Any Other Year (fiction)

 

Birthday parties are always strange. Or perhaps they are not, at least not for everyone. For William they became strange (or stranger) after his band was on television the first time. Suddenly, everyone wanted to celebrate with him. Celebrate in his proximity. Celebrate on the record company dime. The parties became, by necessity, bigger. They had to accommodate the various sycophants and benefactors who made the machine of commoditized music roll along. William accepted his place in this world, and accepted that his birthday was now part of some bigger marketing plan. 

William’s thirtieth birthday was particularly odd. His band, The Breach, had the Christmas number one single in the UK. The new year had kicked off with a show at the Bataclan in Paris. The band’s manager, a chubby Londoner called Jamie Warren, was pushing William and the boys to tour Asia in support of their most recent release. William’s long-time girlfriend, Kathryn, had just left him for some rakish, latin photographer. The push-pull dynamic of good news and bad news, coupled with the impending milestone birthday made the first week of February troublesome, to say the least. 

His actual birthday, February 2, was on a Tuesday, so the party was planned for the following Friday evening at Exchange, a flashy nightclub in L.A., picked by Kathryn to host a party that she was now not attending. As his appointed arrival time neared, he sat in the back seat of the extremely black SUV sent to collect him as the driver sped along the 110 northbound, wishing he could be more like Kathryn, if only in the ‘not attending this fucking party’ sense. He checked his phone, saw the icon indicating he had unread text messages into the triple digits, and dropped the phone back into his jacket pocket. He looked out the window at the cars on the road, lit up and gleaming in the cool evening air, and wondered why he wasn’t sitting in his living room, reading and listening to music, which is what he would have preferred.

“We should be there in fifteen minutes or so, sir.” The driver updated William, as if William was sitting in the back excitedly anticipating their arrival. 

“Thank you. Tell me your name again?” William tried to remember the names of all of the people who worked around the record company, and was pretty good at it. He found that the more time he spent in London or Paris, the fewer people he recognized from the L.A. offices. This was not shocking, of course, but William was still disappointed in himself. This was also not shocking. William was, among other things, well-practiced at being disappointed with himself. 

“Shane. We’ve only met once or twice. The last time was close to a year ago.” William could tell that Shane was actively trying to provide him with an excuse for forgetting, and he appreciated the effort. He made a mental note to tip the driver more than usual at the end of the evening. 

The conversation with Shane was clearly over, so William leaned back in the seat, lit a cigarette, opened the window, and picked up the notebook he kept with him at all times. In the notebook were notes, lyric ideas, appointments, and sundry other information that William had deemed necessary to track. He looked over the notes he had made when he and Kathryn first discussed the party he was attending that evening. The DJ was a friend of William’s, and the food was being catered by another friend. The guest list was eclectic, mixing friends, industry people, celebrities of varying importance, sponsor reps, and people William could only identify as professional party-attendees, as he did not know who they were apart from their consistent appearance at Hollywood parties. He tried to plan out his social interactions for the evening as much as possible, choosing who he would focus on, who he would make every effort to avoid, and who he would be obligated to give some amount of face time. His bandmates would be there which would make the evening a little easier, as they would take some of the attention. The other celebrities would be primarily interested in being the center of attention, so they would also help shift some of the spotlight away from William. In all, the evening looked as though it would be excruciating. 

Ideally, it would also be brief. 

William was not the sort of rock star who stayed out at clubs until the wee hours of the morning. This is not to say that he was in bed at ten each evening, only that his late nights were more often than not spent in his home studio, his home office, or his home theater.  The operative word there is, of course, home. William, while perhaps not technically a shut-in, enjoyed being at home very much. Why shouldn’t he? His moderate success as a musician had provided him the ability to live in a rather nice home in a beautiful part of the world. 

“We’re here, sir.” Shane pulled the SUV to a stop at the rear entrance of Exchange. William sat contemplating his notebook before sliding it back into his black leather satchel. He rolled the window down enough to look around the alley, flicked his half-finished cigarette out and rolled the window back up. 

“I suppose I have to go in, eh?” William cocked his head toward the door. 

“I’m sure it will be very enjoyable, sir.” Shane smirked slightly, unless William was imagining things. 

“I see that you are not attending the party, Shane. In that sense, I agree; it will be quite enjoyable for you.” 

“I wasn’t invited, sir.” Shane was definitely smirking at this point. He could clearly sense William’s discomfort with the party, and was enjoying it in a thoroughly not malicious way. 

“Well, you’ve just been invited. Come ‘round and open my door, will you? … never mind, I shan’t be that much of an ass. You are now invited, though. Do something with your hair and … get in there.” William pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and inhaled deeply, girding himself for the evening.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I go in, sir? Who will drive you home…or…should I not drink?” Shane was clearly torn between wanting the experience of this Hollywood party, and wanting to maintain his professional life.

“You are most welcome to attend, and to enjoy yourself as much or as little as you see fit, Shane. I will arrange transportation when the need arises. Enjoy.” William pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text to Jamie, letting him know that Shane should be added to the guest list immediately, and that he would need alternative arrangements for getting home after the party. “It’s all set. Go. Before I change my mind.” 

Shane nodded a thank-you and ran his tanned fingers through his black hair. He slid out of the driver seat, opened the cargo door of the SUV, and set up the portable cordon he carried to protect the company car at events. William mussed his hair a bit, checked his makeup in a pocket mirror, took another deep breath, and pushed the car door open. The cool air, the muffled sound of the club mingled with the sound of the street, and the smell of the alley greeted him. He stretched himself out to the full of his six-foot-four frame, shouldered his bag, and sighed before heading to the door Shane was helpfully holding open for him. He gave Shane a quick, collegial pat on the shoulder as he stepped into the dark interior of the club. Shane followed him in, allowing the door to close behind him, effectively closing out the last chance William had to bolt from the party. 

Jamie met him just inside the door. The two shook hands warmly, and Jamie shouted something William couldn’t quite make out over the insanely loud music. “Is there someplace a bit quieter in here?” William mouthed the words so Jamie could read his lips. Jamie jerked his thumb toward a private room to one side of the club. The two headed that direction through a throng. William caught sight of Shane moving toward the bar, buffeted by two attractive young women, and he smiled to himself. They reached the room, and pushed through the glass door. William was pleased to see his bandmates lounging comfortably in the room, along with their significant others. Paul Wolff, the drummer, was enjoying a bottle of champagne with his boyfriend Chad (as was his wont); Derek Allen, the bassist, was drinking his signature drink: plain cranberry juice, while his girlfriend Marisol sipped at her rum and cola; Simon Malick, the keyboard player, was alone and enjoying what appeared to be not his first beer. The only member not in the room at the moment was Wyatt Rowson, the guitar player. William did not spend a lot of time wondering where Wyatt might be, as he was almost always to be found on or near the dance floor with his wife, Margaret. They all greeted William with a mocking cheer and stood to shake his hand, or pat him on the back roughly. Marisol hugged him and gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. Fitting, as she was, indeed, his sister. Jamie’s wife, Ellen hugged William and wished him a happy birthday. He shrugged and thanked her before flopping into a big, leather armchair and accepting the tumbler of gin and tonic the room’s assigned waitress handed him with a faint smile.  

“I fucking hate birthday parties.” William announced to no one in particular. 

“Shame, this is a pretty good one, mate!” Simon raised his pint glass with a smile and took a deep swig. 

Jamie gave William a chastising look, “Behave. You know very well that whatever you do here tonight will end up on some gossip site tomorrow morning. Or later tonight.” 

“No publicity is bad publicity, right Jamison?” Derek raised his glass of cranberry juice and snickered. 

