Nothing Like the Sun Page 2

  “And the rags are important to you.”

  This was true, too, if only because Julian received great enjoyment from playing with the media. He always had. “What’s the bloody point of being a rock star if you can’t fuck with the press?” he demanded, frowning at Seth’s bad mood.

  “You fuck with them, they fuck with you, right?”

  Julian frowned harder. “Yeah, so? It’s part of the package, a part I like. You don’t have to.”

  “No, but I bloody well have to suffer through it, don’t I? And it’s my picture that’s going to show up alongside yours when they start flashing their bulbs in our faces after lunch because you’re a bloody fucking peacock, who can’t just be satisfied with having a meal. You have to parade yourself around looking fucking ridiculous!”

  “Sir?” It was the shop girl, holding out some papers for Julian to sign.

  “Give us a minute, love,” Julian said evenly, not taking his eyes off Seth. The girl ducked her head and left. “What bit you on the ass and left a scar, mate? Or do I have to ask?”

  “Forget it.” Seth scowled, but that fierce expression didn’t scare Julian, who’d witnessed his friend in far fouler moods.

  “What do you want me to do?” Julian asked after a moment. “Give up drinking and smoking and fucking, just because you got your heart broken? Hide away in my country house and fiddle about with the gardens and make appearances at the local school benefit for an occasional thrill? Sorry, mate, I like the life I live. Sorry you find it ridiculous.”

  Damn, that stung, knowing Seth thought as much.

  Seth shrugged. “Let’s go eat, all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Julian shrugged, too, and pushed out ahead of him to pay the girl. He didn’t bother flirting with her. He’d lost his taste for it.

  3

  Back at his flat, Julian’s personal assistant Sheila had set a pile of clippings on his desk, along with a dozen or more invitations to various celebrity events. He sorted through them with less than his usual enthusiasm, tossing most. Then he took off the leather jacket and the Oxford shirt, the heavy shoes. Barefoot, he sat at his piano and began to play.

  He started with “Moonlight Sonata” because he knew it so well it almost played itself, and it was the piece he came back to whenever he needed to think. Julian had much to think about. The upcoming tour might not prove to be as much fun as he’d thought when he agreed to it. He’d thought getting back together with the group would be a blast, a reliving of old times. Something for kicks. If it brought interest to their latest album, so much the better, but even if it was just an excuse for him to wear some lovely clothes and play the old songs in front of screaming groupies, well, that was fine, too. It was all good, so far as Julian was concerned.

  As his fingers caressed the piano keys and the music flowed around him, he segued easily into “Her Eyes,” one of Blue Silver’s earliest hits. It might have seemed an improbable medley, mixing Beethoven with New Wave pop, but as the inspiration for the melody had come directly from “Moonlight Sonata,” it really wasn’t such a strange marriage. He sang, low, his voice not as strong as Seth’s would ever be, but suited to this song anyway.

  “Her eyes are nothing like the sun

  Her teeth leave kisses redder than then her lips

  Her skin so pale it makes me come undone

  Her hair, black wires upon my fingertips

  Nothing like the sun

  Nothing like the sun

  Her eyes are nothing like the sun

  Her voice will never be a melody

  But I love the way she talks

  Her body moves like a woman's moves

  Not like a goddess walks

  Nothing like the sun

  Nothing like the sun

  Her eyes are nothing like the sun

  No goddess, no angel, no demon, not perfect, not pretty, not vain, not

  needy not greedy

  But when she looks at me I burn

  Even though

  Her eyes are nothing like the sun.”

  He heard the click-clack of heels on the marble floor and caught a glimpse of platinum hair from the corner of his eye. He stopped playing, the euphoria of the music rapidly disappearing when he turned and saw his visitor.

  “Belinda.”

  “Julian,” Belinda simpered. She put a hand on her hip and cocked it, emphasizing her curvy figure with an air so practiced it made his lip curl. “I called and called, but you wouldn’t return my messages.”

