Come Dancing (19 page)

“They compete musically?” I asked.

“Musically, socially, every way you can think of. Who has the best clothes. Who can hold the most liquor without getting squiffy. Arguing over who writes the best lyrics. Going after the same girl to see who wins. Once Mark and Sammy went out with a dancer on alternating nights for a month, before she broke it off with them both. That was before he met me,” she clarified. “But I don’t see why they need the one-upmanship. Actually,” she leaned toward me, “I think fucking the same girl is the closest they can get to fucking each other, without really doing it.” She winked.

Now that’s a disturbing thought
.

“I have another theory,” she added in a low voice. “This one goes a bit deeper. From what Mark has said, none of them could get anywhere with women before they hit it big. Deep down, they still feel like those gawky guys who couldn’t make it with a girl. So anyone who’d pursue them must not be worth it, right? Like any club that would want me, I don’t want to join.”

“I see what you mean,” I said, spearing a tiny hooded mushroom.

“But if the girl has been with Patrick, then she really
must
be desirable because
he
wanted her, and he’s one of the top rock stars in the world. So that makes it okay for Jack or Mark to want her. Or even Sammy, if he’s feeling particularly lucky. And the same for Patrick; if a girl has been with Jack, then it validates him wanting her. Makes it even better in fact, because he’s so jealous of Jack. Then he’s one up on him.”

“That’s quite a theory you’ve worked out. I can see how it makes sense.”

Suzanne shrugged. “You get to know a lot about human nature when you’re doing hair.”

I wondered if Jack had competed for a woman with Mark or Patrick in the past. If he had, obviously it could happen again. “Jack and I seem to be getting a little closer, but sometimes it feels like one step forward and two steps back.”

“Jack can be a bit … elusive,” Suzanne said enigmatically. “I should tell him to bring you to L.A. with us; it gets tiring being around Patrick’s chippies. And you seem to be a steadying influence on Jack. Which hopefully will rub off on Mark.” She smiled.

I’d love to go, but I don’t exactly have an invitation
. I thought about her “steadying” comment. “I’ll bet it can be difficult being with a musician. Especially at their level.”

“The star thing can get a little old. I’m not knocking the money or lifestyle; I’m definitely spoiled. But having to be on the alert all the time for other women prowling around—that wears me out.” She frowned and signaled for the check. “And they’re so wrapped up in their own world when they’re making a new album, sometimes you feel like second fiddle. Or third or fourth.”

“It sounds like it’s smart to stay as independent as possible.”

Suzanne sighed. “That’s easier said than done. I’ll be glad when this record is finished; they’ve been living and breathing it for months, and now they’re getting ready for a couple of concerts they’ve decided to do while they’re in L.A. You haven’t been to see them rehearse yet, have you?”

“No, but I’d like to. I didn’t know anyone outside the band could watch.”

“I’ll tell Jack to bring you along one night.”

I got some money out of my bag, but Suzanne waved it away. “Oh no, my treat. We’ll have to do this again soon,” she said before we parted.

At six-thirty the phone rang and a twangy guitar chord resonated in the receiver. “Hello?” I said. Another chord, a little higher, then it dropped way down low and repeated for a few beats. “Could you tell what I was saying?” Jack came on the line.

“Um … you’re almost done there?”

“I’m desiccated, I’m pixilated, I’m frustrated, I’m about to bust open, I’m so full of what I got to give you,” Jack said in his black blues voice. “I’m gonna pass out if I don’t get me some soon. I’ma boil your cabbage when I get home, baby.”

“My cabbage can’t wait,” I said, laughing. “But I did get a lot done today. And I’m much more knowledgeable about the conflict in Korea.”

“We have to work on your sex talk,” Jack said in a normal tone. “Ko-rea just ain’t doin’ it for me.”

“Sorry, but that’s what I’ve been up to. Should I meet you at your place?”

“I’ll see you there. You can assist me in the shower.”

“Now I feel a lot better.” Jack sat on the edge of the mattress and toweled off his hair. It stood up straight from his head, pointing in all directions.

“Hold on, I’ll dry it for you.” I went into the bathroom, where water was still trickling slowly down the drain. I picked up the sopping wet towels from the shower floor, wrung them out and hung them up, then got the blow drier. I plugged it in by the bed and stood in front of Jack, lifting strands of his damp mane and drying it piece by piece. He put his arms around me, eyes closed, his face resting against my bare chest.

