The Girl in the Comfortable Quiet (23 page)

A plan?
How does one plan the end of their
marriage? I shudder. My life just keeps getting more awful. Divorce by press
release.

“I think you should do what Brian advises,” Rene
says firmly.

My face jerks up. Rene is probably right. But I
can give Neil the benefit of the doubt one day, can’t I?

I’m about to say something when the door is
abruptly opened. The thundering noise beyond the walls floods the dressing room
untempered. 

Alan. Snippets of the press release flash in my
brain—
continued involvement with rocker Alan Manzone
—and everything
inside me does a painful shimmy and readjusts.

He doesn’t look at me. “Everyone. Get out.”

Oh fuck.

I frantically try to read his expression, but it
is frighteningly blank and I can’t tell what he’s thinking about my marriage
ending with Neil or that Ernie Levine suggested in a backhanded way that Alan
was to blame.

“Not now, Manny,” Brian counters forcefully.

“Get the fuck out, Brian.” His burning black
stare fixes on Rene. “You, too.”

There is a sudden, too rapid flurry of action
around me as the room empties. The door shuts.

For the first time Alan looks at me. He’s
standing across the room doing nothing but staring at me. Oh no, I know that
expression. He’s pissed—I lift my gaze to his—oh no, not pissed. He’s furious.

“Are you doing all right?” he asks quietly yet
strangely intense.

I take a moment to organize my thoughts and
emotions by studying him, but it does me no good, because even in this hideous
morass I still feel that emotion-jarring jolt I always do the first seconds I
see him. That jolt that makes my thoughts and mouth never work cooperatively.

He looks simultaneously relaxed and coiled, ready
to strike. “Are you doing all right?” he repeats with fierce impatience.

Somehow I manage not to jump. “I’m fine, Alan,” I
say, but I hate how unsteady my voice sounds.

His black eyes comb my face. “You’ve had a hell
of a week, haven’t you, love?”

I pretend not to understand. Impatience flashes
in his eyes.

He sinks down beside me on the sofa, close, but
not touching. “It’s in the news, Chrissie. What happen with Neil? What did he
do to cause you to walk out on the marriage?”

I hear something in his voice, urgency and an odd
note I can’t decipher. How did he know I walked out on the marriage? That’s not
how Neil’s people are spinning this.

I somehow manage to pull my features into a calm
expression. “Ernie Levine. That’s what happened with Neil. Really, Alan. It’s
just a press fuck up. That’s all. I’m sorry that you got dragged into it, but
it’s just a fuck up. Nothing more. I’m sorry.”

Alan shrugs and I can’t tell if he believes me or
is pretending to. “So that’s all it is, Chrissie?” he says quietly.

“There’s nothing to it.”

His jaw tightens. “OK.” He reaches out to lightly
pat my thigh. “I’m here if you need me. Whatever you need, I’ll do anything I
can to help you.”

“Thanks, Alan. But everything is going to be
fine. There is no problem in my marriage.”

He rises to his feet. He stares down at me in a
way that makes me tremble. “I will always be here if you need me. Don’t forget
that, love.”

I force a smile. “You better than anyone should
know never to believe what you read in the papers, Alan.”

His posture stiffens into something more distant
and less accessible. He gives me a curious stare as he rakes back his hair from
his face. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. If you need anything,
Chrissie, ask. For once in your life, just ask. I’ll do anything I can for you.
Anything you want.”

Those burning black eyes lock on me for a single
moment and then he leaves. The door clicks closed and I’m too quickly
surrounded by vacant air.

Oh crap. I sink down on a chair, hugging my
middle, trying to stop whatever it is that’s running wildly inside me.
Everything is changing so rapidly and I can’t keep up. Not with my thoughts or
emotions. First Brian. Then Neil and now Alan. And I can’t escape my internal
warning that I’ve somehow made another catastrophic error with Alan, that
something quite different was happening in the room between us than what I
thought, that I read it wrong and made another mistake.

I stare at the closed door. Fuck, what have I
done? Did Alan just make the first step back toward us and did I just lie and
send him away?

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

My body doubles over and the air is entering my
lungs in short, painful, useless gasps.

The door opens. I look up. Rene.

She does a fast once-over of me. Her lids fly
wide. “What happened?”

I stare at her, wide-eyed. “I don’t know.
Everything is happening too quickly around me. I can’t catch my breath. I don’t
think I can go on stage tonight.”

Rene brushes the hair back from my face. “It’s
going to be fine, Chrissie. Go out there. Do your set with Alan. No one will
think about what’s being splattered in the papers. It’s going to be fine.”

