Chapter Five
Michael

Whatever possessed me to ask her to supper that evening is one of those Great Mysteries perhaps better left unanswered. It's another of those "What if?" scenarios with which a person could drive oneself mad if allowed to sit and contemplate the alternatives for too long a time. Needless to say, I did ask her, she, with the rather surprising intervention of her cousin, accepted, and that, as they say, was that.

Thank goodness.



"Is this suitable or would you prefer something else?"

Roby rolled her eyes. Uh-oh.

"For the forty-third time, Michael, this is fine. This is better than fine, as a matter of fact. You do realize that Taylor wasn't exaggerating when he said that it's been far too long since I stepped foot in a restaurant lacking balloons, crayons, or college students dressed up as oversized rodents? Compared to that, this is like Fantasy Island, you know?"

I didn't, but the expression on her face made it clear the hotel restaurant was definitely a cut above what she was generally accustomed to, and if I valued my health, I'd not say another word on the subject.

"Point made." Actually, I'd found The Armory to be quite on par with the finer restaurants I'd dined in and seeing as it was located in the hotel where I was staying, it was certainly convenient. The hostess, recognizing me from earlier forays, led us to a secluded booth in the corner, surmising, quite correctly, that we, or at least I, would prefer the relative privacy. If I'd given it thought, I would probably have dealt with any potential interruptions that might have materialized as a result of sitting at a more visible table, rather than risk any image of impropriety, more for Roby's sake than my own. However, after the evening's frenzy, I couldn't deny the enormous appeal that a private booth held, just in case any fans had discovered where I was staying. Perhaps it sounds a bit big-headed of me, but it wouldn't have been the first time it happened—just the first time it happened here in the States.

We settled onto the curved, cushioned bench, accepting menus and giving drink orders; settling napkins in our laps and the like. Finally left alone to look over the menus, I found myself staring at the heavy, cream pages, barely registering what it read. What the fuck did I care about pan-seared scallops when I could be finding out what the fan on the street thought of my performance? Tell the truth, pillock—what Roby thought of your performance.

"Roby?"

"Hm?"

Her distracted tone indicated that she, at least, was actually interested in food-related decisions. Nevertheless, I pressed ahead. "I have a question."

She peered over the top of her leather-bound menu. "Yeah?"

Now that I actually had her attention, I found it difficult to form the words, a new sensation. First off, not exactly shy, here—you can't be and be in the profession I'm in. However, I'd also never lacked for people to tell me how I was doing, good, bad, or indifferent, so it was an altogether unusual sensation to go seeking someone's opinion. And Roby's was an opinion that mattered greatly—buggered if I knew why though.

"Michael?"

"Erm, well… I was just wondering, what you thought of the concert tonight?" The last five words whooshed out on one big breath, sounding to my ears like some combined, mangled form of Scots/Cornish dialect. Judging by her confused expression, it had sounded every bit as garbled to her. I tried again, consciously slowing down my speech the way my dialect coach had taught me, so many years ago. "I was trying to ask what you thought of the concert?"

"Oh, God, Michael, you know I thought it was fab." She reached into the basket of fresh bread and pulled out a still-steaming roll. "Ow—shit! Sorry." Dropping it onto her bread plate, she leveled a frank, assessing stare at me. "You honestly want to know what I thought?"

Oh, God. Still, I had asked. "Roby, I've been dissected, celebrated, and reviled by British theatre critics, often within the context of the same review. I think I can take it." At least, that was my story. Let's see if I actually had the balls to stick to it when she was shredding me to bits. She wouldn’t though… would she? All I could do was sit back and wait. And wait I did, as she took her time about answering, splitting and buttering her roll, tearing off a small piece, and chewing with a contemplative expression.

I resisted the urge to reach across the table and shake the answer out of her, concentrating instead on our surroundings, focusing in on the little things: the intricate wood carvings framing the high curved sides of the booth, the jazz playing in the background, the warm glow of the candles on our table. A good deal more elegant, yet on a visceral level reminding me greatly of our first meal together in Pamela's homely, homey office. I marveled at the ability of something as simple as food and drink (not to mention, a good clock on the head) to bring people together despite a lack of outward commonalities.