“Mmm, you’re putting me to sleep,” he mumbled into my breast.

I wish we could just curl up together, stay in and skip the party
. “Do you want to rest for a while? You must be tired.” Five hours of playing the guitar, sandwiched between what we’d been doing, surely must have taken a toll.

“Nah, let’s go to this thing; you’ve been stuck inside most of the day,” Jack said. “I want to get out too. Thanks for the blowjob. I mean the blow-dry. Actually both,” he added with a grin.

“You’re welcome.” He’d showed me a new technique in the shower that he definitely seemed to enjoy. “I guess we’d better get dressed if we’re going.”

“Why don’t you pick something out for me to wear?”

“Okay,” I said, going over to the closet. “If I don’t come back in an hour, be sure to come find me.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Jack said, following me. “I just need to hang some of this shit up.”

The tangle of clothing looked even worse than before. The laundry baskets were full to overflowing, surrounded by piles of shirts, pants, ladies’ items … I spied the blonde wig laying on the shelf next to a top hat.

“I’ve got to let Carla in here to do the washing,” Jack said. “She ruined a couple of my suede jackets throwing them in the machine, and ever since I’ve told her to just leave it.”

“How about these?” I plucked a pair of pants from the floor. “With this shirt?” I indicated one of the few on a hanger.

“Good choice.” The phone rang, stopped, and rang again. Jack went to rumble into the receiver. “Really, he won’t go to back to sleep? All right, put him on.”

I listened, curious about who it was.

“Hello Oliver,” Jack said. “Your Mum tells me you got up in the middle of the night. You don’t have a tummy ache, do you?”

For a minute he was silent. “I’ve had bad dreams too. They seem real, but they’re not.” He paused. “Sure, here goes. But promise me you’ll go back to bed after this.”

He waited for an answer, then crooned into the phone: “When Ollybear played, he played very hard; when Ollydog ate, he ate very much. When Ollyfish splashed, he splashed very big; when Ollycat bathed, he bathed very clean. When Ollyowl flew, he flew very high. When Ollymouse slept, he slept very soft …” He repeated the phrases several times, eventually drifting into a barely audible whisper.

“No trouble at all,” he said in his regular voice. “Yeah, I’m going out with Julia tonight. Sure, she’s wild for me,” he added loudly, for my benefit. “Yeah, she’s here now … I won’t … I will. Okay, love ya.”

Jack hung up and came into the bedroom, smiling. “Oliver had a bad dream and wouldn’t go back to sleep ‘til I sang him his bedtime number. I usually tuck him in when I’m there.”

“Were you always into kids?” I asked.

“Nah, just lately. It was having my own nephew that did it. And Emma’s getting to be fun too, now that she’s bigger. She was more of a mama’s girl before.” Jack regarded me. “How about you, have you ever dealt with children much?”

I shook my head. “Never even babysat.”

The phone rang again. “Yeah, we’re ready. We’ll see you there.” He hung up. “That was Sammy. They’re heading out now.”

We went down to the car, and in a few minutes Rick stopped at the club on White Street. The photographers were out in force, and this time Jack had sunglasses for both of us. We started making our way through the phalanx of popping lights.

“Jack, Jack!”

“Jack, this way!”

We were almost to the door when a pudgy man stuck his camera in my face and blinded me with his flash. “Another new ladyfriend, Jack? I thought you preferred blondes.”

Like a shot, Jack was on the guy. He pushed him into the wall. “Want me to rearrange your face, you cunt?”

The man exploded his flash in Jack’s eyes. “Go on and hit me! I’ll see you in court!”

Jack drew back his fist. “I’ll kick seven shades of shit out of you!”

I snatched at his sleeve. “Jack! Let’s go inside.”

Jack glared at the man for a moment longer, then shoved him away hard. He took my arm and pulled me toward the entrance. Inside the music was so loud, the floor was shaking with the bass.
Has Jack brought his blondes to this club? Of course he has, since the photographers know his preferences
.

“Your party’s on the fourth level,” said a woman with a shaved head and studded collar.

