A Different Kind of Forever - By Dee Ernst Page 0,79

Harris had recently spent an evening attending a performance of the 13th Street Chorus. Harris had been a guest of the mother of one of the cast members, and had taken the entire ensemble out after the performance. One of the cast later said that Harris was a ‘charming, talented and generous’ man. Michael knew all about the 13th Street Chorus. He and Diane had attended a few of their shows over the summer, watching Rachel. He knew that it was probably Diane who took Quinn there, and why not? Rachel was a talented girl. Being seen by someone like Harris could act in her favor.

The following week, Stephanie brought home another tabloid, whether by accident or design Michael never asked. Quinn Harris was pictured on page seven. Standing next to him, in elegant profile, was Diane. The accompanying article described a dinner at the world-famous Pierre Hotel, given for the arrival of Sir Derek Shore in New York by his soon-to-be-director. The woman in the picture was not identified. She was described only as being Harris’ companion, a close one, apparently, since they were seen kissing in the lobby at two o’clock that morning. Michael spent a long time looking at Diane’s face, tracing in his mind the curve of her cheek, the hollow behind her ear. Michael had learned not to believe half of what he read in some of the British press, having seen the most outrageous articles about himself published there. But a picture was something else. Harris had his arm around Diane’s waist. She was smiling, obviously enjoying herself.

Michael had been in London over four weeks by then. He knew that every day was going to be a battle. He had spent very little time away from the studio. Once or twice, Seth had talked him into a drive, a half day away from London, to help him clear the cobwebs.

He was incredibly lonely. He had politely declined the countless offers of women, and men, who would have been more than happy to accommodate him in any way. He felt no conscious desire for sex. He was always tired, under tremendous stress, and was beginning to drink more heavily than he had ever before. Seth and Joey consumed vast amounts of cocaine, but Michael had always stayed away from drugs. Alcohol, on the other hand, was becoming a factor.

He began to spend time with Jane Whyte, an assistant of David’s who, as far as he could tell, tried to sleep with every musician she came into contact with. She was pleasant, cheerful, and did not take his refusal of her sexual advances to heart. She just smiled and said she would have to keep trying. He didn’t take her seriously. She made him laugh. He was in desperate need of someone to make him laugh.

The night he saw Diane’s picture with Quinn Harris, he called the car to take him back to the studio. David was there, working of course. David was always working. David knew that if he could make a success of Prescott’s movie, his career would be assured. A tiny man with huge ambition, he listened stoically to Prescott’s rants, agreed with everything the director said, then went back to what he had begun in the first place. David Go knew that Michael had written music that was going to win awards, and he was determined to stick around for the payoff. He quit, then returned, at least twice that Michael knew of.

Jane Whyte saw Michael wandering down the hallway and knew at once he was troubled about something. She intercepted him before he could get involved in something that might change his mood, dragged him out the front doors, and took him to the nearest pub. He was drunk after the second pint, his brain and body too tired to offer any resistance to alcohol. Jane tried her best, supplying a comforting shoulder and a sympathetic ear as he poured out his story. She kept one hand on his thigh, the other playing with his hair. He finally turned to her, bleary-eyed, and she kissed him, a long, deep kiss that sent shivers down her back, but when she pulled back and looked at him, his eyes were so blue and sad, something in her heart twisted.

“What is it, love?” she whispered, “didn’t you like it?”

“Don’t do this, Jane. Please.” Michael’s voice was low, his shoulders slumped.

“Come on, my flat’s just around the corner. Don’t sit here and be all sad.