Элисон Скотч - The Song Remains the Same

“Funny, that’s what Jamie just said to me, too.”

“This place is you. Everything about it.” His voice cracks.

Rory walks over and thrusts a clipboard in my hand before I can contemplate the weight behind his comment.

“You’re greeting people at the door,” she says.

“Isn’t that your job?” Peter asks.

“Not anymore, not when I have to be the one worrying about the rest of the details.” Her voice is sharp, like she’s pulled a muscle.

“Shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it?” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or undercutting her. She glares and returns to the caterers.

“What was that?” I say, flipping through the list, recognizing few of the names.

“You took care of everything before the accident. It consumed you—you practically lived here. You picked out the paint color, you paid the bills, you agonized over the layout of where to place each piece of art. Like I said, it was you in your element.”

“Nell!” Rory yells. “Please come over here and tell them how to present the bar.”

“How to present the bar? Who cares how you present the bar?” I say when I reach her. “And by the way, what is your problem ?”

“I’m stressed, in case you can’t tell. Word is out about us now—you’re not here to see the tourists line up, to vet the calls that still come in from the media. You may be oblivious to your fame, but I can’t be! And I could use your help.” Since the accident, curious collectors have flooded the gallery, another unforeseen perk from surviving the worst plane crash this side of the decade.

“So tell me what to do. Jesus Christ. How have you held it together for the past two months while I’ve been gone?” I say.

“This is our first show since then. Press—papers and magazines and journals—will be here. This is bigger than anything we’ve done before. It matters.” She’s spiraling into hysterics now, and I can see it, how I kept everything pinned down here, partially, simply, because she could not.

“So that’s it? That’s all that this is. Stress from our first show? Because this seems disproportionate to just some stress for a show.”

The wind chimes echo hello, and we both turn to see Anderson greeting Peter.

“Yes, for god’s sake, that’s all it is!” She lingers on both of them, then turns back to me. “Now please, tell them how you like the wineglasses, where you want the liquor, then go man the door. People are already arriving.”

I gesture to the bartenders once she moves out of earshot. “I really don’t care, whatever you think is best.” Then I lope over to Anderson, kissing his cheek.

“You clean up nice,” I say.

“Ditto,” he answers. Peter slides his hand around my waist.

“No date tonight? I’m pretty sure that I’ve been reading about your rotation on Page Six.” Peter smiles, a congratulation couched as a question. He raises his free hand to slap him five.

“Randy Andy!” the headline had blared just three days ago, covering Anderson’s exploits with yet another model, exploits he swore to me were untrue.

“Naw, not tonight. I had invites to two screenings but, to be honest, I just wanted a night off. Away from—you know—the scene, the craziness,” Anderson says, halfheartedly raising his own palm to meet Peter’s. It’s all a little pathetic, a little sad, this flimsy flop of their manliness. “Just wanted to be here to support the girl who saved my life.” He makes a bombastic gesture with his arm, like he’s a prince and I’m a courtesan, and we both smile at the showiness of it.

“And we’re honored to have you,” I say, mock-curtsying. “I’m manning the door,” I add.

“Well, that is one area that I have much expertise in,” he says. “Doormen, bouncers. I’ll help.”

“I’ll be at the bar,” Peter says. “Come find me.”

“These aren’t your thing?” Anderson asks him.

“I’m not the schmoozing type,” he answers, then glances away. “I usually skipped these before. Not…not that you minded,” he says to me. “You always just preferred to focus on work, not to have to entertain me.”

“Well, I’m laying off the booze for tonight, man, but I’ll catch you in there,” Anderson says.

I pat Peter’s shoulder, and then he wanders toward the martinis.

“So, things are going well with you guys?” Anderson asks, as we flank the doorway, waiting for patrons. “I mean, they seem to be going reasonably well.”

“Pretty solid, actually.” Things are actually pretty solid. Whether we are back in heady love, well, no, not there, but yes, solid. We’re working toward togetherness, and my mother’s prophetic words that brilliant sunshiny afternoon at the hospital are starting to fulfill themselves. I’ve learned to trust him again, maybe not with my full soul but with enough of it that I can envision a day when I will. Give him my whole self. So what if he didn’t come to these events before? So what if I didn’t beg him to be there in the first place? I steal a look around. As glamorous as it is, and certainly it is glamorous, part of it feels off. Part of me feels off being here.

“You think any of this matters?” I say to Anderson.

“This life, this gallery, this what?”

“This party stuff. This posturing to sell art. Who cares?”

“Collectors care. The artist cares. I’d venture that once upon a time, you cared.”

“My dad wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have sold any of his stuff, prostituted himself like this.” How do you know what your dad would have wanted? I can hear Liv even without her being here. And she has a point: I don’t, I wouldn’t have . Why does it matter so much to me that I think I should know in the first place?

“This is hardly prostitution,” Anderson retorts. “This is people appreciating art and wanting to bring that art into their home because it touches them. And if you think this is prostitution, then wait until you see my movies.”

“Touché.” I smile. I see Rory start toward us, then reconsider and spin on her heels toward the bar. Anderson watches her as she does so. “She’s in rare form tonight,” I say.

“Probably just not used to the pressure.” He shrugs it off. “Like asking her to headline a movie when she’s not quite ready.”

“So now we’ve shifted to talking about you.”

“I’m an actor, we try to keep it about us nearly all the time.” He smiles his trademark smile, all dimples, perfect teeth. “But my agent keeps telling me, ‘You gotta step up. Gotta seize the moment.’ I guess that’s right. For Rory, me, you. Everyone.”

“Ergo, the Spielberg film.”

“Ergo that.” He sighs, then stutters. “You remember Stephen Calhoun from the passenger manifest?” I scrunch my eyes. Vaguely. Jesus. I’ve forgotten the hundred fifty-two of them already. “The teenage kid who was heading to Duke in the fall on a basketball scholarship? Incredible kid. He’d started a foundation helping underprivileged kids: baked dog biscuits to raise money for them.”

“Seems worthy, if random.”

“It was. His family got in touch to ask if I’d continue in his honor, you know, pass the torch, and keep his dream alive.” Anderson leans back against the door frame. “And of course I want to say yes. I mean, that kid had everything going for him in the world, he was someone who truly could have lit things on fire…and yet, when my publicist relayed their message, my first thought was, ‘Another favor? Who else is asking?’” He rubs his temples. “Shit, I’m a walking Hollywood cliché.”

“You’re not,” I say, touching his arm. “We’re all just wading our way through.”