While I sat mulling over that fact, our waiter reappeared, bearing the bottle of '96 Cristal I'd ordered. Truthfully, I wasn't much of a drinker, though good Scottish boy that I was, a daily shot of single malt, neat, kept the doctor at bay and was a tonic for the constitution, or so I'd been raised. However, this occasion called for something a bit more extravagant. I'd also arranged for a bottle to be sent to Liv, half hoping that despite the time difference, we'd be able to share a celebratory drink even separated as we were. However, there’d been no answer when I'd rung the house, which meant that she had either unhooked the phone so she could sleep in, or more likely, was staying at a hotel near her current theatre. She often did just that when I was out of town, since she hated being by herself in the house, despite the stupidly expensive security system I'd had installed at her behest. So I had to settle for leaving a message on her mobile and found myself sharing the occasion of my first solo concert with a near stranger. Admittedly, it was a near stranger with whom I somehow felt more kinship than people I'd known for years. In that respect, at least, it hardly felt as if I were "settling."

"May I take your orders?" The waiter stood, pencil poised over his pad. Thank God this wasn't one of those establishments that insisted their staff attempt to memorize the patrons' orders, guaranteeing that something would be bollocksed up in the process.

"Roby, please go ahead, I'm still trying to decide." Trying to decide? Nice try, mate. Hadn't so much as glanced at the bloody menu since that initial, pseudo-perusal when we were first seated, opting instead to fret over whether or not she'd enjoyed the concert. I was behaving like a pathetic git, moreover, I couldn't seem to stop myself. Shades of our first meeting.

"You sure?"

I nodded. "Yes, do go on."

Did she ever.

"I'll have the Smoked Salmon appetizer and the Angus strip, medium-rare, please, with the Maytag Blue dressing on the salad. And leave the butter and sour cream for the baked potato on the side, please?"

Stunned. That was the only word to describe it. You must understand I'm accustomed to dining with women for whom eating is a necessary evil, required only to maintain basic biological functions. Even Olivia, whom I considered to have a very healthy appetite for an actress, would never dream of ordering both a first and main course. One or the other, perhaps, but never both—and she never completely cleared her plate either. She'd confided once, long ago, that if she ever felt herself getting full, she stopped immediately, because to her, full meant fat. As I recalled, however, on the prior occasions I'd shared meals with Roby, she'd consumed generous helpings, clearly enjoying herself, yet she was far from fat. Just more rounded than the women I was accustomed to, outside of my mum and sister. She was…

Lush.

Yes, that was the word I was looking for. It was evident in the way the velvet dress clung to her waist and hips, and in the shadowy cleavage revealed by her neckline. This was not a woman who needed one of those WonderBra things to enhance her assets.

"Sir?"

Startled, I looked up to find the waiter observing me with an amused smile. Oh Jesus, had I been that obvious? Clearly, since his gaze slid over in the same direction mine had been fixed before looking back at me, his smile bordering on a leer. Horny pervert. But then, was I any better? Fighting the urge to slap both the waiter and myself, I hurriedly glanced down at the menu and ordered the first thing that caught my eye.

"Yes, I'll have the crab cakes and the stuffed chicken breast, vinaigrette for the salad." Was it my imagination or did the man stifle a laugh as I uttered "breast"?

"Very good, sir. Excellent choice. Your appetizers should be out shortly. Will there be anything else?"

Roby, blessedly oblivious to this exchange and the reason behind it, answered for us. "No, we're good. But stick close, I'm going to be shaking his confidence and we might need something a little stronger than champagne to revive him."

"Will do." The man responded to her playful comment with a wink and a smile. She winked in return, her natural warmth reaching out to include a stranger in on the joke, even if he didn't know what the joke was. After he left, she turned to me, her eyes a dark, unfathomable green, revealing nothing. Taking a sip from her glass, she set it down and folded her hands on the table, every move careful, deliberate, even. An uneasy shiver skittered up my spine at her solemn expression.

"Oh, don't look so worried—it's really not that bad."

"Then why have you taken so long to answer? And why do you look like a magistrate about to hand down a particularly wretched sentence?"

"Because… I have this nasty habit of shooting my mouth and saying things I'm later sorry I said. It’s the last thing I want to do with you, since your performance really was all that and a bag of pitas, honest."

