Chapter 11
IAN
I returned from my run at the beach and let myself into Ivy’s place with the key she’d entrusted to me. She and Chloe had gone out this morning to help a friend move. They’d left behind them the rich aroma of coffee and the sweet scent of flowers from a colorful bunch in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table, set for my breakfast. Ivy had a surprising bent for domesticity, for making me comfortable in her home.
I'd undergone too much therapy to view her compulsion as anything other than a reaction to not having her own mother growing up. Ivy had either been the one to provide the housekeeping or she’d never had that domesticity at all and was trying to create it now. Either way, I wasn’t complaining.
I sat down at the table where Ivy had left the breakfast, she’d insisted on making for me every morning. I crunched into the avocado toast as I poured hot water from the electric kettle over the teabag in my cup. I could get used to this, but I couldn’t stop time. I had less than a week left in LA. I wanted her to come to England with me, but we’d only danced around the subject.
As I sipped my smoothie, the strawberries sweet on my tongue, I scrolled through my phone, the weight that had been on my shoulders lessening with each new defense of me on social media. Chloe had been spot on. Once her fake accounts started posting about the Duke Hammer connection, everyone jumped on that bandwagon and attacked anyone who dared suggest that I had taken and sent those pictures.
While I was basking in this unaccustomed win, my phone rang, and my manager’s name popped up. “Alright, Jack.”
Jack got right to the point. “Looks like we avoided fallout from those pictures and generated a little buzz. I was brainstorming how to get you out of this, and it looks like your fans took care of it.”
“We took care of it, here in LA.”
I licked a smudge of avocado from my finger.
“What does that mean? Who took care of it?”
Jack’s voice tended to go up a few octaves when he was nervous, which was most of the time.
“Ivy’s roommate, Chloe Dufrain, handles social media for some big companies. She managed it. Did a reverse image search on the picture, found it belonged to Duke Hammer, and started the online push with fake accounts that she created. It worked.”
“What did she charge you for that?”
“She didn’t.”
I slurped some more smoothie. “Not everyone is after money. You have a warped sense of the world from being in the business too long, Jack. You should get out more.”
“We’ll see about that. After she realizes how successful it was, she might come back with her hand out.”
Jack blew out a long breath as if to relax himself. “Speaking about getting out more, what the hell are you doing out there? I haven’t seen anything about you in gossip sites or blind items, which is unusual for being in LA. Aren’t you going out?”
“Yeah, yeah, we go out every day. Ivy has been taking me on a tour of LA. Did you know there are mammal bones from the Ice Age at the La Brea Tar Pits?”
Jack coughed. “You went to the La Brea Tar Pits?”
“There, the Long Beach Aquarium, had brunch on ‘The Queen Mary,’ hiked in Topanga Canyon, took a ferry to Catalina Island and spent the night there, Norton Simon Museum, Descanso Gardens, Watts Towers, went to a Harold Pinter play at UCLA.”
“Who? Never mind. That’s...great, but you have a record due soon, and your label is not messing around, Ian.”
I didn’t even feel the tightness in my chest, like I usually did, at the mention of my record label. “I’m on it, Jack. I’ve been writing songs out here—some of the best stuff I’ve ever written. Everything around me is an inspiration. I have lyrics coming to me in the shower, on my runs, after...”
I was going to say after sex, but Jack didn’t need to know everything about my life “—after all these visits. The songs are good, Jack. I reached out to Hugh already, sent him some stuff, and he’s really excited about it. He’s on board.”
“Hugh Smith?”
I knew that would get Jack’s attention. Hugh had been part of the song writing team for Five2Go, and I had collaborated with him on several of the band’s hit songs.
“Yeah, that Hugh. I can send you a couple of songs today, if that’ll make you feel better.”
“It would. I’m glad you’re getting back to work. You’re running?”
“Every day at the beach.”
“Are you eating?”
“Uh, yeah.”
I toyed with the piece of toast on my plate. “Why wouldn’t I be eating?”