“I don’t intend to do anything newsworthy this evening, Jamie. I really intend to stay only the absolutely barest of minimum time required. I’ve got work to do in the studio, and a tour for which I must prepare.” William raised his glass with as much sarcasm as he could possibly imbue such an innocuous act. 

“Suit yourself, Willy. There are a number of people waiting to say ‘hello’ and ‘happy birthday.’ There’s also a room full of gifts and what have you, before you leave.”  Jamie raised his glass and turned to leave the room

“Can you have the gifts delivered to the house? I don’t want to try to look at everything tonight.”  William hated birthdays.

“Done,” and with that, Jamie slipped out of the room and moved gracefully through the crowd. 

William drained his gin and tonic and set the glass of melting ice on the table next to his chair. He sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I should meet some of these people who are waiting for me.” 

“I’ve never met anyone who made being famous seem like less fun.” Paul raised his glass and nodded as William stood up heavily and slowly made his way toward the door. 

He opened the door leading into the main room of the club and was buffeted by the incredible volume of the music. He guessed the attendance at somewhere north of a thousand people, He wondered to himself if he actually knew one thousand people. He was reasonably certain that he had met at least that many people, but to say he ‘knew’ them would be a stretch. As people turned to face him, greeting him invariably with “happy birthday!” or “I love you!” he realized that, however many people he might actually know, these were not those people. He smiled faintly and nodded, or shook a random hand here and there, accepted a hug from this girl or that boy, and all the while he imagined how quiet it was at that moment in his study. He saw a couple of people on the other side of the dance floor that he recognized and tried to make his way to them. Just as he stepped onto the floor, the music faded into something slower and quieter. The lights in the club faded to a faint blue glow that seemed to come from every direction at once. The smoke machines cranked up and flooded the room with wisps of blue-lit fog. William listened for a moment and recognized the song that was starting; one of his favorite songs by his absolute favorite band: “Faith” by the cure. He thought it an odd choice for a birthday party, and for a modern dance club, and for L.A., a city that was simultaneously as faithless and as hopeful as any he’d ever seen. He moved through the writhing crowd toward his friends on the other side of the floor, and no one stopped him, no one turned to him, no one seemed aware of him. They all seemed transfixed by the song, and the lights, and the fog. He reached his friends, and took a seat at their table. The young couple, Hari and Anna, were William’s neighbors. Hari was a writer, an activist, and one of the funniest people William knew. Anna was an artist who owned the marketing company that handled all of Breach’s work, and one of the smartest people William could imagine. William loved them both, because they were grounded, because they were successful, because they were real human beings, despite moving in the extremely surreal world of television and movies. 

“This is quite a party, Billy.” William had given up trying to convince Anna that he was only ever to be called ‘William.’ “I think I saw Johnny Depp in one of the VIP rooms.” 

William feigned annoyance, “I thought he lived in Paris. What is he doing here?” 

Hari sipped his drink and suggested, unhelpfully, “I think he knew Kate. At least, someone said he knew her, somehow…” 

“I appreciate you two being here. I don’t really know very many of these people, and those I do know, I don’t really like. Are we still on for dinner next weekend? My brother will be in town, and I’d really like you all to meet him.” 

Hari nodded, “Absolutely. Didn’t you say he was an artist of some sort?” 

Anna shot Hari a sideways look, “He’s a very well-regarded graphic novelist, Hari. Don’t you ever pay attention?” 

“It’s alright, I don’t really read comic books, either. He spoke at Comic-Con in San Diego last year, and I sat through his talk. He’s an engaging guy, and I was happy to watch him in his element, but I can’t say I really grasped all of what he was saying.” William gave Hari a sympathetic nod and sipped at his drink.

Anna and Hari went on to ask William various questions about his brother, about where he lived now (London), about whether he was married or single (single), and how long he was going to be in California (a few weeks, until William left on tour with the Breach). As he basked in the normalcy of his conversation with his two friends, he noticed a young woman dancing off to one side of the floor. He was initially struck by two main observations about her: she clearly did not want to be the center of attention; she had inadvertently (perhaps?) settled into her swaying dance in the light of a blue-tinted spot. As he watched her dancing, swaying to the thumping, tinkling, lushness of the ambient sound emanating from the massive sound system, he took note of her hair. It was a massive mane of dark, curly locks, extending away from her head in all directions, and cascading down her back, which was bare in the gown she wore. When she turned to face him, her eyes closed, he saw her skin was perfectly alabaster, her eyes smoky with kohl-black lids, her lips stained with cranberry-tinted lipstick, her nose aquiline, her neck long, and the neckline of her gown low. He was fascinated by the gown, as well. While most of the women in the club were in jeans or short skirts and slinky tops, or tight-fitting gowns with high hems and fantastical cleavage, her gown was floor-length, jet black and shimmering with sequins, piped in silver thread, with a deep ‘v’ shaped, halter neckline. He smiled when he noticed her feet were bare. She opened her eyes at that moment and noticed him looking (staring, if truth be told), smiled and turned away to continue dancing. William shook himself gently and chuckled. He was prepared to return to his duty and greet some more of the guests when Jamie arrived at the table and pulled up a chair. 

“Do you know her?” He asked, indicating the woman William had just been ogling. 

“I do not. Who is she?” William tried to remain neutral, to not tip his hand that he was deeply intrigued by this odd woman. 

“Her name is Claire Fauré. She’s an artist and writer, from Paris, of course. I work with her manager, Marie Lefebvre (you know her), who asked me specifically to put her on the list. She’s the only client Marie asked me to add, and I have to admit I didn’t ask why.” 

“Did you know of her before Marie asked you to add her to the list?” William felt slightly silly asking, but was curious about the woman. 

Jamie shrugged. “I’m not much of an art fan, Will. Marie is pretty high on her, I can say that for sure. Do you want an introduction?” 

“Not right at this moment, Jamie. At some point this evening, yes, but just now I need another beverage.” 

Jamie nodded assent and made his way into the crowd, pausing to send a server over to William’s table. Anna and Hari traded knowing looks and smirked at William. He raised his fresh glass of gin and smiled sheepishly. “I should move along, my friends. Enjoy yourselves this evening, and I’ll see you next weekend. Thank you again for coming.” 

Anna leaned over and kissed William on the cheek, “try to enjoy the evening, Will. We’ll see you Saturday.” 

William shook Hari’s hand and moved off into the crowd. He spent the next few hours drinking and shaking hands, and hugging, and kissing people on the cheek, and taking pictures with people he didn’t know, and seeking the whole time, seeking Claire, to no avail. He sampled the cake that was served, he gave a brief speech, thanking everyone for coming and for being such great friends. He was disappointed not to see Claire in the crowd, and as the evening wore on he became more and more keen to get back to his house, to the quiet, and to his preparation for the tour. He saw Shane, his driver, dancing wildly with three girls who could have been models, actresses, cheerleaders, or any number of other professions that were reserved for the most particularly attractive women. William smiled to himself and headed for the band’s private room to find Jamie and arrange his ride home. 

Jamie called for a company car to take William home, and hugged his charge. “Thanks for putting up with this, Will. I know this is not your favorite part of the job, but it really does help.” 

“For you, Jamie? Anything.” William smiled faintly, and winked. He shook the hands of his bandmates, hugged their wives and partners, and pushed through the door into the back alley. William took a deep breath, glanced around at the scene in the back alley: revelers leaning together here and there, recovering from the wildness of the party, security people keeping an eye on the safety of impaired revelers, fans craning to catch a glimpse of someone famous. 