My breathing starts to grow rapid with my
accelerating heart. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can go on
stage. I don’t think I can sing. How could Neil do this to me?”

Rene gives me a heavy, meaningful look. “If you
don’t go out there you’ve all but confirmed the stories Ernie Levine let loose
in the press. You’ve got to rise above events until you decide how you want to
handle everything.”

“My husband is leaving me for a man and blaming
me in the papers. Exactly how do I handle that?”

Shit, why did I say it out loud? My panic attack
kicks up ten levels.

“Oh fuck,” Rene exclaims, going to her purse. She
grabs something and returns with a little white pill in her hand. She shoves it
in my mouth before I can stop her.

“Damn it, Chrissie, don’t spit it out,” she
orders, holding a chilled bottle of water in front of me. When I don’t take it
she glares. “It’s only a tranquilizer, prescribed by my doctor. See,
prescribed.” She holds the bottle in front of my face. “It will only chill you
ever so slightly. Take the edge off. Nothing more. Make you pleasantly numb.
Hopefully get you through tonight’s performance, until we can go back to my
place and deal with Neil.”

She sounds so confident. So sure. I stare at her.
I hesitate.

“Damn it, Chrissie, you don’t have to do everything
the hard way always. It doesn’t make you weak to need a little help from time
to time. There’s a lot of pressure in medical school. This takes off the edge
those nights when I need it. The doctor wouldn’t give it to me if it were
dangerous or addictive or wrong.”

I grab the water from her hand,
take a large swig and swallow.  

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I
stand in a darkened corner of the stage wing, trying to keep up with where Alan
and the band are in the set as I wait for my entrance. The air is stiflingly
hot, the overcrowded arena pulsing, but I’m astonishingly calm, not even a
flutter of the nerves I usually get waiting to go on stage. Just a tad drowsy,
wonderfully so.

What the fuck did Rene give me?

I sway slightly on my feet and, the head of my
security team, Trey, grabs my shoulders, steadying me. His face lowers until
his mouth is at my ear.

“Chrissie, are you all right?” he asks anxiously.

The voice I hear is not the one in my head.
“She’s fine,” Rene exclaims carelessly.

I open my eyes. Rene is standing close to me and
I’m being held on my feet with my back against a piece of equipment by Trey’s
strong grip. I see the microphone in my hand. I don’t even remember it being
given to me. I start to laugh. I’m so tired and don’t know why I’m laughing.

“Oh fuck, what are you on?” Trey mutters in
dread.

“She took a tranquilizer,” Rene counters, annoyed.
“A very mild dose of Valium. Christ, do you blame her with all the shit
happening today?”

They start to argue over me, their words too
rapid to bother to process. I just want to sleep. For the first time in too
many days, I feel like I could sleep, really sleep.

Trey grabs my chin, jerking my face toward him.
“Chrissie, talk to me. How fucked up are you? How much have you had to drink?”

I shake my head. Then I feel a light slap on my
cheek. He swears again, then talks into his headset. “Hey, can someone find
Brian Craig and send him to stage left wait? Now. I don’t know what to do. I’ve
got one fucked-up singer here. I don’t think she should go on.”

Trey grabs a water from the pile in a bucket and
unscrews the lid. He pushes it against my mouth.

“Chrissie, try to drink some.”

“Let me do it,” I hear Rene snap, pushing him out
of the way. Her face moves into mine. “Chrissie, look at me.” I stare into her
searching gaze and her lids shoot wide. I feel her fingers moving my lower
lids. “Holy crap, who gets this fucked up on one Valium? Drink the water,
sweetheart.”

The water is pushed into my mouth. Coolness runs
down my throat and chin. My arms start flapping.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Rene is making me bounce
and moving my arms in a flying motion. “Wake yourself up. You need to pull it
together. Get out there and do your thing.”

The motion is good. I slowly focus, less drowsy.
Another large gulp of water is poured down my throat. I start to cough.

I push the bottle away. “No, I don’t need more.
I’m OK. That blast of ice water on my tits pretty much shocked me awake.”

Rene laughs. “I should pour the whole damn bottle
there.”

I stare at her, still feeling too out-of-body.
“What did you give me?”

“Just a Valium. I didn’t think it would hit you
like this. But then, you didn’t really eat lunch or breakfast, and, crap, I
don’t even know how much we’ve had to drink today. Oh God, I’m sorry, Chrissie.
I didn’t think it would mess you up like this. I was just trying to help.”

