Chapter 12 #3
Tommy’s penthouse apartment was amongst the quieter streets of downtown, in the Tribeca district, nestled, Andrea knew, alongside other A-listers, like Beyoncé and Jay-Z, Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel, Taylor Swift.
Celebrities in New York tended to congregate in clusters, where their security could almost be shared.
She paid the cab driver and headed inside the building after being buzzed in and presumably checked off a list at the front desk. Tommy Dawson Girl Number 6,000, tick!
The concierge at the front desk told her to wait in the vestibule, where she was met by one of Tommy’s security who had been at the office earlier today. ‘Ms Williams, I’ll take you up.’
She rolled her eyes. These guys must be versed in picking up women at the front desk for Tommy. ‘It’s Andrea, or Andi. And you are?’
‘Mike,’ he said, turning his back on her and pressing the button to call the elevator.
‘Well, it’s nice to see you for the second time in a day, Mike.’ Her heels clicked on the marble floor tiles as she followed him into the elevator. ‘Nice to learn your name, too.’
They rode five floors in silence. Andrea slipped off her leather jacket, fussed with her first-time-on blouse, and checked her skinny jeans were sitting right against her strappy shoes. ‘Just so you know, Mike, I’m not like the other girls. I’ve known Tommy for years. We used to work together.’
Mike was unresponsive, his hands held together in front of him, his suit from earlier today having been replaced by a black, long-sleeved top and black slacks that showed his impeccably muscled frame.
Well, whether he responded or not, she knew herself that she wasn’t like the other girls.
She wasn’t just coming here for a lay. No, she was coming here to chat.
To catch up with an old friend. And, above all else, to give her a genuine excuse to avoid a certain person whose name would not cross her lips tonight.
There were only two doors on the top floor of the building.
Mike led the way to one, knocked and opened it.
Before she even stepped inside, Andrea heard the unmistakable sound of U2 and B.B.
King’s ‘When Love Comes to Town’. Ironic, given magazines had, on more than one occasion, likened Tommy to the greatness of Bono.
‘Damn, I love this song.’ Mike took her leather jacket, in silence, and hung it on a coat stand by the door. ‘You know, they recorded this track in Sun Studios, Memphis. The old-fashioned way.’
‘And you were just a little girl with pigtails in your hair when this was recorded.’ She turned to see Tommy, barefoot, which was something of an irrational turn-on.
He came toward her wiping his hands on a towel, wearing stonewash jeans and a black fitted T-shirt with a chain hanging down the front and his usual leather bracelets around his wrist.
‘You’re giving away my age,’ she said coyly.
‘Hey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t I know it. You ought to be twice your age for everything you’ve accomplished.’
She laughed. ‘Starting with compliments. I thought I told you this wasn’t a date. What’s with the towel?’
‘I was breaking ice and it was fucking freezing.’
‘You don’t say,’ she said, chuckling.
‘Come on, smart ass, I’ll show you around my office.’
He headed down the rosewood floor of the corridor, the white walls of which were covered in framed prints. She glanced behind her to see where Mike was but he had vanished. ‘Where’d the guard dog go?’ she called out, slowly making her way past each of the prints.
‘The team lives in the apartment next door,’ Tommy called back.
‘Sure they do,’ she muttered to herself.
Her shoulders moved of their own volition in time to the music as she took in the framed images – Jimi Hendrix playing at Woodstock, the Rolling Stones live at Earls Court, Led Zeppelin at the Los Angeles Forum.
She followed the prints to the end of the corridor, where she inhaled the scent of something spiced and exotic, her stomach rumbling in response.
She tried not to look in awe as she stepped into the vast open space of the apartment, with views as far as New Jersey.
The theme of whitewash walls and music memorabilia continued.
The space was big and had little furniture, but something about it felt comfortable, homey even.
Perhaps it was the smell of food. Or the fact Tommy really did have an electric fire on one wall in front of two large L-shape sofas that formed a broken U around a cow-skin rug.
She had been in celebrity homes, frequented more charlie parties in celebrity homes than she could count, such was the industry. But Tommy’s pad was impressive.
‘Ouch, fuck!’
She spun quickly from where she had been looking over a picture of Tommy on stage at the Super Bowl two years ago and saw Tommy wafting his burnt hand in the air.
‘You never did cook?’ she said, rushing over to him.
She took hold of his hand and saw a small red mark. ‘That’s fine, you big baby, just run it under cold water for a minute.’
He did as she instructed and Andrea closed the cooker door.