I burst out laughing, in relief as much as at her turn of phrase. "Okay then, so I was pita and presumably some decent hummus at the very least. Where's the fly in the ointment?"

"Some of your material sucked."

Well, then. When she got down to it, she certainly didn't mince words.

"My material? But we spent months choosing every song on that list, trying to appeal to a multi-generational cross-section." Even as the words left my mouth, I could hear how crass, how blatantly Marketing Guru they sounded. Roby was obviously thinking the same thing.

"Bleah. Look, are you comfortable performing every single song on that list?"

I thought back on the twenty-odd songs I'd performed that night. Admittedly, there were a couple I felt uncomfortable, if not downright silly, singing. The show's choreographer had even tried to teach me some, as he put it, "fly dance moves" that I had flatly refused to do. Justin Timberlake, I wasn't.

"No," I admitted. "Not all of them."

"Do you see any common ground among them?"

At that moment, our first course arrived, allowing me an opportunity to consider. We ate quietly for a bit, Roby not pressing for an answer. Finally, I put my fork down.

"They were among the more uptempo numbers."

She nodded, her mouth too full of salmon and toast points to respond otherwise.

"Are you saying I can't perform uptempo music?" God, that would be depressing, not to mention, bloody boring, if that were the case.

She shook her head, an emphatic "no," her dangling pearl earrings swinging and drawing my attention to the smooth column of her neck and the long, wavy tendrils of hair that had escaped from her elegant 'do and drifted down about her shoulders.

"Not at all, Michael. Don't miss the forest for the trees, babe."

The affectionate term, dropped so naturally and without thought, nevertheless sent a warm flush through me. Daft fool.

"It's not so much that they're uptempo. Songs like 'No More Blues' and 'Ain’t That a Kick in the Head' came out crisp and witty and you sound like you were born to sing those. Which made the uptempo pop songs sound schlocky and foreign by contrast. Sorta like Pat Boone singing Metallica. Your warbling 'I Want It That Way' just isn't right on so many levels, y'know?"

Oddly enough, I did. What she was saying not only made perfect sense, it also served to reinforce the few doubts remaining in my mind about the concert's content.

"You're not angry, are you?"

"Angry?" I was amazed she'd be concerned after how frank she'd been, but there she was, twisting her napkin and biting her lip anxiously. "God, no, love, I'm not angry. I did ask, after all." I rescued the napkin from certain strangulation and draped it back across her lap, one of the happy benefits of the corner booth being it allowed for side-by-side access we wouldn’t have had seated at a more conventional table. It also allowed me to pick up her hand and brush a discreet kiss of thanks across the knuckles. A completely innocent gesture, but why provide fodder for any potential prying eyes, right? And if it was so innocent, why did I suddenly find myself shifting just a bit uncomfortably on the bench? Wanker.

I patted her hand and returned to my crab cakes, which, now that I was able to actually taste them, had to confess were excellent. It wasn't until those plates were cleared away and we were digging into our salads that I felt the need to say anything further.

"I really hate that song."

Roby snorted around a mouthful of lettuce. "Tell you the truth, it was kind of obvious."

I winced at the memory of the cheesy horn arrangements that were all wrong, but that my arranger had assured me would make it mine, darling. Well, he could sod off. I didn't want it that way.

"I suppose it's back to the drawing board. Stuart, my manager," I clarified, "is going to flip when I tell him I want to cut that song. He's bound and determined on having something to draw in the 'younger set' as he so quaintly phrased it."

A doubtful eyebrow shot up. "And he thinks a Backstreet Boys cover is your best shot? I mean, no offense, but they're so five years ago."

"Yeah, but it's better than the Marc Anthony and Enrique Iglesias charts he tossed out at our first brainstorming sessions."

"Gag." She wrinkled her nose. "Not that those guys aren't good at what they do, well, at least, Marc Anthony is, but still, the 'Latin Lover' image? So not you. And again with the no offense, and I do realize you and Bowie, that British commonality and all, but if you're going to the trouble of cutting stuff, I'd take a look at slicing and dicing 'Changes.'"

There she went, biting her lip again. "That is, if you don't mind my saying so."

That edge of doubt again, both in gesture and tone. Seemed completely at odds with her normally confident nature. It made me rather curious as to its origins. And no doubt, governed the instinct keeping my tone gentle when I answered.

