The Girl On The Half Shell (8 page)

He doesn’t move. I don’t move. He doesn’t speak. I don’t speak. OK, whatever game this is it is working very well.

I fight to recover from the shock of finding him, and realize he’s watching me and expecting some kind of reaction. He knows exactly what he is doing to me with his little drama and he’s enjoying it. His smugness reminds me of Neil and that makes my temper flare. Oh no, Mr. Sexy British Rocker, I am not going to play your game and make a fool of myself. Some other guy has already made a fool of me tonight.

I adjust my cello in front of me as I fight for something to say. It’s not easy. Those intense black eyes make it nearly impossible to string together words. “Well, well, well. Not what I expected. The voice was hard to read, but the kiss. Definitely confusing. It made me think you were old. But you are a surprise.”

“A good surprise?”

My heartbeat quickens. “I don’t know. We just met.”

Alan remains crouched before me. “Why are you so nervous about your audition for Juilliard? You must know that you are extraordinary.”

Am I really in my dad’s studio with Alan Manzone telling me I’m extraordinary? I swallow nervously and I think he is suppressing a smile.

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Just life jitters. I’m not sure of what I want to do. I’m not sure if I want to go to Juilliard. I’m not sure about anything. Today, I’m not even sure about the cello and it is my favorite instrument.”

“Well, you should be certain about the cello. You are remarkable.”

I blink at him, unsure what to say. There is something in his voice I can’t decipher at all. Is he being gracious, or mocking me? Toying with me or just making small talk?

I swallow as I stare into his gorgeous face. I search for words and then smile at him. “Are you an actor?”

Something flashes in his eyes too quickly for me to be certain of his reaction.

“Why?”

“This has all been very theatrical. You seem like an actor.”

His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disconcerted. “Sorry about the theatrical. I’m working on getting rid of that.”

“I didn’t suggest you should. Especially not if you’re an actor. I would think that would hurt your craft.”

“You can set aside your worry. Not an actor. A musician.”

I set the cello down in the case and hold out my hand. “How do you do? I’m Christian Parker.”

“The introduction is unnecessary. You look just like your dad. He likes to brag about you, in case you don’t know that.”

It’s just a lie, but it makes me happy that he went to the effort of giving me that. “You are not doing well getting rid of the theatrical. You seem almost committed to continuing it. When one introduces themselves the other usually does the same. Introductions are generally considered polite. Would you like to try again?”

He laughs. “I’m British. You do realize the absurdity of lecturing me about politeness?”

“Sure I do, Mr. Whoever You Are. But I don’t know who you are,” I lie.

“Really?”

His reaction is very odd. Maybe I shouldn’t do this.

I nod and struggle to maintain a deadpan expression. “Really. Nothing personal, but I’ve been locked away in a dark cell for eight years.”

“Prison?”

“Worse. Boarding school. I only get parole three times a year. Two months in summer, one month Christmas, three weeks Spring. It makes it really hard to keep up with the world. The last time I was out Reagan was President.”

“You haven’t missed anything. Not much has changed.”

I smile. “That’s good to know. I like Reagan. I’m going to miss him.”

“Well, any friend of Maggie’s is a friend of mine.”

“Maggie?”

“Margaret Thatcher. A great lady.”

“A great lady, but you shouldn’t say that in front of Jack. I don’t think I’ve heard any of my dad’s friends compliment Thatcher and Reagan on the same day. Interesting. And you must be someone to be sitting in with Jack’s gang on the patio.”

He shrugs and extends a hand. “I’m Alan Manzone. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Well, Alan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. So what instrument are you extraordinary with?”

“Guitar. With this gang I play the drums. I don’t know if I’m extraordinary. I was just here when this started. No drummer. I was here.”

“Are you naturally self-effacing or is it just being British?”

“I’m not self-effacing at all. I’m generally considered arrogant, flamboyant, obnoxious and completely self-absorbed. At least in the American press. They are less kind in the UK.”

That comment made him sound tired and annoyed with himself. I study his face, not sure how to respond.

“I’ve had a tough year,” he adds.

“Why tough?”

“I’m very good at fucking up. In fact, I excel at it.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I say.

