute!” I answered and then went back to putting on makeup. I don’t often wear makeup, but it was a date, even if it was one I’d lost interest in. Why did he have to show up early? Willard, who I’d dated most of sophomore and junior year before he decided he wanted to get serious, was chronically late. I was guaranteed I’d have an extra fifteen or twenty minutes to get ready any time we went anywhere. Barrett had implied we were going somewhere nice for dinner, so I’d worn a dress, wine red with a retro, nineteen-fifties cut that I’d picked up for a steal last summer. This was the first time I’d worn it. 

Not sure whether I liked early or late better. I guess Barrett was eager. I could hear him in the common room, his rich Eton tones contrasting with Jemi’s clipped, more formal accent. I couldn’t tell what they were talking about, but the words went on and on, and it made me wonder if I could somehow substitute her for me tonight.

I sighed and looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale, with brownish-blonde hair, and frazzled as hell. Jemi was dark skinned, with black hair, and was always, always composed. Somehow I thought Barrett would notice the difference.

I sighed. I might as well get this over with. I threw my makeup back in my bag and opened the door. “Ready. Sorry for making you wait.”

Barrett, sitting on the couch next to Jemi, stood up and smiled. “Julia. It’s very nice to see you.” He was wearing what looked suspiciously like an Armani suit and tie. My instincts about dressing up were on target. 

I returned the smile, but I wasn’t feeling it. “You too. I see you’ve met my suitemate.”

Jemi stood too. She said, “We were just chatting about experiences in common. Barrett spent three years in Delhi.”

“Oh,” I said. “You guys must have a lot in common, then.”
See how subtle I can be?

Barrett politely coughed into his hand and then said, “Shall we go?” He extended his arm, and I put my hand around it. 

Behind him, Jemi motioned with her hand, putting it to her ear as if it were a phone. She was signaling me to call if I was going to be late. After my nap, she’d explained the system our roommates had worked out to make sure we were safe if one of them were out on a date.

It shouldn’t have been necessary, but during our sophomore year, one of the juniors on the floor above us was raped by her date during a party upstairs. All of us were pretty freaked after. Nobody talked about things like that happening here.  

I nodded at Jemi, to let her know I understood, and followed Barrett out.

Okay. First problem. He’d brought a car … and driver. Or bodyguard maybe. I don’t know which. It was handy, but necessary? I don’t know. It felt like too much. It felt like my old life, the life I’d really wanted to leave behind when I left Washington after that hideous, traumatic year. Sometimes lately, I felt like I’d be happiest forgetting the whole planned grad school existence, instead maybe get a job teaching or running a small business somewhere, get a tiny little apartment in Brookline and take the T to work. Lose myself, lose my past; lose my family and their utter domination of my life. 

The easy laughter sitting around the breakfast table with Crank’s family that morning made me homesick for a life I’d never had.

So, we went to L’espalier. If you’ve never eaten there, know that it’s an excessively posh French restaurant on Gloucester Street. The kind of place where bodyguards and drivers aren’t out of place at all, where you might run into Brad Pitt or George Clooney or Governor Romney sitting over an overly expensive plate of roasted pheasant. The kind of place I avoided like the plague. Not that I was celebrity enough for anyone to care about my presence, unless it was for a small time vicious gossip like Maria Clawson. But it always made me a little sick inside to walk past homeless men on the street to get into a place like this.

Barrett had reservations, of course. We took our seats at one of the small tables covered in a white linen tablecloth. The place was packed, but eerily hushed, couples sitting at their tables speaking in near whispers as the waiters whisked about the place.

We started with small talk. His schools, my schools. He was in town on business, and went on interminably about his father’s bank, and the bank here, and interest rates and trading futures—and I completely lost interest. Which is kind of funny, considering I was majoring in international business, and this was all familiar territory. Familiar, but supremely uninteresting.

At one point he was perceptive enough to realize that I wasn’t really interested, because he said, “Are you all right?”

I was startled. We’d just finished the second course, and I said, “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m fine. I didn’t get much sleep last night, I’m afraid I zoned out there for a minute.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I wasn’t being very nice. Barrett had obviously gone to some significant trouble for this date. I don’t know exactly what he was hoping for. I mean, he was attractive enough, no question there. But I just … really wasn’t all that interested. When he first called me, I thought he was going to ask me out for coffee. Not a three hundred dollar dinner. This was the kind of place you took someone to propose, not a first date.

Just as we were finishing dessert, and he was paying the check, he said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Our talk on the train piqued my curiosity, so I looked up Harry Easton. Do you know he’s in the United States as well?”

I swallowed and took a drink of water. My dinner suddenly felt like lead in my stomach. “Oh?” I asked, trying to keep my voice natural.

“Yes, he’s a junior attaché at Her Majesty’s Consulate in New York. He sounded quite surprised to hear from me.”