"No, I don't mind, Roby. I've been looking for an honest assessment of the set list for weeks. Something didn't feel quite right, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what and no one would say one way or another."

I sighed, exasperated. "Too many people going about saying 'right boss,' and agreeing blindly with any damned thing the talent says. Normally, I would count on Stuart to be straight up, but I do believe his new child bride has him thinking from his prick." Too aggravated at having been manipulated, I wasn’t even embarrassed by the blunt speech I normally only used around those I was most familiar with.

"Miranda's a fan of the Boys and thought it would be 'just brill' if I included something of theirs. The Bowie, I regret, was my idea, since I'm a huge fan, but you're right—it just doesn't fit." I pushed my salad plate aside. "No worries. It'll all get sorted out in the next few days. That's what these early dates are for, after all. Smoothing out the rough patches."

Some patches, more so than others. I was just glad Miranda, the trophy wife, was tucked away in England, preferring not to meet up with the tour until we got to a "real" city. New York was more than six stops away. Plenty of time to fix the cock-up.

Nearly an hour later we sat in comfortable silence sipping whisky-spiked coffee and tasting from the dessert sampler presented to us, with management's congratulations on the concert's success. Lovely perk, that.

"Ohhh, I'm so gonna pay in the next few days, but I can't help myself." Roby bit into the miniature éclair with a blissful sigh. Fascinated, I watched her tongue lick away a stray blob of custard from the corner of her mouth. "Double sessions of yoga and the scale is off limits for at least a week."

Comfortably stuffed, I leaned back into the soft cushions, content to not move for at least a week. "Surely you don't worry about your weight?"

Her expression dimmed and she carefully set the uneaten half of pastry back onto her plate. "You mean since I eat so much I can't possibly care?"

"God, no." I couldn't have stopped my next words if I'd made a conscious effort. "You worried that you made me angry by offering an opinion. Now you seem think I imagine you fat because you enjoyed a meal without restraint. What could make you think such dreadful things?" I leaned forward, wanting to put my hand over hers, but sensing it would be a bad idea. So I settled for asking, "Roby, do I frighten you?"

Her face was pale, almost as pale as when we'd first met. An uncomfortable silence settled over the table broken only by her hushed, "No." But forgive me if the expression on her face was far from convincing.

"You know, it's funny. In Port Gordon—my own environment—I'm okay, I'm good. Ask me anything, I'll tell you what I think. Hell, don't ask me, I'll still tell you what I think."

I watched her fingers play along the rim of her coffee cup then grasp the handle, tightening until her knuckles whitened.

"It's because I feel safe, you see, which is just another way of saying I'm a coward."

"I find that hard to believe."

She smiled, a sad, heartbreaking smile. "That's because you don't really know me, Michael. I'm an unbelievable chickenshit. The only brave thing I ever did in my life was leave, and that wasn't even for me—it was for the kids."

"Leave what?"

"My marriage."

I knew she wasn't married—or at the very least I'd surmised as much. Other than Donovan and Taylor, I'd not seen any evidence of a man in Roby's life. No ring on her finger, no reference to a "Dad" by her kids during our brief meeting. Now, it seemed, I was about to find out why. I stayed silent, content to let her say as much or as little as she desired.

"Jack's okay, I guess. He just had certain, um… expectations I could never seem to live up to. His family's wealthy and well connected and moves pretty high up in Chicago society. As a whole, they were fine, but Jack… well, let's just say I could never be thin enough or stylish enough, and my natural klutziness didn't exactly do wonders for our relationship either."

"Roby, did he ever— " I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

"Hit me?" Clearly, she had no such reservations, bluntly stating what I couldn't bring myself to say.

"Nah, not his style. In fact, I'm sure there are people who still wonder why on earth I left such a great guy. Because Jack is a great guy—in public at least." Her shoulder lifted in a small shrug, her sleeve slipping enough to leave the skin bare. "He's everyone's best friend, has a great word for everyone, would agree with all the compliments I was given, be it for my work, or my appearance or whatever. It was back at home that I'd find out what he really thought."

My blood ran cold at the bitter tone of her voice, but I remained silent. It was as if all of this had been bottled up, just waiting for an opportunity to burst free.