William saw a familiar face, one of the assistants from Jamie’s office, standing next to a black Mercedes. He collapsed heavily into the back seat of the sedan and thanked the assistant for taking him home. She nodded, “my pleasure, William. Can’t have you stranded in L.A., can we?” She smiled and pulled into the street as the sky began to lighten, sunrise. William leaned back in the seat, lit a cigarette, and closed his eyes. The Mercedes floated through the city, free of traffic in the early morning, toward Malibu and the ocean. 

…

William’s phone buzzed. Then it buzzed again. He stirred in his bed, wondering what time it might be, but unwilling to open his eyes to look at the clock. He fumbled for the phone sitting on his nightstand, and answered without checking the caller id. It was Jamie, and he was downstairs in the driveway. William remembered that Jamie was bringing the presents and cards and what-have-you from the party ‘round. If he recalled correctly, that would make it nearly five pm. William rubbed his face and rolled out of his bed. He blinked and stretched and grabbed a pair of track pants and a tee shirt and dressed himself clumsily. He ran a hand through his hair and headed downstairs to let Jamie in. Michel, his cook, was tidying the kitchen and unpacking several boxes of groceries as he made his way to the front door. 

“What’s for dinner, Michel?” William considered saying ‘breakfast,’ but decided against it. 

“Braised game hens and root vegetables. You’ll love it.” Michel typically informed William of what his opinion of an upcoming meal would be without hesitation. He was more often than not correct. 

“Make enough for Jamie, too, please?” William wasn’t sure if Jamie was staying for dinner, but decided to prepare as though he were. 

“Of course.” Michel went back to work, and William poured a glass of wine before moving on to the foyer. He opened the door and leaned on the jamb. Jamie had two of his assistants unloading packages from the back of his SUV. William sipped his wine and appraised the growing stack of brightly wrapped boxes. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, rubbed his forehead, rolled his shoulders to stretch them out, and sipped his wine again. He looked past the SUV to the end of the drive where he saw a small box truck, with two workers unloading larger items, not in boxes. Like a vintage scooter. Fuck sake. 

“Nice shirt.” Jamie tilted his head slightly and squinted. William looked down at the shirt he was wearing. “Pink” was emblazoned across the front in block lettering. The shirt was lavender, and clearly intended for a young woman. William wondered if it had been Kathryn’s. At least the pants didn’t have anything written on the ass, he was fairly certain. William shrugged off the comment and nodded at the pile of gifts. 

“Do they know I’m an adult?” William was not a fan of gift giving, generally. Certainly not for grown people. He was generous to a fault with his friends and family, but occasions that demanded gifts made him uncomfortable, and he was especially uncomfortable receiving gifts, given the level of comfort he had achieved. He intended to open all of the gifts, and send thank-you notes to everyone who had given them. He would then donate most (if not all) of them to some charity or another. Jamie picked up a plain cardboard box and walked up the steps to the door. William saw the thick stack of envelopes in the box and smiled. While he did not like receiving gifts, he enjoyed cards very much. He appreciated the craft in composing greeting cards, as well as the care that some people took in writing their own messages. He found cards to be much more meaningful than any gifts he received. 

“I’ll take those.” William took the box from Jamie. “Stay for dinner?” 

“Michel cooking?” Jamie made his decision about dinner based on what he might be eating. William often ordered food delivered, in which case Jamie would likely skip out and dine at home. However, Jamie was more or less addicted to Michel’s cooking, and so when William confirmed that the meal would, in fact, be a Michel creation, Jamie opted to stay. 

“Wine?” William poured a glass for Jamie without waiting for a response. Jamie set a box of greeting cards and assorted notes on the table in the breakfast nook and sat down. He sipped the wine and nodded his approval. Jamie was something of a wine snob, but he never really had to worry about the vintages William poured. He set the glass on the table and examined the label on the bottle. He chuckled. His old friend was an uncommon oenophile. The ten year old Chateau Pétrus he chose that evening was rare and expensive, and here he was serving it on a random Sunday evening, with no one to appreciate it but his manager and his chef. Jamie thought it was at least a good thing that he and Michel both appreciated the wine quite a lot. William sat at the table heavily and rubbed his temples. He looked at the box of cards and sighed deeply. 

“Is there a lot more?” William appreciated the gifts people gave him, he truly did, but he was very uncomfortable with receiving them, given the how comfortably he lived. It was strange to him that he could afford just about anything he wanted, and people who were in a similar position gave him more things that he didn’t actually want. Or in some cases, things he wanted, and could easily have purchased himself, had he prioritized them. 

Jamie chuckled, “I had Richie and Tina put the gifts in your studio. Some of the stuff that isn’t wrapped is pretty swanky. I imagine the wrapped stuff is pretty nice, too.” 

“My cousins will be thrilled.” William deadpanned, though in truth he gave most of the gifts he ever received to members of his family, and to the neighborhood guys he had grown up with. He sipped his wine and rolled his shoulders. Jamie pushed the box of cards across the table, and William started picking through them. Michel plated dinner for the three of them, and boxed two more meals for Tina and Richie. He brought the plates to the table and sat down with Jamie and William. Without looking up from the card he was reading, William picked up the Pétrus and poured a glass for Michel. No one spoke for several minutes as Jamie and Michel savored the food and William sat engrossed in a small booklet he had pulled from the box. 

“What have you there?” Michel asked in heavily accented English. He pointed his fork at the booklet, and squinted. 

William answered absently, enthralled by the booklet, “It’s rather remarkable, actually. It’s a birthday card, sort of. It’s also one of those animated flip-books. It’s filled with butterflies, and as the pages flip the wings of the butterflies spell my name. Someone put a lot of work into this. Listen to the dedication at the beginning:

I find myself lost in admiration for your talent and grace, happy birthday! 

I am forever yours,

C

This thing is beautiful. Who the Hell is ‘C’, though?” 

He pushed the booklet across the table to Jamie, who looked through it and laughed, “‘C’ is Claire Fauré from the party last night. The space oddity that you asked me about, the artist and writer Marie sent to your party. That means this little booklet is worth rather a lot of money, should you ever wish to sell it. Not that you would, but you could.” 

William frowned at Jamie, “I don’t imagine I’ll be selling it, James. Thank you, though.” He took the booklet back and flipped through the pages again, smiling. Michel silently shook his head and took a long pull at his glass of wine. Jamie chuckled again and took an animated bite of food. 

“Michel, mon ami,” Jamie began, as he finished chewing, “this meal is truly outstanding. I wonder if young William here appreciates you. I’m sure you are aware that I could pay you a bit more than he does, should you ever wish to improve your situation.” 

Michel raised his glass and nodded, “Sadly, James, you could not pay enough to allow me to afford the wines William keeps on hand.” 

“True enough.” William smirked as he refilled Michel’s glass. “I suppose I should go have a look at the stuff in the studio. James, would you like to join me? You can hear the new music, while we’re there. Michel, would you mind boxing my dinner up? I’m just not all that hungry at the moment.” He picked up the booklet, and conspicuously left the box of cards on the table. Michel raised his glass and nodded. Jamie and William headed to the studio, leaving Michel with the remainder of the bottle of Pétrus. Michel smiled and leaned back in his chair, sniffing the wine in his glass euphorically. 

Jamie looked back over his shoulder at the cook and his wine, “you’re leaving the rest of that wine with Michel?” 

William laughed and clapped James on the back, as the two half-walked, half-stumbled toward the studio in the back of William’s home. William pushed through the door and flipped a switch, gently illuminating the small vestibule that fronted the larger studio area. Jamie looked around, and though he had been there dozens (hundreds?) of times, he marveled anew at the small bits of art that decorated the small area. William had a keen eye, and deep pockets. Seeing a small ink drawing by Picasso on one of the walls, Jamie recalled that he was with William when he acquired that particular piece from a dealer in Bilbao. He shook his head and followed William into the control room of the home studio. Through the glass barrier between the control room and the sound-stage, they nodded at Richie and Tina, who were arranging the gifts on two folding tables. 