“I can only imagine,” I said, trying my hardest not to vomit all over the remains of our desserts. I set down my glass because my hand was shaking, and I couldn’t stop it. I put my hands in my lap, gripping them into fists.

“He told me to tell you he missed you,” Barrett said.

“You told him that you knew me,” I said, my voice flat.

“Well, of course. You two were old schoolmates after all.”

I looked over at the wall, my eye tracing the fine moldings that ran up the corner to the ceiling. I didn’t think about Harry. Ever, if I could avoid it. I certainly didn’t want to have any contact with him, ever again. I wondered if this was what Sean felt like, unable to look people in the eye. 

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm. 

“Oh, no,” he said. “Was there some bad blood? I wasn’t aware, he seemed delighted to hear you were doing well.”

I swallowed, then looked at him and told a bald-faced lie. “We didn’t know each other that well, I’m a lot younger than he is.”

He looked doubtful but chose not to pursue it. I really, really wanted to go home. The thought of Barrett discussing me with Harry all these years later? It was making me physically ill. 

“Excuse me for a moment,” I said. “I need to freshen up.”

I stood abruptly and walked toward the back of the dining room, then to the restrooms. Inside, I sat down, arms wrapped around my stomach and squeezed my eyes shut.  

Harry Easton was my first love, but that wasn’t why I reacted this way. There was no feeling of that kind left. None at all. Nothing but revulsion and … fear? I tried to avoid it and not think about it. But it was true. Even after all these years, I was still terrified of him. 

I was only fourteen when I met Harry. I was a little girl. A very sheltered little girl. Until we went to Beijing, I’d never had a reason to distrust. Or fear. Or hate.

Now I felt all of those things. All because of Harry.

I was not going to cry. I was not going to let him ruin anything in my life, ever again. 

I took a deep breath to steady myself and stood. The girl in the mirror wasn’t a scared, tiny fourteen-year-old girl. The woman in the mirror was twenty-two, valedictorian at one of the best high schools in America, a top student at Harvard University, and no one, not Harry Easton, not my mother, not anyone, was ever going to push me around like that again.

Okay. I was calm. It didn’t matter what Barrett had said to Harry, or what he hadn’t said. I was done thinking about that asshole.

So, I was feeling much better when I went back out. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be going out with Barrett again. Simply because he’d bored me to tears. But I would be pleasant and try to enjoy myself for the rest of the night, anyway.

“Sorry about that,” I said, taking my seat again.

“Feeling all right?”

“I am.”

“Are you up to some music? There’s a local band I’ve heard good things about, it’s close by.”

“Okay, that sounds good.”

Barrett was gentlemanly to a fault and helped me into my wrap as we went out. By the time we got to the door, his driver was pulling up. So we slid into the backseat and rode the few blocks to The Lansdowne.

“Have you been here before?” he asked.

“Yes, quite a lot,” I said. “Sometimes the music is hit and miss. They’ve booked some pretty bad bands here occasionally.”

“Ah, you’re a music connoisseur.”

“I’m a complete snob when it comes to music,” I said.

“But not about other things, I hope.” He was smiling gently as he spoke, and he had a look in his eye that told me he was still hoping to score. I needed to wean him off that idea. Because it was not going to happen. 

Five minutes later we were inside, after he got us past the line by means of a sizable bribe to the doorman. And it became very clear, very quickly, that the booking agent at Lansdowne had picked the wrong band. The singer was off-key, the guitarist kept fumbling his chords, and the drummer was out of sync. I tolerated it through my first drink and three songs, when even Barrett was wincing.  

“Let’s go next door!” I said over the cacophony. 

He nodded, and I led him to the opening that led into Bill’s Bar & Lounge, which joined The Lansdowne on the inside. Bill’s was a tighter space, with a younger, more alternative crowd, and friendly to punk bands, among others. We slowly made our way through the crowd, scanning for a table, when I saw a familiar face over someone’s shoulder. 

I should have thought first, but I didn’t. I called out his name, because I was happy to see him. “Crank!”

The guy in front of Crank shifted a little, and Barrett squeezed in next to me.

Crank was standing there, a stupid smile on his face. A girl, who looked about four feet tall if it wasn’t for her slutty heels, was wrapped around him, a hand jammed into his pocket. She was showing more skin than clothes.
Oh, dear God, why did I say anything?

“Julia,” he said, his eyes widening. Both of the guys standing with them turned their heads so suddenly I’m surprised they didn’t hurt themselves. The darker skinned one, who I recognized immediately as Morbid Obesity’s drummer, said, “Julia?” loud enough that I could just barely hear it.

Barrett wrapped his arm around my waist in a way that was way too possessive for a first date.

I stood there awkwardly for a second and then the short redheaded whore said, “Who’s your friend, Crank?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, rushing words into the awkward space. “Barrett, this is Crank Wilson. Crank, this is Barrett … um … Barrett …”

Oh, God. I’d forgotten his last name? I squeezed my eyes shut in embarrassment.