“What’s old is new again at this year’s Grammys. On the list of nominees—the Beatles and Eric Clapton. The Rolling Stones are also up for an award. But littered among these familiar names are new ones, and the combination will no doubt make tonight a night to remember.”
“When’s our first live shot?” Isabel asked Tom. “Do I have time to run to the bathroom?”
“Affirmative,” he said, looking at his watch. “T-minus ten minutes and counting.”
“Okay. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, soldier. I’ll be right back.”
“Ten-four.”
Isabel went in search of the rest rooms, swimming upstream against the crush of music fans and studio executives hurrying to take their seats before the show began.
“Excuse me. Excuse me,” she said, trying to stay polite.
A guard pointed a few feet ahead and Isabel rushed into a stall, conscious of the time.
After washing and drying her hands she headed out of the bathroom while adjusting her dress and walked directly into the back of a man blocking the bathroom exit.
“Oh! Sorry, but can I get through?” she said as the air returned to her lungs. Her mouth dropped open when he turned around.
“Well, hello there!” Alex was theatrically cheerful. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Alex!” Isabel looked beyond him toward the camera stand and Tom, but she couldn’t see over the bobbing sea of heads. “What’re you doing here?”
He followed her glance and turned back to her, his mouth twisted up into a Grinch grin. “I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “You’re in a hurry. We can walk back if you want.”
“No,” Isabel said a little too quickly, wanting to avoid a scene between Tom and Alex. “How’d you end up here?”
“I have friends, musician friends, who got me a ticket. I thought you might be here.” The grin grew.
“What’re you…following me?” But Isabel didn’t need to ask. She knew he was.
“Naw,” Alex replied.
“I have to go now, Alex. Just leave me alone, okay?”
He didn’t move or break his stare.
“Did you hear me?” She was almost pleading. “Will you stop following me? You’re freaking me out, Alex.”
Without saying a word, he stepped aside and ushered her past with a mock chivalrous sweep of his capeless arm.
“There you are!” Tom looked relieved. “They want you early. Get plugged in and talk to the producer.”
Isabel passed the clip-on mike up under her dress to her collar and fastened it. She put her earpiece in and turned up the volume. “Hello? Check, check, check. This is Isabel Murphy. Mike check one, two, three.”
“Hi, Isabel?” the nervous producer came into her ear. “It’s Paula. Can we come to you in about two minutes? I know it’s way early but we’re crashing here and we need to fill.”
“That’s fine,” Isabel said. “Two minutes it is.”
“You’re a gem. Thanks so much.”
Jesus, what am I going to talk about?
She looked back over her shoulder, scanning the crowd for Alex. Her heart was pounding like a drum against her rib cage. She felt its pulse vibrate in her ears. She knew he was nearby. The prickly feeling on the back of her neck hadn’t gone away yet.
Where is he?
Down below the skybox where the reporters were stationed, Isabel saw the legendary rocker on a huge screen set up above the stage, accepting his Grammy.
“One minute, Isabel,” the voice in her ear announced.
She quickly leafed through the Grammy program but the words were blurring.
“Thirty seconds.”
Calm down. Calm down.
Isabel turned to search the crowd once more for Alex and froze. He was leaning up against the wall, only a few feet away from her. Her eye static mushroomed and she squinted through her anxiety to find the iris on the camera. Her temples were throbbing.
Focus.
She listened to the excited anchor in her ear. “Now we go live to Isabel Murphy at New York’s Madison Square Garden. Isabel? We hear there are some surprises tonight!”
Surprises?
“Ah, yes…” She looked frantically past the camera to Tom, who had come out from behind the viewfinder to search her face with a worried look.
He’s mouthing something. What’s he mouthing?
“Sorry, Tom,” she managed. Wrong name. Wrong name! “As you can imagine, it’s hard to hear with all this wonderful music in the background. It’s pretty loud here.”
Tom ducked back behind the camera.
I can do this.
“That’s okay, Isabel.” The anchor sounded every bit as nervous as Tom looked. “Tell us, what’s surprised you so far tonight?”
Alex.
No. Don’t think about that. Focus. Grammys.
“Keith Richards.” She pushed the name out of her mouth. Tom peered around his camera again.
Dammit, doesn’t he know I’m trying to concentrate here? What is he mouthing?
“He was slated to perform,” she continued as if in a dream, “but for some reason he was a no-show and had to accept his Grammy via satellite….”
Tom left his camera on his tripod and moved toward Isabel.
It’s awfully hot in here.
“I think that surprised me the most. Everyone here was talking about how this was to be his first live solo performance ever.”
Why is Tom yelling at me?
Maybe I should wrap it up.
The voice in her ear was saying something but she couldn’t make out the words above the din of white noise in her brain.
“That’s all for now,” she squeaked, feeling the sweat trickling down her chest. “Back to you, Tom.”
The last thing Isabel remembered before she collapsed was the light on the camera switching off.