“Where’d those tables come from?” William asked, ignoring the two large stacks of gifts. 

Jamie tilted his head slightly, always bemused by his old friend, “I didn’t figure you’d want the gifts piled on the floor, and assumed you’d not have any place else to put them, so we brought them along.” William nodded. 

“Want to hear a new song?” He cued up a song on the computer at the mixing desk and the sound started flowing into the control room. Jamie was, as usual, amazed at the texture and complexity of the music William made; that the music was still incredibly listenable made it all the more impressive.   

***

When James Allen Warren was twelve, a strange new boy arrived at his secondary school in North London. The boy was tall and thin, with slightly wild black hair and very pale skin (though in London, that last bit did not make him stand out). The thing that made him stand out most, though, was his accent. One could tell he was from London, but there was a tinge of something else, something foreign, but not precisely exotic. In any case, James immediately decided he did not like the new boy. His primary reason for this decision was that Elizabeth Bailey, the girl Jamie had loved as long as he could remember, swooned visibly every time the new boy walked past her in the hall. Even when she was in the middle of a conversation with James. Who had loved her as long as he could remember. For his part, the new boy seemed not to notice either Elizabeth or James. He was typically reading some obscure philosopher, or scribbling in a worn leather notebook. He ate virtually all of his meals alone, and seemed not to mind the solitude. After a month, James realized he had never seen the boy talk to anyone outside of a classroom. One late-September day, when autumn seemed to have taken hold for good, James approached the new boy at lunch. 

“So… you speak strangely, where are you from?” James was not the most charming twelve year old, but his directness was generally appreciated, eventually. He sat down at the table where the new boy was sitting alone. 

William looked up from a thick, leather-bound anthology of Persian poetry. James noted that the left page was in English, but the right page was in some sort of scratches that he’d never seen before, but assumed to be Persian. “Notting Hill. Though what you’re hearing is probably a tiny bit of New York. I lived there the last three years.” William noticed James looking at the book and pushed it across the table toward him. “Do you know Rumi?” 

James looked at the words on the page blankly, “I can’t say that I do. I’ve never been much on poetry.” America. William, the new boy, had lived in America. James wanted to ask William all about America, but he stifled the urge. “Why don’t you talk to anyone? I never see you eating with anyone, or talking to anyone in the halls.” 

William sighed and pulled his book back across the table. “I don’t know anyone, and I’m fairly certain most people here would like to keep it that way, myself included.” James frowned. Most people would have taken William’s statement as a hint to leave the table. James was, in many ways, not most people. 

“Well, be that as it may, you should join us for study group this afternoon after class.” James had not cleared this idea with his study group, though he was certain, at least, that the female members of the group would not object. “We’re working on maths for Trewes. Are you any good at maths?” 

“Maths? Where is this study group meeting?” William was skeptical. 

“Ashworth. Four o’clock. Will you come?” Jamie tilted his head in a particular way and raised an eyebrow. 

“Sure.” 

***      

“What do you think, James?” William clicked the computer and stopped the music. 

“It’s brilliant, Will. Best you’ve done, yet. Are you guys going to play any of it on the tour?” Jamie was still swaying a bit, entranced by William’s talent, and slightly inebriated.

William was noncommittal about playing the new songs on tour. He explained that the recording Jamie had just heard was actually not the band, but William himself playing all of the instruments. The band had heard the songs, which he considered ‘demos’ but had not played the songs together. Jamie was surprised, as the songs sounded well produced and engineered, not like typical demos. He decided he’d not pursue what that might mean at the moment, but he made a mental note to ask William about the songs later, and about the possibility of something other than the Breach. “Ready to get to the gifts, Will?” 

The two friends left the control room and entered the soundstage where Richie and Tina had finished arranging the gifts. William greeted each of them warmly, hugging them and thanking them for their help with the party and with the gifts. “Michel has dinner in the kitchen, if you two are hungry. He’ll also open up a bottle of wine for you, I’m sure.” He smiled and spread his hands in a gesture of welcome. 

Richie began to respond enthusiastically, but both Tina and Jamie shot him a look that made it clear that he should decline. His demeanor sagged noticeably, and William narrowed his eyes and looked from Tina to Jamie. “Richie,” he said, though he was looking at Jamie, “please head to the kitchen and take Tina with you. Enjoy the food, and the wine. James, allow your people to enjoy the fringe benefits of their jobs, will you?” He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. 

Jamie frowned, and nodded to Richie and Tina, who left the room without another word and headed to the kitchen. Jamie turned to William, and furrowed his brow, “are you ready to start going through this stuff?” He gestured to the tables piled with gifts. William sighed and began opening a gift. 

“Do you know if Claire lives in Paris, currently?” William tried to seem nonchalant.

“I can ask Marie, should I arrange a meeting?” Jamie smirked, enjoying his old friend’s minor discomfort. 

“No, no. I just…we’ll be wrapping up the first leg of the tour in Paris, maybe I’ll try to sort something out.” William wanted to take back the question, but knew Jamie would not forget. 

“Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist.” Jamie sat on a leather sofa and lit a joint. He took an iPad out of the satchel he was carrying and started a list of gifts and the associated gift-givers, so that he could have a list of people to whom they would send thank you cards. 

“Why do people feel compelled to give me all of this stuff?” William set to opening gifts, the new Breach music softly scoring the activity. 

***

During the next several months, William was focused on touring and promoting the Breach, as well as working on a new album. Most days he didn’t think much about Claire or Kathryn or anything outside of the band and the music. Except that every couple of weeks, he found a letter awaiting him when he checked into his hotel. He was always pleasantly surprised, both that Claire was taking the time to write to him, and that she was paying close enough attention to send the letters to the hotel ahead of him. He marveled at the little bits of art that he found within the illuminated envelopes. Sometimes there were pencil drawings, sometimes origami, and sometimes little paintings on card stock. In each, though, there was always a short letter, written in the same incredibly smooth, flowing, cursive hand, and always in deep burgundy ink on expensive cotton paper. The content of the letters was consistently thematic, as well. Claire wanted to see him, wanted to remove the impediment of miles and letters that stood between them, and wanted it to happen soon. William was not entirely certain he was ready for another relationship, even a fleeting one. In the back of his mind he hoped that, should there be a relationship with Claire, it would—indeed—not be fleeting. He kept the small collection of letters in a box in the back of the tour bus, and didn’t mention them to Jamie. While sitting in an opulent hotel room in Vienna, William made a decision. He looked out the window at the snow-covered old city. Winter arrived a bit early, and that early December morning was chilled nearly to the point of bitterness. William stepped out onto the street, turned the collar of his wool coat up, and squinted against the glare of winter sun on fresh snow. The concierge had offered to run to the stationer for him, but he wanted to walk. He wanted to get out of the room, out of the hotel, and into a space where he could think. The last show of the current leg of the tour was scheduled for Christmas Eve in Paris. The band planned to take three weeks off before starting the Asian leg of the tour that Jamie had been so gung-ho about. Without telling Jamie, or any of his bandmates, William had arranged to rent a classic Parisian townhouse in the Marais for the three week break. He was headed to the stationer to buy proper paper and pen for replying to Claire. He felt silly, but was somehow sure that he couldn’t reply to the miniature masterpieces she had been sending him for the past months on hotel stationery in ball-point pen. He wanted to impress this woman. This “space-oddity” as Jamie called her. The door creaked and a tiny bell rang as William stepped into the stationery shop. He loved the shop immediately. Unlike many retail stores, there was no music playing. It was, in fact, completely silent in the shop, as no one else was shopping for fine stationery and a fountain pen at ten in the morning on a Tuesday. The shopkeeper greeted him warmly in that peculiarly Viennese-accented German. 