  “So you just decided to show up.” Julian got up and closed the lid over the piano keys. “I’m sure you were discreet about it, too.”

  She giggled, a sound he hated in women, the vapid, breathy I’m-such-a-sexpot titter so many had perfected. “Oh, of course.”

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then grabbed up his shirt to slide it back on. “What do you want?”

  “You.” She pouted. “C’mon, Julian, I want to go to the premiere of Ben Darwin’s new movie. I have the most cunning little gown—”

  “No.”

  “No?” She pouted harder as he pushed past her to pour himself a glass of whiskey. “Why not?”

  Julian sipped the liquor carefully as he turned to face her. “Because I don’t want to go anywhere with you, Belinda. You drink too much and embarrass yourself.”

  She stomped a foot, not a good way to get him to give in, and crossed her arms. The position forced her already ample cleavage into an eye-catching display, but Julian didn’t let his eyes get caught. He’d seen Belinda’s boob job already, and though the work was fine, they felt fake.

  “It’s because you’re fucking that little indie film slut, isn’t it?” Belinda sounded outraged, as if she had the right to complain, when Julian had seen photos of her snogging a well-known politician just last week.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids,” he said, meaning to be ironic.

  The subtlety was lost on Belinda, whose blue eyes narrowed and red-glossed lips pursed. “I’ll forgive you, just take me to the premiere.”

  “So you can meet Ben Darwin and give him a blow job in the janitor’s closet during the after-party? No.” Julian finished the whiskey and set the glass in the wet bar’s sink.

  “Juuuleeee!”

  God, he hated the way she whined his name.

  “Please!”

  “No, Belinda.”

  He tried to be kind, but really, the bint was so bloody annoying. Julian was all for women using their feminine charms, and he never faulted a woman for flirting, but Belinda had catapulted herself from interesting beauty to boring waste of a condom about ten seconds after he’d finished fucking her the first and only time. Now she was like some damned barnacle, behaving like they’d had a love affair instead of a misguided one-night fling prompted by too much vodka and a low-cut blouse.

  Belinda, unaware her pouting was only annoying him further, blew out a breath that fluttered her fringe. “You’re so mean!”

  “I’m not mean, I’m honest,” he told her. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want to go out with you, and you’re only being…ridiculous.”

  The word, the same one Seth had used earlier today, came back to haunt him and Julian reached again for the cut glass whiskey decanter.

  “I know just the way you like it,” Belinda cooed, sounding more desperate.

  “Actually, you don’t.”

  He turned away from her to stalk across the living room toward the kitchen in search of Sheila, who could be persuaded to remove Belinda Miller from the house if she wouldn’t go on her own. Belinda trailed after him, shoes making tap-tappity noises on the floor.

  “Was that all I was?” She cried woefully after him. “A one-night stand?”

  Julian paused in the arched doorway to his kitchen. “Of course.”

  She let out a strangled, perfectly orchestrated sob that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, Julian!”

  Julian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose to
ward off a headache. “Belinda. Darling. We fucked once, more than a year ago. Nothing more than that. I’ve been with a half-dozen women since then, and I daresay if half the stories about you are true, so have you.”

  She simpered again, still trying to work it. “I could call one of my girlfriends to come over…”

  He shook his head with a grimace, not because he was averse to sharing his bed with more than one person at a time, but because she was now moving beyond ridiculous and towards grotesque. “No, Belinda, Jesus.”

  “But I know you like that!” she cried. “Diana Devon told Katie French that you went to bed with Hilary Orange and Lindsay Duff!”

  That was probably true, too, though he remembered the tangle of limbs and scent of sweet perfumes, and not the names of the women to whom they’d belonged. “Belinda, go home.”

  “You’re such a…a…libertarian!” she cried, stomping her foot again.

  Julian paused and swung round to face her again. “If you mean libertine, Belinda, then I’d guess you might be right.”

