did.
She
was also sitting by herself, but not by choice.
She
was dressed up, made up: lipstick, eye shadow, blush.
The
whole catastrophe.
And
a catastrophe it surely was.
Her
boyfriend hadn’t shown for dinner. He was sold as the classic Serious Young
Musician, but in reality he was just another wannabe Kurt Cobain clone. Their
relationship—rock princess and Serious Music Dude—was something that he and his
army of publicists never failed to exploit.
Her
cell phone rang. It was Serious Music Dude. Cancelling.
‘Sorry,
babe, but there’s a party on at the Blackwater and Chad says I just have to be
seen there.’
She
hung up, and alone at her table she softly started to cry.
The
quiet sobbing made him glance up from his book.
He
saw her sitting two tables away, all dressed up, dabbing
The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Excuse
me, miss. But are you okay?’
She
looked up.
It
was obvious from his earnest expression that (a) he had no idea who she was,
and (b) his concern was genuine.
And
so in that darkened restaurant, they started talking.
Music
wasn’t his strong suit.
He
didn’t know the Foo Fighters from the Goo Goo Dolls.
But
he knew what he liked.
And
while at first he didn’t know who she was, he’d heard her latest single on the
radio. ‘That’s yours? Hey, I like that song. Good fast drumbeat.’
She
asked him what other music he listened to.
‘These
days, mainly singles. I don’t buy albums much anymore. I just like songs I can
tap my toes to—like Robbie Williams’ Rock DJ, or anything by Smash Mouth. You
know,
“Hey
now, you’re a rock star…”’
In
other circumstances, this would have been like telling an anti-globalisation
protestor that you adored McDonald’s, but she could see that he was—truly,
really, totally unselfconsciously—speaking honestly.
And
she liked that.
‘So,
do you have an album out?’ he asked.
It
was currently No.4 on Billboard.
‘Er,
yes.’
‘Cool.
I’ll buy it. I always bring my Discman with me when I’m touring and now that
I’ve met you in person, I’ll definitely check out your other songs.’
‘Great,’
she said. ‘So what do you do that brings you to New York?’
‘Oh,
I write books. I’m here on an author tour. Do the East Coast first, then
hopscotch across the country to LA.
Then
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer back to Australia.’
‘What
kind of books?’ He looked kind of young to be a novelist.
‘I
write thrillers. Big blockbuster action adventure novels.’
She
read a little. Perhaps she’d heard of him. ‘Titles?’ she asked.
‘The
first was called Ice Mission. It was the one that got me my break. Then The
Curse of the Incan Temple.’
She
shook her head. ‘Sorry. I haven’t heard of them.
Besides,
they don’t really sound like my kind of book.’
‘It’s
okay,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Different people read different books. Some people
like romances, others like prize-winners. Different worlds for different
tastes. Sometimes inhabitants of one world never even know the other worlds
exist.’
She
liked the way he talked.
He
seemed relaxed, content, happy with who he was. Which was rare in her world.
She thought of Serious Music Dude. If he met someone who hadn’t heard of him,
he would simply turn away, ending the conversation.
But
then suddenly, to her dismay, he said that he had to go.
‘I’m
really sorry, but I have to be up early in the morning. Got to catch the 5 a.m.
train to Philadelphia.’
She
was also heading off the next day. But at the more civilised hour of 10 a.m.,
flying first-class to Chicago.
He
wished her well on her tour and said good night. And then he was gone.
She
looked at her watch.
It
was 2.30 a.m. They’d been talking for four hours.
The
next morning, as she was waiting in the foyer for her people to settle the bill
and take her bags to the waiting limo, she overheard one of the desk girls
talking to the
She
was also sitting by herself, but not by choice.
She
was dressed up, made up: lipstick, eye shadow, blush.
The
whole catastrophe.
And
a catastrophe it surely was.
Her
boyfriend hadn’t shown for dinner. He was sold as the classic Serious Young
Musician, but in reality he was just another wannabe Kurt Cobain clone. Their
relationship—rock princess and Serious Music Dude—was something that he and his
army of publicists never failed to exploit.
Her
cell phone rang. It was Serious Music Dude. Cancelling.
‘Sorry,
babe, but there’s a party on at the Blackwater and Chad says I just have to be
seen there.’
She
hung up, and alone at her table she softly started to cry.
The
quiet sobbing made him glance up from his book.
He
saw her sitting two tables away, all dressed up, dabbing
The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Excuse
me, miss. But are you okay?’
She
looked up.
It
was obvious from his earnest expression that (a) he had no idea who she was,
and (b) his concern was genuine.
And
so in that darkened restaurant, they started talking.
Music
wasn’t his strong suit.
He
didn’t know the Foo Fighters from the Goo Goo Dolls.
But
he knew what he liked.
And
while at first he didn’t know who she was, he’d heard her latest single on the
radio. ‘That’s yours? Hey, I like that song. Good fast drumbeat.’
She
asked him what other music he listened to.
‘These
days, mainly singles. I don’t buy albums much anymore. I just like songs I can
tap my toes to—like Robbie Williams’ Rock DJ, or anything by Smash Mouth. You
know,
“Hey
now, you’re a rock star…”’
In
other circumstances, this would have been like telling an anti-globalisation
protestor that you adored McDonald’s, but she could see that he was—truly,
really, totally unselfconsciously—speaking honestly.
And
she liked that.
‘So,
do you have an album out?’ he asked.
It
was currently No.4 on Billboard.
‘Er,
yes.’
‘Cool.
I’ll buy it. I always bring my Discman with me when I’m touring and now that
I’ve met you in person, I’ll definitely check out your other songs.’
‘Great,’
she said. ‘So what do you do that brings you to New York?’
‘Oh,
I write books. I’m here on an author tour. Do the East Coast first, then
hopscotch across the country to LA.
Then
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer back to Australia.’
‘What
kind of books?’ He looked kind of young to be a novelist.
‘I
write thrillers. Big blockbuster action adventure novels.’
She
read a little. Perhaps she’d heard of him. ‘Titles?’ she asked.
‘The
first was called Ice Mission. It was the one that got me my break. Then The
Curse of the Incan Temple.’
She
shook her head. ‘Sorry. I haven’t heard of them.
Besides,
they don’t really sound like my kind of book.’
‘It’s
okay,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Different people read different books. Some people
like romances, others like prize-winners. Different worlds for different
tastes. Sometimes inhabitants of one world never even know the other worlds
exist.’
She
liked the way he talked.
He
seemed relaxed, content, happy with who he was. Which was rare in her world.
She thought of Serious Music Dude. If he met someone who hadn’t heard of him,
he would simply turn away, ending the conversation.
But
then suddenly, to her dismay, he said that he had to go.
‘I’m
really sorry, but I have to be up early in the morning. Got to catch the 5 a.m.
train to Philadelphia.’
She
was also heading off the next day. But at the more civilised hour of 10 a.m.,
flying first-class to Chicago.
He
wished her well on her tour and said good night. And then he was gone.
She
looked at her watch.
It
was 2.30 a.m. They’d been talking for four hours.
The
next morning, as she was waiting in the foyer for her people to settle the bill
and take her bags to the waiting limo, she overheard one of the desk girls
talking to the
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