“Guten tag, mein herr. Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?” She smiled patiently.

“Ah…sorry, uh… sprechen sie Englisch?” William spoke a bit of German, but he did not feel confident enough to accomplish his task. He thought at that moment that perhaps he’d have been wiser to take the concierge up on his offer. 

“Yes, sir. I do. How can I help you today?” She straightened a small display on the counter.

“I’m looking for a simple but fine stationery set and a proper pen. I need to …well, I need to write a letter and I need it to be impressive.” William smiled in his sheepish/charming way. 

The shopkeeper brushed invisible wrinkles out of her apron and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose slightly. “Allow me to show you the top of our range. I think you will find the papers of suitable quality. As for the pen, do you prefer fountain or roller?” 

“I rather think I should choose fountain, but I’m also concerned about making a mess of the letter with drips and what have you. Perhaps I’d be safer with a good quality roller pen.” William was familiar with the world of high-end pens, and knew he would be happier with a fountain pen in the long run, but this was an immediate need, and he didn’t have the time to break in the pen properly. The shopkeeper nodded and stepped into the stock room, and returned with a box of very fine cotton paper with matching envelopes and four beautiful pens. The first three were weighty, glossy and phenomenally smooth writing roller-ball pens. Their barrels were enameled steel, and the ink flowed beautifully (and neatly) onto the paper. The fourth, though, had a thick, polished burl barrel and when William removed the cap he found the gracefully curved nib crafted of steel and gold and ornately carved. He pressed the nib gently to the paper and felt his eyes grow subtly wider when the ink flowed smoothly onto the page immediately in a glossy shade of claret. He smiled and narrowed his eyes at the shopkeeper in mock irritation. “This pen is lovely. I’ll have two, and the others, and five boxes of the paper.” He decided he’d give a box of paper and a pen to each of his bandmates and to Jamie. The boys would get the roller-ball pens, but William thought Jamie would appreciate the fountain pen. The shopkeeper nodded and smiled slightly. She retreated to the stock room again and returned with William’s order complete. She wrapped the lot in brown paper and tied it up with a string. He paid her and thanked her and headed back to the hotel. He got back to his room and called room service to bring him coffee and breakfast. It was past eleven, and he hadn’t eaten anything yet. He shook his head and untied the string that bound his paper. He opened the boxes and laid out his pen and paper on the writing desk near the window. He retrieved most recent drafts of his letter from the bedside table. The message he had crafted was scrawled on notepads in various forms, through many iterations, but he felt confident that he had landed upon the final wording and could commit the message to the proper paper and post it before soundcheck. Over the course of three pages, William explained why he had hesitated to respond to respond to her messages up to that point, and suggested meeting in Paris the week after Christmas. He left the letter to dry and got himself ready for the evening. When the letter was fully dry, he folded it and placed it into one of the envelopes and addressed it. He left the letter with the concierge and climbed into the waiting car under the porte-cochère and headed off to soundcheck for the evening’s show. 

The show that evening was not the best of the tour, as William was feeling distracted for much of the evening, but the fans seemed happy with the experience, none-the-less. William’s bandmates were concerned, but not overly so. They recognized William’s distraction as a normal, though infrequent, manifestation of the mental makeup that allowed him to create such interesting and brilliant music. 

The next morning, William and the band made their way to the tour bus, groggy and ready to move on to the next city. William was excited because he had never been to Prague before, and looked forward to spending a few days there before heading to Berlin. The next couple of shows in Prague were back to normal for William, as he put thoughts of the letter and the potential response to the back of his mind. They arrived late in the evening in Berlin and stumbled into their hotel. The concierge waved to get William’s attention and approached deferentially with a small package. “Sir, this arrived for you this morning.” He handed the package to William and retreated to his desk. William mumbled his thanks and headed for the elevator. When he got into his room, and the bellhop was gone, he flopped onto the bed and began opening the package. Before he could get into the box, a knock at the door interrupted. He set the package aside and answered the door, expecting the bellhop must have forgotten something. Instead he found James standing in the hall, bottle of Macallan in hand. 

“Care for a drink, Will?” James stepped into the room uninvited, and William glanced nervously at the package on the bed, not wanting to have a conversation with James at that moment about Claire.   

“Sure, come on in, Jamie.” William rolled his eyes and frowned at the back of James’s head. He retrieved two dof glasses from the well stocked bar and joined James on the leather sofa in the sitting area of his suite. James poured two healthy measures of the very expensive Scotch and raised his glass in toast to a successful tour. “What’s on your mind, Jamie?” 

“You’ve been off your game the last few days, Will. Prague was quite a bit better than the last night in Vienna, but still not to your normal standard. What’s up?” James knew William better than anyone, and recognized that his distraction the last few nights was not just the normal working of his mind. 

“Truth?” Though he didn’t want to have the conversation in full, Will knew he was not going to escape any discussion at this point. “I wrote to Claire. I suggested meeting in Paris after the last show. In fact, I invited her to come to the last show.” He nodded at the box on the bed, “that’s her response, I think. I’ve been considering opening it. I’m not sure I want to see her answer.

“I’ll open it for you.” Jamie stepped toward the bed.

“Nah, mate. I’ve got it, but thanks.” William picked up the box and untied the twine that bound it closed. He laughed out loud when he removed the top of the box. 

“What’s in the box?” Jamie narrowed his eyes, simultaneously happy to see Will laugh, and concerned about what all this would mean for the band.

Will pulled a folded piece of gray stationery out of the box and emptied the remaining contents onto the bed. James picked up the boxed Fenty lip paint and looked skeptically at the other object: a zip-top plastic bag that appeared to be filled with smoke. The bag was labeled “poetry” in ornate lettering. “It’s an inside joke.” William was reading the note, but knew James would be curious about the bag of smoke. 

“Dear Will, 

Do be sure to bring lipstick when we meet, I may need to borrow it. I hope this all finds you well. Please send along details for Paris when you can. I’m very much looking forward to seeing you. 

Yours,

Claire”

“She’s agreed to meet. No turning back now, I suppose.” William set the note on the nightstand next to the bed and wandered over to the bar. He poured another measure of the scotch into his glass and raised it questioningly to Jamie. 

“Sure, I’ll have another. Why not? It’s nearly three in the afternoon.” Will took Jamie’s empty glass and poured him another two fingers. 

“She asked that I send over details for Paris. Can you arrange a pass for her, and I’ll let her know when and where to pick it up?” Jamie nodded and sipped his scotch. He looked at the box, the note, and the other items. He was happy to see William excited about a woman, but something about Claire caused him concern. He decided to set aside his concerns for the time being and focus on finishing the tour. Three shows in four nights in Berlin, a train ride to Munich for one show, on from there to Marseille, Lyon, and then finally to Paris to wrap up this leg. James was looking forward to spending some time at home before setting off for Asia. 

The show that night went exceptionally well. James believed that Will was, at least for the moment, back to himself. The distraction of worrying what would happen with Claire seemed to have been the culprit in Will’s lackluster performances, and now that he had that situation more or less sorted, he was back to top form. The next two shows in Berlin, likewise, were brilliant. To make matters even better, Will managed to pen two new songs in the mornings before the shows. When he played the rough, acoustic arrangements for Jamie, they seemed at once classic and completely fresh. A productive, engaged Will was good news for Jamie, and he was happy to set aside his reservations for the time being. He sat back in his private train car and watched the German countryside roll by. His phone buzzed, and he set his drink aside to answer. “Jamie here.” 

