FIC: A Dream That Could Not Last 1 of 12 (Ryan/Simon, Amanda/Carly, Kimberley/Anwar, PG)
Author: Clio
Title: A Dream That Could Not Last Chapter 1 of 12: The Lady Eve
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell, Amanda Overmyer/Carly Smithson, Kimberley Locke/Anwar Robinson
Chapter Rating: PG
Chapter Summary: The meet cute.
Chapter Length: 7500 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: A Dream That Could Not Last is an AU romantic comedy set in 1939 London, when everyone knew war was on the horizon but no one was sure when or how it would arrive-which made love of all kinds that much more important. Follow a year in the life of three groups of (mostly) Americans: pilots who joined the RAF, singers and dancers in a swing music revue, and reporters for BBC Radio. As usual there will be plenty of songs along the way to set the mood.
This was a big undertaking, and needed a team. If I was the writer/director, then locumtenens was my editor, lillijulianne, musicforcylons and evil_erato my producers, dana_kujan the actually helpful studio executive; and ali_wildgoose my executive producer who kept the train on the tracks in ways so numerous I cannot list them here.
Prologue
Chapter One: The Lady Eve
6 November 1939
Ryan Seacrest stood out on the deck in the early morning mist, staring out at the ocean, a breeze stirring his hair. He'd managed to scrounge up a cup of coffee and a roll with a bit of chicken from the kitchen. There weren't many who were awake-most of the passengers were sleeping off the effects of the night before-but this was Ryan's favorite part, watching the sunrise and waiting for the Irish coastline to come into view.
He'd always loved Atlantic crossings. When he was seventeen, his spinster aunt had taken him to Europe over his summer holidays, and he felt like Laurie in Little Women. It was just before the crash and everything was bright and dazzling, like a big party that he was finally old enough to attend. It started on the crossing from Charleston: dressing for dinner every night, palling around with the other young people on the ship, and the dancing! Crossings were full of possibilities.
This time, though, it was less what he was heading toward than what he was leaving behind. The first exciting flush of the so-called "New Deal" was over and the States had settled into a grim dreariness, as everyone just tried to hold onto whatever job they'd been lucky enough to land. Ryan's family hadn't been much affected by the crash, mostly because their money had been in sound banks or bonds and only a bit of "mad money" had ever been in the market. Seeing all the poor folks in Atlanta and Los Angeles was just depressing. Sure, there had been poor peasants in Spain during the war, but their situation was exciting and dynamic. In the States, the misery was just, well, miserable.
Not to mention that in spite of his war dispatches, which had been very well received, NBC still wanted him to do mostly movie-biz stories. When he returned to Los Angeles and reconnected with old friends, he was amazed to see how far they had buried their heads in the sand. The only ones who seemed to know a war was coming were the communists, who wanted him to recount his time in Spain and the glorious failure of the Republicans, until they learned that the Spaniards were perhaps not as doctrinaire as they might have been. But what was politics to a noble cause of the people?
Ryan retreated to a very unfashionable bungalow in Venice Beach to make the Spanish dispatches into a book. He made grocery money by standing on red carpets at movie premieres with a large radio microphone, ready to talk to Clark Gable or Jean Harlow. And he still made the dinner party circuit as an extra man, useful for testing how the events in the book would play. Stories of close battles or war orphans were aces; tales of the struggle of the government to keep itself together, the sort of thing he and David would stay up late talking about, were snores. The Grand Lost Cause came out in August and did quite well, though it was the height of irony that it was kept out of the number one slot on the best seller list by the newly translated Mein Kampf. Twentieth Century-Fox optioned the book for a sentimental love story, creating a character named Linda, a tough female correspondent who falls in love with the David character, which Ryan thought probably got to the truth of the book more than anyone might have expected. But that didn't mean he wanted to stick around in Hollywood to see the finished product or, heaven help him, write the script. He was no dramatist.
On the heels of the book, NBC's Blue Network asked him to go over to London with the British movie stars who were heading home to fight for their country, and stay to cover the goings-on from the same sort of personal perspective he'd brought to his book. They'd said they wanted his insight on what it's like to live in a country at war; Ryan didn't reply that Americans would probably be finding out for themselves soon enough. It was a fantastic opportunity, particularly as NBC's Red Network had been offering going home to Atlanta to cover the lead up to December's Gone with the Wind premiere. Ryan shuddered at the thought.
The ship landed a bit before noon, and the train got him to Waterloo Station around two, just enough time to get to his meeting at Broadcast House. Ryan's trunks were being sent through to his new flat, but he had his small case with him, the same case he'd lived out of for almost two years in Spain, and while it was worse for wear it had brought him luck. With the help of a stationmaster he figured out how to navigate the Tube, and was wandering through the halls of the BBC-the BBC!-when he heard voices.
"But why is he coming into our section, if he's a war correspondent?" asked the first voice, low-pitched and irritable.
