Page 28 of Closer

“Because I’m in a rock band. I live on the road.”

“What road?”

I shake my head. Growing more and more frustrated with every word that leaves Margaux’s lips. “I live on a bus, a tour bus.” I mimic strumming my guitar. “I play an instrument.”

“Now monsieur lives here, plays instrument here, oui?”

“No, not oui. Definitely not oui.” I sigh. “You know what ... can you just ... can you bring me a phone?” I make the symbol for call me and plead with my eyes.

“Oui,téléphone.” She hurries away, and I have no idea if she’s going to get me a phone or not. I glare at the dog on the end of my bed. He barks.Punk. The dog whines and crawls closer on his belly, paws outstretched, tail wagging.

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know how the fuck I got here, but I’m out of this shithole the second I find my pants, and no, you cannot come with me. Absolutely fucking not.”

I climb from the bed and stretch my arms above my head. I ache all over and I’m covered in bruises, and completely fucking naked. It’s as if I woke up insideDude, Where’s My Car. Only when I think about what I’m missing, it’s a lot more than a fucking car.

Ali in her wedding dress begging me not to leave, not to drive drunk. I ruined her wedding, essentially called her a slut in front of seventy of their closest friends and family, and I broke their cellist’s instrument. Ali’s gonna fucking kill me when I see her, but then I realise I won’t see her. Not for several months, maybe more. She’s off on her honeymoon with Coop, and then she’ll return to Australia, to her job managing the record store, and fuck knows when I’ll see her.

When they throw a housewarming party? A baby shower?

Jesus. My blood turns cold and my stomach knots up. I don’t want to think about that shit, but this is my reality now. This is what I get for wanting to be selfless, for wanting Ali to be happy with him ...without me. I roam around the room. My clothes are folded over a nearby chair. I pick up the suit pants and dress shirt. I’m pretty sure it was stained with blood, which reminds me. I walk over to the mirror and inspect my face.Still pretty at least. Though there’s a large gash over my brow and a little swelling, a couple of grazes. The wound looks like it’s been sutured, and not hurriedly either, the sutures are neat and clean. Either Margaux called a doctor who makes house calls or she used to be a nurse before she became a maid to a dead man and an unwilling rock star.

Why the fuck didn’t she call the cops? I should be rotting in some cell right now in a French prison answering to a very large hairy man called Boris. I mean, I crashed my fucking car into her gate and walked inside like I owned the place, and passed out. Any sane woman would have called the cops, which begs the question—who the fuck did this woman work for?

The responding gasp alerts me to her presence. “Mon Dieu!”

Oh shit. I forgot I’m buck naked. “Shit, sorry.” I cover my junk—never any easy feat when your cock is the size of a footlong—and side scuttle to my folded-up clothes on the armchair. Margaux turns and gives me her back, but she waits patiently as I pull on my clothes. Only once my legs are in the pants, I realise these are not my clothes at all. The tags are still on them, so is the hefty price tag of several thousand dollars and a nice black little Armani label. “Margaux, where did you get these?”

“I purchased with monsieur’s card.”

Oh fuck.

“Huh, and where exactly did you get my card?”

“From monsieur’s wallet.” She smiles as if I’m simple. “I also paid for medical supplies, more clothing, toiletries and monsieur’s dog’s vet check.”

I take a long slow breath in through my nose and release it slowly, but all that comes out is, “That’s not my dog.”

“It is now,” she counters, and I guess that’s that. Grown impatient—it seems—with my unhurriedness, Margaux enters the room and lifts the shirt from the armchair. She shakes it out and holds it open for me to slip my arms through the holes. Then she moves around to my front and buttons me up, yanks the tie off the chair, and whips it around my neck so fast I get whiplash.

I shake my head. “No tie.”

“Si,” she gives me a no-nonsense face, “la cravate.”

“No, I don’t do ties. I hate the fucking tie.”

“Hate the tie after your meeting. For now monsieur wears the tie.”

“Margaux. I’m not attending a meeting. I can’t buy this house. I need to get back to my life.”

“Your house on the road?”

“Yes.” I nod. Only, I don’t have to get back to that house because we’re not on the road right now. We’re having another month off, so Coop can fuck his new bride, and then we head into the studio to write for the next album.

What if I didn’t go back to Australia just yet? I mean, I can’t very well buy this house. I don’t even know what the hell it’s worth. Taint has done extremely well, and the dong deal just saw me making more than any of my bandmates, but I’m pretty sure not even I can afford a house in the French ... “Where are we? Like on a map, where is this place exactly?”

She shakes her head as if she doesn’t understand.

“Where in France?”

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