  “You’re a man-whore,” she shot back with more confidence in her choice of vocabulary.

  “Maybe that, too.”

  She wasn’t giving up, not smart enough to realize that wheedling never worked with him. “I brought something,” she said, digging in her tiny clutch purse. “Tickets to the Glitter Princess launch party for the new spring line.”

  “I don’t use Glitter Princess products,” Julian said with a laugh. “They make my skin break out.”

  Belinda’s expression clearly said she wasn’t sure if he were joking or not. “They’re not for you. I thought maybe Amie—”

  The last of Julian’ patience fled. “Do not attempt to use my daughter to get to me, Belinda. Not ever. Do you understand?”

  She put the tickets away and straightened her back, her expensively sculpted chin tightening. “Fine. I just thought—”

  “Obviously, you didn’t.” He cut her off.

  She nodded stiffly. “You really won’t take me?”

  Her denseness really wasn’t to be believed or borne. “Get out. Once and for all, Belinda. Get out!”

  “Fine! Fine!” she shouted, stomping toward the front door. “Fine, Mr. Comeback Tour! Mr. Relive-My-Youth!”

  Belinda had probably been eight years old when Blue Silver had been in its heyday; the insult coming from a peer would have stung worse. As it was, it only made him laugh.

  “Good bye, Belinda.”

  “I…I hope they diss your whole show! You and all those other…old men!”

  She’d struggled for that one, spitting it out as Julian took her elbow to help her toward the front door.

  “I’ll be sure to pass that along,” he assured her.

  “You think you’re so great,” she continued. “Well, listen, asshole, I’m somebody, too! My acting career’s really taking off! I’m somebody, too!”

  He opened the door. “Everybody’s somebody, Belinda.” He ushered her through it. “What you don’t seem to understand is that, when everybody’s somebody, nobody’s anybody.”

  She blinked at this, trying to process it. “Huh?”

  “Good-bye,” he told her and shut the door in her face.

  Then he went back to his whiskey and his piano to ponder the state of his anybody-ness.

  4

  “You’re sure they’ll come to the after-party?” Georgie looked over the racks of shoes, searching for the perfect pair, a quest as old as time and almost as hard to accomplish.

  “Yes, yes.” Cassie sounded annoyed and bored, a combination made no less powerful by being diffused through the phone receiver clamped to Georgie’s ear. “Why wouldn’t they? Free booze. Free food. Groupies.”

  The disdain with which her friend said the word gave Georgie pause. “Will there be a lot of groupies? I thought this was going to be a private party. Small—for the band and us and the promoters and the people from Ten Steps to the Moon.”

  Georgie picked up an elegant shoe, dark green leather, wedge heel. Very trendy. Tremendously expensive. Also ugly as all hell. She showed it to the clerk anyway, who went off to grab the mate. So far she’d tried on seven pairs of shoes, each costing so much it was better to pretend she was spending Monopoly money.

  “Groupies are like ants at a picnic. Trust me, they’ll be there.”

  Competition. Georgie would deal with that when it came time. She settled into the seat and lifted her foot for the clerk to slide on the shoe.

  “Why, Georgie? Are you planning on getting laid?” Cassie’s voice had at last broken into amusement.

  Georgie, walking up and down to test out the shoes, didn’t answer at first.

  “Georgie?”

  “Not these,” she said to the clerk and went back to the shelves and shelves of shoes. To Cassie, she said, “Maybe.”

  Silence as dense as deep space probed her eardrum through the phone. Well, she’d known Cassie wouldn’t be a fan of the idea. Ever since Cassie’s return to Harrisburg during the lowest point of Georgie’s life, her friend had seemed to feel she needed to…well…maybe not protect Georgie. Maybe bolster would have been a better word. And she had, that was for sure, when Joe had made Georgie’s life a living hell not only by dumping her unceremoniously but suing her for funds to cover the bulk of his medical bills. Cassie had been there to help Georgie pick up the pieces. No better friend could a woman have. It was like the years between high school and now had never even passed. Except Georgie wasn’t as sweet and fragile as she thought Cassie sometimes assumed her to be. Until now, she’d never had a reason to let her friend think otherwise.

