The High Notes: A Novel(38)

“No, he brought you a puppy.” He was convinced that Clay was infatuated with her, but Iris denied it.

“He’s our boss. That’s different. He’s like a father to us.”

“He’s my boss too, he didn’t bring me a puppy.”

“Okay, what kind of puppy do you want?” she asked him, smiling.

“A Great Dane,” he said smugly.

“Fine. I’ll tell him you want one.”

“Why won’t you admit that he likes you? Or more than that?”

“Because he doesn’t like me ‘that way,’ and it’s easier like this,” she said shyly. “I don’t want to screw things up. He’s been so good to us, and to me, we’re friends.” And she didn’t want to tell Boy that she thought Clay was attractive. She was sure he wasn’t interested in her that way. If he had been, he would have said so before this.

“You’re silly, and blind,” Boy said to her.

“What about you and Star?” She was curious, like a sister. He had turned thirty while he was recuperating, and Star had brought him a birthday cake with candles.

“I think she’s hot. When I can breathe again without crying, I’m going to take her out for dinner. She can check out my new nose,” he said about Star in answer to Iris’s questions. The doctor had promised his nose would be even straighter than his old one. The thugs from Brooklyn had done a thorough job of breaking it.

A few days later, Clay called her in the morning to see how she felt, and asked if she was well enough to go out to dinner. She had complained of feeling stir-crazy, stuck in her room at the hotel. The only thing that cheered her up was Rosie, the tiny Chihuahua, and she and Boy played cards and watched old movies. At least they kept each other company, and the prospect of getting out finally for dinner boosted her spirits immediately.

“I’d love it, as long as we don’t go dancing.” The ribs were taking longer to heal than she’d hoped they would. She wasn’t ready to start singing again yet. She was getting impatient about finishing her album.

Clay said he’d pick her up at the hotel at seven-thirty, and they’d go somewhere nearby. The area around the Plaza was full of restaurants. “Perfect, I’ll be out front at seven-thirty.”

“Have the security outside your room escort you down.” He didn’t want her to fall or bump herself and get hurt, or anyone to jostle or hassle her, like the paparazzi.

She was dressed and out front promptly at seven-thirty with a security guard, and Clay pulled up in a red Ferrari. He was driving himself. Iris lowered herself gingerly into the car and they took off seconds later.

Iris was wearing a short black leather skirt and a red jacket, with her hair down, and they drove to a bustling, friendly informal Italian restaurant on Second Avenue, uptown. He thought it would be more relaxed than a fancy French restaurant, and they’d be less likely to draw attention. People always recognized him. He was as famous as his artists. They talked for a long time in the restaurant, and he could see she was getting tired. When they left, they were startled to see paparazzi on the sidewalk waiting for them. It was obvious to both of them that someone had tipped them off, otherwise how would they know to find them there, since it wasn’t the kind of restaurant that celebrities went to. Clay looked annoyed, and moved swiftly toward the car with her when the valet brought it, and they got several shots of Iris as she got into the Ferrari. They were typical paparazzi shots, and they were on the front page of the Enquirer the next day, with a shot of her legs and short skirt as she got into the Ferrari. Clay called Iris immediately to apologize. They’d had a nice time the night before, and he didn’t like the tabloids intruding on them.

“I’m sorry, Iris. I didn’t think they’d catch us there. Someone at the restaurant must have squealed, probably one of the waiters.”

“It’s okay, you weren’t doing anything wrong. Neither of us is married. We can have dinner with whoever we want.”

“I hate being in the tabloids,” he said sternly.

“I don’t mind,” she said. He was as much a celebrity as any of the people he represented, so it seemed inevitable. “I’ll bring Rosie next time, in one of her pink sweaters, they can take pictures of her.” The tiny puppy followed her everywhere in her hotel suite, and hopped on her lap the minute she sat down. And at night, she slept with her head next to Iris’s face on the pillow, and she could feel her soft puppy breaths on her cheek. She was never lonely with Rosie with her, and Clay was thrilled that she loved her.

She had told Pattie all about her, and sent her photos. She had told her too about the attack on her and Boy that Glen had masterminded.

“I hope he goes to prison for it,” Pattie said. She was back in Biloxi taking care of her son. Her mother was out of the hospital, but still weak.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to get back to Vegas. I can’t take Jimmy with me, and I don’t think my mama is going to be well enough to manage him on her own. I’m going to be stuck here waiting tables forever,” she said, depressed about it. She didn’t want to tour for Glen again, but she didn’t want to be stuck in Mississippi forever either. It felt like she had gone back to the beginning, and her dreams hadn’t come true.

“Maybe you can get to Nashville eventually, and find some gigs there. It sounds like there’s plenty of work in music in Nashville. At least that’s what Boy says,” Iris told her.