“Oh, yes. That bad. Hardly anyone is speaking to me. The label is pissed. The promoters won’t touch me. I’m being sued by everyone.”

Wow, I never expected to hear that. There was something in the papers about him walking out on his US tour, but nothing that suggested it was as bad as all that.

“If not for Jack I’d probably be in a cell in the Chicago area,” he mutters, exasperated and shaking his head.

Jack? What does Daddy have to do with this? All this is news to me so my surprise is genuine and I can feel inside of Alan a strange pressure, a sort of not completely contained internal need to talk. But why is he here with me when Jack is only a patio away?

Now that I’m over the shock of finding him, I see details that I missed. He looks emotionally beat up. Under the theatrics, confidence and charm, he seems a very troubled guy, soulful and tired. Troubled, soulful, and tired at twenty-six. In real life he seems younger, nearer to his age. What the hell has happened to this guy?

A little lightness seems like it would be a good thing. “Jack puts me in a cell and keeps you out. That doesn’t seem fair since I’m his daughter,” I tease.

He laughs and pushes his hair from his face. “Well, you’re out of your cell tonight, but I’m still working free of mine. Forgiveness is a tough road.”

“Do you want to go for a walk? I like to take advantage of freedom and fresh air every chance I get. Or do you have to get back to the geriatric ward?”

“Sacrilege. Some of the greatest musicians in the world are sitting on your dad’s back patio.”

“But for some reason you’re here sitting in a studio with me. Why?”

“Feeling a little shaky tonight and even when I’m not I usually prefer solitude when I’m not working.”

“Is that how you ruined your career? You’re one of the twelvers?”

I wait. I already know the answer. I can see it. But that is another shock tonight. I hadn’t read anything about
this
. How did they keep it from the press?

“Twelvers?”

“Twelve step buddies of Jack. What’s your poison? Booze, pills or coke?”

He eases back on his heels as his eyes comb my face in a searching way that is uncomfortable. He shakes his head. “God, do you have any idea how strange that sounds coming from you?”

I flush. “Why is that strange from me?”

“Because it’s like being questioned about my substance abuse by a Disney character. When I look at you I half expect animated, chirruping birds to appear.”

That was insulting. I feel my temper stir. “Well, if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to be rude.”

He looks puzzled for a moment. “Ah, the Disney character comment pissed you off. I didn’t mean it as a pejorative.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m sure from you it’s a compliment.”

I stand up.

“You’re not leaving are you?” He cocks his head to one side as though he doesn’t want me to.

I feel the color in my cheeks rising again.

“Are you going to stay pissed at me all night for that?”

All night? How did this turn into all night? He rubs his chin with his long index fingers as he waits for my answer.

“No,” I say with false sweetness, “I’m going to go to bed and forget all about you.”

I start for the door.

“Heroin,” he says from behind me. “I didn’t mean to be rude earlier. You know, with the Disney comment. I’m still learning how to have normal conversations with real people.”

I stop. It’s the first thing he’s said not packed with confusing theatrics. An honest statement that’s left him looking very exposed, very vulnerable.

“Real people? As opposed to…?” I ask.

“Everyone else in my life. I’d been clean eight years, but a year ago I had what they benignly call in Rehab a set-back.”

I’m intrigued by his honesty, in spite of my early irritation with him. “Eight years is a long time. Why did you relapse?”

He smiles wryly. “There are no whys. Only using and not using. Why is not allowed in the Rehab halfway house of Jack’s. Only the why nots.”

Yes, that sounded like Jack. “For what’s it worth I would never have guessed heroin.”

“Really? Why?” His voice is low and he’s gazing at me intently.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to fit you. You seem more elegant than that.”

He laughs. “Elegant? That’s a first for me.”

“You’re a tough guy to read, Alan. But you are elegant. It’s all mixed up in that strange sort of British rocker, messy jeans, t-shirt, shoeless, grunge sort of thing you’ve got going on. But definitely, somewhere in there, elegant.”

He grimaces. “If that’s how you see me then I have an image crisis to contend with and I’m spending too much time with Jack. I’m definitely not going for a shoeless grunge sort of thing. Your dad doesn’t let people wear shoes in the house. Remember?”