"He made sure I knew people were only saying those things to be nice because of who his family was, who he was, not because of anything I did. I was clumsy, made far too many social faux pas—little things.... like eating." Her gaze flickered down to her half-eaten pastry, then away, focusing somewhere past me and seeing something that obviously wasn't the expensive artwork adorning the walls.

"It was never all at one time, mind you—the comments were subtle, just slipped into regular conversation, but after awhile, the message was clear. No matter what I tried, it was never good enough—I should watch him because he was better." She sighed. "It got to where the idea of going out for any occasion was nothing short of pure hell. I knew he’d be watching to see how I fucked up—which of course, led to more incidents.

"But still," she glanced at me briefly then stared down into her cup, as if searching for answers to questions long since asked. "I was willing to stick it out, try as hard as I could to learn to please him, because I loved him. Or thought I did."

"What changed?"

"Nothing actually changed—at least not with Jack. But one night, he lit into Patrick for knocking over a glass of milk at the table. Patrick was barely two and it was a cup with a lid. I realized nothing was ever going to change." Her gaze met mine squarely and I could see in her eyes a deep streak of protectiveness.

"I left the next day. It wasn't until after I got to Port Gordon that I found out I was pregnant with Emily. I let Jack know, of course, but I never heard from him directly, just through his lawyer. I got full custody so long as I relinquished any claim to his family's money on my or the children's behalf."

Bastard.

Her lips twitched in small smile. "A little time, a lotta distance, and hopefully some clarity later, I realized the only way Jack might be happy with a child is if he could self-replicate—have his own little Mini-Me just as fabulous as he is."

"Jesus." I couldn't think of anything to say. What could I say? The only thing I could think was how grateful I was for my relationship with Olivia. Despite the dodgier moments that all couples went through, we had a pretty good thing—certainly nothing like what Roby was describing. Some of what I was thinking must have been evident on my face though.

"Please don't feel sorry for me."

"What?"

"You had a 'poor Roby' look going on and it's not necessary. I've got it really, really good, compared to a lot of people. I had my home and my family to come back to—that alone gave me far more security than a lot of women in my position. Believe me, I never take it for granted. And anyhow, I'm the one who should be sorry."
She should be sorry? The woman was truly mad. "Why?"

"I shouldn't have laid all of that on you. A year of very expensive counseling under my belt and I've said more to you than I ever did to the therapist." She grinned down into her cup. "Must be the liquor. Maybe I should have taken up drinking during my sessions."

She was trying to lighten the moment and I decided to let her. "Maybe." I tilted the bottle of whisky over her cup. "Want more therapy?"

"Why the hell not? I'm not driving and the only thing you have to remember is what room you're in." Her smile, full on, caught me unguarded yet again. What a lovely, lovely woman. A mystery that she hadn't yet been snapped up by some bloke. But then again, given her background, it was possible she didn't want to be snapped up. Another pity.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Your wife's a lucky lady."

I reached out and carefully pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "Thanks."

"My pleasure."

**
Two weeks later I was in Washington, D.C. and at a bit of a loose end. All right—all right, I was bored out of my goddamned skull. After much finagling, things concert-wise had finally, finally settled down. Stuart and I compromised on the Backstreet Boys dilemma by choosing the slightly more down-tempo and romantic "More Than That," after a marathon listening session—hours which I will never get back. Nevertheless, both of us were reasonably content since this song fit the overall show concept a bit better and I promised him the first show Miranda attended, I'd make certain to pass along a suitably romantic message along the lines of Stuart's having chosen the song specifically for her, blah, blah, blah. I would simply have to practice not rolling my eyes as I said it. The change had also necessitated the hiring of some back-up singers to fill out the harmonies, but as it was something we'd already considered doing for other songs, it was achieved with a minimum of pain. A few rehearsals together and we'd all meshed beautifully.

