A Different Kind of Forever

Chapter TEN

EMILY WAS IN her senior year. She had worked during the summer as a waitress and she had saved some money. For her car, she announced. After all, she was getting her license in March, and she didn’t think she’d be happy sharing the Subaru, she wanted to use the money she made for her own car.

Diane sighed. “What about insurance? How are you going to pay for that?”

Emily shrugged. “Just add me to your policy,” she said.

Diane raised her eyebrows. “What makes you think I can afford to add you? Do you have any idea how much that’s going to cost?” Emily sighed and went upstairs without answering. Diane felt a headache coming on.

Megan decided not to go to France after all. She had met a boy while at the shore, Stan, a year older, a junior at a neighboring high school. She was in love, and didn’t want to leave him next spring. Diane was relieved that it was no longer an issue, and did not mention to her daughter the possibility that Stan would be only a memory by next year.

Diane had one less class to teach that fall. Marianne had taken away her freshman comp class, to free time for the graduate class that she would begin in January. Rehearsals for her play were every day. Her part of the process was technically over, but she still was there two or three evenings a week, just to watch.

It was during one of those evenings, early in September, that Quinn Harris slipped into the back row of the auditorium and sat through a rehearsal. Diane did not notice him. The cast was getting through a complicated, funny scene in Act 1, and, when Sam called it a night, Quinn rose from his seat, clapping his hands.

Diane was surprised and happy to see him. He greeted her warmly, giving her a hug and a dry kiss on her cheek. He congratulated the cast, who were slightly star-struck in his presence. He and Sam began an immediate discussion of the scene. Diane listened, fascinated. Quinn had an intimate knowledge of all things theatrical. His passion for his work was one of the things she had loved about him

She watched him closely. He had not changed. He was a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man, well-made and graceful. He was around fifty, with thinning hair and surprising green eyes. He had a nervous energy and seemed constantly in motion, his hands moving through the air as he spoke, his foot moving back and forth. He was shy, quiet with strangers, but dynamic and charming when talking about his craft, or among friends.

She was grateful for the small flurry of butterflies in her stomach. She was afraid she would react badly on seeing him again, afraid that all the old feelings would come back in a painful rush. She had worried about it, a small, constant nag that had been following her since classes had started. Now there was just a shimmer of nervousness, no icy palms, no rush of blood to her temples. She took a long slow breath. She really was over him.

He turned to Diane. “I would love to talk to you about this, both of you. Can you get away for a drink? Sam?” Sam was agreeable. Diane accepted gratefully. She was feeling anxious about the way the play was going, and knew that Quinn would give a sound, honest opinion.

They went down to the campus pub, drank coffee, and talked about her play until the place closed. He had gotten a copy of the play from Sam a week before, and had read it carefully. He thought it was wonderful. He was pleased to see that Sam was keeping the actors light and fresh. It was a positive discussion, and as they left the pub, Diane was grateful for his input.

Sam said good-night, and Quinn walked her to her car. His hands were in his pants pockets, shoulders hunched.

“Would you like to have dinner, say, tomorrow night?” he asked, as she knew he would. When she hesitated, he hurried on. “Or the night after, or lunch, if that would be better.”

“No, tomorrow would be fine. I’ve got a late class. I could meet you somewhere.”

“Alright. Wonderful. Name the place.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m in Manhattan, actually. I’ve got a flat up on West 82nd.”

“Oh.” She thought a minute. “Do you drive in?”

“Oh, good Lord, no. Train. Drops you right at the end of the lane here. Do you really think I’m idiot enough to try to drive through the Lincoln Tunnel?”

She smiled. “No, of course not. There’s a great place, about three blocks from here. O’Briens. Ask for directions at the station. Around six thirty?”

“Lovely.” He kissed her again, on her forehead. “Good night.”

She got home late, too late for any work. She did not go on her computer, although Michael e-mailed her almost every day. He sent her bits and pieces of his life, the weather, Prescott’s tantrum, Seth’s adventures. She returned in kind, the girls, the play, her students. They did not say they missed one another. They did not talk about seeing each other again.

She had thrown herself into work, reworking her current classes, fine-tuning the graduate class to begin that spring. Emily had basketball practice almost every night. Megan became involved in the high school play, and was at her own rehearsals every night. Diane was pulled in too many directions, and she knew she had spread herself too thinly, but it filled the hours that had once been filled with Michael. She missed him unbearably. There were nights that her body ached for him. There were countless things each day, small, funny, moments that she would file in the back of her head so she could tell him, until she remembered he was not around. Every time it happened, it hurt her cruelly. She kept waiting for the feeling to dull. So far, it had not.