We pushed through the churning mass of spiked and tattooed punks, Jack with his shades still on. Upstairs, the wall bore a mural by Keith Haring, an artist whose work I’d seen around the East Village. The crowd was less cutting-edge than the one below; slick-looking women in black leather—many of them blonde—lounged on couches, while others shouted over the noise. Several people made a beeline for Jack right away. He spoke to them and I nodded, but didn’t catch their names. I was still vexed by the photographer’s comment. It was starting to ruin my mood, so I forced myself to push the thoughts away.

A woman with a roundish figure and shoulder-length brown hair approached. “Julia, this is Mary Jo,” Jack said, gesturing between us.

“Good to meet you,” Mary Jo said, scrutinizing me with piercing hazel eyes. “Did you get your PR done this afternoon?” she asked Jack.

“Yeah, it went fine. Patrick did most of the talking.”

“As usual,” she observed. “Speaking of which, a new TV channel is starting on August first, called MTV or some such. They wanted to know if you guys would do an interview. No telling how big an audience they’re going to get, so it might not be worth your time.”

“Up to Patrick,” Jack said. He asked what we wanted, then went to find the bar. Mary Jo looked at me. “Jack has mentioned you a few times. Maybe you and I could go out for a drink.”

I had the distinct impression she wasn’t too pleased with whatever he’d said. “How about Tuesday; six-thirty at Fanelli’s?” She nodded. I wondered why she wanted to see me without Jack around. I hoped I’d pass the audition, but somehow I doubted it.

Jack sailed back to us pinching two plastic cups in each hand, Sammy and Vicky in tow. I embraced Vicky, happy to see a friendly face. Jack handed Mary Jo and me our drinks, belted down a whiskey, put his empty beneath the second cup and sipped it. Mary Jo left to talk to someone else.

“I like this music.” Vicky twisted her hips to Bad Brains. “What do you think of it, Jack?”

Jack eyed her. “I figure we survived disco; we’ll survive punk too.”

“Let’s go shake our tail feathers,” Sammy said, and they went to where the dancing was.

“So here you two lovebirds are.” Mark’s hair was back to its normal color with only a few splotches of green on the ends, which made his beak of a nose even more pronounced. Suzanne’s leopard-print dress accentuated her angular frame.

“That was fun today,” she said to me. “Jack, you haven’t invited Julia to the studio yet. She’d like to see you rehearse.”

“She’s so busy with her work, I doubt she’d have the time. Plus it’s kind of boring.”

“Oh, I’d love it,” I said.

“Anybody want another drink? I’m going to get a chaser.” He headed for the bar.

We were joined by Patrick, decked out in skintight chartreuse pants that looked like they’d been sprayed on, and a tangerine-colored top that set off his azure eyes. Patrick laughed at something Mark said, and then gazed in my direction.

“I see you have staying power,” he commented, as if I was a burr stuck to Jack’s britches. “I was reading an interesting book the other day on Nicholas and Alexandra. Is that the kind of thing your company publishes?”

“We do a little history, but it’s mostly commercial stuff.”

“Isn’t that the way of the world. Did you finish your Proust?”

I was surprised he remembered. “I’m bogged down in the third volume. I just need an uninterrupted chunk of time to make a dent in it.”

“What are you making a dent in?” Jack asked, appearing beside me with a foaming beer.

“Julia and I were talking about Proust,” Patrick said, as if we’d been in a deep intellectual discussion.

“Only the fact that I haven’t been reading much of it lately,” I added.

“How d’you think the interview went?” Patrick asked.

“You dealt with ‘em well. Like always,” Jack said offhandedly.

Suddenly the music got even louder and Jack’s distinctive guitar blasted into the crowd, which roared its approval. Yet the song was unfamiliar. Jack grinned at Patrick.

“It’s the studio tape,” Patrick said. “I thought we could see how it went over.”

The tune was enticingly good; it made people immediately jump out onto the floor. Jack led me to where there was some space. He swayed his lean hips and sang along to the words, which of course no one else knew. I spotted Vicky dancing with someone else, and I wondered where Sammy was. Then I forgot everything and melded myself with the intoxicating rhythm. A guy with long blond ringlets and tight leather pants came up to Jack and put a hand on his shoulder.

“What?” Jack shouted over the music.

“I said, if she fucks like she dances, you’re a lucky man.” He gave me an oily leer.

Jack frowned. “That’s for me to know.” He turned his back on the guy, who shrugged and wandered off.

We continued moving to one great song after another until a slower number began. Jack came close and suddenly we were kissing and he was touching me, arousing me.