“Like I said, there haven’t been any sightings of you out and about in LA.”
“I’ve run into some fans, but the paparazzi ain’t likely to hang out at the La Brea Tar Pits, are they?”
“No, but they hang around Nobu. You can’t go out to dinner there one night?”
I scratched the scruff on my chin, debating whether to shave. “Tried that. Ivy doesn’t like sushi or sashimi. She’s not into those celebrity haunts.”
Jack heaved a sigh. “Does she realize she’s dating a celebrity?”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
I smiled to myself.
“Well, people are beginning to wonder about you, Ian. The word is out you were in rehab, but you’ve been off the grid so long now, people suspect you may have fallen off the wagon or are holing up in your house again.”
I squeezed my eyes closed. “That’s not happening.”
“It’s time to capitalize on that dick pic scandal. Got people buzzing in a positive way, for a change. You’re going to be releasing a new record soon, only your second solo effort since the band split up. We need a push. You need to be seen—happy, healthy, not punching photographers or stumbling out of clubs at four AM.”
“I understand that, Jack.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, as pain began to throb behind my eyeballs.
“Just one outing, Ian. I can arrange everything. Just tell me where and when.”
For the first time in the conversation, I felt knots in my gut. I knew what Jack meant. It’s what I told Ivy last week—celebrities setting up their own pap walks. My management team did it for me before, and sometimes it had backfired spectacularly when I’d been out and about, off my fucking face. I rubbed my chin. “We’re going out tonight.”
“Perfect. Take her to Nobu. She’ll love it.”
“I doubt that. We’re going to a concert tonight at the Greek Theatre to see Van Morrison.”
“Van Morrison.”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t he about eighty years old?”
“Yeah. What can I say? She loves Van and has seen him loads of times.”
“Hmm, I don’t know if there would be any other celebrities there, but that won’t matter. I’ll put in some calls and see if I can get some photographers to the Greek. Pictures of a happy, sober Ian Pope out for an evening with a non-celebrity. Don’t worry. I won’t give them Ivy’s name, if she wants to stay incognito. Even better. Ian Pope out with mysterious auburn-haired beauty. That’ll work.”
By the time I ended the call with my manager, I had a queasy feeling in my gut. I should probably tell Ivy, so she won’t feel ambushed, but if I told her, she might refuse to go, and she really wanted to go. I didn’t want to ruin her evening.
Eh, I could protect her. She could put her head down, and I’d tuck her behind me. The hired paps could get their shots, Jack would be happy, and the record company would get off my ass. Ivy didn’t have to know a thing about it.
***
Later that evening, I leaned into the mirror in the bathroom and ran my fingers through my long hair. I wanted to look half-way decent for the pictures but didn’t want to make Ivy suspicious. We’d been dressing down most of the time.
I jumped when she tapped on the door. “Are you almost ready in there? I don’t want to leave too late and end up parking miles away.”
I swung open the door, and my gaze swept her head to toe. Auburn-haired beauty, indeed. Even though she didn’t know it was coming, she looked paparazzi worthy in her light-colored, straight-legged jeans topped with a navy blue, fitted, lacy top with a V-neck, revealing a nice peek at her cleavage. Ivy had great tits, all natural, but she didn’t usually flaunt them. She’d complained to me that she got enough unwanted attention to draw any more focus to herself. Ivy didn’t like unwanted attention, and the guilt roiling in my chest just got a little more acidic.
“You look fantastic, so sexy.”
I wedged a finger beneath her chin and kissed her.
“So do you, baby.”
She ran a hand over my face. “You shaved your scruff, and now you look younger.”
“People are going to think you robbed the cradle, you cougar.”
I growled and made claws.
Smoothing her hands down my short-sleeved, green linen shirt, she said, “I like this. Looks good on you. Just one improvement.”
She unbuttoned one more button at the neck and drilled the tip of her finger into my bare chest. “Just don’t get any tattoos on your chest. I like it like this.”
“Okay, anything else?”
I patted the side pockets of my tan cargo pants. “You don’t need to do an OOTD check, do you?”
