The Girl On The Half Shell Page 9

  Rene is sitting before the table, her butt in one seat, and her legs over the armrest in the one beside her. She already has a drink and looks comfy in our temporary digs. How does she do it? She looks so comfortable, so at ease with her body and being here with him. I envy her, her soaring confidence and her beautiful female naturalness.

  I look around in indecision. There is only one cream-leather seat completely tidy and empty—the one across the table from Rene. The one I’m sure intended for Alan. I don’t know where to sit. The seat beside him is stacked high with mail.

  “Your plane should be condemned as a hazardous waste site,” Rene announces. “Don’t you have people who clean up after you?”

  “I don’t like people touching my things,” he says, his voice cold and polite simultaneously. “Try to remember that.”

  Rene lifts her drink. “It looks like you live here. Are you homeless?”

  Eyeing her coolly, Alan shrugs. “If it doesn’t meet your standard, please feel free to go back to the United counter and wait for your proletarian travel.”

  Boy, he really doesn’t like Rene and I’m uncharacteristically thrilled by that. I stare after Alan as he pokes his head into the cockpit to say something to the pilots.

  The flight attendant gestures me forward. “Please be seated, Miss. We’ll shortly be taxiing for take-off.”

  I step farther into the plane. The steps are pulled up and closed behind me. I’m actually winging my way to New York with Alan Manzone and there is no backing out of it now.

  I stare down at the seats just as Alan comes up behind me. His hands touch on my hips. I feel instantly surrounded by him.

  “What do you want me to do with all this?” I ask.

  “Chuck it on the floor, Chrissie. My manager probably had them leave it here in the hopes I’d look at it. Brian hoped wrong.”

  Piece by piece I start to move it onto the table into a careful stack.

  Amused laughter floats from behind me. “It’s not a holy relic, Chrissie. It’s the mail. Just dump it.”

  His hand moves from my hip to my shoulder. His other arm snakes around me. With the swipe of a hand the contents of the seat is scattered onto the floor and I spring back into him and he laughs.

  “Sorry, but if we did it your way we’d be on the tarmac another hour.”

  I drop down onto his seat and scoot over to mine. I concentrate on fastening my seatbelt as the attendant goes through the plane’s safety procedure in a calm, clear voice. Alan is relaxed in his seat beside me, long limbs stretched out in front of him, eyes closed. Jeez, he looks good this morning, all tousled hair, simple olive t-shirt, soft faded jeans. Even wearing those crummy worn leather Water Buffalo sandals that I think he took from Jack by mistake, though how could anyone mistake those hideous things as their own shoes is a mystery. But he does look good, even in hideous sandals.

  Rene is staring at him over her drink. She looks like the Cheshire cat. Maybe he does intend to sleep through the flight.

  The plane surges forward and starts taxiing toward the runaway. I pull down the window shade.

  “Why are you afraid of flying?” he whispers.

  So he’s not asleep.

  “Chrissie is afraid of everything. Would you like the list?” Rene answers before I can find my words.

  My cheeks burn. Jeez, Rene how could you say that! She is just being Rene, but I’m not liking it at all today.

  “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t have a little fear,” he murmurs.

  Rene flushes. “Then Chrissie is the girl for you.”

  She looks out the window, annoyed. I know that look. Icy cold. She’s pissed. Rene is pursuing and he’s rejecting.

  Both of them are silent now. I stare at the stack of mail on the floor. At my feet lies a movie script with a typewritten offer on the letterhead of a well-known studio. I pick it up. This is what he considers just the mail?

  “Studios mail you scripts with offers?” I ask. “You don’t have to audition? They just offer you roles.”

  He nods.

  “Why?”

  “I’m an incredible actor.”

  “Modest too,” Rene scoffs. “What makes you so good that they want you without testing you first?”

  His heavy lids lift above his black eyes. “Early childhood training. I was raised in a house of liars.”

  I hold up the script. “Do you mind if I read this? It looks interesting.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Rene motions to the flight attendant for another drink. What is she drinking? Is that why she’s being more outrageous than usual? Alan closes his eyes and I open the script.