I nod, trying to keep up with her words, and I
realize Alan is starting the song before my entrance.

“I’m OK. Don’t worry,” I assure her, but even I
can hear my voice is breathy and strange. I put a hard, fast friendship kiss on
her lips.

I push away from the wall and start to shake out
my body. My wandering vision roams and then locks on Alan center stage and my
heartbeat increases. All other parts of me are without sensation; I can feel
only my heart, its frantic pounding, and the only thing my heart can feel is
Alan. I am consumed by him, even now when he is on center stage, not a thought
in his head for me, as unreachable as if he were on another continent.

My vision becomes a narrowing tunnel where there
is only
him
. It is impossible to see anything else when Alan is on
stage.
I
start to grow hotter, less comfortable in my flesh, and Alan is just standing
there. Black eyed, black hair, potent in his masculine beauty, a master of the
space around him, more erotic, more stirring, more inciting than any man has a
right to be.

Shit, he hardly moves. He hasn’t looked at me
once. But then again, Alan doesn’t have to. He commands everyone around him
with his
pain, his passion, his brilliance and his anger. That sense that he invites you
inside him and then quickly bolts the door. Intoxicating and unreachable at
once.

His low raspy voice swirls around me like
caressing chains holding me to him. And I hear in his voice, his music, the
Alan I have only ever known in his bed. Alan singing is Alan in bed. A lack of
want and a well of screaming need unfed. He needs. He does not need. He wants.
He does not want. He loves. He does not love. He hungers. He is not hungry. He
devours. He overfills you. He hates. He does not hate.

An endless paradox. Enigmatic, consuming, and
enticingly him. Shit, no wonder I’ve always loved him. I’ve lied to myself.
There were times I almost believed it. But I have never for a moment since I
first met Alan stopped loving him. I feel it so strongly in this moment,
rushing all around and through me. I will always love him.

I’m panting, sweating, and out of control again.
Only this time it is my Alan-affect.
Crap!
What’s wrong with me that I
can’t take hold of my own mind, heart and body?

I fight to concentrate on the music from the
stage. Just listen to the music, Chrissie. Don’t miss your entrance. Don’t look
at Alan. Sing. Then leave. Don’t trust yourself. Don’t get near him. Not today.

Time moves in, everything around me takes on a
fuzzy cast, and then jumps into focus, accelerating. I hear my own voice, and I
realize I’m singing and moving on stage and the crowd has come to its feet.

I count the beats in my head.
Stay on the
beat, Chrissie. Four songs. And then you can get the hell out of here.

The minutes slip by without a feel of realness.
I’m finishing the final note of the last song, vaguely aware I have somehow
managed to do this and yet not aware of anything I’ve done. But it’s going to
be all right. It’s over. I’m not sure if I performed a good or bad set, the
crowd is crazy—they are always crazy in Alan’s universe—but I’m done.

Leaning forward, I breathe in deeply, struggling
to collect myself, knowing that I am more exhausted and winded than I should
be. I tick off in my head the after-performance ritual. One kiss and one loose,
wraparound sort of hug with Alan, three words, a handful of steps, Trey—
where
the fuck is he?—
and then I’m out of here.

I straighten up smiling, waving as I move across
the floor toward Alan. Crap, why are my mind and body moving in slow motion and
why is everything around me moving too quickly? The arena shimmies and starts
to twirl. I’m on my feet, but everything is spinning. My thoughts. My heart.
Alan.

Damn.

My shifting vision fixes on Alan. Those black
eyes are burning into me and I grow more disoriented. Why is he staring at me
that way? No, don’t think about that. Don’t think of Alan.

Smile at him, Chrissie. Do the little
hug/hug/kiss/kiss homage and escape off stage. Just say
“thank
you LA”
and get the hell away quickly. Everything will be OK.

I find Trey in the wings waiting with security
for me, and relief joins the gushing blood in my veins. I hold the microphone
to my lips, my mouth moves, but I can’t hear my own voice. The crowd erupts,
swelling toward the stage, coming to their feet with a riotous response that rumbles
through the rafters.

The world shifts and my body feels like it is
melting beneath me. I anticipate the impact, but it doesn’t happen. Why don’t I
hit the floor? I focus for a moment. Len is holding me against him and his hand
is closed over my fingers, and for some reason he is lowering my arm to my
side.

“Little kitty, hold onto me. Let me get you off
stage,” Len Rowan says soothingly. His arm tightens around my waist and my head
droops onto his shoulder.