"He's doing the war from the movie star angle. Film stars at war, or a city at war, or something." The second voice was higher pitched, but a bit friendlier.
"Film stars have nothing to do with war, except to raise money and entertain the boys," said the first man.
"What about the film stars who are joining up?"
"Soon they'll be anonymous soldiers. The story ends when they're no longer entertainers. Really, is this man covering war, or the lower arts?"
"Did you read that book I lent you?''
"What, the one about Spain? Yeah, why?"
"Did you like it?"
"Very much, and don't change the subject."
"I'm not," the second man said, and paused for effect. "He wrote it."
That sounded as good an entrance line as any. Ryan knocked on the open door, then popped his head around the corner. "Hello? Is one of you Nigel Lythgoe?"
A blond man, sitting in a chair facing away from the door, turned. "I am," he said.
Ryan walked in then, hand extended. "I'm Ryan Seacrest. Hope I'm not late."
Lythgoe stood. "Not at all," he said, shaking Ryan's hand. "We were just-ah, this is Simon Cowell. Simon, this is Ryan Seacrest, the Blue Network bloke I was telling you about."
The man behind the desk was dark-haired, handsome in a brutish sort of way, and as he stood Ryan realized he wasn't any taller than Ryan himself, though beefier, with a barrel chest and muscular arms. He was scowling a bit, though more at Lythgoe than at Ryan. "Hello," he said in that low rumble of a voice, and Ryan wondered how he could have been in radio for very long, since the older mikes weren't kind to low pitches. "Looks like you need a new case."
"Oh, this?" Ryan said. "Took me through Spain all right."
Cowell's deep-set brown eyes looked him up and down, and Ryan had the strange sense that he was checking him out. "Really? I wouldn't think that case would be big enough to fit all of your pomades and potions."
Ryan cocked his head, and stared right back. "I'd be happy to share, since you certainly could use some," Ryan replied. "And a better-fitting jacket-it's pulling a bit at the sides there."
Cowell drew on his cigarette, the hint of a smile on his face. "This is radio. I'm not dressing to be looked at."
"I can tell," Ryan said.
"You look like you're dressing for a film camera," Cowell said.
"I like to look nice," Ryan replied. "Thanks for appreciating it."
"You talk as though I was ogling you, which I was not."
"Keep telling yourself that." He turned to Lythgoe. "Which way is my office?"
Lythgoe stared at Ryan, then shook his head a bit. "Oh, right, it's next door," he said, leading the way.
Ryan's office was the same size as Cowell's-smallish, with a desk and two chairs, a tape machine in the corner, and another small table with a chair just behind the door. Ryan recognized Joel's things on the smaller table-a photo of his wife, a bakelite ashtray that said "Mt. Airy Lodge" across the bottom in letters made out of pine trees, his portable splicing kit in its little box-and realized suddenly how much he'd missed the fella. Joel McHale had been Ryan's engineer for some years now, was in Spain with him at the beginning, and had come to London ahead of Ryan to get things set up while Ryan finished up his book tour. Ryan left his case and trench coat, then Lythgoe took him on the tour of the studios, talking all the while about scheduling and procedures and such, the usual. Ryan spied Joel sitting in with one of the other engineers-a female, unusual but not unheard of-during a recording, getting a hang of the studio. As they walked up the back staircase, Lythgoe said, "Oh, don't mind old Simon. Bark's worse and all that."
"I hope you don't think I was out of line."
"No, not t'all. Don't think many've stood up to him like that straight away; s'good for him."
"He's always like that, then? It wasn't just 'test the new fellow'?"
"He rather runs over people, because he always thinks he's right."
"So he doesn't listen to reason?"
"No, that's the problem: he is always right. Ah, Giuliana, you've returned." They were back near Ryan's office now, at the desk that sat outside his and Simon's doors. "This is Ryan Seacrest. Ryan, this is Giuliana DePandi, the secretary you'll be sharing with Simon."
"Hello Mr. Seacrest," she said with the tiniest hint of an accent, shaking his hand. She was a bit taller than Ryan in her wedges, and had a gorgeous heart-shaped face with olive skin and big brown eyes, her long brown hair falling across her brow in a perfect wave. "I loved your book. I also hate the fascists, you see."
"I do," Ryan replied. "How long have you been in England?"
"My family left Napoli when I was a girl, when Mussolini…." She swallowed, then smiled widely. "My father is a socialist, so," she said with a shrug.
"So. And please, call me Ryan. We're all in this fight."
"What fight is that?" Cowell asked, walking out of his office.
Ryan turned to him. "The war? Or hadn't you heard about that? Declared about two months ago?"
Cowell shrugged as he sifted through a pile of phone messages. "Not your fight. I didn't hear Roosevelt coming into it."
"Plenty of Americans are coming over to fight alongside the Canadians," Ryan said. "It's one of the things I plan to cover."
"Ah, the American angle, can't forget that," Simon said.
"Mr. Cowell!" Giuliana scolded. "Don't listen to him."
