Revenant Rising (15 page)
“That only stands to reason . . . within reason,” David says.
“I am a little curious about the manager, though. What’s his name? Nate Isaacs? I was watching him when you beat him to the punch about expanding an interview into a biography and he definitely flinched.”
“You don’t say? That’s not like Nate. Interesting . . . Goes along with what I said yesterday about him not being on top of his game lately.”
“Oh, right. I remember now. He’s the one you were bashing for—”
“I was merely faulting him for allowing the insult to his client by the Institute Awards organizers and for so jealously guarding his client’s privacy when it seems counterproductive.”
“Wait a minute. Didn’t I just hear the client hold himself responsible for the prolonged news blackout? Maybe you ought to lighten up on Isaacs if he’s only following orders.”
“Maybe I would if I weren’t in total agreement with Elliot that Isaacs’s present management technique is smothering, to say the least.”
David taps the face of his watch, his standard way of terminating an unscheduled exchange. “Give this a chance, Laurel. Give
him
a chance. If you do, I think you’ll find Elliot conversant on a wide range of subjects. You may even find you have interests in common.”
“That is
way
beyond the realm of possibility, David. I’ve accepted an assignment, not an assignation.”
Laurel returns by elevator to the lower floor and her own office suite. The accommodations are not as grandiose as David’s new layout, but they are a little over the top for a provisional partner—her own designation.
She goes easier on Amanda than she did David. She waits until an hour’s worth of routine matters have been addressed before drilling her assistant for whatever else might be learned about the sudden turn of events.
Amanda professes no foreknowledge when called into the inner office. “I didn’t have a clue,” she swears from the generously proportioned client chair that dwarfs her small frame. “All I knew about ahead of time is that I was slated to meet Colin Elliot in the flesh and sit in on the conference as your associate, that’s all, so if there was a hidden agenda I sure didn’t hear about it, and even if I had I’m not sure I’d have known what to make of it. Who are you accusing of a setup, anyway? David Sebastian or the Colin Elliot camp? And why are you asking me?”
“Because yesterday David proclaimed you the go-to about anything music industry-related.”
“He what?”
“Quoting David, word has it that you’re the resident expert on anything that’s happening on the music scene. This naturally came as news to me because I’ve only known you for five years—or is it six?—without having any idea you had this . . . this unheralded expertise.”
“Knowing the way you feel about the music industry, I never said anything about my interest in the pop music scene for obvious reasons. I didn’t want to be—what’s the word I want?”
“Tainted?”
“No, diminished. That’s it. I didn’t want to be
diminished
by this interest. And that’s all it is, and just so you know, it doesn’t depend on any particular expertise, heralded or otherwise.”
“Does this mean you’re a groupie?”
“Heavens no, I’m definitely not in that category, but I did almost pee my pants when I first met Colin Elliot this morning and he turned out to be the super-hunkiest thing ever and the nicest thing ever when he bothered to talk to me and walk with me and everything.” Amanda’s hazel eyes take on extra shine and her naturally rosy cheeks take on extra color.
“Like hell you’re not a groupie. Just look at you blush,” Laurel teases.
“Well . . . maybe a little bit,” Amanda concedes with a grin that tables the topic for the time being.
A topic with fewer potential thorns is how to handle the moderate workload that will need channeling elsewhere if Laurel expects to devote full time to the chronicling of a rock star’s life.
“Shift whatever you can to the junior associates,” she instructs Amanda. “It’s not as though I’m surrendering my own clients, they were all assigned, and the shift won’t be for that long. I should be finished with the special assignment by Easter.”
“Are you
crazy
?” Amanda looks up from her steno pad and rolls her eyes in alarm. “Easter’s less than three weeks from now and they want an entire book, you know. They’re talking about a whole biography, not just some slapdash interview. You can’t put something like that together in three weeks—no way—not even if I help with the writing as well as the transcribing and organizing.”
“For lord’s sake, Amanda,
do
try to remember that the subject is not Jefferson or Lincoln or some multifaceted world figure like Gandhi or Churchill. The subject is a musician who’s suffered some bad luck. Other than for the bad luck, how much can there be to write about? He can’t be more than thirty-five, he hasn’t lived even half his life yet.”
“He’s thirty-seven,” Amanda huffs, “and if you’d get off your high horse for a minute you’d find out—”
“Save it, David’s already preached that sermon.”
“Okay. Fine. Just give him a chance, okay?”
“That’s already been agreed to. And while we’re at it, I’ll take all the help I can get with the transcribing and organizing of notes, but I’ll do the writing myself. That clear?”
“Perfectly. And I’ll try not butt in again unless you decide to expand on the pamphlet format you have in mind.”
If overheard their exchange would sound more biting than it really was, with Amanda taking the lion’s share of criticism for challenging her employer. But ever thus it has been and shall remain as far as Laurel is concerned. Amanda wouldn’t have been recruited to make the move uptown if she didn’t function as a lot more than a remarkably astute paralegal.
“Quick question,” Laurel says when the sting has left the air.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“How did you happen to be designated resident expert on the music scene?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“I’m not, David is, and I’m naturally curious about how he arrived at that determination.”