‘No, I ordered in, the best,’ he said. ‘I was just stirring it. I thought you’d want a drink first?’
She found herself laughing, again. ‘Only you could burn yourself on takeout.’
‘It’s not just any takeout. That’s a biryani and a tikka masala from the best Indian restaurant in the city.’ He dried off his wound and handed her a crystal glass of liquor on ice from the marble-top kitchen counter. ‘Macallan single malt,’ he said.
They carried their drinks as Tommy showed her around the impressive penthouse.
She noted the super-king-size bed set with satin sheets in the master bedroom.
The hot tub in the main bathroom. And the awards for platinum albums, million-copy sales, best rock artist, and best single decorating the ‘office’.
Once the tour was done, Tommy poured them both a second drink and they came to sit on the sofas by the fire. ‘I had this installed today, after your comment,’ Tommy said, pulling his legs up onto the sofa so they were lazily spread in front of him as he reclined against the sofa cushions.
‘You’re lying,’ Andrea said, mirroring his pose after unbuckling and slipping off her heels. Boy, it was nice to take a load off. No work. No randy boss. Great music playing in the background – now Tracy Chapman’s ‘Give Me One Reason’ .
Tommy smiled in response. ‘This track always makes me want to pick up the guitar.’
‘It makes me want to go sit in a bar on Beale Street and drink Tennessee bourbon.’
‘You get down there much these days?’
She shook her head. Her mother was buried in Nashville and she had spent her early years there when her mom still performed in the bars on Broadway, before her dad moved them back to his home town in New Jersey and set up Sanfia Records.
At Sanfia she had ventured south fairly regularly for concerts, recordings and the CMAs.
But in recent years, she’d had no reason to go.
‘And leave the office?’ she said. ‘How could I?’
He fell silent and she wondered if he was also remembering their backstage romp after he played at the Grand Ole Opry for the first time, back when the band’s sound was more country rock than mainstream.
‘So, tell me, Tommy Dawson, rock god, notorious bad boy, are the new lyrics honest? Are you really changing?’
‘Slowly, yes.’
At that moment, four paws came running from the hallway, not breaking stride as they leaped onto Tommy’s sofa and started furiously licking his face. Tommy laughed like a child, making Andrea laugh, too.
‘All right, boy. It’s good to see you too, buddy.’
‘I take it he’s yours?’
Andrea wasn’t up on her dog breeds but she could admit Tommy’s four-legged friend was a good-looking hound. It was dark brown, with a shiny coat and white fur that looked like socks on its feet. It was chiselled and looked well walked, the structure of its face almost good enough for Vogue .
Tommy set his drink on the floor and wrestled the mutt, taking hold of it and carrying it over to Andrea. She leaned back as it tried to lick her face. Tommy held the dog’s paw and offered it to Andrea who, after a pause for thought, took hold of it and shook it. ‘Hello, dog.’
‘This is Rocky.’
‘As in Balboa?’
‘As in rock star,’ Tommy said with a cheeky glint in his eye.
Andrea laughed again, something she hadn’t anticipated from their evening based on her recent mood. Tommy set Rocky the rock star down and sent him on a hunt for his food bowl.
‘Where did he appear from?’ Andrea asked, perplexed.
Tommy resumed his position on the sofa – reclined, drink in hand. ‘One of the guys next door will’ve walked him and brought him back.’
‘Right, the staff.’
Tommy smiled through her insolence. ‘I usually walk him myself but tonight we made an exception for you.’
‘I’m flattered,’ she said in good humour. ‘So, I hate to ask this but, I mean, was he, like, an accident?’
Tommy chuckled. ‘I got him about six months ago. Adopted, not self-made, though noted that you likened me to a hound.’
‘Or the mother.’
‘Ouch! No, he was recommended to me, or at least the idea of getting a pet was recommended to me, by my therapist.’
Andrea almost spat out her next mouthful of whisky. ‘Tommy Dawson has a therapist?’
‘Is it so strange?’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘Well…’ He scratched his head, as if pondering his next words.
‘I just couldn’t find myself, or remember who I really was, I guess.
I’d been on the road for two years straight.
I didn’t have any roots anywhere. I’d lost touch with most people I knew before’ – he gestured to the expansive space around them – ‘before all this. I was drinking too much. Not that I couldn’t stop, just that it was the accepted protocol, you know?
Drink before stage, during stage, after stage.
Drink through the night, sleep through the day. Rinse and repeat.