"We know the truth," Ryan said, winking.
"Truth?" asked a lanky, brown-haired man with an American accent and a scruffy beard. The female engineer Ryan had seen earlier was with him, a pretty girl with creamy skin and thick, shiny black hair like a shampoo ad.
"McHale!" Ryan said, shaking his hand. "You're a sight."
Cowell looked up, said, "What is this, Mutt and Jeff?"
"Nah," Joel said. "Ryan's too short to be Jeff."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "I guess you've met everyone?"
"Yep," Joel replied. "This is-"
"Carly Hennessey," she said, extending a hand. "I'm Simon's engineer, primarily, but I also work on some news programs."
"I'm Ryan," he said, mentally noting her Irish accent. "Good to meet you. Always nice to see more women on the technical side."
Carly cocked her head. "A lot of women journos in America?"
"In newspapers, yes, actually. And more and more behind the scenes in radio and newsreels."
"Carly is an excellent engineer," Cowell said, "but I believe she's capable of a good deal more."
"Very complimentary," Ryan said.
"Mixed blessing," Carly replied. "Once you meet his expectations, he raises them."
"I just want you to work up to your potential," Simon said. "So do you. It's supposed to be motivating."
"Oh, don't worry, it is!" Carly said, laughing.
Ryan excused them and brought Joel into their office, where they started talking business-how the facilities compared to Los Angeles, how comfortable Joel felt manning a live broadcast from Broadcast House, how the shows would get to New York. After a bit, when Ryan saw that Cowell and Lythgoe had left the hallway, he motioned to Joel, who quietly closed the door and pulled his chair closer to Ryan.
"So?" Ryan asked. "How is it so far?"
"Lythgoe is fine. Pretty hands-off."
"That's what he said, that he's not our editor."
"Yeah. Giuliana is great, really efficient, very connected. I think she wants to be a reporter, but …"
"No one wants to hear a woman's voice on the radio, yeah. But maybe we can see what she can do with some off-air pieces, give her some experience to go into newspapers or magazines."
"Carly is fantastic, smart, knows what she's doing, doesn't take much too seriously."
"Sounds like an engineer I know," Ryan said.
"That's because we're both Irish. Now that guy Cowell?" Joel went on, pointing to the wall between the offices. "Really odd. Likes the sound of his own voice. But very well respected around here. Even feared a little. Spends a lot of time looking for new talent to put on a weekly show he does. Very influential on the sales charts."
Ryan nodded. "Do you think-when I met him, I felt like he was checking me out. Did you get that vibe from him?"
"I dunno if you can tell with these Limeys, brother," Joel said, "but I did ask one of the engineers, and he said that Simon was 'a known shirt-lifter at Cambridge.' Which is strange, because wouldn't you think the ones who liked girls would want to lift up their shirts?"
"Yeah, that is strange," Ryan said. "Well, no use getting obsessed with how weird he is."
"Ryan, you're already obsessed with how weird he is," Joel said. "I should be angry. I thought we were finally going to have that affair."
Ryan chuckled. "I don't think your wife would like that."
"Actually, she's all for it," Joel said. "It'll keep me away from the ladies, and she's pretty sure she can take you in a fight."
Ryan scowled. "How do you start out complimenting me and end up with an insult?"
"It's a talent," Joel said.
Someone knocked on the door. "Come in," Ryan called out.
"Since you're new in town," Cowell said, "you might want to come with me tonight. New revue starting, American girls, probably your sort of thing."
"Thanks. Love to. I have early dinner plans-"
"Oh, after that," Cowell said, waving vaguely. "Giuliana has the details. Say, nine o'clock? That should give you enough time to put your evening face on."
Joel raised his eyebrows, but Ryan ignored him. "Plenty of time. I hope you'll be dressing appropriately."
"For a man, yes," Cowell replied, and closed the door again.
Ryan leaned across the desk to Joel. "See what I mean?"
"Yeah, that's-I don't know what that was." Joel pushed his chair back. "Anyway, I'm going to the symphony tonight-"
"Well, lah-di-dah!"
"-to observe a live remote with their equipment. What's your early dinner?"
"Fish and chips with small David. Wanna come?"
"Definitely."
Back in the spring, David Hernandez had wired Ryan with the number of his Swiss bank account, which per his instructions Ryan used to pay the tuition at the international school for his nephew David Archuleta. As befitted a child of diplomats who'd lived in many countries, including the US for several years before troubles started in his home country, small David had quickly become very popular at school. He had spent the summer staying with various friends in houses all around Europe. Now that he was starting his final year at school, Ryan was eager to see how he'd grown.
He was surprised to see he hadn't-at least, not in stature. He still was noticeably shorter than Ryan and that was saying something; Joel looked twice his height. They met up at a chip shop, and Ryan listened happily as David rambled on about his new friends and the summer adventures he hadn't put in one of his many letters. Small David was still his own mother's son, with old-fashioned old world manners, and faithfully wrote Ryan a letter a week, since Ryan was one of the few people David knew who had a reliable address.