She met Quinn the following night with no expectations. She was lonely, and he was going to be pleasant company. He was waiting for her in the bar, ordered her a vodka martini without her having to remind him what she drank, and placed his hand on her arm as they walked to their table. He was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie. He was drinking scotch, neat, and immediately asked about her daughters, remembering their names, ages, and even the fact that Rachel had wanted to be in the theater. Diane answered his questions, flattered, smiling. What a lovely man, she kept thinking.

“So tell me,” she finally said. “ ‘Present Laughter’ is coming this spring? This is so great, Quinn. I’d heard it got raves on the West End.”

“Well, we’re casting now. Derek Shore is coming over, reprising his role. He was just knighted, did you know? Thank God we signed his contract before that whole affair. Sir Derek would have come at quite a premium, apparently. We’ve found a few girls, all lovely, we’ll decide next week. We’re opening in February. It’s a limited run, so I’m not concerned about all that Tony Award madness that everyone seems to be so frantic about. We’ve got a young set designer, really brilliant. Should be quite a good time.”

“That all sounds wonderful, Quinn. Is your daughter here with you?” Diane asked. Quinn’s only child was in her twenties, and often traveled with him.

“No,” he said shortly. “She’s madly in love with a soap opera star and won’t leave London.”

“And you’ve divorced your wife?” she asked casually.

“Yes. It was a long time coming, actually.” He was tapping his finger on the arm of his chair. “I really wish I had done it sooner.”

Diane straightened her silverware. “I never thought you would do it. Get a divorce.”

Quinn studied her. “I told you I would. I told you I was in love with you.”

“Yes, I know you did, but after – I mean, I broke things off and then you went back to England and I didn’t hear from you again, and I thought – I just didn’t think you would. That’s all.”

“Yes. Well, the first piece of advice I received from my solicitor was to not give my wife any ammunition. If she thought for a moment there was someone else, she would have fought like a tiger. As it was, she dragged her heels for as long as she could.” He leaned forward. “I won’t be so presumptuous to ask you to pick up where we left off two years ago, but would you consider starting over? I could tempt you with flowers and bad poetry to start.”

“Oh.” Diane sat back in her chair and felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, Quinn. I’ve met someone. Rather recently, in fact. It was quite unexpected. I’m still getting used to the whole idea, actually. He’s younger, and a musician. But he’s – “ She licked her lips and felt a sting of tears behind her eyes. “He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. And he’s in love with me.”

“Well.” Quinn frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “Does he mind you having dinner with a man who once had designs on your body?”

“He’s in London now, scoring a movie. He’s been gone a few weeks. But even if he were here, he wouldn’t mind.”

“A movie?” The waiter served salads, and Quinn ordered another scotch. “Who’s he working with?”

“Gordon Prescott.” Diane ate some salad. “Michael says he’s a lunatic.”

“Good Lord. Yes, in fact, Gordon is a lunatic. Your musician must be very talented. Gordon only works with the best. Unfortunately, he has a tendency to chew his people up, suck them dry, then spit them back out. Very few people work with him a second time. He’s brilliant, of course, but brutal.” He was watching her. “You do seem very happy. And you look splendid. He’s a lucky man.”

“Thank you for saying that. But I’m the one who feels lucky.”

He sighed. “Well, here’s the thing. There’s a dinner in a couple of weeks, welcoming Derek the Great to New York. It’s a black tie thing, at the Pierre, very posh. I was rather hoping you’d come with me. I’m in need of a date, apparently, and you can make decent small-talk, know the right fork to use, that sort of thing.” Diane smiled. “The food will probably be dreadful,” he went on, “but you’ll get to meet some very notorious theater people.”

Diane thought a moment. “That would probably be a great evening. I’d love to come with you.”

“Excellent. I’ll call you, and let you know everything, times and so forth.” He held up his half-empty glass. “Here’s to being friends then, I suppose.”

“Yes.” She touched his glass with hers. “That would be good. Friends.”

Rachel came to a rehearsal one night the following week, and she and Diane went out to dinner afterwards. As Rachel praised her mother, Diane looked at her skeptically.

“Thank you, my darling daughter, but I know your taste. You have little patience for comedy, unless of course it’s combined with blazing satire or in protest of some massive government plot to subvert the masses. You probably think my play is trite.”

“Mom.” Rachel’s hair was still long, and she wore it in a braid over one shoulder. She had attracted several looks as they entered the restaurant, her legs endless under a short skirt. Now she took a sip of her water. “Mom, not everything I like is avant-garde. I love some of the old stuff. In fact, I’m dying to see your old lover-boy, Harris, and his Coward thing. Next spring, I hear. Have you seen him?”

Diane nodded.” Yes. I’m going with him to a dinner for Sir Derek Shore.”

“You’re going on a date with him?” Rachel set down her glass, hard, spilling water. “Mom, what happened to Michael?”

Diane looked at Rachel, puzzled. “Nothing happened to Michael. He’s having a miserable time. We e-mail just about every day.” Diane narrowed her eyes. “When did you become my watchdog, anyway?”