  Once we’ve leveled off in the air, Rene pops from her seat to go to the bathroom. She is halfway through the cabin when Alan looks at me. His thumb brushes my lower lip and he is staring into my eyes.

  “I don’t like your friend,” he whispers.

  Now I’m annoyed. Rene isn’t even here and she’s dominating the conversation.

  I shrug. “She’s OK.”

  “No, Chrissie, she’s wired. She’s coked up. How long has she had a problem?”

  Coked up? I feel instantly protective of Rene. “You’re wrong. She’s just high-strung. I’ve known her forever. I would know.”

  He frowns. “You shouldn’t trust her, Chrissie.”

  “People always get the wrong idea about Rene. It’s just how she comes off.”

  “If you say so.” He hasn’t taken his fingers from my face and he eases into me until we are very close. “I don’t like her. She shouldn’t be your friend.”

  Jeez, who would have thought that Alan Manzone and Father Morris would share the same opinion of Rene? But they are both wrong. Rene is a true friend.

  He studies me for a long time and after what feels like an eternity, he inches back from me. Then I see Rene closing in out of the corner of my eye.

  He doesn’t look at her. “I just got out of Rehab. That story in print is true. I would appreciate it if you don’t forget your vial on my plane, and if you go to the bathroom one more time to powder your nose, I’ll have them touchdown at the first airport we reach and have you booted from the plane. What the fuck were you thinking, carrying that through airport security? Don’t you give a shit about your friend?”

  Rene’s face is candy red and it betrays the truth. With that, Alan closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

  * * *

  “Chrissie. We’re in New York.”

  Someone is trying to wake me. I don’t want to wake. I’m in a pleasant sleep, curled into something warm. There is sound all around me. I hear voices. His voice. Yes, I’m with Alan. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” says the co-pilot. “I don’t know how they knew we were landing in New York today.”

  “Shut all the window shades. Make sure the car is ready before you lower the steps.”

  Alan. He is angry. Why is he angry? The snap of the window shade beside my head jerks me out of grogginess. Alan unbuckles my seatbelt and climbs from the seat. I realize that the pleasant pillow beneath my cheek was his shoulder and it’s now gone. My eyelids slowly lift and I see Rene alertly watching the fast action around us.

  I find Alan standing above me, tense, and his eyes a strange mixture of concern and apology.

  He lowers until he’s at eye level with me. “Chrissie, we have a problem. About half the New York Press corps is on the tarmac. I need to get you from the plane to the car without anyone noticing you.”

  I straighten up in my seat. “Why? What does it matter if they see me?”

  He stills and his eyes widen. “The worst possible thing I could do to you is let the tabloids see you with me. I should never have let you travel to New York with me.”

  Oh my…I know why he’s worried. For the last year he’s existed in nonstop tabloid ink. Just being near him can get you tarred in tabloid ink. Oh jeez, what will Jack think of that?

  Alan looks determined and
grim. It’s very sweet that he’s so worried about this, but it’s not exactly something new to me and I do know how to handle this.

  I gaze up at him and smile. “Alan, I know how to be invisible. Trust me. Just let me get off the plane alone and no one will even notice me. This is something I am expert at.”

  Alan shifts from the flight crew to face me. “If the tabloids realize who you are, Chrissie, it will turn into a shitstorm. I don’t ever want you hurt because of me.”

  I stare at him, stunned. He spoke in an intense way, as though not hurting me really did matter to him, but then how could it matter? We hardly know each other. It makes no sense. As I climb from my seat, I realize there is a lot about Alan that doesn’t make sense.

  I shrug. “It won’t be my first shitstorm, Alan. So don’t worry about it. It’s going to be all right.”

  His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, he starts to laugh. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard anyone say shit quite the way you do, without the ‘t’ at the end and with lots of ‘shhhh.’”

  My temper flares. “I’m a Disney character. Remember?” I mutter, in an overly dramatic way to hide the sting I feel from his criticism.