Over treacle tart, small David asked, softly, "Have you heard from my uncle?"
Ryan reached out, putting his hand on David's shoulder. "Not since June. He was still in France then, thinking about moving on to Italy."
David nodded. "I'm going to join up as soon as I'm eighteen," he said.
"Now you sound like your uncle," Ryan replied.
David looked up. "You can't stop me."
"I wouldn't even try," Ryan said. "Actually, I met up with an actor on the ship, a Brit coming back to join the Army. I'm interviewing him tomorrow, and he'd like to meet you. Will you come to the studio?"
"Will I!" David said. "I just don't know why he wants to meet me."
"You're a celebrity now," Ryan said. "I made you famous."
"He said modestly," Joel interjected.
David snickered. "No, I'm not!" he said, leaning out his elbow to bump Ryan's.
"Yes you are," Ryan said, bumping back. "I get a lot of letters from little old ladies asking to adopt you."
"I'm seventeen!" David protested.
"But you're so cute!" Ryan teased, and he and Joel pinched David's cheeks with fish-greasy fingers.
"Stop it!" he said, blushing. "You're worse than my abuela!"
"On that note," Joel said, "I have a date with Toscanini."
"Ha-ha," David said.
"Don't acknowledge the puns," Ryan warned. "It encourages him."
"And you," Joel continued, "have a date with Simon Cowell."
"Simon Cowell from the radio?" David asked. "I love his show."
"Yeah," Ryan said, "he has the office next to us."
"Wait a minute." David's eyes widened. He leaned closer to Ryan and pointed to Joel. "He knows?"
"Joel is a deeply strange man," Ryan said, "who thinks show business people are all homosexuals …"
"Artists, too," Joel said. "And the French, of course."
"… and doesn't seem to care."
"I know I'm a man. It doesn't matter that you're not."
Ryan scowled. "Thanks, Joel."
"No problem."
"Anyway," Ryan went on, "I don't have a date with Simon Cowell, because he's obnoxious."
Joel shook a finger. "You think he's the bee's knees."
"No one says that anymore."
"You're obsessed with him."
"I thought you were on my side!"
"Always. You could have me killed. But face facts. It's like one of those romantic comedies you like so much."
"You like romantic comedies?" David asked.
"I told you, Ryan's a girl," Joel said. "When you meet, you hate each other, but at the end you get married."
"Good-bye, Joel," Ryan said.
"All right," Joel said, rising. "Don't listen to me. But you know I'm right."
As Joel walked away, David said, somberly, "If you like this fella-I'm sure Uncle David wants you to be happy."
"Oh, not you too," Ryan said, tossing a napkin at David's head.
Simon Cowell walked up the steps from the Tube station two at a time, still annoyed. He'd been annoyed all day-first, with cheap-as-chips BBC and NBC for sticking this American hybrid (war? entertainment? not the same, no matter what filmmakers think) next door to him; second, with Nigel for lending him the book without telling him the significance of its author; third, with Seacrest himself for being a quick and intelligent pretty boy (who could possibly be like that?); and finally, himself, for reacting as he had, when it was just a bit of flirting. Simon flirted all the time, and while he liked to be pleasantly surprised-it was one of his favorite things-this being knocked sideways business was for the birds. Surely he was not old enough to be an old fool for a spastic, egotistical young pup like Seacrest. Could his tie be wider, his single-breasted jacket more fashionably cut? And he had so many petroleum products in that wavy light brown hair of his that he was a walking fire hazard. Simon had been telling himself all afternoon that he'd invited Seacrest out this evening to establish his own superior position-this afternoon had been a fluke, surely, and he would easily regain the upper hand.
Simon had rung ahead and left Seacrest's name at the door along with his own. The patrons for the earlier show were walking out, so Simon sat at the bar and ordered his usual manhattan. From here he could see the club to full advantage. It had previously held a long-running show that toward the end had fallen quite out of fashion, attracting more visitors from the country than from town. A new show, especially one that featured that particular sort of American music that one could hear in Paris, was like a breath of fresh air. The club had been entirely redecorated in silver and cream, like a film set, very elegant. Those leaving seemed well satisfied, but then, so many opening night tickets were comped and the critics, like Simon, preferred the second show.
"Hey brother," said a voice, accompanied by a slap to the shoulder. Simon turned, and there was Seacrest, dapper in a black suit, grinning. His hair, which had been left to blondish waves this afternoon, was slicked back, even more carefully shellacked into place. "What's your poison?"
"What?"
"What are you having to drink?" Seacrest asked slowly, as though Simon was four. The bartender, a quite large colored man in a white dinner jacket with black bowtie, ambled over at Seacrest's signal. "I'll have a whiskey, one ice cube," he said.
"Would you like a bourbon, sir?" the bartender asked, in a southern American accent.
"You know, I would! Say, where are you from?"