Rachel shrugged. “I kind of got to like Michael, Mom, you know that. I just remember back when Quinn was in the picture. You were ga-ga over him.”

Diane looked at her daughter. “No, I wasn’t ga-ga. That was you.”

Rachel looked at her severely. “No shit, you were ga-ga, okay? I was waiting for the two you to live happily ever after so he could cast me in his next play.”

“Rachel!” Diane exclaimed. “What a thing to say.”

“So you two are, what, just friends now? Invite him to see me.”

Diane stared. “See you? When?”

“Saturday, Mom? You said you were coming.” The company that Rachel was involved in, the 13th Street Chorus, was finished with Shakespeare and working through George Bernard Shaw. They were doing three abridged versions of his work in one show, and Diane had said she would try to go.

“Oh, come on,” Rachel urged her. “It’s the least you can do. It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep with him to advance my career.”

“God, Rachel.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “He wanted to, didn’t he?”

Diane looked at her daughter, undecided, then nodded. “Yes. How do you know I didn’t?”

Rachel sighed. “He was married then, wasn’t he? And you did raise me. I know you wouldn’t fool around with a married man. Not even Quinn Harris.”

Diane’s mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe it. I actually made a moral impression here. My mission as a mother has been successful.”

“Don’t get sloppy on me, Mom.” Rachel shrugged. “But yeah, you were a good mother.”

“Tell your sister, Emily, for me, would you please? She hates me so much right now.”

“What is it this time?”

Diane shrugged. “The same thing it’s been for weeks.”

Rachel looked thoughtful. “The car thing? Dad says he’s going to take care of all that, didn’t you know?”

Diane was surprised. “No. I didn’t know. Then why is she so angry at me?”

Rachel shrugged. “Who knows? With her it could be anything.”

“You’re right.” She shook her head. “So, on another subject, how do you like your new half-sister?” Kevin’s wife had delivered a baby girl two weeks before. Rachel launched into a story about her father and his second round of diaper changing. Diane half-listened, her mind wandering. She was worried about Emily. She thought about Quinn. Mostly, she missed Michael.

Indian summer returned on the Saturday night that Quinn and Diane went to see Rachel’s show. Quinn met her in the seedy little theater, where they sat on folding chairs and the air conditioning did not work. But the house was full. The little troupe was developing something of a reputation. They whizzed through three of G.B.Shaw’s finest in a little over ninety minutes. Quinn and Diane laughed along with the rest of the audience. The writing was very good. Rachel was in all three bits, playing a man each time, her bad makeup and ill-fitting wig, along with a shabby costume that did nothing to disguise her lovely figure, all part of the gag.

Afterwards, Quinn took the whole cast to a corner bar and bought them round after round. Rachel’s cast-mates were all young and obviously impressed with Quinn Harris. This was Quinn in his element, telling stories of his own early days, dissecting scenes and speeches with people as passionate about theater as he was. Rachel and her crowd were enthralled. Diane was charmed.

The impromptu party broke up after one in the morning, and since Diane did not want to take the train home so late, she stayed with Rachel. Her daughter had a studio that once sat in the shadow of the Twin Towers. She had been there a little over a year, and loved living in Chinatown. The next morning, they had breakfast together, and Diane didn’t get home until Sunday afternoon. Megan had called to say she and Emily were staying at their father’s another night, and wouldn’t be back until Monday after school. Diane went outside and spent the warm afternoon raking leaves. Then she went inside and sat alone, waiting for Michael to come home.

Diane had the perfect dress for the Pierre Hotel. She had found it in a vintage clothing shop, black satin, strapless. She tried it on at a whim, with Sue Griffen egging her on, and it had fit perfectly, sewn-in bones lifting her breasts beneath the shimmering fabric. Sue insisted she buy it, saying that, someday, she would need a dress like that. It hung in the closet for two years, but she took it out Saturday night. Quinn sent a limo for her, against her protests. He was co-hosting the event, and had to stay at the hotel. So the car, black and tasteful, picked her up and dropped her at Central Park East, and as she swept into the elegant, private room, a murmur ran through the crowd. She looked stunning. She was a new face. People buzzed.

Quinn was delighted to see her, kissing her coolly on the cheek. He stayed at her side through the cocktail hour, introducing her, his hand on her back. She knew he hated these events. He disliked meeting strangers, and was not at ease in crowds. He was restless, nervous, drinking club soda and being polite. Diane was having fun. The people there she had seen on stage or read about in magazines.

Sir Derek Shore was larger than life, a handsome, towering man, openly homosexual, whose long and distinguished career ranged from Greek tragedy to musical comedy. An icon in England, he was rarely seen on an American stage, and he was milking this event for all it was worth.