The look on his face is strange. Why does Len
look so anxious? Then I see Alan and the rest of the guys in a tight circle around
me, and then I know why the band and tech crew are staring at me so strangely.
Why the crowd is going berserk the way it is.

Alan is firing off rapid words and I can’t catch
any of them, but everyone is alarmed and staring at me. Maybe I could figure
out what was happening if I could take in air and the arena would stop
spinning.

Why is Alan yelling?

I feel a slap on my face. “What did you do,
Chrissie? What did you take?”

Alan’s voice sounds far away, as if in a tunnel,
and I feel his touch but nothing works on my body. I’m motionless.

I feel limp like a ragdoll.

“Valium…booze… Her friend, she said she’d be OK.
That she was a doctor. Jesus Christ, I didn’t want to send her on stage. I
shouldn’t have.”

I try to talk. Trey sounds so distraught, but I
can’t gather my words because the voices around me won’t shut up.

“That fucking worthless cunt of a friend,” Alan
exclaims harshly and I can’t figure out who he is talking about. The head of
his security team floats in front of my blurry vision. “Find those assholes
from the BBC. Get the tapes. Send for the car. And clear the fucking hallway.
No press. No cameras. Take the cameras. Break them. I don’t give a fuck. I’ll
pay for it later. But not one picture, not one frame of film of her tonight
leaves here.”

Everything inside me starts to shake in alarm.
Alan is panicked and afraid. He’s trying to stop something. What is it that
Alan is trying to prevent?

I’m spinning out of control and I can’t seem to
stop it. Overly alert, overly numb, in focus and blurry all at once. Shifting
frames in my vision. Limbs that will not work. Shallow, panting breaths that
can’t push air into my lungs.

I see Alan reaching out for me, scooping my body
from Len’s arms and chest. My mind can’t keep pace with the movement, shouting
voices, and flashing cameras pushing in on me from everywhere. 

I’m falling and floating, moving and frozen
simultaneously. All I see is black. I don’t fight it. I let it take me.

~~~

I
pull out of the darkness into that place between conscious and asleep. Voices
move in and out all around me. Shit, where am I? What happened? My eyes won’t
obey my command. I’m too tired to open them. I float in and out. I hear them
talking, but nothing makes sense. Nothing feels real. Not even myself.

“Is she all right?” Alan. Frantic. “Or should we
take her to the hospital?”

Fingers on my body. Something cold against my
chest. A squeaky sound, like a ball being inflated. Pressure on my arm. A shot
of light.

“She’ll be fine.” A male voice. Older.
Unfamiliar. But confident and reassuring. “A combination of exhaustion, stress,
alcohol and tranquilizers. Let me see those.” The sound of something shaking.
Maracas? Why are there maracas? We don’t use maracas on stage. “She took only
one of these? I’ve given her fluids. We’ve gotten her hydrated again. Her
vitals are good. Make sure someone stays with her tonight.”

“I told you.” Rene. Combative. Defensive. “You
didn’t have to fly off the handle like I killed her or something. I would never
do anything to harm her. We drank a lot today. More than Chrissie is used to.
She’s hasn’t been sleeping. And she’s exhausted.”

“You are a fucking poor excuse for a friend,”
Alan grinds out on a voice of pure acid.

“She’s had a fucked week,” Rene counters.
Intense. “If you want to blame someone, blame Neil. It’s not every day a woman
catches her husband in her bed with
his
best friend.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Alan.
Impatient, and something else.

“She didn’t tell you?” Rene sounds surprised.
“She’s divorcing Neil. Neil is having an affair in Chrissie’s house with Andy
Despensa. The whole thing has her half out of her mind. She’s been just this
side of coming unglued since she caught them in bed together. You don’t know
how it’s been. Not that I blame her. That’s one you don’t expect and prepare
yourself for. After talking to you, she was melting down backstage. I gave her
something to take the edge off. I thought I was helping.”

Alan does a raspy, enraged exhale of breath that
sounds like a growl.

“The only thing you are more inept at than being
a human being is practicing medicine,” Alan hisses, and then there’s the
sensation of floating again.

More angry voices. Loud. Overlapping. Popping
sounds. Shots of too bright light.

I feel weightless as though I’m floating.
Something slams. A car door? I don’t know how I know this. I feel warmth and
movement against my limp flesh. Alan. I don’t know how I know that either.

Quiet.

Something is lightly moving in my hair. Alan’s
fingers? I begin to feel queasy, less foggy, and the churning of my stomach
makes whatever this lethargy is change. I’m starting to hurt and my head is
pounding.