Chapter 41
Washed ashore by fate, Damien had so far survived his crazy life. Just when he thought he couldn’t breathe anymore, the current dragging him down into the depths of his despair, fate had pulled him up again. And his Voice. Guiding him through stormy seas, always there to keep him company, give him inspiration.
Protecting him against the minefield of temptations that defined his life. Generously allowing him a few friendly affairs since Elizabeth. Pleasant interludes without expectation on either side. But there was no spark of love… until Ariana.
Don’t fog the boundaries, the Voice warned. Just keep it professional . Don’t make a fool of yourself in LA. It’s your song and her music. And that’s it.
***
Airports were dangerous places. So many bars, so many temptations.
Damien sat by the window in the first-class lounge, nursing a Virgin Mary.
His night flight had been delayed. The man next to him was sipping a whisky, and already had another shot lined up on the table.
He looked up and peered at Damien.
‘Don’t I know you?’ he said with a Californian twang. ‘Yes, I do! Damien Spur, the writer.’
‘The very same,’ Damien replied, eyeing the glass of golden liquid.
‘Well, that’s a coincidence.’ The man took out a copy of Writing in the Sand from his hand luggage and waved it in the air. ‘Great job, you’ve got me hooked from the first chapter,’ he said. ‘I’ve always been a fan of yours. The Empress was a phenomenal debut. And then the second, Legends Never Die . Fantastic. A really intriguing thriller. Couldn’t work out the ending. Fabulous twist. The gardener and his wife, who’d have thought it! Can I just say one thing?’
‘Pray tell,’ Damien said, still distracted by the whisky.
I know the man’s a bore, but don’t even think about it , whispered the Voice.
‘If you want my honest opinion’ – the man eyeballed him – ‘I don’t think it’s fair that the press are always bitching about your relationships.’
‘Actually, I’m rather flattered,’ Damien countered. ‘Writers generally don’t hold much attention. Unless there’s some scandal that the press can find to make the headlines.’
‘Well, they certainly have rich pickings with you.’ The man picked up the second shot and downed it in one.
Damien licked his lips. His head throbbed… It would be so easy, just a tot, a wee dram…
‘You know something, Damien,’ the man moved closer, ‘I have a story to tell that will blow your mind. And I think that us meeting like this was meant to be. What were the chances of me having your book in my bag and you actually sitting next to me. So…’
He’s got the fix on you , the Voice said. One, two, three… wait for it …
The man stretched out his hand. ‘My name’s Steve Diamond.’
Now close down the conversation. The man’s a moron , said the Voice.
‘Hello, Steve.’ Damien shook his hand. ‘Tell you what, I’ve got to send a few emails, so perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I get on with my work?’
‘That’s fine.’ Steve nodded his head vigorously, his face crimson and sweaty from the liquor. ‘Maybe after you’ve finished sending your messages, we could continue our chat? And, perhaps,’ he added, ‘if I’m not being too pushy, we could sit next to each other on the plane if there’s a spare seat. I know the singles are usually taken, but maybe there’s a double that’s free.’
‘No thanks. I like my own company. That’s one of the pleasures of flying.’
That’s it. Nip it in the bud , the Voice said.
‘Okay, fine.’ The man got up from his chair. ‘Not a problem. Sorry to bother you, Mr Spur. But if I can say one more thing… You write a good thriller, but you’re an unpleasant, arrogant son of a bitch… So that’s it.’ He threw the book on the table. ‘I won’t be reading this anymore.’
Damien could smell the alcohol on his breath. Yep, airport lounges were very dangerous places.
***
Cocooned in the first-class cabin, Damien was happy to be alone with his thoughts, mind-travelling.
Each time the bottle of Glenfiddich, his favourite tipple, glided by on the drinks trolley, the Voice whispered, Don’t even think about it. Keep your head. Tough it out.
Damien breathed deeply, let his mind float into nothingness and fell asleep. He didn’t wake till the early hours of the morning.
***
Chateau Marmont, with its Gothic charms, was for Damien the only place to stay in LA. The hotel’s old-style glamour, famed for its notorious scandals, suited him.
Damien – white suit, shades and panama hat – sauntered through the lobby to the front desk. Even amongst the blasé guests, his languid confidence and style caused a ripple of whispers.
The Voice was amused. Who would have thought it? There you were a year ago throwing yourself in the River Thames, and look at you now, Mr Slick. You give all the miserable bastards who are ready to jump into the fires of hell hope.
Damien wasn’t in a hurry. He had a cold shower in the art-deco-tiled bathroom of the penthouse suite and, padding across the parquet floor of the living room with a towel round his waist, went to play a few chords on the baby grand.
Maybe he’d invite Ariana to dinner. Sing her some Cole Porter songs, play her some Chopin Nocturnes. Her raw beauty and untamed passion had captivated him. Her voice rich and smooth like honey had evoked a deep-seated rush of sadness that had brought tears to his eyes. This was the soulmate he had yearned for.
Stop , the Voice said. Grow up. You’re too old to play Romeo. And more than likely she’s only interested in a creative collaboration.
Or maybe not. She seemed to be drawn to him. The way she wooed him, held him.