When Quinn introduced him to Diane, he threw out a dazzling smile and put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

“Thank God, somebody I don’t know. These people bore, bore, bore me to death. You’d think the New World could come up with some new faces. And I do love a woman with glorious tits. I may be a sad old pouf, but I have excellent taste. Quinn, are you sleeping with her? You should, dear boy, after that dreary ex-wife of yours. May I steal her? I need to be protected. That bitch from the Mirror is here, and I if I’m with a woman, she won’t bother with a photograph.” He steered Diane in the direction of the bar, ordering scotch for himself. Diane was sipping champagne, and Derek looked her up and down closely.

“So tell me, Diane, who-no-one-has-heard-of, you know our Quinn? He does deserve someone rich and juicy. Did you ever meet the famous ex-wife?”

Diane shook her head. “No.”

“Such a slut - really. I say that about a lot of people, I know, but with her it’s the truth. She actually gave head to a male nurse while in hospital after giving birth to her daughter. She slept around for years. That’s why it was such a shock when she fought the divorce. So ugly. Fleet Street went onto mourning when the whole thing was finally over. She really raped him. Financially of course.”

“Is that so?” Diane asked faintly.

“Oh, it was such a bad show. And then the daughter turns against Quinn and sides with the mother. What a spoiled little cunt. After all Quinn has done for her. He worshipped her, and she hasn’t spoken to him in months. That’s the buzz, anyway. I feel terrible for him. He’s one of my favorite people, you know.”

Diane downed the rest of her champagne. “Why did he finally divorce her, do you think?”

“Well, everyone was looking for The Other Woman, but there was none to be found. There were lots of short term things, of course. I mean, he is a healthy, normal man, isn’t he? He had to be getting something from someone. But no young thing tucked away, making demands. I suppose he finally decided to live his life on his own terms.” He lifted his eyebrows. “He’s a fine person. So if you are after him, you’ve got no one standing in your way. He’d be easy to catch, really.”

“We’re just friends. But he is a kind and gentle soul, isn’t he?”

“Yes. And that’s rare in this business. He actually believes in encouraging his actors instead of beating them into submission. Last year I did Ibsen with Gordon Prescott, and I was suicidal. Truly. Without the support of a lovely little bike messenger named Geoffrey, I would have succumbed.”

“A friend of mine is working with Prescott now.” Diane said. “He says Prescott is a madman.”

Derek looked interested. “Gordon’s finishing his film right now. They say there’s smoke rolling out of the studio windows. Who do you know? I can tell you all the gossip.”

“Michael Carlucci. He’s doing the score.” Derek looked blank. “Mickey Flynn?” Diane prompted.

“Oh?” Derek put his arm around her shoulder again. “Yes, I know all about him. A ‘friend’ did you say? He’s quite scrumptious. The other one, Joe somebody, is getting most of the attention, especially since his wife has left our rainy isle for sunnier climes. But I know all about your little genius. He’s created quite a stir. Of course our tabloids are such a load of crap.” Derek leaned down, speaking into her ear. “If he’s f*cked half the people they claimed, he wouldn’t have time to take a decent shit, let alone work for Prescott. Gordon is such a beast, really. But you, my dear,” he stepped back and looked her up and down again, eyebrows arched, “you and Mickey Flynn? Well. I can see why Quinn hasn’t got a chance. American rock stars are so exciting. Our British boys are mostly old, married and boring, or complete junkies. I saw him in the luscious flesh, you know, at some publicity thing, just last week He was being stalked by some bulimic blonde who couldn’t keep her tongue out of his ear. Of course, I prefer my boy toys a bit taller. Pure logistics, you know. You two must be a good match, though. He wouldn’t have to stoop. Ah, Harris.” Quinn had come up, placing his empty glass on the bar. “I was just telling the delightful Diane here about her boyfriends’ exploits in Londontown.”

“And if she has a lick of sense, which I know she does, she won’t believe a word.” Quinn took Diane’s hand and patted it. “He’s a terrible liar and an incorrigible trouble-maker. Please ignore everything he said. They’re serving. Shall we go in?”

The rest of the evening was a pleasant blur. Diane put Derek’s words out of her head. The food turned out to be delicious, and after the dinner was finished, and the official part of the evening was over, Diane followed Quinn into a small, dark lounge, where she sat and listened to Quinn, Derek, and a few others talk about the theater. It was her favorite kind of conversation, the insiders dish. It was almost two in the morning before she even realized it.

“Quinn, what about the car?” She asked, shamefaced. “I’ve been sitting in here making that poor man wait.”

“It’s his job to wait,” Quinn said mildly. “He’ll take you home now. Unless you’d rather stay? We could get you a room, I’m sure.” His hand had been resting lightly on her upper arm. Now, he touched her cheek. “Or we could just take a cab to my place.”

Diane shook her head slowly. “No, Quinn.”

He took her chin in his hand and kissed her lips. “You’re beautiful tonight, Diane. It would be such a lovely end of a lovely evening.”

