Page 31 of Undercover Star
"The poison wouldn't be active anymore. It's been six hundred years. The map, though... and like I said, Cesare's real fortune has never been found."
"And likeIsaid: Ludicrous."
"Art collectors can get a little obsessive. They have aneedto own the artefacts that fire their imagination. It gives them something. Like... a high?" Josh breathed out, frustrated, and tried again. "Have you never had anything that—?"
"No. I make music. That's fleeting. Each concert only lasts until the last song is done. Then the magic is gone and the adulation is something you only remember. Recordings don't do it, you know? They don't compare with standing up there on the stage, fried by the lights and deafened by the noise, the boards shaking under your feet and your heart racing. There's nothing quite like it. I live out there. I live when I'm away from everyone, too. Just me and the music. But I never needed any object to get that feeling. We seek the high in different ways, I suppose." He was trying so hard not to judge, he almost flinched when Josh laughed.
"I suppose that's true. Art collectors can be obsessive, and obsessively jealous. They don't want anyone else to see their prized possessions."
"Dragons."
"What?"
"They're dragons. They hoard. Like the Levingtons. I won't ever understand that. No musician I know ever makes music just for themselves. What we create is for sharing. With each other, or with the world at large. But you never just write for yourself."
"You don't know doubts?"
"Don't be stupid. Of course we do. But if music speaks to you, you put it out there. No other option."
They drove in silence after that, until Matisse turned on the player and plugged in something he'd been working on. "You don't mind, do you? I like to review projects while I'm driving. I sometimes go around the M25, just so I have space to listen."
"So that's the reason for the constant traffic jams, is it? Musicians reviewing their work while driving."
"Oh, shut up and let me work."
––––––––
THEY STOPPED FOR Alonger break at Lancaster, sharing what could have been an extremely late supper or a supremely early breakfast. Coffee featured heavily, and they both took large cups back to the car with them.
Few of the tired travellers in the service station paid them any heed, not even the coachload of young women, cheerfully heading off on holiday. Matisse had made sure he looked nothing like his glittering stage persona. His jeans fit but didn't cling, and there wasn't a single rip to show skin. A dark blue beanie hid most of his hair, just as the bulky, deep blue sweatshirt disguised his shape.
Josh had spent the previous ten days listening to any of Matisse's music he could get his hands on. He now knew that what made Matisse popular had little to do with his looks. He saw through Matisse's disguises and saw him looking every inch the star. The quality wasn't defined by what he wore, or even the graceful way he moved. Instead, it showed in the way he observed the people around him, watched their mannerisms and expressions, the big and small dramas, and filed the stories for use in the songs he wrote. He watched people and their interactions with the intensity of a predator staking out its territory. It was less apparent when they were just the two of them; it was as obvious as sunrise when Matisse came into contact with people.
By two o'clock they were in Scotland, and the rain arrived shortly after. Josh groaned at the sudden splatter of big droplets across the windscreen. Matisse's chuckle was soft by comparison, almost swallowed by the sound of the rain. "Welcoming me home, eh? Thank you most kindly."
"Don't tell me you're liking this."
"Nope. I lo-o-o-ove it," Matisse singsonged. "Don't look at me. I love rain. Watching it, smelling it, being out in it. Most of all, I love listening to it. And why not? This is Scotland. We have rain perfected."
"You're mad."
"Just because I like to get wet?"
After the hours spent in close proximity with Matisse, breathing his scent, hearing him talk, and watching those expressive hands on the steering wheel, Josh choked on his reply. Visions of Matisse pinned to smooth tiles crowded his mind. Of moisture-slick hair, and rivulets of warm water running down his finely muscled back and dividing just above the swell of his arse. He shifted to make room in his suddenly extra-tight jeans, and Matisse burst out laughing as if he'd read his mind. Josh's window wound down with a quiet whirr and drips of cold rain hit his left cheek and neck.
"Mind out of the gutter, Ingram."
"You started it."
"I started nothing. That was a totally innocent comment."
"I'm sure it was."
Matisse guided the car around Glasgow, over Erskine Bridge, and onto the A82 without looking at a map. The rain grew steadily heavier and the wind picked up as Matisse turned onto the Cardross Road towards Helensburgh. The last week in London had been warm and sunny, as befitted early May. Here, under a blanket of cloud, Josh felt almost winter-cold.
"Where in Helensburgh do we need to be?"
Josh rattled off the address. "It's off the main road through the town. He dumped the car in the car park by the swimming pool."
