Page 46 of Undercover Star
He did nothing in the end.
Didn't call.
Didn't text.
And he wished with all his might that he could stop thinking about the star. Or be reminded of Matisse by absolutely fucking everything from coffee to cars to the cooking smells wafting from the nearest Thai restaurant. It was all most annoying.
"I think I need to leave London for a while," he told Montgomery during their regular Friday-afternoon meeting. "Isn't there a case on some other force you can lend me to?"
"You know it doesn't work that way."
Josh hadn't expected any other reply. "I know. I was just—"
"Being a right idiot." Montgomery sounded amused. "The first concert's today. Right? I know you have tickets. You should go."
Should. Shouldn't. Should. Josh had argued with himself for the last six days and so many hours. He still wasn't any closer to a decision. Seeing Matisse again, knowing what he'd walked away from, would hurt so damned much, he wasn't sure he could bear it. But not seeing Matisse again.... Josh sighed. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't focus. He couldn't even believe that, for a few short weeks, he'd thought he was happy.
"Youwerehappy, Josh. Everyone could see it."
And now he was talking to himself. Out loud. Where others could hear it. His colleagues already thought he was a grumpy old bastard. If they could see him now, they'd probably call the men in white coats.
"Will you take some advice from an old man?"
Josh barked a laugh. There was nothing cheerful in the sound, but it was better than feeling as he had all week. "I'd be ready to be committed if I said yes to that," he scoffed.
"Okay, so maybe I laid it on a bit thick. But, Josh, I meant it. Will you take some advice?"
"I've no reason not to listen."
"Go to the concert. Watch him work. You've been around him for weeks now, but you still don't understand what it means tobewith Matisse. The only way to find out is to go and see him in his element. See him for what he really is. Your argument, if one could even call it that, is one of respect." Montgomery poured tea and handed Josh a cup. "It's easier for him. People have a certain image of the police. Fit that image and most people will offer you a certain level of respect."
"People also have a certain image of celebrities and music stars," Josh argued.
"They do," Montgomery agreed. "But is that image the right one? Do you see him as the man he really is or do you see other people's ideas of what a star is like?"
Montgomery's words hit a little close to the bone. Josh had fielded that question a few times since he'd met Mat. He'd been caught on the back foot numerous times, too. Was this another such occasion? Had he judged Matisse's actions by someone else's distorted views? He couldn't imagine that he'd lost the man he was learning to love through his own prejudice. But what if that was all their quarrel had been? Prejudice and misconceptions.
"Do you know what I hate about my job?" Montgomery asked suddenly.
"No."
"I don't like to deal with journalists. I don't like to stand up in community forums and talk about our work. And d'you know why? Because that's seen as marketing, and about three quarters of the audience walk through the door convinced that they'll be lied to. Or that, at the very least, we're withholding information. They're judging me, and all of us, based on the assumption that marketing is mostly lies. I always think that half of them don't listen to a word I'm saying, but I go and give the talks and do the interviews anyway... because if I didn't, I'd be succumbing to my own assumptions."
He refilled his cup, then held up the teapot. Josh shook his head. Earl Grey wasn't his favourite, and he'd had too much caffeine, anyhow.
"What you've seen of Matisse so far—the gala, the radio show—was marketing. Have you ever actually seen him work? Have you seen him do what he loves and is good at?"
Josh thought of the one rehearsal he'd watched, long before he'd known anything about Matisse. He remembered Matisse listening to music as he drove, pausing the flow every so often to dictate notes and comments into his phone. He remembered finding him in his studio at the crack of dawn, fingers dancing over piano keys, producing music that reminded Josh of a hot summer afternoon, somewhere away from it all.
At those times, Matisse had been a different person. Not as abrasive as he'd acted when he'd confronted Penelope Levington at Kilbride House, but also not as cooperative as he'd been during the radio show.
Montgomery had made a valid point. The only thing stopping Josh from acknowledging it was his pride. He threw it a sop.
"It's a concert. He won't know whether I'm there or not. I doubt he even noticed I've not been around the last week."
Montgomery, always the consummate mentor, gave him exactly what he needed. "And you're prepared to lose something good based on an untested assumption?"
––––––––