Her lips were tingling, and she felt a slow rise of heat in the pit of her stomach. Her body was remembering another touch, Michaels’ soft mouth. She could feel herself starting to blush.

Quinn kissed her again, longer this time, but she stepped back, away from him. “No, Quinn. Please.”

Quinn pursed his lips, and put his hands in his pants pockets. He jingled the coins in his pockets nervously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to presume.”

“I think I should go home now.” Diane said quietly, and Quinn walked her through the hotel doors, and waited silently with her until the car came up to take her home.

Derek Shore came down the steps and stood beside Quinn, lighting a cigarette. “Is she the reason?” he asked casually.

Quinn glanced at him briefly. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now. I know we’re not close friends, but we’re in the same brotherhood. Surely I’m entitled to a few confidences.”

Quinn raised his eyebrows. “Brotherhood?”

“Yes.” Derek took a long drag. “We’re one of the select few in theater who have worked with your ex-wife in the past five years without actually f*cking her.”

Quinn let out a short laugh. “Yes.” He glanced at Derek again. “I met her two years ago. We fell in love. I thought it would be easy, getting the divorce. Who knew there’d be such a fight? And now it appears I’ve returned too late.”

“Ah, yes. She and I were talking about him. I’ve met him, you see.”

“He’s younger, apparently.”

“Much. And quite charming. Rather attractive too, if you like the Drop-Dead-Gorgeous-Blue-Eyes type.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Is she in love with him?”

Quinn thought. “She never said. He’s in love with her, apparently.”

“Well, that’s not the same thing at all, is it? You’ve got the upper hand here, my friend.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

“Well, you’re here and he’s not, and you know what they say about love. Location, location, location.”

Quinn chuckled. “I thought that was real estate.”

“It’s all the same, isn’t it? Every time you take the plunge, you hope it will be a perfect fit and you’ll stay forever. With real estate you pay up front, of course. With love, you pay for the rest of your life.”

“Ah, there’s that old cynicism. I thought for a moment you were getting romantic on me.”

“If you want her, make her remember. Don’t be such a bloody gentleman.”

Derek walked back into the hotel. Quinn stood outside for a long time, looking into the darkness.

Angela stopped her in the hallway on Monday. Diane was hurrying to Sam’s office, her mind racing, and she went right past Angela, only stopping at the sound of her name being called. She turned, saw who it was, and broke into a tired smile.

“Angela. I’m so sorry. I’m in another world.” She kissed Angela’s cheek. “How are you?”

“I’m great, but you look so tired. Is everything okay?”

Diane shrugged. “The play. It’s taking up a lot of time.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is. I hear that Quinn Harris has taken an interest.”

Diane raised her eyebrows and looked at Angela in surprise. “What?”

“In the play.” Angela said quickly. Then she tightened her lips. “But of course, there are all sorts of other things flying around.” Angela shrugged. “You know Merriweather. It’s like a small town. Rumors, you know?”

Diane looked at her closely. “What kind of rumors, Angela?”

“About you and Quinn. About why he’s spending so much time here.” Angela was looking at Diane steadily. Diane swallowed a rising anger.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Angela. Quinn and I have had dinner a couple of times. That’s all.”

Angela threw up her hands. “Okay. I believe you. But you should know what’s going around.”

“Well, it’s not true.”

“Fine. I didn’t mean to upset you, Diane.”

Diane sighed. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard, but then, I wouldn’t, right? Thanks for telling me.” Diane squeezed Angela’s arm. “I’ve got to go. Tell everyone I said hello.”

“Okay. I will. I’ll see you later.”

Angela went back down the hall, and Diane stood, staring after her. Rumors about her and Quinn? Sam would know.

But Sam claimed ignorance. He hadn’t heard a thing, and he was in the thick of it all. Besides, why pay attention to all that anyway? He patted Diane’s shoulder and urged her to sit. There was going to be a champagne reception after the first performance. He had just found out. Since most tickets for the first performance were usually given away to faculty, important alumni, press and guests of the cast and crew, he was able to talk the hospitality committee into springing for a rather lavish spread.

Diane tried to get excited, but she was feeling uneasy about what Angela had said. She left his office determined not to see Quinn again.

Rachel called her a few days later. “Mom,” she said cautiously, “did you ever tell Emily or Meg that you and Michael were, well, together?”

Diane was startled. “No. He left for England before they came back up from the shore. Why?”

Rachel sighed. “There was a thing - on the Internet.”

“What kind of thing?” Diane asked, concerned.

“On one of the sites. Do you know who Moira MacCauley is?”

“No. Should I?”

“I guess not. She’s a singer,” Rachel explained, “kind of New Age-y. Anyway, there was a thing, and this Moira had an interview. She said that all the English women were shit out of luck when it came to Mickey Flynn, because he was madly in love with some older woman back in the States. She knew you lived in his hometown. And that you taught at a local college.”