“What the heck is an OOTD?”
She scrunched up her nose.
I should’ve known Ivy would be oblivious to the influencer lingo. “That, my out of touch Tink, stands for outfit of ...tedious delusion or something like that, and all the best influencers take selfies of their OOTDs to post on their social media for all the likes and narcissistic pleasure at the fawning compliments.”
I realized my tone had turned bitter when she stared at me with her mouth slight ajar.
“Okayyy. No, I’m not going to do that because I don’t think anyone gives a fuck what I’m wearing tonight. I only care if you like it, and you do.”
She ended with a pirouette.
I herded her out of the bedroom because I liked what she was wearing so much, I had an urge to rip it all off her body and worship what was beneath it. I said, “About the parking.”
“Yeah, it’s a pain at the Greek. I pre-paid, but all I could get was the lot farther away from the venue, and it’s a dirt lot with gravel.”
She extended her leg, a strappy, gold sandal on her foot. “These are okay for walking, though.”
“Let me order a Town Car to take us and pick us up. It can drop us right in front of the entrance. You paid for the tickets. Let me do this.”
She’d never guess my ulterior motive was a quick getaway. Who knows what Jack told the paps. They just might get it in their heads to follow us all the way to Ivy’s car, and I’d hate that—even more than I’d hate their flashing cameras.
“Umm, okay. I already paid for the parking, though.”
I took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. “I’ll pay you back for the parking.”
Either Ivy didn’t realize how much money I had, or she preferred her independence. Before I could even offer, she’d made the plans for the LA trips and always paid for the tickets online. I could barely pay for our dinners or even groceries because she never asked.
Due to the wealth I’d amassed as a member of one of the most popular boybands in history and the investments I’d made with that money, I didn’t think twice about it when girlfriends in the past had hit me up to pay for their clothes or trips. I’d been happy to do it, but Ivy’s distinct disinterest in my wallet made me feel...special and wanted in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
“In that case...”
she kicked off her sandals “...I’m gonna swap these for a pair of sandals with heels.”
Forty-five minutes later, a black limo rolled to a stop at the curb in front of Ivy’s place. Ivy covered her mouth with one hand. “It’s huge. I thought you said Town Car.”
“Yeah, this is all they had on such short notice.”
The driver hopped out and opened the door for us. “Greek Theatre, right?”
“That’s right.”
Ivy ducked in first and as I slid along the leather seat, next to her, my knee hit a minibar. The little bottles clinked inside sending me a secret message, one I would’ve heeded six months ago.
She leaned against me and whispered in my ear, “Did you order a car with a minibar?”
“I think it just automatically comes with the ride. I’m good.”
I tapped the cover on the bar. “Do you want some champagne? Wine?”
“Absolutely not.”
She pressed her lips together in imitation of a teetotaling Prohibitionist. She hadn’t had one drink since we met. Whether she imbibed when she and Chloe went out with friends without me, I didn’t know, but I doubted it. I never smelled booze on her breath or tasted it on her lips.
Chloe drank her fair share of wine in front of me, under an evil eye from Ivy, but I didn’t feel any pressure. I hadn’t been lying to Jack when I’d told him I’d had no cravings for the first time since I’d been out of rehab. I wasn’t going to lie to myself that I didn’t feel like taking a drink—many times—since I’d left rehab, but the urge had disappeared since I’d met Ivy. She’d become my new addiction.
On the way to the venue, Ivy asked the driver, Nick, if she could hook up her phone to the Bluetooth. He agreed and Van’s voice started belting out songs. I recognized some of them, music my parents played at home, and my Irish bandmate, Conor, was a fan of his fellow Irishman.
Leaning against my arm, she said, “I like to play the music to get into the vibe, but he probably won’t be playing any of these songs. He usually plays songs from his current album and more recent releases. Some of his fans from the old days won’t go to his concerts because he refuses to play the old stuff, although he’ll sneak one in now and then.”