“A week or two ago . . . It was in the break room, with everyone yammering away, that I tuned in on some really mean-spirited criticism of Rayce Vaughn—he’s the rock superstar that just signed on as David Sebastian’s first—”
“I know who he is. Recently out of rehab, I believe.”
“Yes and that was the issue this critic was attacking, predicting how soon Vaughn would revert to his so-called depraved ways and how stupid Mr. Sebastian would look for having placed faith in him and I couldn’t sit still for that, I had to speak up.”
“I see . . . and?”
“In defending Vaughn I cited the many rock legends who have survived themselves—survived drug and alcohol abuse—and gone on to greater glory.” Amanda rattles off a few of these survivor names, some recognizable, some not. “But I didn’t stop there, I named lesser-knowns and entire bands that got clean and sober, and really put this negative old biddy in her place—not unlike you did the idiot publicists this morning.”
“Beside the point. Go on, please. I’m still waiting to hear how David got wind of this.”
“Because, as it turned out, the negative old biddy was his executive assistant and she saw to it the new kid on the block got called on the carpet for knowing too much about the wrong thing.”
“Not unlike what I might be expected to do one of these days,” Laurel says.
“I didn’t say that . . . I didn’t even
imply
that.”
“But that
is
the reason you never brought any of this up, isn’t it?”
“Should I have been proud of myself for disrespecting a senior employee?” Amanda says.
“David certainly seems to think so. Tell me, when you were called on the carpet, were you quizzed about this unsuspected font of . . . knowledge?”
“There was some give and take, yes, but I wouldn’t have called it a test. Once I’d verified everything I said to his assistant, he complimented me on my forthrightness and indicated he might be calling on me as a consultant and said I should call him David.”
“All of this without my hearing about it.”
“Are you making us out to be coconspirators or something? You know darn well why . . . Oh never mind. This is getting
really
tiresome and no wonder. Look at the time.” Amanda indicates the ormolu clock on the mantle of the faux fireplace. “Going on two and we haven’t had lunch yet. No wonder we’re so prickly. Shall I order in or do you want go out?”
“Order in.”
“Okay, let me just get a menu.” Amanda disappears into the outer office and returns almost immediately, empty-handed, bright-eyed, and blushing. “You’re three o’clock is in the reception area with this incredibly hopeful look on his face,” she stage whispers.
“Are you certain I’m not interrupting something?” the client says as Laurel directs him to take the chair Amanda just vacated. “I can hold out longer if I have to.”
Amanda, who ushered him into the inner office without express permission to do so, takes the lead. “I’m certain. Her calendar’s clear for the rest of the day and if I have anything to say about it, it’ll soon be clear for the rest of—”
“Thank you, Amanda.” Laurel shoots her a warning look implying she’s already done enough.
“Yes, thank you, Amanda,” the client echoes before sitting down. “And thank
you
.” He turns to Laurel. “What . . . what shall I call you?”
“Call her Laurel,” Amanda says and quick ducks out the door.
“That okay?” he asks.
Laurel shrugs and turns up her palms in resignation.
“Good,” he interprets. “And you’ll call me Colin, then.”
“Very well.” She’ll call him Colin when pressed, but she’ll rob him of significance the rest of the time by referring to him as just another client.” “Shall we put your early arrival to good use now that name-calling’s been settled?” she asks.
“Interesting turn of phrase,” he says of her inadvertent slur, the beginnings of a grin working one corner of his mouth. “Agreed it is, let’s not waste one extra minute.”
She drums a ballpoint pen on the bare desktop before applying it to the legal pad in front of her. “We need to establish how best to implement your request—we need to establish structure, scheduling, frequency of sessions, length of sessions, duration of the interview period, means of remuneration, and in what amount.” She lists these prompts in an ordered column, looks up expecting him to be ogling her the way he did during the meeting.
Instead, he’s focused on her phone as though he’d never seen one before.
“Have you just remembered another appointment?” she asks the obvious. “We can put this off until later if you wish.”
“You’ve caught me staring again, haven’t you then.” He warms her with a broad smile that deepens his dimples and the squint lines around his eyes, and reveals large even teeth, none of which are filed to points or studded with precious stones. “No need to postpone, actually. I only need the phone for a few minutes. I ring home this time of day whenever I can,” he explains.
“Use mine, or I can set you up in a conference room,” Laurel says.
“Yours is fine, if you don’t mind.”
She turns the instrument around so he can access the buttons and gets up to leave. He stops her with the argument that she’s going to be privy to a lot about his life, so she might as well sit in on the phone call.
Monitoring one end of a conversation isn’t that informative or even that interesting until it becomes clear he’s reprimanding someone for a serious infraction, judging by the client’s stern tone of voice. Then, after a pause, his voice softens and she can guess he’s addressing the child referred to this morning.
“Hey, sleepyhead, it’s Dad with news from your great friend Jeremiah . . . Simon? Are you listening?”
Laurel is listening. Acutely. Straining and writing as fast as she can to catch every word of a nonsense verse the client appears to be making up as he goes along.
When the client finishes the halting narrative, Laurel speed-reads what she managed to scribble down.