Diane was stunned. “How did she know any of that?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe somebody else from the band. Who knows? You two didn’t exactly keep things a secret, you know?”

“Oh, God.” Diane felt sick. “Do you think Emily or Meg have seen it?”

“I don’t know. Remember Chloe? From the group? She read it, I don’t know where, and asked if it was about you. You and Michael came to see us a couple of times, remember? She was just curious, since you had just been there with Quinn.”

Diane ran her fingers through her hair. “Can you talk to Emily, please?” she asked. “Just to try to find out if she knows. If she does, I’ve got to explain.”

“Sure. You were going to tell them anyway, right, when he came back?”

“Of course. I just didn’t think anyone would - shit, I’ve been so stupid. Of course, something was bound to come out. I just figured if he was over there, I wouldn’t have to worry just yet.”

“So, is he really madly in love with you?”

Diane took a breath. “Yes, actually.”

“Oh, Mom. That’s amazing. So then, what’s with Quinn?”

“Nothing, Rachel. I told you, we’re friends. It’s possible, you know, for men and women to be just friends.”

Rachel was quiet on the phone, and then sighed. “I bet this whole thing really sucks, him being away so long. It’s been over a month. Do you ever, like, talk to each other on the phone? Like normal people?”

“No,” Diane said softly. “It would be very hard for me, hearing his voice. It’s easier when he’s just a few words on a computer screen. Then missing him is not, I don’t know, as real.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Rachel said. “Look, I’ll try to see if I can get anything out of Em. I don’t think Megan would really care that much, but with Emily, well, you know.”

“Yes. I know.” Diane hung up, suddenly worried.

That Saturday, Diane answered the door, and Ed, looking large and embarrassed, stood at her door with a stocky, disapproving-looking woman.

“Remember, me?” Ed asked. “Mike sent me out here back in May?”

“Yes, Ed. How are you?”

He grinned. “Good. So. Mike called, from England I guess. This is Mrs. Whitmire. She’s from the New Jersey Rose Society.”

Diane looked at the woman with interest. “I didn’t know there was a Rose Society in New Jersey.” Diane said.

Mrs. Whitmire puckered her lips. ‘Yes. Apparently you need a lesson in pruning your roses and preparing them for the winter?” Her voice was shrill and condescending.

Diane looked at Ed, who was trying to keep a straight face. “Well, of course I’d be grateful for any advice. Come in.”

She led them through the house and into her back yard. Leaves had begun to fall, and things were looking shabby and tired. Mrs. Whitmire walked through Diane’s small rose garden, turning over leaves and clucking to herself. Diane looked sideways at Ed.

“What did Michael tell you to do, find a Rose Nazi?”

Ed cleared his throat. “He said to find an expert. If I’d known she’d be the one, I’d have grabbed the little guy from the garden department at Walmart.”

Mrs. Whitmire came up to them, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Black spot, of course. Didn’t you spray? No Japanese beetle, thank heaven, and your Louise Odier is suffering from iron deficiency. But, on the whole, they should survive. You have an interesting assortment.” Mrs. Whitmire looked vaguely displeased. “Most people try to select roses that have some common trait.”

“Well, I picked ones that smelled good,” Diane said apologetically. “I didn’t realize there was some kind of Rose Protocol.”

Mrs. Whitmire sighed, and led Diane back to her roses, and for the next hour gave Diane a fascinating and helpful lesson in how to prune, and when, how to wrap the roses against wind, and what to do the following spring. Diane thanked her, thanked Ed, and spent the rest of the day outside, starting to clear dying plants, raking, waiting until it was late enough in the day to call Michael in England. He had been staying at Seth’s, and he had given her the number there. She tried to calculate the time difference, knowing he stayed late at the studio.

He answered on the second ring, angry, tense. “Now what?” There was noise in the background, voices raised.

“Michael. Hello.”

A pause, then - “Wait a minute.” He yelled something, then she heard a scuffling, and the sound of a door closing. “Diane? Please tell me it’s really you.” He sounded hoarse. She felt a lump in her throat.

“Yes, it’s really me. The rose expert from Hell was here this morning. She made me feel two feet tall, but she was very helpful. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I’m always thinking of you.” He stopped. She could feel him, over the miles, reaching for words. “It’s terrible here. Prescott is a madman. He found another producer for the soundtrack. Seth and Joey are furious. Prescott still doesn’t have a final cut. This movie is supposed to be done, opening in December, and he’s still changing things. David Go quit twice already.”

“Oh, Michael,” she said softly.

“How is your play?”

“Opening in four weeks. It’s going to be good, I think. It’s hard for me to tell, but Sam is happy.”

“How are the girls? Is Megan still in love?”