The concerts since had been even more successful than our inaugural outing in Portland and the company had settled into what would hopefully become the pattern for the rest of the tour: travel, light dress rehearsal/sound check, performance, repeat action as necessary with the occasional day off so as not to wear out the voices. So far, Providence, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Cincinnati, and Baltimore had gone off beautifully. D.C. was scheduled for tomorrow night, so this was one of those days off with which to do as I pleased. My initial plan was to go to the Smithsonian, but looking out my hotel window I was confronted with a blanket of snow, which I'd gathered was rather unusual for this area of the country. Unfortunately, when it did happen, it had a tendency to bring the entire city to a standstill. Yet I’d been assured by the disturbingly perky blonde on the telly the temperatures tomorrow would rise into the 50s, so tomorrow's concert wouldn't be adversely affected. However, I was left with nothing to do at the mo.

I tried ringing Liv, who'd been fucking difficult to get hold of lately. Not really a surprise, what with the eight shows a week grind, something I did not miss in the slightest. And apparently, when she wasn’t actually on stage, she was busy doing the film audition rounds, looking, as I had, for a break from the incessant theatre grind.

"I've just been missing you so much darling." This came during one of our rare phone chats just after the tour had gotten underway. I could see her in my mind's eye as she spoke, lower lip pouting just a touch for emphasis. "You know I like to keep busy, Michael, and it does help the time pass faster. I'm sorry that we do seem unable to catch each other at the same time."

After that conversation, we'd tried to set up a prescribed calling time, but the first couple of times I'd tried to reach her, all I'd got was the answer machine, which in truth, didn't surprise me. Liv had a notoriously bad memory for anything that wasn't dialogue and refused to keep notes or a diary, complaining that it would make her look as mad as her granny, scraps of paper scattered about with random dates and numbers written on them.

I picked up the phone and dialed first the house, then her mobile, getting nothing but the machine and her voice mail—again. Sighing, I replaced the phone back in its cradle and flopped back on the bed with the television remote. A quick flip through the channels provided ample proof the world was out to bore me to tears today. I absolutely refused to watch Harry and his band of merry moppets cavort through the Chamber of Secrets for the umpteenth time, and Sex and the City held very little interest for me since I wasn't a woman obsessed with either shoes or sex with random men. One of my backup singers on the other hand… judging by her behavior and mode of dress, she's quite the dedicated fan. She'd been less than subtle in informing me of her availability for… whatever. I'd been even less so letting her know I wasn't. Luckily, it hadn't become an issue; she'd moved right along to the tour drummer. She's a nice kid, gorgeous and talented, but then, I knew a lot of those. After awhile, you tended to develop an immunity.

Ah… there we were. I leaned forward eagerly. Football—proper footie—with a round ball. But sod it all. It was Mexican league, on a Spanish language station. I was nearly twenty years on from university Spanish and the only thing I could pick out amidst the rapid-fire patter was an ear-splitting "GOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLL!!!"
I tried though. Stuck with it for about twenty minutes—ten with the sound on, ten with it muted after the effort of trying to understand something other than "GOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLL!!!" began giving me a headache. It was hopeless. Normally it wouldn’t bother that I wasn't familiar with the teams or didn't know any of the players, but for whatever reason, today it did. Hell, might as well’ve been watching EastEnders with Tamara for all I cared.

Thoroughly bored now, I snapped the telly off and tossed the remote aside. I was so desperate, I almost considered going into the shopping center adjacent to the hotel, if for nothing more than to search out a bookstore, but even that held little appeal.

My gaze swept around the room and finally landed on my rucksack. My ancient, tatty, uni rucksack that never failed to cause Olivia unending shame when I insisted on toting it publicly. The very same rucksack holding my laptop. Well, when all else failed, there was always the Internet. At the very least, I could check my email and see if, by some miracle, Liv had left me a message.

Pulling it out, I waited for it to go through the process of starting up, then hooking up to the hotel's high speed Internet provider. Downloading my email, I found several messages forwarded by Stuart's office from fans and a message from Mum and Dad asking how the tour was going so far verifying their plans to come for the New York show. Then there was the one from Tam, calling me a prat for not having sent an email for more than two weeks. Forgive me, little sister, I've been a touch busy trying to keep my manager from turning me into the sixth Backstreet Boy. Nothing from Liv, really not altogether surprising. I sent replies to my parents and to Tam, updating them on all the latest. To Tam's message, I added a bit about having shared dinner with Roby, post-concert, but nothing more than that—certainly nothing about the particulars of our conversation that night.

