She took an age to reply, probably wondering how to tell me no. And if that no came, I’d respect it. I wouldn’t fucking like it. In fact, I’d hate it, but as I often told my sister, no was a complete sentence.
Aspen: I’d like that.
I almost punched the air, but as that was a fucking stupid move that only losers did, I held back.
Me: Great. I’ll book a restaurant.
Aspen: Let me deal with that. My cousin Penn owns a restaurant here I think you’ll like. It’s sold out months in advance, but I’m family, so he’ll figure it out.
Me: Sounds good. Here’s hoping Kingcaid Midtown has space, because apparently I’m not allowed to stay anywhere else.
Aspen: I’ve got you on that, too. Just get on a plane, and I’ll take care of the rest. What name shall I have the driver hold up at JFK?
Usually, I preferred to be the one in control, but there was something about a strong, independent, successful woman bossing me around that made my dick harder than a cricket bat. Or perhaps I only had that reaction for Aspen.
Me: Brian Jenkinson.
I’d used that name for years. Nondescript and unremarkable.
Aspen: Got it. See you soon.
Me: I’ll look forward to it.
She replied with a smiling emoji.
How the fuck was I going to keep myself occupied for five torturous days? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad and the time would go quickly. With any luck.
Yeah, luck fucked me over and then some. Time crawled by like someone was getting paid by the second, but Friday eventually came around. I settled into my first-class seat, tugged my baseball cap low, and informed the cabin crew I’d call them if I needed anything. I flew with this airline a lot, mainly because they respected my privacy and treated me like a regular human being.
The thing was, I loved making music and was grateful for the opportunities afforded me over the years, but I fucking hated being famous. Fifteen years in and I hadn’t ever grown used to the downside of fame. A few more years, and I could slowly fade into the background and throw myself into my new career of talent scout. Wouldn’t be long before people asked “Joz who?” and I couldn’t fucking wait for that day to come.
The flight was uneventful, and I passed through security at JFK without a single person recognizing me. In the early days, before I’d perfected the art of making myself invisible, I hadn’t been able to take a piss without a fan asking me for an autograph. Seriously, they expected me to hold my dick in one hand and a pen in another.
After a few years of misery, I’d come across an article of an interview with Marilyn Monroe, the fifties film star. In it she’d said something along the lines of she could “turn it on,” which I took to mean if she wanted to move around unnoticed as Norma Jean, she could. But the second she needed or wanted to become Marilyn, it was like flicking a light switch. Once I figured out how to do that, moving through life while being invisible hadn’t been all that difficult.
Sure, the occasional sharp-eyed person saw through the disguise, but mainly, people were too busy with their own lives, thank Christ.
A tall dude towered over the masses of passengers dashing through the arrivals hall with my pseudonym scrawled on a white board. Keeping my chin tucked, I sidled through the crowds.
“That’s me.”
He nodded, took my case from me, and wheeled around, beelining for the exit. Outside, the humidity of a late New York summer hung in the air. To my right, a woman was doing her best to gather up her three kids while what I assumed to beher husband stood idly by and let her get on with it. Fucking arsehole. Had his fifteen seconds of fun and now the result was her issue.
My mother dumped my father for a similar reason. He’d been a useless piece of mediocre shit. Violent, too. We never mentioned him these days, but growing up, Mum would metaphorically beat me over the head with her expectations of how to treat women, and my sister would nod enthusiastically and egg her on.
It made what I did to Caroline even worse.
Technically, I only ended a relationship that had already fallen apart, but when she’d called for help, I’d been too off my face to realize she meant it. By the time I figured out what was going on, it was too damn late for her.
On many occasions over the last eight years, Mum had asked me what happened, but I’d brushed it off as too painful. That happened to be the truth, but buried in there had always been a real concern that she would blame me for what happened as much as I blamed myself.
I just about managed to live with my guilt, but I could never live with my mother knowing what really went on that night and looking at me with disappointment in her eyes.
The car’s interior was cool, and two bottles of chilled water were in the drinks’ holder. I twisted the cap off one and downed it. As was always the case with Manhattan, traffic backed up for the entire journey. Ninety minutes later, the car finally pulled up outside Kingcaid Midtown.
The concierge met me at the entrance, and I was whisked up a private elevator to the penthouse suite. A large basket of fruit sat on the coffee table, a white envelope sticking out of it. After I assured the assigned staff member I didn’t need anything, I waited until the elevator doors closed, then strode to the basket and plucked the card from the plastic holder.
Welcome to NYC (again). I’ve booked us a table at Theo’s (my cousin’s restaurant) for 8pm. A car will pick you up at 7:30. Get some rest. A.