He looks down at my feet and I realized I am still wearing my UGGs with Neil’s silly half dollar sticking out of the fold. “Oh, I forgot our coastal customs. See what being in prison can do? Do you want to go for a walk or not?”

I don’t know why I change my mind about going to my room, but I just do. Not waiting for his answer, I leave the studio quickly. I don’t look to see if he follows. I bypass the patio off the kitchen and go down a long hall at the other end of the house to another patio exit. The yard is dark and woodsy here. I slow down, and then stop on the side of the house near the edge. I look back over my shoulder to find Alan standing patiently behind me.

I put a finger over my lips, and shush him. Carefully, I peek around the corner of the house.

“Why all the subterfuge?” Alan asks, whispering. “Will you get in trouble for taking off to the beach with me?”

My fingers do a fluttering motion for him to lower his voice.

“No. Of course, not. Jack approves of everything. Well, everything but booze, drugs, Republicans and the Government.” I point to a set of wooden stairs at the far end of the property that disappear over the cliff. “We have to make it there without them seeing you. If Jack sees you, he’ll  keep you talking for hours. And I don’t like to walk alone on the beach at night. Stupid, but it scares me.”

“It should scare you and you shouldn’t do it alone. Not even here. You’re a very beautiful girl.”

The compliment this time irritates me because I know that I’m not beautiful. He says it very blandly in that
be nice to Jack’s daughter
sort of way that I really hate.

“Do you always compliment girls that way? Sort of randomly, out of thin air? And all very matter-of-fact?”

“No, not usually. I never compliment anyone. I’m self-absorbed. Remember?”

I make a face, grab his hand and tug him along with me at a running pace to the stairs. I am laughing by the time it’s over and I lean against the rail, hardly able to talk through my laughter. I look up to find him staring at me. He’s annoyed by my laughter. Why should he care what I think? His eyes burn into me as if trying to figure out what’s up, and I’m nearly compelled to confess that I know perfectly well who he is and I’ve just been behaving crazy and lame all day.

“I’m going to check tomorrow, but I have to know today. Are you really, really famous?” I ask.

Now he’s suspicious. “Why?”

“Because us sneaking from the house to the beach was really, really lame. We didn’t have to do any of that. I just wanted to see if you’d do it.”

Those beautiful black eyes shift rapidly to annoyance. “I am really, really famous.”

I make a nod. “Good.”

Even though it is dark, the way only lit by moonlight, I trot down the wood steps built into the cliff, the pattern of unevenness known to me and not the least bit intimidating. I’m sitting in the sand, UGGs already off, by the time Alan joins me.

He stares down at me and holds out his hand. “Now what?”

“We just walk, until we find somewhere we want to cop a squat where the tide isn’t too high.”

“Do you do this often?”

“Only when I’m home.”

He rolls his eyes. “Talking to you is like playing Ping-Pong. Are you always so cheeky?”

I laugh. “Cheeky? Alan, that is a first for me and what did you mean by ‘this’?”

“I didn’t mean anything bad. You know, kidnap musicians you find at your dad’s house, make a fool of them, then take them for moonlight walks on the beach.”

“You followed willingly.”

“Thank you for not saying I willingly made a fool. Do you have a boyfriend? Are you involved with someone?”

Whoa!
My heart turns over. Where did that question come from? “Why do you want to know?”

“You’re very confusing and definitely a challenge to talk to.”

Me? Confusing? For a moment I wonder if he’s making fun of me. I kick the sand with my feet. “Nope. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“That surprises me. Something in that nope tells me you used to and the story is not good.”

“Nope. Not good. Not bad, just sort of nope.” I tilt my face to look up at him and I can see that he’s waiting for me to explain that answer. For a fraction of a second he looks really interested, though I can’t imagine why any guy would be interested in my dating history. Maybe he’s just making small talk. “I don’t date that much. I just can’t seem to connect with the right kind of guy. I met someone I sort of like tonight but he is what I call my classic type A jerk so I won’t be seeing him again. Just to let you know there are four types of jerks who usually try to date me: Type A, type B, type C, type D.”