Back when Tamara had rung to let me know that Shira's doll had made it intact across the Atlantic in time for her to open it Christmas Day, I'd found myself telling her the whole ridiculous story behind its purchase. Tam being Tam, had teased that it was definitely a unique way to go about picking up a woman, and one of our infamous verbal spats had ensued. She did say I did right by Roby in driving her home, high praise from my hypercritical sister, but added that another gentlemanly gesture wouldn't be totally uncalled for either. Mark your calendars, it doesn’t happen often, but I'd been thinking that very thing, hence the tickets and CD.

Finished with email, I opened a web browser and began checking some of my favorite sites. I perused my usual news, business, and sports sites then checked to see how the disc was doing on the charts back home. (Oh, don't be surprised—I do have an ego.) Hmm… behind Robbie Williams, yet well ahead of the latest Pop Idol winner, thank God. I could live with that.

Done, I started to quit then paused. Typing "Port Gordon, Maine" into the search engine, I hit "return." Why? I suppose I was feeling nostalgic for the one place in the States in which I'd spent more than just a passing moment. Perhaps I wanted, in some small way, to recall the camaraderie I'd felt in those few brief hours.

Opening the community home page, my screen was immediately taken over by a winter tableau of the Village Green and Main Street. Underneath the image was a bar, giving the local time and temperature, (bloody cold) and to the left, a column with sponsoring businesses.

The Pink Elephant, Henry's Toys, The Port Gordon Memorial Clinic, Saul's Lobster Shack. Funny how I could envision something related to each of those names: Pamela's scones, Don's kindness, even the story of Roby's lobster attack and subsequent rescue by Saul. (Had to be the same bloke—how many Sauls could there possibly be in one small town?) Down near the bottom of the business column, I spotted a listing for Stevenson's Custom Furniture & Maine Design. Dragging the cursor over the name, I realized it was a link. Clicking on it opened a new window, which turned out to be the shared site for Roby's interior design firm and her uncle's custom furniture business.

I discovered that Hugh Stevenson restored furniture as well as built it, with several of his pieces being commissioned for various historical buildings across the state. Moving on to Roby, I first studied her portrait, a smiling, relaxed pose in what appeared to be her office. Skimming her bio, I was suitably impressed. Look at that, a Master's degree in Historic Preservation—smart and pretty. She also had to her credit numerous awards and citations for her designs and preservation work, a rather impressive looking list for anyone, let alone someone so young. At the bottom of the page were phone numbers and emails where they could each be contacted. I hesitated for a moment then went ahead and clicked on Roby's address, bringing up an email window.

To: RobyS@MaineDesign.net
From: MEM214@bt.co.uk
Subject: From the Sixth Backstreet Boy

Dear Roby,

Surprise— I expect I'm the last person you thought to hear from. Assuming of course, that you don't immediately dispose of this as some sort of porn SPAM. I was bored and puttering about the Port Gordon homesite and stumbled across your business page. I saw all those awards and commendations you've received—pretty impressive! I'm hardly fit company for such a personage. ☺

However, I also saw your email and thought you might enjoy an update as to the set list issue. Yes, it was finally resolved after much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth, mostly on my part after I had to spend hours listening to every SINGLE Backstreet Boys song ever recorded, demos included. The new song works rather well (he says reluctantly), and thankfully, the choreographer is safely in London and unable to inflict any more torture on me. "Changes" is sadly gone, as per our discussion, but we filled its slot with "So In Love" from Kiss Me Kate. Don't ask me why I thought it would be any less intimidating to replace Bowie with Cole Porter—and a song immortalized by some chap named Sinatra and a vocal goddess named Ella, no less. Just can't make it easy on myself, can I? However, it seems to be getting quite the warm reception, so I can't be mucking it up all that badly.
Anyhow, we’re in your nation's capital and I'm completely shut in, due to a snowstorm that I'm reasonably certain the natives of your state would scoff at as a mere dusting. The concert's tomorrow, then off to Nashville and the home of the Grand Old Opry. You wouldn't happen to know anything about a food called "chitlins" would you? My American band members swear it's a native delicacy and I must try some.

I don't trust them.

Best,

Michael.