Diane bit her lip. “Yes. They’re fine.” She was sitting on the floor of her den, knees drawn up to her chest, clenching the phone so tightly her knuckles were white. “I miss you.”

“I don’t know when I can come home.” His voice was so low she could hardly hear him. “I can’t leave now, it’s impossible. It’s all falling apart. If I sent you a ticket, could you come?”

Her heart leapt. “Of course. Next weekend. Would it help?”

“The situation? No. If God himself came down, Prescott would probably tell him to mind his damn business.” Michael sighed. “But it would help me. I’m going crazy here. It would be so much better if I could see you. I didn’t – this was a mistake, coming here. I should have insisted on Toronto. I shouldn’t have let him bully me. It’s just, this is – I didn’t want to blow this, you know?” He sounded exhausted, defeated. “I may have blown it anyway.”

“No, Michael,” she said quietly. “I know how important this is to you. You’ll get it done.”

“Maybe. No, you’re right. I’ll get it done, one way or another. I have to go.”

“Yes. Good-bye.”

“Diane?” She heard voices again, loud, arguing. “Diane, I have to go. Bye.”

Jasper jumped lightly up, balancing on her knees. She scratched his ears absently, thinking about London. It was one of her favorite cities. She would go to London to see Michael. Jasper purred, and she sat for a long time, phone in hand.

Michael leaned his head back against the wall and let the phone drop from his hand. He could hear Seth in the next room, raging at Prescott. Seth had started doing lines of cocaine at three in the afternoon, and now, all those hours later, Michael knew Seth was totally out of control. Prescott knew it too, but Gordon Prescott thrived on tension and discord. He was one of those people happiest when all those around him were miserable. Prescott had been a happy man for weeks now.

Last night had been the last straw. Michael refused to look at what Prescott had called ‘the final cut’ of the film. Michael had only two days before he finished what he thought was the last bar of music that he would have to write for Prescott. But Prescott had arrived at Seth’s house just outside of London with yet another version of his film, and Michael had finally, finally lost his temper. He would not re-write anything else. David had done all the orchestration, they had been recording all day. Michael could see a light at the end of what had become the longest tunnel he had been ever seen in his life. He was not doing another note.

Prescott had wheedled, promised and begged. Michael, drained and miserable, had walked out of the house. When he returned an hour later, after walking aimlessly around Seth’s posh neighborhood, Seth and Prescott were locked in a battle over the soundtrack.

It had been decided, way back in June, that Seth and Joey would produce the soundtrack, including all the cuts by the other contributors to the CD. Upon arriving in London, they found that Prescott had made an agreement with a new Irish band, Daemon Spirit, who was also going to be on the soundtrack. Daemon Spirit would produce their own tracks. With the tracks for NinetySeven complete, that left only four more songs on the soundtrack, and Daemon Spirit wanted to produce those as well. Seth and Joey had been fighting with Prescott and Daemon Spirit for weeks, in and out of the studio. Michael, having written a lovely ballad to be sung by Moira MacCauley, tried to stay out of it, but it was proving impossible.

Moira MacCauley had presented another set of problems. She was a beautiful girl, just twenty-two, all ready an established star in Europe. She met the band at a party given by Prescott early in September, a vast feeding frenzy for the press. She immediately attached herself to Joey Adamson, despite the presence of Joey’s wife. Joey had never considered his marriage a deterrent to any sexual detours he felt worthy of exploration. After ten days, his wife left for an extended tour of the Italian Riviera, and Moira became a fixture.

Michael, Seth and Stephanie had moved into Seth’s house, but Michael did not spend much time there. He had been locked in with Prescott and David Go, grinding out what he knew was some of the most interesting and innovative music he had ever written.

He had embraced the challenge back at the beginning of the summer, but now he was worn down by Prescott’s constant interference. He wanted the soundtrack completed, so that he could get back to the States. He missed Diane so much it became an almost physical effort to keep from driving to the airport and simply flying back to her.

Prescott had brought up Quinn Harris a few weeks before. Prescott, at sixty-five, considered Quinn Harris a weak upstart who would never get beyond the acclaim Harris had achieved when he directed his then-wife, a renowned actress. Prescott had read a bit in one of the tabloids about Harris in Manhattan, and had stormed into the studio to rant against him to whoever would listen. When he left, Michael casually picked up the paper and read the offending article.

It was a brief item, stating that Quinn Harris had recently spent an evening attending a performance of the 13th Street Chorus. Harris had been a guest of the mother of one of the cast members, and had taken the entire ensemble out after the performance. One of the cast later said that Harris was a ‘charming, talented and generous’ man. Michael knew all about the 13th Street Chorus. He and Diane had attended a few of their shows over the summer, watching Rachel. He knew that it was probably Diane who took Quinn there, and why not? Rachel was a talented girl. Being seen by someone like Harris could act in her favor.