“Mr. Warren? This is Sarah from Mme. Lefebvre’s office. Do you have a moment?” Jamie sighed and rubbed his temples before answering. 

“Sure, Sarah. How can I be of assistance?” Jamie knew he’d be hearing from Marie’s office to set up Claire’s credentials for Paris. He couldn’t quite express what it was that concerned him about Claire, other than she was a young, talented, beautiful artist who had a reputation for being unpredictable, and the timing with Jamie was tricky, with the tour ending, a new album to finish, and a recent break-up. Jamie decided to let go of his worry, sip his scotch, and set up credentials for Claire; let the chips fall where they may.

“I am calling to arrange credentials for Mlle. Fauré for the Breach show in Paris on Christmas Eve. She is very much looking forward to the event, is there anything I should relate to her about the venue, or arrangements?” 

Jamie smiled. Marie always had the best assistants. Several of her former employees had gone on to executive positions with artist management companies, a&r positions with media companies, and a few had even started their own companies (all with Marie’s express blessing and support, even in cases where they might be seen as competitive). “Please arrange for Mlle. Fauré to arrive before seven, the artist’s entrance is at the back of the building, and security will be tight. She’ll need to have her credentials available at a checkpoint at the end of the street. I’ll have my courier bring them by your offices today or tomorrow. Thanks for helping arrange all of this, Sarah. May I ask, how long have you been with Mme. Lefebvre?”

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Warren. I’ve been here six months. Why do you ask?” 

“No reason, just curious. Best of luck to you, and have a great day.” Jamie clicked his phone off and leaned back in his seat. Jamie ruminated on the new Breach album, trying to imagine the trajectory the band would take from this point. He’d watched William grow as a song writer, watched the band grow as musicians, and as a unit. He wondered if the next phase of their career would see them grow together, or grow apart; he worried about William’s focus, in light of the developments with Claire. He made an effort to stay focused on the present most of the time, but part of his job description was to plan for the future. The logistics of building a successful music career were often beyond the comprehension of musicians, he found. William was a brilliant young man, and Jamie was sure that he could probably sort out the business side of things on his own, though he would never do so in a way that maximized the return he saw. He would take the route that led to the most artistic fulfillment, even when it meant sacrificing commercial benefit. Jamie’s job was to make sure the band was able to reap both benefits: artistic and creative fulfillment, as well as financial success. He had been very successful so far, and wanted to see that success continue. When he spoke to someone like Sarah from Marie’s office, he was reminded of all of the paths a young person starting out could follow. He was not all that old himself, only just having turned thirty-one, but he had lived an extraordinarily full life, thanks mainly to his long friendship with William, and his ability to provide William and the band with the opportunities they desired. Jamie’s chief strength was his ability to simultaneously make people like him and make them do what he wanted them to do, regardless of the cost or risk to themselves. He was incredibly persuasive, and rather rigid in his demands. As a result, William and the other members of The Breach trusted him implicitly, and he was paid as a full member of the band, and always had been. In the ten years since the band first achieved international stardom, he went from answering phones in Marie’s office (very much as Sarah was doing now), to riding in a private train car in the Black Forest on his way to watch his band perform for a massive sold-out crowd in Munich. 

He sighed deeply. He needed to confirm the schedule for the Asian leg of the tour with William and the guys. A three month break to record the new album and prepare for the Asian tour would be a welcome respite from the road. Jamie could almost remember what his London townhouse looked like. He stood up and stretched his shoulders, grabbed his glass of scotch and another glass along with the bottle and headed to the next private cabin over, where he found William hunched over a notepad with his guitar in his lap. 

“Do we have a moment to discuss Asia, Will?” Jamie set the glasses on the table in the corner and poured William a drink. “I can call the others in.” 

William took the glass of scotch without looking up, “Sure, Jamie. I know you’ve been anxious to get it sorted out. Call the boys and let’s finalize the plans for both recording schedule and the tour. I’d rather just get it done with.”

Jamie smiled slightly to himself and sent a group text asking the other members of the band to join them in William’s cabin. “How long do you think it will take to record the album?” 

“I’d like to set aside at least three weeks. I think most of the recording could be completed in a week or so, but I want to make sure we have enough time to re-write, and re-do things if we want to. The guys won’t need to be there more than two weeks, most likely. The last week will be mostly mixing. Did we get a yes from Brendan to produce?”

“Yeah, O’Brien is in.” Jamie had secured the producer the band wanted for this album, along with several guest musicians. 

“You’re the best, James. I know you know that already, of course, but it bears mentioning from time to time.” Will sipped the scotch and made a quick edit to the lyrics he had been writing.

Wyatt knocked on the door as he entered. He fished a glass from the bar cart and poured himself a glass of scotch and took a seat on one of the sofas in the cabin. “Less than two hours into Munich, I reckon.” 

“Aye, this shouldn’t take too long.” Jamie raised his glass in welcome, and continued to stare out of the window. Wyatt sipped the scotch and eyed the sheet music on the table. 

Simon, Paul, and Derek entered the cabin together, arguing about the football match they’d been watching. Jamie was always struck by the camaraderie of the band. After more than a decade together, they suffered none of the usual intra-band dramas that usually made for a good “Behind the Music” episode. They had all been in school together, and had been close friends since they were young. William was the most recent addition to the social group, and he’d been around for nearly twenty years now. 

Jamie grabbed his iPad from the table and brought up the calendar. “After Paris, there’s time for some rest before recording. You’ve been offered a New Year’s Eve gig in New York at a private party. Two songs, one at about half-past nine, the other just before midnight. The money is good, but if you want the night off, I understand that too. We need to let them know in the next day or two. What do you think?” 

The band mates looked at each other and nodded. New Year’s Eve in New York City was not a bad deal to begin with, and being paid to be there was even better. William spoke up, “let’s do it, Jamie. Sounds like a good time.” 

“Great. I’ll confirm today. Now, as for the recording schedule. William said he thought three weeks would be sufficient. We’ve got our producer. We need to choose a studio, and book the dates. We have all of the usual spots reserved for January and February. Will, have you guys discussed where you want to record?” 

Simon spoke up first, “We want to stay in L.A.” That meant recording at William’s home studio, which was as high-tech and well-equipped as any professional studio in the world. It also meant a significant reduction in recording cost. Jamie knew the reason they had chosen the space was nothing at all to do with money, but he appreciated the financial benefit all the same. 

“Alright. I’ll let the other spots know, and arrange transport and a house in the neighborhood for Brendan. I wanted to let you all know that I’ve arranged some potential guest musicians, as we discussed. Tori Amos has offered to play piano and contribute a song, Jay and Sola from Jamiroquai will be in town, and want to work on something, and Donald Glover wants to come around, as well.” 

The band nodded and sipped their drinks. “We should start the fifteenth of January. That way we’re done with the primary tracking before my next birthday,” William sighed and rubbed his temples. 

“Done.” Jamie tapped the dates into his calendar. “Now, last but not least: the Asian tour. The plans are all in place, twenty-four dates over three months, starting in middle March in Singapore, and ending in Tokyo at the end of June. The venues are all in the ten to fifteen thousand seat range. We’re due to visit some new places, as well as some old favorites. I sent you all the itinerary two weeks ago, did you all have a chance to review?” The boys in the band all nodded and mumbled assent, “Any concerns we need to address before we confirm?” Jamie loved working with the band more than anything, but he sometimes wondered if the boys appreciated how much work went into something like a three-month tour of Asia. 