The bartender poured out a glass and replied, "Alabama, sir, born and raised."
"Well!" Seacrest said. "I grew up in Atlanta."
"I could hear that in your voice, sir," the bartender replied.
"Call me Ryan," he said, extending a hand. "What is your name?"
"Ruben, Mr. Ryan, sir," Ruben said, shaking Seacrest's hand.
"Not Mr. Ryan," Seacrest said, and Simon was surprised to hear the sudden steel in Seacrest's voice. "We're not in Atlanta."
Ruben and Seacrest stared each other down, until Ruben said, softly, "No, Ryan, we're not."
Seacrest nodded. "And this is Simon Cowell."
Simon shook Ruben's hand. As the bartender walked away, a girl came up to lead them to a small table at the edge of the dance floor. "What was all that about?" Simon asked as they sat down.
"Let's just say that there's a reason my sister and I were sent away to school in the north," Seacrest said, "and don't live in Atlanta as adults. I'm surprised my father hasn't been run out of town on a rail by now."
"For what?"
"Oh, for giving legal advice to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, among other things." Seacrest took another drink, then said, "They said we had a little too much affection for colored folks. Only, they weren't that polite about it, if you know what I mean."
Simon couldn't think of a response to that-he didn't, actually, know what Seacrest meant-but he was saved by a very small woman approaching the table, wearing a white feather-trimmed coat that seemed to float around her body. "Now which of you is Mr. Cowell?" she asked.
"Miss Abdul, I presume," Simon said, rising to shake her hand. "I'm Simon Cowell."
"Thank you so much for coming," she said, smiling broadly. "And who is your-my stars, is that little Ryan Seacrest?"
"I wondered if you'd recognize me," Seacrest said.
Simon scowled. "You two know each other?" he asked.
"Miss Abdul gave me my very first interview, when I was a young radio reporter, just arrived in Los Angeles," Seacrest explained. "And then she left for New York, and my producer always said it was because of me!"
Miss Abdul laughed. "No, no, there's just more opportunity for a Jewish dancer in New York than in LA," she said. "But you've done well for yourself since then."
Seacrest just shrugged, which made Simon want to smack him in the head. Smug bastard.
Miss Abdul turned back to Simon. "We're so pleased you're here, Mr. Cowell, I can't tell you," she said. "I hope you enjoy the show. We've been told you have very high standards."
That was more like it. "I'm always ready to find something enjoyable," Simon said.
"Our show is more than enjoyable! If you need anything, anything at all, just ask," she said. Then she floated off to another table in a swirl of feathers.
As they sat down, Simon said, "So do you know everyone in London then?"
"I didn't think I knew anyone," Seacrest said. "Well, except a few reporters who were on the continent when I was there."
"Just one of those sorts that makes friends wherever he goes?"
"Of course. Gotta go along to get along, you know?"
"No," Simon replied. "I don't know."
Seacrest cocked his head, but then the lights changed for the show. Simon pulled his little notebook and pen out of the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and sat back, prepared to be unimpressed.
The band sat in the back of the floor slightly offset from the middle, the usual set up for jazz music that didn't use strings. Most of the musicians were colored, including the bandleader, a heavy set man who, unusually, neither played the piano nor conducted, but stood in front of the band playing an upright bass. The combo was smallish-drums, bass, piano, two reeds, trumpet and trombone-but it put out a full, strong sound. The music started up and two rows of tap dancing girls came out from either side of the band, their backs to the audience. They had on long coats, not unlike the one Miss Abdul had been wearing, only without the feathers, so their legs were hidden-and really, Simon thought, what was the point of chorus girls if one couldn't see their legs? One row sported platinum wigs, the other brunette, of the same curly style, and it was just like the movies as the two lines wove together to make one row of about twenty girls. Simon sighed; he'd really been hoping this revue would be less derivative of Hollywood than the rest.
Then the girls turned, all at once, and Simon was shocked. For the girls in platinum wigs were all colored girls; the ones in brunette wigs, white girls, and they were dancing together, their arms around each other's waists. As they turned, they threw off their coats, revealing short dresses in the usual chorus girl style, all silver and black, nipped in at the waist with double-breasted rows of buttons. I can't give you anything but love, ba-by they sang, moving about the stage in remarkable unison, yet in a style Simon had never seen before. It wasn't like the movies, or Broadway, or even the shows he'd seen at the Cotton Club during trips to New York, but a blend of all three. The girls would stop and make little tableaus before breaking apart again, using the whole breadth and depth of the stage; a real spectacle without being gimmicky. Then, from behind them, came three girls, two colored and one white, who were singing in harmony, like those American sisters: it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing and it wasn't just the singers swinging, but the dancers, even the band standing up and moving with their instruments, until the whole room seemed to be pulsing with a hot jazz beat. The music continued through fifty minutes of quick changes, including a down tempo solo from one of the singers and another big number at the end. The crowd jumped to their feet, cheering, and Simon had to join them.