I hit "send" then closed the laptop with a smile. I didn't actually expect to hear back from her any time soon, if at all, but it was amazing how the simple act of composing the email had lifted my spirits. Realizing that I was feeling far more energized than I'd felt an hour before, I decided to get out for a bit, knowing now what I wanted to do. After a quick change of clothes, I grabbed my key card and wallet, and made my way down to the hotel's gym.

As it had been weeks since I'd laced up a pair of boxing gloves I declined the trainer's offer to spar, preferring instead to go at it by myself. Aside from being a hell of a workout, boxing was a fantastic stress reliever and surprisingly, a good place to think. The speed bag was perfect for the latter, since once a steady rhythm was established, it was very easy to just let the mind wander wherever it wished or simply… go blank.

On the other hand, the heavy bag was the place to release tensions. I spent an enjoyable half hour punching away at the bag, ignoring the sweat dripping down my face and sliding, stinging, into my eyes. I took turns envisioning first Stuart, then that flighty bird, Miranda, grunting as my punches increased in both speed and intensity, sending near-painful jolts up my arms and making my shoulders throb. Not that I'd ever actually hit a woman, you understand—though that's how I'd started boxing. Once, in the heat of some stupid childhood screaming match, I hit Tam and our Dad lit into me in a manner the likes of which I never want to see again.

After the lecture that a real man never, ever hit a woman and the ensuing belt tanning that left my arse purple for a week, he'd marched me straight up the road to the local gym and begun giving me boxing lessons. I was gobsmacked. I'd no idea that my mild-mannered Dad even knew how to box, let alone that he was so proficient. He told me it was the best way he knew to control his temper and that clearly, it was a skill I'd also have to learn. Temper? What temper? At age eleven I wasn't completely certain what he meant, but I've since learned.

Back in my room, I headed straight for the shower, not wanting the muscles to tighten up and leave me hobbled indefinitely. After all, gimping about the stage would do very little to add to the whole romantic, jazz club feel of the show, would it now? Toweling myself dry twenty minutes later, I was definitely feeling a new man. Enough so that I was even willing to give the idiot box another try. Flipping the television back on, I was chuffed to discover Casablanca playing on one of those classic movie channels that seemed to abound in this country. Tuning the volume to slightly louder than background music, I settled myself back on the bed with the laptop to see if I'd received any return emails. Predictably, Tam had responded, saying she was glad that I had a) sent the tickets to "that nice American girl" and b) dropped "Changes" from the set, and I was never to sully another Bowie song ever again. How supportive of her. No response yet from my parents, and still nothing from Liv, but there was something from Roby.

To: MEM214@bt.co.uk
From: RobyLS@MaineDesign.net
Subject: RE: From the Sixth Backstreet Boy

Hey!

Sixth Backstreet Boy, huh? So what do we call you? Mad Mikey M? You'll have to tell me which song you ended up choosing, because now I'm curious. It can't be too bad… can it?

About the chitlins—unless you're a huge fan of haggis (and being that you're Scottish, you may well be) I'd stay the hell away from the stuff. Even if you ARE a fan of haggis, I'd suggest staying away from the chitlins. As I understand it, at best, they're an acquired taste. At worst… well, I'm not sure you want to know what "at worst" is, but rumor has it, it ain't good. Your band members are out to get you, but good. Go for some barbeque, though. It's wicked good.

Those mid-Atlantic wusses down in D.C. wouldn't know a snowstorm if it up and bit them on the ass! I checked the weather channel after I got your email and had to laugh at the site of the politicos all bundled up and slip sliding down the street. Feh— it's nothing that a good four-wheel drive (not to mention, a good driver) can't handle.

I really am glad to hear from you— it's certainly a pleasant surprise, especially since I was sure you were convinced I was manic and quit possibly dangerous after our dinner. This time, I hope it's not me who's being too forward by saying that I hope it's not the last time I hear from you. Emotional spillage notwithstanding, it was one of the most enjoyable conversations and evenings out I've had in a long, long time. Just in case, make sure to note the slight difference in my email address. The extra initial differentiates it as personal, rather than business, address and I'm more likely to look at it quickly. I'm also going to assume that the address you used is your private one—rest assured, it goes no further than me.

Take care,

Ro.

P.S. I'm going to ignore that comment about the awards and personages. :-P

Once again, I found myself grinning like a fool. Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.