The High Notes: A Novel(30)
He loved watching Iris work in the studio, singing her heart out for her album. She was a relentless taskmaster, always pushing herself harder and challenging herself to her limits and beyond. He was watching her one night, singing one of her own songs. She hit all the high notes, just like her father used to tell her to do when she sang the anthem at the rodeo, or performed at Harry’s Bar when she was twelve, or hundreds of other places like it, over the years. Clay gave her the opportunity to work with the best sound equipment, the finest trained musicians and technicians, for an album that Clay knew would be an instant hit when they released it. And Boy was doing the same thing with his two singles that would come out on the radio, and hopefully would soar up the charts.
Clay watched Iris quietly. It was after midnight, and he could see that her musicians were getting tired, but Iris wasn’t. She was tireless, driving herself, singing with her eyes closed and her headphones on. She was surprised to see Clay watching her when she opened her eyes when the song ended.
“I think your boys are going to fall asleep here if you don’t let them go home,” he said to her gently, and she glanced at the clock and turned to apologize to them. She could see that they looked tired, but she could have gone on all night. She let them go then, and told them to be back at nine the next morning. Clay waited for her to leave the studio a few minutes later and walked her out. “I think your backup boys may need a little more sleep than you do,” he teased her and she looked sheepish.
“I want to get it right. I hate to leave before we do.”
“There’s always another day,” he reminded her. He was wearing jeans and a black sweater, and she noticed that he looked handsome, and wondered if he had a girlfriend. He had dark brown hair with gray at his temples and green eyes. He seemed like a nice man, and she always saw him alone. But this was work, and she had no idea who he had at home, or even if he was married. She was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt and tennis shoes, as she always did at rehearsals, with her long blond hair piled high on her head in a clip. She didn’t care how she looked when she worked in the studio. She never wore makeup.
Iris looked about sixteen years old, not twenty-seven. She had a fresh, clean look to her, and was sexy because she didn’t try to be, which made her even more appealing, to Clay at least. He loved her natural looks, but was careful not to show it to her. He didn’t want to step over any lines or cross any boundaries, nor make a fool of himself if she was in love with Boy, which he didn’t think he should ask her.
“There’s no fool like an old fool,” he reminded himself every time he saw her, and he didn’t want to be one. He wasn’t old, but he was twenty years older than she was, an entire lifetime. As young as she seemed, he couldn’t imagine her being interested in him, even if she wasn’t in love with Boy. He felt like an old letch, just thinking about it. He didn’t want to abuse the fatherly role he had in her life. She needed him for that. He told her that they were meeting with the lawyers the next day about her contract, as he rode down the elevator with her. His car and driver were waiting outside, and he offered her a ride back to the hotel, which she accepted. He didn’t want her taking a cab alone at that hour, although she worked late on most nights and often did.
The streets of New York were still busy, and it was a short drive back to the Plaza. Clay lived on Fifth Avenue in the Seventies, just north of the hotel.
“Will Boy still be up when you get home?” he asked her casually, and she shrugged as she looked out the window. She was more tired than she’d realized, and it was catching up to her. She had been standing at the mike for hours and singing hard.
“I don’t know. I think he falls asleep watching TV. I don’t see him when I work this late. He closes his door, and I don’t see him till breakfast.” Clay couldn’t tell from what she said whether they were sleeping together or not, but he didn’t want to make the wrong assumption.
“How long have you two been together?” He tried another tack. He just wanted to know if her heart was engaged, even if he never acted on it, and he was sure he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself or take advantage of her.
“We’re not ‘together,’ like that. We’re just friends. I met him in Jackson Hole after I left the tour, so that’s about two months now. Besides, I don’t like mixing romance with work. It never works out, and it just messes things up. I guess we could have hooked up, but it would have been a mistake. It’s much better like this,” she said with her wide eyes and innocent face. She had given him hope with the first half of what she said, and dashed his hopes with the rest. She was right not to get involved with the people she worked with. He followed the same principle, but he was tempted to make an exception for her. She had brought him back to reality, like a bucket of ice over his head. He was too old for her anyway, he reminded himself. But it made him a little sad.
The one thing he couldn’t buy was youth. He would have given anything to be her age again, or as old as Boy, and break down her resolve. Boy could have done it, but apparently had chosen not to. It wasn’t the choice Clay would have made. He would have fought to win her if he’d had the chance, but he hadn’t, so he reminded himself on the drive home that there was no point thinking about it. At least he knew her status now. She and Boy weren’t in love. She was single and alone and married to her work. It was why she was so good at what she did. She had nothing to distract her from the main event. Clay’s best artists were like that, although some of them had wild, turbulent personal lives. Iris would never be one of them. He could tell.