When they sat down again, Seacrest signaled for the waiter, motioning for another round, then said, "So, you liked it?"
"Loved it," Simon replied, making a few more notes in his book. "You sound surprised."
"Well, I listened to your show this afternoon-"
"I was doing those people a favor," Simon said. "They should go back to Birmingham and become accountants. It was like being at one of those dreadful concerts of the bands they form at coal mines."
"-and Giuliana got me some of your older shows from the library. You're pretty harsh."
"I have high standards," Simon replied, putting his notebook and pen away and pulling out his cigarette case. He opened it, then offered one to Seacrest.
"Thanks," he said. "All the better then, I guess, when you do like something."
"Precisely," Simon said. "Are you saying you have standards, too? Because I wouldn't know it to look at you." He lit up, and then offered the lighter to Seacrest.
"Oh?" he replied. "You certainly spent a lot of time during that show looking at me." He held on to Simon's hand, to keep the flame steady as he lit up, but looked straight at Simon, gray-green eyes squinting in the smoke, and Simon forgot to breathe for a second.
He cleared his throat. "Someone's got a big ego. I was watching the performers."
"Sure," Seacrest said. "So you're going to give them a rave?"
"Of course," Simon said. "But I'll do better than that."
"I didn't know there was anything better than a rave from Simon Cowell."
"I'm going to ask them to perform on the show," Simon said.
Ryan raised his eyebrows. "From here or in the studio?" he asked as the drinks came.
"Dunno. Depends on what they'd like to do. Cheers," Simon said, and they clinked glasses.
The band was still playing and the floor was starting to fill with fox trotting couples. Simon sat back in his chair, watching Seacrest watch the floor. Seacrest's handsomeness lost something in profile, Simon was meanly happy to note. His eyes were a bit small, so their color didn't come across; his nose was surprisingly snub from the side, and his hint of a double chin more noticeable, though the jaw itself, very strong. But his ears-they were oddly sculptural, folding out and in and out again, not sticking out really, but more three-dimensional than most, and Simon had to keep himself from reaching a finger up to trace them.
"You're doing it again," Seacrest said, turning to smile at him.
"Not again," Simon replied. "But if I'm going to be accused of something, I may as well do it."
"And?"
"You're no Barrymore," Simon said.
Seacrest scrunched his nose. "I know-it's not a good profile. And you're sitting to my right, on my bad side, which proves that I'm not the one with the ego."
"You are, because you even know which is your bad side."
"That's called living in Hollywood, where you can tell how the movie stars feel about you by whether you are seated on their good or bad side at dinner parties."
"And what does it mean, to be seated on someone's bad side?" Simon asked.
Ryan grinned. "Well, it depends. If you know them well, it means they're comfortable with you, and don't feel the need to impress you. Or, if you don't know them well, and they don't feel the need to impress you, it means that you aren't significant. But when that's true, you're usually not next to them, but a bit down the table. Or, they might be making a show of it, that they are unconcerned with their looks and want you to listen to what they have to say, which is usually the final step in their flirtation with you, whether professional or personal."
"That's somewhat overly complicated." Seacrest shrugged, so Simon added, "What does our placement at this table signify?"
"As you've pointed out, I'm not a movie star."
"But if you were?"
"Well, if I were, I would be sitting over to the corner, so that everyone in the room would be on my good side, and so I could look like I didn't want to be bothered, but actually be visible and accessible."
"Good lord, that's ridiculous."
Seacrest grinned. "Isn't it? Entirely ridiculous, that's why it's great."
"Too much effort if you ask me."
"You would think that."
"One either is good looking or isn't. No sense in gilding the lily."
"So you're a lily?"
"If you think so."
Seacrest stared at him, puffing on his cigarette, and then said, "Maybe."
Simon just stared; he honestly did not know what to say, and he could feel himself getting a bit hot and prayed he wasn't blushing.
"Mr. Cowell? What did you think?"
Simon looked up and saw Miss Abdul, who had now changed into some kind of silvery shiny dress, as though she were a mermaid or one of those salt shakers shaped like a skyscraper. Like the long coat from before, the column effect made her look longer than she was. A man came up behind her and placed a chair at their table, and she sunk into it gracefully, and put her hand on Simon's.
"I saw you standing, Mr. Cowell. You can't fool me!"
"I wouldn't even try to," Simon said. "I thought it was fantastic!"
"Really? Oh, this is wonderful! Thank you! Tell me, what will you say on your show? Nice things?"
"Actually, I'd like to have your singers on my show sometime next week, if that's possible."
"Possible! Of course it's possible!" She took Seacrest's hand, too, and leaned in, inviting them to lean closer to her as well. "Would you like to come backstage and meet them?"
"Thank you, I would love that."
"Excellent!" They rose, and moved through the throng of dancers. As they passed the bandstand, she signaled to the bandleader, who put his bass on its stand and came down to meet them.