The following week, Stephanie brought home another tabloid, whether by accident or design Michael never asked. Quinn Harris was pictured on page seven. Standing next to him, in elegant profile, was Diane. The accompanying article described a dinner at the world-famous Pierre Hotel, given for the arrival of Sir Derek Shore in New York by his soon-to-be-director. The woman in the picture was not identified. She was described only as being Harris’ companion, a close one, apparently, since they were seen kissing in the lobby at two o’clock that morning. Michael spent a long time looking at Diane’s face, tracing in his mind the curve of her cheek, the hollow behind her ear. Michael had learned not to believe half of what he read in some of the British press, having seen the most outrageous articles about himself published there. But a picture was something else. Harris had his arm around Diane’s waist. She was smiling, obviously enjoying herself.

Michael had been in London over four weeks by then. He knew that every day was going to be a battle. He had spent very little time away from the studio. Once or twice, Seth had talked him into a drive, a half day away from London, to help him clear the cobwebs.

He was incredibly lonely. He had politely declined the countless offers of women, and men, who would have been more than happy to accommodate him in any way. He felt no conscious desire for sex. He was always tired, under tremendous stress, and was beginning to drink more heavily than he had ever before. Seth and Joey consumed vast amounts of cocaine, but Michael had always stayed away from drugs. Alcohol, on the other hand, was becoming a factor.

He began to spend time with Jane Whyte, an assistant of David’s who, as far as he could tell, tried to sleep with every musician she came into contact with. She was pleasant, cheerful, and did not take his refusal of her sexual advances to heart. She just smiled and said she would have to keep trying. He didn’t take her seriously. She made him laugh. He was in desperate need of someone to make him laugh.

The night he saw Diane’s picture with Quinn Harris, he called the car to take him back to the studio. David was there, working of course. David was always working. David knew that if he could make a success of Prescott’s movie, his career would be assured. A tiny man with huge ambition, he listened stoically to Prescott’s rants, agreed with everything the director said, then went back to what he had begun in the first place. David Go knew that Michael had written music that was going to win awards, and he was determined to stick around for the payoff. He quit, then returned, at least twice that Michael knew of.

Jane Whyte saw Michael wandering down the hallway and knew at once he was troubled about something. She intercepted him before he could get involved in something that might change his mood, dragged him out the front doors, and took him to the nearest pub. He was drunk after the second pint, his brain and body too tired to offer any resistance to alcohol. Jane tried her best, supplying a comforting shoulder and a sympathetic ear as he poured out his story. She kept one hand on his thigh, the other playing with his hair. He finally turned to her, bleary-eyed, and she kissed him, a long, deep kiss that sent shivers down her back, but when she pulled back and looked at him, his eyes were so blue and sad, something in her heart twisted.

“What is it, love?” she whispered, “didn’t you like it?”

“Don’t do this, Jane. Please.” Michael’s voice was low, his shoulders slumped.

“Come on, my flat’s just around the corner. Don’t sit here and be all sad. So, your lady is stepping out. Just step out yourself a bit. You’ll feel so much better, really.”

“She’s not stepping out,” Michael insisted.

“Well, you told me you saw her picture, right? So, let her have a bit of fun. You’ve been over here for weeks. Did you think she’d just sit at home and do a bit of knitting?”

“No.” Michael buried his head in his hands.

“So, come on then. She’d never know. Wouldn’t you like to just stretch out somewhere soft and quiet?” She moved her hand higher up his thigh.

“Don’t, Jane,” he said tiredly. “I’m not going to f*ck you, so just stop.”

“What are you being so bloody loyal for, anyway?” Jane asked, annoyed.

“I love her, Jane.”

“Then why the hell don’t you get her over here?” Jane hit his arm. “If she’s so f*ckin’ wonderful, she’ll come, right? I know I would. I’d be over here in a flash.”

“Would you?” Michael looked at her intently. “If I asked you to fly for hours just to spend the night with me, would you really?”

“Love, for a roll in the kip with you, I’d walk to f*ckin’ China. Why wouldn’t she, if you two are so in love?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Michael said sadly. “I don’t actually know if she loves me or not.”

“What?” Jane stared at him. He was beautiful to her, his eyes deep blue, his mouth soft and slightly parted, his hair falling down across his forehead. “Oh, now Mickey, how could she not love you? “ She brushed away his hair and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re such a darlin’, really you are. Call her and tell her to come and when she gets here, f*ck her brains out. Believe me, she won’t mind a bit.”

He cracked a smile. “Do you think?”

“Come on, let me get you home. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Let’s go.” She pulled him off the stool and walked him back to the studio. She knew she was only one more pint away from having him naked in her bed, but she didn’t have the heart. Perhaps, she thought, she could find another way.

Diane called him two days later. She would come over to London. As he sat in the darkness, listening to Seth and Gordon Prescott scream at each other, he didn’t care. She was coming to London. That was all that mattered.