“That’s a luxury that comes with age. If I tried that, I think my fans would charge the stage and drag me off.”
I gave a fake shiver.
“Yeah, I don’t know if it’s age so much as Van just doesn’t give a fuck.”
I murmured, “Must be nice.”
“Nick.”
Ivy sat forward and tapped on Nick’s headrest. “Can I turn this one up?”
“You can do whatever you like, Ivy. In fact, I’ll do it for you.”
Electronic pinging filled the car and then Van started with a falsetto that I could appreciate and admire.
Ivy whispered, her lips brushing my ear. “Listen to the lyrics. This is us. We’re on the same wavelength.”
Just in case I didn’t heed her direction, Ivy sang along to the song, started dancing in her seat, and had Nick bopping along in the front. By the time we pulled up to the entrance of the Greek, we were in full party mode.
Before exiting the limo, I arranged for Nick to pick us up in the same spot and gave him a big tip just to make sure he didn’t forget.
We passed through the security line, and the sultry summer air seemed to press against me. I tipped my head back and sniffed. “It smells like pine, like fruity pine. You have pine trees in LA?”
“There are a lot of pine trees surrounding the venue, but I think they’re different from what you’d find up in the Pacific Northwest.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m having a hard time smelling that citrusy pine over that skunky weed.”
“Ha, I thought that was just another Southern California plant species.”
“It is.”
She linked arms with me. “Does it bother you?”
“Weed was never one of my vices. Not a fan.”
I took a deep breath. “I still smell that pine, though.”
I veered toward a concession booth. “Do you want something to drink? Margarita?”
“Are you trying to get me drunk, so you can take advantage of me later?”
She pinched my side.
“Ivy, I don’t need to give you booze to get you going.”
I draped my arm around her and pulled her close. “In fact, the thought of you drunk and out of control in the bedroom scares the shit out of me.”
“Then you can stop suggesting I drink alcohol. I don’t need it. I don’t want it. And I’m not going to drink it in front of someone who has a mere five months of recovery under his belt. But I will have a Diet Coke.”
“Ooh, walking on the wild side.”
I looked around at the crowd as I bought Ivy’s soda and a bottle of sparkling water for myself. Jack had the right idea to hire the paparazzi. My typical demographic would be swarming me at any other concert, but the aging, mellow potheads here barely gave me a second look. This outing would not have satisfied Jack or the record company without the planned ambush for later.
Once we made it to our seats and the music started, I forgot all about the pap stunt, the online smear campaign against me, and the pressure to produce my album. The bluesy, jazzy songs transported me to another realm, which sparked my imagination with words and phrases crowding my brain for release and the chance to become lyrics.
The performance had captivated Ivy, too, as she shimmied and swayed and nodded her head. She obviously felt the music deep in her soul, and I wanted that reaction from people so much for my own songs. The lyrics I’d written during this idyll in LA had become so much more to me than just words to accompany a melody. I wanted my lyrics to resonate with people, to take them somewhere else, to make them feel and relate and understand.
By the end of the ninety-minute set, I had a fully formed song in my head and couldn’t wait to get back to my laptop to get it down. As I stood up and stretched, the real world crashed in on me. I had a pap walk to do, first.
Ivy turned to me, her beautiful face alight with the magic of the night. “Did you like it?”
“Loved it.”
I engulfed her in a hug, lifting her off her feet and kissing her fully on the mouth. As I led her down our row, I turned my head over my shoulder. “Aren’t you glad we have Nick and his embarrassingly huge limo waiting for us out front, now?”
“I absolutely am, especially in these heels.”
She rubbed a circle on my back. “Thank you.”
I’d hold onto that sweet sentiment for now because she’d be cursing me later. On the way to the exit, I got a couple of nods and saw a few people nudge each other when they noticed me. A woman caught up to us and asked me if I’d enjoyed the concert and I replied that I had, very much, but she didn’t request my autograph and didn’t want a selfie, and I could see Ivy visible relax when the woman moved on and melted into the crowd.
All that changed as soon as we exited the venue.