  I make an exaggerated face and he rolls his eyes. “You are never going to forget that, are you?” he says in an aggravated way, before he turns to talk with the crew again.

  “Here is what you are going to do, Chrissie,” he says firmly, but he seems less worried about everything. “You are going to step off this plane without me. If you have sunglasses, put them on. Look at no one. Answer no one. And you will walk, neither fast nor slow, to the car with Natalie. Don’t stop. And don’t look back. If we’re lucky the tabloids won’t notice you.”

  I shrug. “It’s what I was going to do anyway.” The co-pilot hands me my cello.

  “And what am I supposed to do?”

  Rene’s voice startles me. I’d all but forgotten about her. She is curled on her seat like a cat, irritated at not being the center of attention.

  “You will do exactly as I tell you,” Alan says, his gaze fixing on Rene. “Exactly as I tell you. And you will be silent.”

  Alan walks to the cabin door with me, carefully stopping so as not to be seen. “I’m sorry, Chrissie.”

  I shrug and Alan eases forward to push my sunglasses up from the tip of my nose until they are flush against my face.

  “Say nothing.” Alan runs his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I now realize.

  I step into the open cabin door and the press below spring into action. I tense like you do when you expect something to hit you, a suspended moment, and then it passes. The cameras don’t flash, I notice Natalie the flight attendant at my side, and the voices below are still mute. I touch the metal steps and the press hardly even look at me.

  I cross the tarmac toward the car, surrounded by a strange kind of heavy silence. The driver opens the car door and takes my cello as Natalie disappears toward the terminal. I’m about to slip into the seat, when something makes me jump and I look back.

  The cameras explode all around. Alan starts to exit the plane, his arm carelessly draped over Rene’s shoulder and Rene has that self-satisfied, Cheshire cat smile on her face.

  I sink into the backseat to wait. I can hear the shouting voices and every so often I hear Alan’s. Why is this taking so long? I try to look through the wall of press, but I can’t see anything. Hopefully, Rene is keeping her mouth shut. She never should have let Alan use her that way, and for a brief moment I am angry with him.

  Moments later, Rene drops in a heavy bounce in the seat across from me, all bubbly and pretty with excitement. “God, Chrissie! That was incredible,” she exclaims, rummaging through the compartments in the car until she finds a bottle of water.

  I shake my head in aggravation as she downs a third of the bottle. “You didn’t say anything, did you?” I ask.

  “What? No. I don’t know.” Her eyes round. “It all happened so fast. It was all so intense. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  I lean forward into her. “Rene, think. You didn’t tell them your name, did you?”

  Irritated, she pushes the hair back from her face. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.” This time, I can see she is lying.

  “Oh, Rene.”

  She shrugs carelessly. “Someone asked me.” She pushes back into the leather seat and gives me that smile, the one I hate, half challenging and half superior. “What’s the big deal, Chrissie? God, are you jealous?”

  I roll my eyes and clamp my mouth shut, but for a millisecond I am reminded of what it felt like to see them standing together, how right Alan and Rene looked, and how much it bothered me to see her hanging on his arm.

  Rene frowns. “You have nothing to be jealous about,” she says in that generous way of the truly confident, “and I’m not dumb. Something was going on out there. He didn’t want anyone to know you were with him. Which is very strange. Why is he protective of you?”

  I ignore the comment, but I do wonder: protective? He definitely is an entirely different guy when he deals with Rene, rude and acerbic and not likeable.

  Rene raises her eyebrows.

  “I think he really likes you, Chrissie. He’s a shit, but I think he really likes you. Spill everything. I’ve been dying since we boarded the plane keeping myself quiet. You spent the night with him last night, didn’t you? That’s where you were all night.”

  I look out the window. “Yes. On the beach. We talked.”

  “Talked? You didn’t just talk. I could feel the vibe in the plane.”

  “No, we just talked,” I snap, hoping that will stop the questions. “He acts like we’re buddies.”