"Randy Jackson," he said, shaking Simon's hand. "Real pleased you came to see the show, Mr. Cowell. Looked like you enjoyed it from where I stood."
"Loved it," Simon said. "Oh, this is my colleague, Ryan Seacrest."
"Seacrest, you work for NBC, right? Spanish book? Why're you in London?"
"The war," Seacrest replied.
"Yeah," Jackson said, shaking his head. "Can't decide if that makes it a good time or a bad time to open a show, but hey, nothing's happened yet."
"Randy handles all of the music," Miss Abdul said, "and I'm the choreographer."
"Very inventive, both of you," Simon said. "Choice of songs, the flow of the show, all of it. But, may I say a few things? As someone who loved the show?"
"Um, of course, we'd love to hear what you think," Miss Abdul said.
"Lovely. I think, before the slow number with that tall very curvy colored singer-"
"Jennifer Hudson," Miss Abdul said.
"Miss Hudson, yes. I think you need a mid-tempo number before that, as the change was a tad jarring."
"Oh," Jackson said. "We could do that."
"And when the other singer, the fast number?"
"Katharine McPhee," Miss Abdul said.
"The other girls were dancing so close to her, it was hard to see her at some points. Bit confusing."
"Well, we don't want that," Miss Abdul said. She paused, and then asked, "Is that all?"
"Yes, Miss Abdul," Simon said. "That was all."
"Oh! Well, let me take you back and meet the girls. And please, call me Paula."
"And I'm Randy," Jackson said. "Can't get used to this British formality, man."
As Randy and Paula led them further backstage, Seacrest leaned over and whispered, "That was very constructive."
Simon turned to him. "I'm always constructive."
Seacrest cocked his head. "Cowell. I've listened to your show."
"Sometimes the most constructive thing one can say is, quit show business. But when an act is very good, then they can hear the more advanced critique that only I am willing to give to them. We none of us are perfect, Seacrest, including you and me."
"Ain't that the truth," he replied.
It had been about twenty minutes since the end of the show, so the dancers had calmed down somewhat. Most of the girls were out of costume and wigs but not makeup, sitting around in robes and mules, hairnets still on, smoking and laughing.
"Girls," Paula announced, "this is Simon Cowell, the radio critic, and he wanted to come backstage and let you know what he thought!"
All the talking stopped, and the girls turned and stared at him. Clearly, they had the appropriate level of respect for him. He paused, and then said, "I loved it!" The girls burst into cheers, as well they should, and the soloist Miss McPhee rose from her chair and walked toward him.
"Mr. Cowell," she said. "I can't tell you how wonderful it is that you liked my work." She took him by the arm. "Here, let me introduce you to the other girls." As she pulled him away, he thought he could see Seacrest, leaning against the wall, shaking his head. But he didn't care about that.
After a while of this-Miss McPhee was eager to make a good impression, Miss Hudson was alarmingly direct, and the third soloist, Miss Locke, was a confident one who seemed to take his comments with a grain of salt-Simon had had enough, and looked around for Seacrest. Last he'd seen him, he'd been talking to some of the dancers (right, like he really wanted to make time with any of those girls) but he was nowhere to be found now. Well, it wasn't as though they were on a date.
Simon excused himself and wandered back out to the front. The band was taking a break, and Seacrest was at the bar, talking to Randy, Ruben and the musicians. He turned, and, seeing Simon, beckoned him over.
"Hey man," Randy said, "we were told you'd know a good after hours club. We haven't found anyplace so far that really jumps, you know what I mean, man?"
Seacrest shrugged. "It's your town, Cowell."
"Well, this isn't Harlem, but I do know of one place," Simon said.
"Solid!" Randy said. "We have one more set to do, if you can wait for us."
"Of course," Simon said.
"All right, fellas," Randy said, and the boys put down their glasses and wandered back to the bandstand.
Simon hopped up onto the stool next to Seacrest, and accepted his offer of a cigarette and a light. "Why aren't you out there dancing with some pretty girl?" he asked.
"Why aren't you?" Seacrest asked back.
Simon glanced around the room. "I'm not inclined, and you didn't answer my question."
"Look, Cowell," Seacrest said, low, so Simon had to lean in to hear. "I know about you. And you've probably guessed about me. So let's just drop the pretense, all right?"
Simon pulled back, and found Seacrest meeting his look, and he realized that was the thing about this man: he looked entirely ridiculous, he truly cared about superficialities, he was clearly an insane romantic, and yet at the core was something stubborn and unmovable. This was a heretofore-unknown combination. "All right," Simon replied.
"Next time maybe you can take me someplace where you would be inclined to dance. That is, if you do dance."
"I have a very good fox trot," Simon said, grinning.
"I look forward to seeing it," Seacrest said.
They sat mostly in silence after that, listening to the band and watching the dancers, and then Simon said, "So you'd rather talk to the band than the dancers?"
Seacrest chuckled. "That was your show," he said.
"Ah, you like to be the center of attention?"
