Sunday Pate

My new book, With A Bullet, is a story set in London in the 1970s. It's about four people in the world of popular music who are dealing with their individual issues, some having to do with acquiring fame and fortune and some with living with it.

The title comes from Billboard's Top 100 jargon. When a record goes "Number 40 with a bullet", for example, it means that it shot up out of nowhere and is predicted to go straight to the Top 10.

I actually wrote this book many years ago, but it was pretty godawful. The manuscript was one thing that I was glad went in The Great Dump of 2001. A few months ago the story started haunting me and I knew that I could rewrite it into something worth reading. The characters are so firmly etched upon my life that my brain actually missed them (see this entry, The House I Never Lived In, for an explanation). The book is no longer self-indulgently autobiographical; the characters have evolved their own identities quite apart from those they previously had. I've grown up, it seems, and I can create characters that have little to do with me. That's the gift that years of experience gives us writers.

Here's a little taste, from Chapter 4:

     The salmon pate was about the best thing Katy had eaten all day. In fact, it was all she’d eaten. She took a sip from her wine glass and looked at Shelly, who sat across the room talking about skiing in Colorado.
     Yet another party, this time in the Mayfair home of her lawyer, John Dunne, and his girlfriend Denise. It was an intimate get together though, which Katy appreciated. She was tired after a full week of promotional appearances on London’s television talk shows, and longed to go to bed.
     With help from the cozy warmth of the room and the soft conversation around her, Katy felt her eyes become heavy, and she stood to pay another visit to the buffet table, which was laid with a pleasant array of cocktail party fare. In the foyer the doorbell rang, but she paid no mind. The pate beckoned, and she slathered a fair amount onto a pita triangle and took a bite.
     Someone came into the room, making an entrance that caused Katy to turn and look. She knew the face, but for a fraction of a second she was at a loss at placing a name to it.
     “Of course,” she thought. “Jason Talmadge!”
     Jason had been a member of one of the most celebrated bands of the Sixties, and now he had a new band whose records were topping the charts every time one came out. He was tall, with coarse dark hair, expressive eyes, and boyish good looks that still made his fans quiver. It didn’t matter that he was married and had kids, every girl was sure that he would marry her, if only they she could somehow meet him.
     He put across an air of approachability although he was a very private person in reality, but then, Jason was the quintessential rock star, and knew how to butter his bread on all sides, while remaining untouched by the whirlwind around him. His was a charmed life, or so it seemed until recently. Word had started going around that his marriage was in trouble. The fans would of course welcome a divorce, but to Jason, it was catastrophic; he needed the solidarity of family life to balance his own legend.
     Not wanting to appear excited, Katy turned her attention back to the pate. Without warning, the hors d’ouevre was suddenly snatched from her hand and she turned to see Jason stuffing it into his mouth, a huge, playful smile on his face.
     “That’s just to let you know that I’m not giving you everything in this town,” he said, a piece of pate falling from his mouth and onto his tie. He roared with laughter, wiping it off with his finger and licking it.
     “Did you plan this?” she asked.
     “What? Meeting you? Yes.”
     “No, I mean your tie being the exact color as the salmon.”
     “Of course!” he said and paused to pour a glass of wine. “I suppose introductions would be completely redundant,” he said after a moment.
     “Maybe not,” she said blithely. “What’s your name again?” They both laughed.
     “Do you think you can get away with this then? I mean, knocking me out of first place on the Top Ten?” he asked.
     “Me knock you out? Right. Like that’s going to happen.”
     “Oh, you haven’t heard the news then.”
     “What news?” she asked cautiously.
     “You’re Number One, love. I just heard it on the way here.”
     Forgetting that they’d only just met, Katy placed both her palms against his chest as if seeking strength to remain standing.
     “You’re kidding…”
     “Nope!” He grabbed an olive and popped in into his attractive mouth. “I never joke about the charts.”
     “Wow! I mean, wow!” She bit her fist, then looked at him again, remembering who he was and realizing the importance of what he’d just told her. “Oh, Jason, I’m sorry. Here I am—and you’re—”
     “Don’t sweat it, kid. Welcome to the asylum.”