  Georgie picked up a pair of standard black heels ornamented with a silver metal toe and matching metal cap on the heel. She put it down immediately; there were whores, as Esther said, and there were whores.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Cassie said at last when Georgie had made no further explanation.

  “I haven’t dated anyone since Joe and I split up,” Georgie said. “Don’t you think it’s time?”

  “You can’t be serious.” A pause. “You’re serious.”

  “As a skunk is stinky.” The next pair, brown braided leather with gold sequins, she didn’t even bother to lift.

  “Was this…was this the reason why you wanted me to set all this up?” Cassie sounded righteously indignant, and Georgie couldn’t blame her.

  “No. At least, not at first.” Ah. Now this was more like it. Dark plum satin, smooth line, classic shape. Four-inch heel, something she could easily get away with as she only stood five-two in her stocking feet. “I really want us all to get together and see the band.”

  “But now you’re planning on banging them?”

  “Only one.” She held up the shoe for the clerk, who nodded and headed off into the back to find a pair in her size.

  “Which one?” Now Cassie sounded suspicious, and Georgie paused. Her friend had sworn she was past Seth Graham like, forever ago. But that tone said something else.

  “Julian…who else?” Georgie sat again to wait for the clerk, who seemed to have disappeared for good. “He’s clearly the easiest to get into bed.”

  “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you’d be so…so…”

  “Irresponsible? Impetuous? Irresistible?”

  “Irritating!” Cassie’s cry was so loud the woman two chairs down turned to stare. Georgie gave her the cool look she’d practiced for hours in the mirror. The woman turned away.

  “All I need is an introduction.”

  “No. No way. You’re on your own on this one, Georgie. I set up the gig, I made sure the after-party was going to happen, but I sure as hell am not going to help you get into bed with Julian Manchester. I don’t believe you really want that anyway, Georgie. That’s just not like you.”

  “Ah. Squeeing fan-girl, yes, predatory huntress, no?” Georgie held out her foot for the returning clerk, who slipped on the shoe. Then the other. She stood and walked to the mirror, admiring th
e sway of her hips and the way the shoes felt, not pinching or binding.

  Cassie’s brief pause meant she was trying to think of a way to agree without offending. “Well…something like that.”

  “Cassie, I love you,” Georgie said. “But I’m doing this.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t want to believe it, maybe.”

  “You don’t want this,” Cassie said, after another moment. “Believe me, it won’t be what you’re looking for. It’s not the fairy tale you think it is, Georgie.”

  “No? Too bad. I think I just found my glass slippers,” Georgie murmured.

  “Georgie,” said Cassie in a warning tone, “what are you doing?”

  Georgie was already pulling out her credit card and handing it to the clerk, who was wrapping the shoes in tissue paper and putting them into the box as if they were really made of glass.

  “I’m buying a pair of eight-hundred-dollar shoes.”

  “Holy shit,” said Cassie. “I believe you.”

  5

  “…and Mama and Daddy Bill told me they’d let me get a pony!” Amie bounced on the smooth leather banquette, then paused to dip her fries in ketchup, an American habit he was certain appalled her French mother.

  “That sounds nice.” Julian knew Daddy Bill had been the one behind the pony idea. If he could say nothing else nice about the man, at least he could say he doted on Julian’s daughter.

  Amie chattered on about school and her friends, and Julian soaked in as much of her as he could. It was never enough.

  “Mama says you’ll be in the States for months and months, Daddy. Does that mean I’ll be able to see you more often?”

  “I hope so, sweetheart.” Julian smiled at the girl, who had her mother’s dark hair, but his gray-blue eyes. “I’ll talk with your mama about it.”