“James, as I recall we’re playing a show in Agra, then we have a week’s break. Is that correct?” Paul was the most lone-wolf adventurer of the group, and he’d already mentioned to Jamie that he had some sites he wanted to see while they were in India. 

“That’s correct, my son. Do you have an itinerary in mind for your time? I can help arrange transport and guides, should you need them.” 

“I’ll take care of it myself, Jamie, thank you. Shall I meet you all in Astana?”

Jamie expressed comic, exaggerated shock, “you did read the itinerary!” Paul rolled his eyes and raised his glass.

“We’re not playing China at all, as you all agreed. There are a few questionable regimes along our route, but we’ll do our best to remain true to ourselves. No one has expressed any concern about the stage show prelims, nor has anyone made any demands about set-list, so I think we’ll be okay. As always, it’s important to stay out of trouble in most of these places. They have a different attitude to rule-breaking than you’re used to.” Jamie looked over the itinerary and glanced around the room at the band. No one seemed overly concerned about the potential for trouble, and Jamie knew them well enough to know they were unlikely to find any. 

Paul stood up and stretched. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.” He let himself out of the cabin and teetered along the walkway as the train trundled through the early evening. 

The Munich show went brilliantly, and Jamie began to relax a bit, though the anticipation of Christmas Eve in Paris, the show, Will and Claire - all of it seemed extraordinary in some way he couldn’t quite name. He decided to think about other things, including the trip to New Zealand he was planning to take between the end of the primary recording sessions for the next album and the beginning of the Asian tour. He marveled at the way his life had progressed. He loved his job and he loved the band. More than anything else, he loved Will. He was certain that, among best friends, Will must certainly be near the top of the charts. Jamie watched the snow falling on Munich from the french doors of his hotel room. He sipped his tea and clicked “play” on his iPad and listened to the rough demoes Will had sent him earlier in the day. The new direction Will was taking as a songwriter was simultaneously awe-inspiring and nerve-wracking for Jamie. The band had a solid following, their music sold well, and they played to reasonably large crowds considering the current state of the music industry. The new music was something of a departure from their “sound,” and he hoped the fans would come along. He couldn’t have loved the new sound more. 

Early the next morning, the band congregated in the hotel lobby, waiting for the cars that would take them to the train station. It was Christmas Eve-Eve, and they would be in Paris early in the afternoon. Will and Simon were chatting with members of the hotel staff when the cars arrived. Jamie shepherded everyone to their rides. The drivers loaded their luggage into the trunks of the idling cars, and they were off. Early morning departures were not popular among the band, but when the only direct train departs at seven in the morning, you take the early train. An early start to the day was still preferable to changing trains in Karlsruhe. 

The band played a warm up show in hat night for an invitation-only crowd of friends, industry people, and their guests. Jamie’s description of the show in the green room afterwards (unremarkable) was fair and accurate. The boys didn’t like playing for non-fans with low energy, and the crowd was quite subdued. They all adjourned to their hotel rooms ready for the tour to be over. One more show - Christmas Eve - and they would all disperse to their families, on vacation, or wherever they disappeared to between tours. Will was beside himself with excitement for the show, entirely owing to the dinner he had planned with Claire after its completion. 

The band spent Christmas Eve doing media appearances promoting their single for a possible Christmas Number One bid. As showtime approached, Will and Jamie sat in the green room at the Bataclan. “D’you reckon she’ll show?” Will was half-joking, but Jamie knew he was also a little nervous. 

“I am certain she’ll be here.” Jamie was not, in fact certain. He regarded artists (including his best friend, sitting their before him) as unreliable and unpredictable. Claire might well be there, and she might be in Nepal, for all he knew. 

“We should get ready to go on,” Will looked at the clock. The promoter’s assistant stuck her head through the door and announced fifteen minutes to showtime. Will and Jamie drained their drinks and stood. Jamie left to take up his post in the wings at stage left. Will took off the faded tee shirt he’d been wearing and put on the shirt and jacket they’d selected earlier that evening. He offered brief thanks to the universe for what he recognized as a truly amazing life. He wandered down the hall to the room where the rest of the band was gathered, relaxed and ready. He thought about how different the energy was when they knew they were playing for “real” fans. He was thankful for the guys, for their families and their understanding of the weirdo life they’d all chosen, and most of all for Jamie. He reflected on how stabilizing Jamie’s influence had been throughout his adult life. No matter what happened during the show or after, Will knew that Jamie and the band would somehow make everything okay.

The band huddled together and Derek raised his glass of cranberry juice. The rest of the band followed suit - none of them drank alcohol before a show - and Derek offered a toast, “To a smashing end to a wonderful tour, and to a very Merry Christmas. Love you all.” 

The rest of the band responded in unison with one word: “Love.” They emptied their glasses and headed to the stage. 

…

“Unreal!” Jamie was effusive in his praise for the boys following what was clearly the best show of the tour. “Your energy was totally off the charts tonight.” 

The boys were hugging and drinking champagne and celebrating the end of the tour, and the triumph of a truly memorable show. The green room was chaotic and happier than it had been in months. Will was basking in the joy of the moment and was almost able to put it out of his kind that he hadn’t seen or heard anything from Claire when someone noticed a soft knock at the green room door.

“Has anyone got some lipstick I could use?” The energy in the room changed perceptibly when Claire stepped in. Though she seemed to be speaking to the room generally, there was no question at all that her question was directed specifically at Will. 

He jumped up and spilled his glass of champagne. Claire giggled and stepped into his arms. He wrapped her up tightly in their first-ever embrace, though it felt like the most comfortable and natural thing to hold her like that. Will made brief introductions to the band and their friends and families before excusing himself and taking Claire gently by the arm, leading her to a private dressing room. “I’m so glad you could make it.” He closed the dressing room door, the raucous scene in the hall and blasting club music reduced to a muffled pulse. 

“Of course I ‘made it,’ silly. Now, really, can I use some lipstick? Singing along and drinking seems to ha e done my face in.” He laughed and grabbed his makeup bag from the dressing table. 

“Your face is anything but ‘done-in,’” he beamed. “Would it be okay for me to kiss you? You know, before you re-do your lipstick?” 

It was Claire’s turn to laugh. “I wondered what you were waiting for, I thought maybe you’d decided you didn’t want to.” 

Will stepped toward her and took her hand. He pulled her close and gently pressed his lips to hers. She was warm and soft. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her close. “Are you hungry? I made dinner plans.” Will continued to hold her close and she melted into his chest. 

“I could eat. Where are we going?” Claire radiated contentment. 

“Let me change and we’ll get out of here. I think you’ll like the place.” Will stepped into the wardrobe in the corner of his dressing room.

“I’m going to go say goodbye to Jamie and the band. Come get me there when you’re ready?” Claire winked.

Will smiled and nodded. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.

In the green room Jamie and Simon were talking about the response the crowd had to the new song the band debuted in the encore section of the show. Claire stepped inside quietly, and waved to Marie. Her manager beckoned her over and introduced Claire to Anna and Hari, friends of Will who’d come to Paris to spend the holidays. “Will wrote about you two. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Claire kissed each of them on the cheeks. 

“He’s mentioned you a time or two.” Anna smiled, and embraced Claire convivially. “Stop staring.” She nudged Hari, and rolled her eyes. Claire giggled. Hari stammered and looked at his feet. 

“I’m so glad you made it tonight, Claire.” Anna grasped Hari’s hand as he composed himself. 

“We saw your installation in Madrid last year.” Hari was finally able to speak. “We’ve been fans for some time now.”

“Thank you, Hari. That was a fun project. How long have you known Will?” Claire was flattered, but there was very little she enjoyed less than talking about herself or her work.

