few new tidbits about Lulu. I crack open the CDs to page through the liner notes, scanning for Lulu’s name.
I read every credit: every musician, producer, and sound mixer who worked on the CD, and find nothing.
Until the end.
Cover design: Luke Cowdin. Cover photography: Jessica Naslund. Cover model: Lulu Stirling.
Jackpot.
Lulu wasn’t just Gavin’s muse. She was the cover model for Feast —the naked body covered with sushi.
On a hunch, I rip open Beast and flip to the end of its liner notes. Gotcha. Same designer. Different photographer. Same model: Lulu Stirling.
I take a moment to study the second cover. She’s scowling, angry, as if she were ready to attack the imaginary lion that mauled her. She looks thinner, too; her cheekbones are more pronounced, her eyes sunken.
She looks haunted.
I flip open my laptop and get ready to Google more about Lulu Stirling when a G-chat window pops up.
Gavin: Beryl.
Across ten thousand miles, he calls my name and my heart leaps. How can I let him affect me like this?
Me: I’m here.
Gavin: What are you doing?
I hesitate, unwilling to admit my full-court-press toward stalkerdom.
Me: Looking at magazines.
I push the Spin magazine aside guiltily.
Me: Picking out your new furniture.
Gavin: I wanted to talk to you more. I found another Internet connection.
Me: We can chat. What are you doing?
Gavin: I’m going to head west today, toward Lake Victoria. I need to listen to Maasai songs.
Me: Why do you need that?
Gavin: I need new music. I need a new inspiration. I’m stuck.
Me: That sounds familiar. I was stuck too, you know.
Gavin: How?
Me: My life. I was stuck being the manager of a coffee shop. Stuck in my hometown, which compared to New York is small and boring. I was stuck until last week, when my Uncle Dan offered me a job. This job.
Gavin: I got you un-stuck?
Me: Yep. Thanks for that.
Gavin: Beryl, you don’t know how fantastic that is.
Me: I do. I feel more daring and adventurous than I’ve ever been in my whole safe, sane, responsible, boring life.
Gavin: I need to get un-stuck.
Me: ???
Gavin: That’s why I’m here. Why I’ve been traveling. Partly to forget, to get away. Partly to get un-stuck.
Me: Why are you stuck?
Gavin: I lost my muse.
Me: Lulu?
Gavin: Yes .
Me: What happened?
Gavin: Overdose. When Lulu died, I freaked out. I tore up my house, I tore up myself. I went on the world’s most disgusting booze-and-takeout bender. You have no idea.
Me: Actually, I do.
Gavin: Oh. Yeah. Sorry.
Me: Trust me—it gets better. Never all the way, but different.
Gavin: But it might get worse. There was a reporter. The first day I left my apartment after Lulu died, he followed me and pushed a camera in my face and asked me if I was responsible. He accused me. And I was so freaked out that I ran. I got a flight to Madrid, and then hopped to Rome, and then Istanbul, Jerusalem, Cairo, and Nairobi. I just kept going.
Me: You left Jasper. That sucks.
Gavin: I know. I feel terrible about that. I just couldn’t take it. He was a constant reminder of her.
Me: He was Lulu’s?
Gavin: I got him for her. I thought that might bring her back from the edge, give her someone to take care of, someone who loves her unconditionally.
Me: The edge?
Gavin: I admit that I’m no angel. I hit booze. Some pot. But she went deeper. Heavier. She was an addict. She couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. I saw her wasting away, the drugs eating her up. I couldn’t bring her back and I’m afraid I didn’t try hard enough.
Me: Sounds like you loved her.
I feel tears leaking from my eyes as I write that.
Gavin: I did. We were together for a long time. And even when she was using, I needed her. She inspired almost every song on my albums, or helped me work them out somehow. And she never wanted credit for helping me write. So I gave her credit with the album covers themselves. Made her the art that went with my music.
Me: Did you ever try to get her help?
Gavin:
I read every credit: every musician, producer, and sound mixer who worked on the CD, and find nothing.
Until the end.
Cover design: Luke Cowdin. Cover photography: Jessica Naslund. Cover model: Lulu Stirling.
Jackpot.
Lulu wasn’t just Gavin’s muse. She was the cover model for Feast —the naked body covered with sushi.
On a hunch, I rip open Beast and flip to the end of its liner notes. Gotcha. Same designer. Different photographer. Same model: Lulu Stirling.
I take a moment to study the second cover. She’s scowling, angry, as if she were ready to attack the imaginary lion that mauled her. She looks thinner, too; her cheekbones are more pronounced, her eyes sunken.
She looks haunted.
I flip open my laptop and get ready to Google more about Lulu Stirling when a G-chat window pops up.
Gavin: Beryl.
Across ten thousand miles, he calls my name and my heart leaps. How can I let him affect me like this?
Me: I’m here.
Gavin: What are you doing?
I hesitate, unwilling to admit my full-court-press toward stalkerdom.
Me: Looking at magazines.
I push the Spin magazine aside guiltily.
Me: Picking out your new furniture.
Gavin: I wanted to talk to you more. I found another Internet connection.
Me: We can chat. What are you doing?
Gavin: I’m going to head west today, toward Lake Victoria. I need to listen to Maasai songs.
Me: Why do you need that?
Gavin: I need new music. I need a new inspiration. I’m stuck.
Me: That sounds familiar. I was stuck too, you know.
Gavin: How?
Me: My life. I was stuck being the manager of a coffee shop. Stuck in my hometown, which compared to New York is small and boring. I was stuck until last week, when my Uncle Dan offered me a job. This job.
Gavin: I got you un-stuck?
Me: Yep. Thanks for that.
Gavin: Beryl, you don’t know how fantastic that is.
Me: I do. I feel more daring and adventurous than I’ve ever been in my whole safe, sane, responsible, boring life.
Gavin: I need to get un-stuck.
Me: ???
Gavin: That’s why I’m here. Why I’ve been traveling. Partly to forget, to get away. Partly to get un-stuck.
Me: Why are you stuck?
Gavin: I lost my muse.
Me: Lulu?
Gavin: Yes .
Me: What happened?
Gavin: Overdose. When Lulu died, I freaked out. I tore up my house, I tore up myself. I went on the world’s most disgusting booze-and-takeout bender. You have no idea.
Me: Actually, I do.
Gavin: Oh. Yeah. Sorry.
Me: Trust me—it gets better. Never all the way, but different.
Gavin: But it might get worse. There was a reporter. The first day I left my apartment after Lulu died, he followed me and pushed a camera in my face and asked me if I was responsible. He accused me. And I was so freaked out that I ran. I got a flight to Madrid, and then hopped to Rome, and then Istanbul, Jerusalem, Cairo, and Nairobi. I just kept going.
Me: You left Jasper. That sucks.
Gavin: I know. I feel terrible about that. I just couldn’t take it. He was a constant reminder of her.
Me: He was Lulu’s?
Gavin: I got him for her. I thought that might bring her back from the edge, give her someone to take care of, someone who loves her unconditionally.
Me: The edge?
Gavin: I admit that I’m no angel. I hit booze. Some pot. But she went deeper. Heavier. She was an addict. She couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. I saw her wasting away, the drugs eating her up. I couldn’t bring her back and I’m afraid I didn’t try hard enough.
Me: Sounds like you loved her.
I feel tears leaking from my eyes as I write that.
Gavin: I did. We were together for a long time. And even when she was using, I needed her. She inspired almost every song on my albums, or helped me work them out somehow. And she never wanted credit for helping me write. So I gave her credit with the album covers themselves. Made her the art that went with my music.
Me: Did you ever try to get her help?
Gavin:
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