Damien was confused. Dizzy with anticipation. Worried that he would make the wrong impression. If people only knew that the sexy king of the intelligentsia, Vanity Fair ’s leading man, was really a puppy dog who didn’t know his ass from his elbow where women were concerned, and had lost his way years ago, barking up the wrong pair of panties.
***
Next morning the producers, Debra Peters and Seth Landry, greeted him with casual LA smiles.
At the back sat a striking young woman with short blonde hair, dressed all in black. She gave him a lazy look. He mouthed “hello”.
Marc Castle appeared. He stood next to the mixing desk, his eyes fixed on the studio floor, arms crossed, propped against the wall. He seemed calm, in command, sexy. Damien wondered if he’d slept with Ariana.
Come on, why speculate? What’s it to you ? The Voice was back again. She’s an artist – treat her with respect.
Ariana made her entrance like a travelling minstrel. Cradling her guitar, she drifted barefoot across the studio to sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor.
She smiled up at the control room and, placing the cans over her ears, adjusted the microphone and strummed a few chords.
‘Ready when you are,’ she said brightly.
***
It was different hearing Ariana sing the song in a recording studio. He missed the closeness of that wonderful week they’d spent together working late into the night.
She was the high priestess, his teacher, mother. But not his lover. Despite her beauty and sensuality, he hadn’t played the seducer.
He remembered her words…
‘This is how love feels, Damien. Write my passion,’ she’d said. ‘Be Sandra – leave a lasting memory for Samuel, your great love.’
Damien shut his eyes and let his mind drift beyond the studio walls, carried by the sound of Ariana’s sensuous voice.
He mouthed the lyrics with her.
Can’t you stay forever?
Do you have to leave?
There’s nowhere to go,
Nowhere to hide;
Warm on the inside and cold outside.
Be my darling,
Hold me tight.
Don’t let the night - time shroud the light.
Kindle the flame;
Don’t blow it out.
Warm on the inside, cold outside.
Can’t you stay forever?
Do you have to leave?
There’s nowhere to go,
Nowhere to hide,
Warm on the inside and cold outside.
Nowhere to go,
Nowhere to hide,
Warm on the inside and cold outside.
And then the music stopped. He was back in the control room: everybody clapping, Ariana smiling.
The engineer checked the sound. Hole in one.
Damien rushed down to the studio floor. Had he finally found his soulmate? Someone to cherish for the rest of his life, who would in turn give him what he really needed? Faith in humanity. Love requited.
Ariana took the guitar and laid it gently on the floor. Her face full of love, she opened her arms. Damien was overwhelmed. She moved towards him…
At last, a communion of passion and creativity. He was so close, a heartbeat away.
When she glided past him, into the arms of the mysterious blonde woman who had sat behind him in the control room, he turned away to hide the veil of pain and disappointment in his eyes.
And the Voice said gently, with some compassion, I told you so. Now show some good grace: go and congratulate her.
***
‘What’s it all for?’ Damien asked himself as he lay in bed, wide awake, jet-lagged at 5 a.m.
Now listen to me , said the Voice. No point in searching for love. Let it come to you.
‘Could be waiting a long time. Please, no more bloody cocktail parties. Can’t bear the chatterati and I hate standing. Good old Sartre got it right – hell is other people.’
Damien liked talking to himself. At least the Voice understood him.
‘I’m not sure that I know what love is anymore.’ He got out of bed and padded over to the balcony overlooking the illuminated pool below. Young men and women having a party, romancing, laughing, flirting in the moonlight. He thought, of all the women he’d known, only Laura had reached his soul.
She was brilliant , he thought, a hot mind, but frozen in bed.
Yes, and you treated her as if she were a Ming vase. Bit of a turn - off , said the Voice.
‘And you’ll never let me forget it, will you?’
Just identifying your weak spot , said the Voice. Look at the patterns. Probably started with your mother. Couldn ’t cope with childbirth. As soon as you were born, so the story goes, she pissed off to a sanatorium in Switzerland and left Dada to change your nappies .
‘Stop that.’
And then she returned. But she kept on disappearing. So you did your best to please. ‘Mummy, don’t go away,’ you cried. ‘I promise to be good.’
‘Be quiet, Damien,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand it when you make a fuss. I’ll have to leave again.’
And she did , said the Voice.
‘That’s enough.’ Damien pulled a pillow over his head and rolled over into the foetal position.
Okay, you poor, wee bairn, so we’ll skip the mum/son bit and the adolescent fumbling. Let’s go straight for the biggies.
‘Do we have to? Can’t you let me rest in peace?’
No, we’re working here, we need to know why you always fall into the same hole . The Voice was getting stronger.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, go away. You’re giving me a headache.’
Damien sat up in bed, put his fingers in his ears and shut his eyes. ‘Om shanti, shanti, shanti, om shanti, shanti,’ he chanted. But chanting a mantra couldn’t block out the Voice.
So let’s get back to Laura.Your wife was a liar, but you married her for better or for worse. The marriage of true minds, the Voice carried on relentlessly. But the truth was you bored her to buggery. She bided her time and, when she was ready, left you for a man’s man, who gave her a good seeing to.
Damien was in a sweat. ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ he said.
It’s never enough. We learn from our past.
Damien was spent. ‘So will I ever find love?’
Well, you know who to ask , said the Voice.