“We met just after he moved to L.A. Anna’s marketing company handled the first Breach release on their new label.” 

Claire nodded at Anna, “l’ve seen your work. ‘Marketing’ is not the word I’d use. Commercial art like yours is rare, and your work is some of the most beautiful and unique I’ve seen.” Anna blushed at Claire’s compliments. “And you, Hari. I read your last piece in the New Yorker. It’s quite something that two such talented people live under the same roof. But then, I guess it would be much more difficult if you were not so well-suited.” 

It was Hari’s turn to blush. Will opened the door to the green room and stepped in. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored navy bespoke suit, the collar of his white shirt open to reveal the tattoo on his chest. The whole room turned to look, and Claire followed their eyes to Will. She smiled and excused herself. “I’m so happy to have met you both. I hope we meet again.” Anna and Hari took turns embracing Claire genially and watched as she walked over to Will. Just as she was nearing, Jamie sidled up to Will, straightened his lapels and playfully “fixed” his hair. Will swatted him away, feigning irritation, but laughed in spite of himself. Claire paused, watching the two of them push each other around in mock battle. She wondered at the easels with which Will carried himself through the room. The two young men approached her, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. They separated and Will straightened his jacket. 

“Claire, I’d like you to meet…” 

“James! Claire interrupted Will. “It’s wonderful to meet you. Will has told me so much about you, and Marie adores you, as well.” She nodded at Marie, who raised her glass in agreement. “Thank you for setting aside tickets for us tonight.”

“For Marie,” he raised his glass to the blushing manager, “anything. Oh, and I guess it benefited William as well. Will raised his glass and nodded. Claire looped her arm in Will’s. “I suppose you two will be heading out, then?” Jamie cocked his head.

“We’re going to grab dinner. I’d invite you to join, but I could only get a table for two.” Will smiled and brushed imaginary dust from Jamie’s shoulder. 

“You could have had any table you wanted, and you would absolutely not have invited me under any circumstances. Enjoy your dinner. The plane is fueled and ready. We’re all headed back tonight. What’s your plan?” 

Will looked at Claire, and shrugged, “I’ll sort things out in the morning. Have a safe flight, James. I’ll see you back in L.A.” 

Jamie hugged Will and air-kissed Claire on both cheeks. “See you at home, Will.” 

Will and Claire made their way through the room, saying their “goodbyes” to the band and friends. In the vestibule the venue manager greeted them, “Your car is ready, sir. Thank you for a fantastic evening.” 

Will shook the man’s hand and guided Claire through the door. Will was surprised to see Shane holding the door of an idling Rolls Royce. “They let you into France?” Will winked and straightened Shane’s lapel. 

“It’s good to see you, too, Will. We’re about fifteen minutes to our destination. Make yourselves comfortable.” Shane took Claire’s hand and guided her into the back seat. Will cuffed the young man fraternally on the shoulder and ducked into the car. They pulled silently away into the Paris night. 

…

The private seating at Septime was a delicious blur. Will and Claire talked until quite early Christmas morning. They left the restaurant and rode enraptured back to Will’s hotel. The next three days were even blurrier than dinner had been. They only left the suite twice, and every moment Will fell deeper and deeper into something he couldn’t describe, but believed was love. 

The morning of December twenty-eighth dawned gray and rainy. Will awoke to see Claire dressing. Coffee steamed from two cups on the table. “Are we going out?” Will rubbed his eyes and stretched. 

“Silly, I need to go home before my flight.” Claire shrugged into a cashmere sweater. And brushed her hair. 

“I hoped you’d come to New York for New Year’s Eve.” Will smiled. 

“I have a show in Tokyo the first. I have to fly out tomorrow morning to oversee the installation.” She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through his Will’s hair. 

“Maybe I can join you in Tokyo before we start recording?” Will was confused. 

Claire kissed him gently. She stood and shouldered her bag. “Have a safe flight home Will. I’d love to see you in Tokyo.” He got out of bed and walked her to the door. They lingered a moment, kissed, and she was gone. He watched her walk down the hall and enter the elevator. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. 

…

“It’s very strange that a person, living in the modern world, would have no means of immediate, direct communication, innit? Jamie took another bite of eggs and squinted at his phone. “I have an email from Marie this morning. She says Claire is likely at…” 

“A retreat center in Nepal?” Will knew Claire often went “off-grid” after a show to recharge her social battery. He was surprised she hadn’t written, though. It was unlike her to be completely incommunicado for so long. “I haven’t heard from her in weeks. I should have gone to Tokyo.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jamie drained the remaining orange juice in his glass and dabbed the corners of his mouth with the linen napkin that lay rumpled on the table next to his plate. 

“Marie said Claire wasn’t staying in Tokyo long enough for me to get there after New York. A change in her plans, apparently.” Will sipped his coffee and wrote a bit of lyric in the open notebook over which he was leaning. 

“The boys will be here in a few hours to work on the new songs. Should we take the day off? 

“No. I’m up for work, James. It’s good to take my mind off of her.” Will closed the notebook and sighed. “When she’s ready, I’m sure I’ll hear. In the meantime, please tell me you’ve planned nothing at all for my birthday.”

“Your birthday? Is that coming up?” Jamie winked. “I’ve planned nothing at all, my friend. The boys will be ‘round with their families, and a few friends - nothing at all like last year. I did extend an invitation to Marie and Claire - just in case, I hope that’s okay.” 

“Of course. I appreciate it, James.” Will went back to writing in his notebook. 

One week later Will’s birthday arrived. The band was finishing up their session for the day when guests began arriving. Will was oddly nervous, anticipating possibly seeing Claire for the first time in more than a month. When he saw Marie enter the room, his anticipation peaked. He was crestfallen to see she was alone. “Good evening, Marie. I’m glad you could be here.” He put on a smile, but Marie was not fooled in the least.

“I’m sorry Claire couldn’t be here, Will. She sent a gift.” Marie handed Will a carved teak box. “I hope you have many happy returns, my dear.” 

Will thanked her and hugged her warmly. The rest of the night was foggy, and mostly he wished it would end. At last, just after midnight, the last guest pulled away from the house. Jamie closed the door behind them and made his way back to the studio where he found Will sitting on the sofa, turning the teak box over in his hands. 

“You haven’t opened it yet?” Jamie poured two fingers of Scotch into a glass and sat down. 

“Not yet.” Will set the box on the table in front of them and leaned forward. “What do you suppose is inside?”

“Only one way to find out.” 

Will opened the hinged lid of the box. Inside he saw another tiny flip book - similar to that first tiny book of butterflies, but this one was different. The colors were less vibrant, and when he flipped through he saw a rose bud, blossom, and fade. The red seemed dusty, faded. He marveled at the beauty. He looked into the box and saw a note - the same smooth, flowing hand he’d seen so many times before. The same deep-crimson ink. 

Dearest Will,

I’m sorry I couldn’t be at your birthday. I’m sorry for so many things right now. I was so certain that you and I were meant to be…it seems reality intruded on that dream, as it so often does. I won’t ever forget you. 

Goodbye,

C

“I’m sorry, Will.” Jamie handed his friend a glass of whiskey. 

“Did you know?” Will was not angry, precisely, more dumbfounded. “Or did you merely surmise from my demeanor?” Will chuckled ruefully, knowing how clearly he showed all of his emotions to his friend.

“I did not. Artists. Unpredictable lot, you are.” Jamie raised his glass to Will. I love you, my friend. Whatever you need, I’m here.” 

“I have a new song for you to hear. What I need is your opinion.”

“What’s it called?” Jamie shifted in his seat as Will moved around to the control board and cued up the song on the computer screen.

“And You’ll Never Know.”