"Only sometimes. My job is to make interesting people feel comfortable enough to talk to me, not be the interesting person. At least, most of the time."
"Most of the time?"
"Well, extra man at dinner parties, you must know how that goes."
"Er, yes," Simon replied. "I do. But come now, Seacrest, I've seen your ego already, and I've only known you a day."
"You're projecting," Ryan said. "You're the one whose radio show is really all about you."
"And you're the one who wrote a book that was supposedly about a civil war but was actually about you falling in love."
That brought him up short. "Um, I thought you liked the book."
"I did, but it wasn't about a war. It was about ideas, or speeches, or the fortitude of the peasants or something. But it wasn't about war."
"And you know because?"
"I fought in the Great War, yes, and while I wasn't on the front lines, I was certainly close enough to know that having bombs flying over one's head is anything but exhilarating. Or at least, it doesn't make one want to snog, and you and that bloke David were on the verge of kissing in every chapter."
"Actually, as it happened, we were kissing. I mean, at the time."
"Oh," Simon said, surprised. "It reads more like hero worship in the book. Definitely one-sided."
"Well, I couldn't write about that part," Seacrest said. His ears had taken on a decidedly red color.
"And are you still-"
Seacrest shook his head. "I don't even know for sure where he is. Somewhere in France, I think. But his nephew is here in London, at school."
"Oh, small David, yes. He was a bit, er, precocious."
Seacrest laughed at that. "He is, but most people adore him. He's the one readers ask me about, not his uncle."
"I'm not like other people," Simon said.
"You can say that again," Seacrest replied. "Oh, they've finished."
Later, Simon didn't remember much about the after hours club, except that Randy and his mates approved. The girl singers came along, and a few of the dancers, and there was more music made, a great deal of improvisation, and much more whiskey drunk. Seacrest was next to him all night, sitting quite close in the crush of the small club, and his thigh was warm against Simon's, and it was all fuzzy and nice. They finally called it a night around two, leaving the musicians to their own devices.
Autumn had arrived and the air was damp and cool, which sobered Simon up a bit. They sunk down into the back of the cab, and Seacrest sat so their knees brushed against each other. "Seacrest," Simon said.
"Mmm?"
"You've been sitting on top of me all night."
"Have I? M'sorry," he said, but didn't move.
Simon turned, and Seacrest was looking back at him. He noticed how Seacrest often sat with his lips just slightly apart, and those lips weren't full like a woman's, but so lovely and curvy, and the stubble around them made them stand out, soft, and then they were … moving?
"I bet you want to kiss me now," Seacrest whispered.
"What?" Simon said.
"S'ok," he answered. "I want to kiss you too." He smiled. "But we're in a cab." He frowned.
"Quite," Simon said, not able to think of something else to say.
The cab slowed. "'Ere's yer first stop," the cabbie said.
"Thanks for taking me home," Seacrest said, sitting up. "I'll collect that kiss tomorrow." He climbed out of the cab, shutting the door behind him, and leaned in the window. "Oh, and since we almost, you know," he said, glancing at the cabbie and then back at Simon, "you should call me Ryan."
Simon blinked. "Good night, Ryan."
"Good night, Simon," he said, stepping back to let the cab drive away.
As they went down the street, Simon realized what Ryan had just said-collect that kiss tomorrow? Surely he wasn't serious.
Though, as he stumbled into bed, Simon couldn't help but hope that he was.
Chapter Two: Adam's Rib
Notes:
The Lady Eve (dir. Preston Sturges, 1941) is a romantic comedy starring Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda. I'll say much more about the larger significance of these titles in the end-of-story commentary.
WWII started 1 September 1939 when Hitler invaded Poland. Britain and France have declared war on Germany, but nothing has happened yet. This "Phoney War" is still going on when this story begins. I'm not going to even try to explain the big swathes of history that set up this story, because it would be longer than the story itself! Instead, these notes will explain smaller references throughout the story.
The only ones who seemed to know a war was coming were the communists, who wanted him to recount his time in Spain and the glorious failure of the Republicans
The Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) was a conflict between the Fascists, lead by Franco, and the Republicans, who became an international communist cause. Many idealistic leftists flocked to Spain to join the Republican cause, but the Fascists had help, and they won.
NBC's Blue Network … NBC's Red Network
Until the 60s, NBC had two networks, but later the government forced them to break up, and the Red Network became ABC.
"Hello," he said in that low rumble of a voice, and Ryan wondered how he could have been in radio for very long, since the older mikes weren't kind to low pitches.
Simon wouldn't have sounded all that great on the radio in the 20s. Music of the 20s tended to be about higher voices because the first microphones, for radio and for recording, had a difficult time picking up softer or lower tones. By the 30s, however, technology had improved, and the "crooning" style started by Bing Crosby, where a lower voice sings intimately into the mike, became all the rage.
"They said we had a little too much affection for colored folks. Only, they weren't that polite about it, if you know what I mean."
Ryan is referring to this term.