  “Buddies?” Rene lets out a harsh, scoffing laugh. “God, you can’t be that dense. Did he kiss you last night?”

  “Once.”

  “What was it like?”

  “It was nice.”

  Rene’s laughs. “Nice?” She stares at me knowingly. “You like him, don’t you?”

  I blush. “Yes.”

  “Do you like him enough to ...?”

  I’m suddenly reminded of his touch, the tenderness of his mouth and the feel of the sand.

  I continue to stare out the window, but I can feel Rene studying me. “I’m glad you didn’t,” she says with heavy meaning. “He’s not the kind of guy you want your first time to be with, if you get my…”

  Rene’s words die and are replaced by a sweetly contrived smile. “Speak of the devil.”

  Alan drops down heavily into the seat beside me, the car door slams, and in a minute we are speeding from the tarmac.

  He leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes. “Fucking Brian and his never ending publicity machine. I’m sorry about that.”

  In spite of the performance he put on for the press, he’s exhausted. It shows in his voice and his posture, and it reminds me of how he’d looked last night: soulful, tired and twenty-six.

  I smile at Alan. “It’s no big deal. Rene thought it was fun.”

  Just when it looks like Alan has fallen sleep, he sits up, and everything about his demeanor has changed—he’s angry and edgy, energized and focused.

  “No, Chrissie. It is a big deal. I nearly fuck up everything my first day back.”

  Everything? How would the tabloids linking me with him fuck up everything? I’ve never seen Alan angry before and I find this new facet extremely intimidating and a little bit of a turn-on.

  He grabs the mobile phone and angrily punches numbers into it. He lightly kicks the seat beside Rene. “I told you to keep silent. Fuck, you are a useless friend. Get me a water.” Alan hits the speaker button and drops the receiver into its rest. “Fuck you, Brian.”

  A moment of dead air. “Ah, Lazarus has arrived in New York…” I recognize the voice. It is Uncle Brian, Brian Craig, my father’s manager and Alan’s it seems. “…if you’re pissed off and making phones calls again it means they’ve finally let you out of Rehab. And by
the way, fuck you, Manny.”

  “What the fuck was that scene at the airport about?” Alan growls. “That’s the last time you serve me up for publicity without asking.”

  Alan opens his water bottle and downs half of it.

  “Well pardon me for trying to save your fucking career. You needed the publicity. Don’t tell me how to manage the business end. Have you any idea what kind of mess you left for me? You wouldn’t have a career if not for me. You wouldn’t have the band and you sure as hell wouldn’t have the cash…”

  “I think what Brian means to say is we all need to focus on business or there isn’t going to be a business,” interrupts another voice, male and less agitated. “About the tapes…”

  “What Arnie is telling you is that the execs are going to shelve the tapes, Manny,” Brian warns anxiously. “You can’t do a solo release. Maybe next round, but not now. The band—they don’t have the fucking royalties. Now isn’t the time to cut them out…”

  “I have creative control. I can read a contract, Brian.”

  “Listen, Manny, you know me. I would never steer you wrong, and what I’m saying is that the tracks I’ve heard are genius, but they won’t sell. Cash register poison. It won’t sell, and last year wasn’t exactly the best year for you. The label has to shelve it. They’ve got to stop the bleeding. It won’t sell.”

  Alan sighs heavily.

  “You’ve got to mind the business!” Brian says emphatically. “You’ve got a lot of overhead. A lot of people depending on you.”

  “It’s my publishing company,” Alan snaps. “My production company. Every fucking cent paid comes out of my pocket one way or another. No one is going to tell me what to produce, what to record. I own me.”

  “No one is saying you don’t, but you need a strong dose of reality,” says Brian. “The only reason you still have a career is that you’re brilliant and you are a genius at self-promotion. But you’ve pushed it to the limit. You’ve got to behave for a while. And what I’m telling you is you can’t afford to piss off the fans, another year without any cash coming in, and for the critics to vomit up your next album. I’m asking you not to fuck it up again.”