Until two days ago, Lindy Gardner was my next-door neighbour. Okay, you're thinking, if Lindy Gardner was my neighbour, that probably means I live in Beverly Hills; a movie producer, maybe, or an actor or a musician. Well, I'm a musician all right. But though I've played behind one or two performers you'll have heard of, I'm not what you'd call big-league. My manager, Bradley Stevenson, who in his way has been a good friend over the years, maintains I have it in me to be big-league. Not just big-league session player, but big-league headliner. It's not true saxophonists don't become headliners any more, he says, and repeats his list of names. Marcus Lightfoot. Silvio Tarrentini. They're all jazz players, I point out. "What are you, if you're not a jazz player?" he says. But only in my innermost dreams am I still a jazz player. In the real world -- when I don't have my face entirely wrapped in bandages the way I do now -- I'm just a jobbing tenor man, in reasonable demand for studio work, or when a band's lost their regular guy. If it's pop they want, it's pop I play. R&B? Fine. Car commercials, the walk-on theme for a talk show, I'll do it. I'm a jazz player these days only when I'm inside my cubicle.

You've guessed by now Lindy Gardner never lived next to this apartment I'm talking about. Neither was she one of the neighbors who banged the door whenever I played outside the cubicle. When I said she was my neighbour, I meant something else, and I'm going to explain this right now.

I'd prefer to play in my living room, but our apartment's so cheaply made the neighbours would start complaining all the way down the hall. So what I've done is convert our smallest room into a rehearsal room. It's no more than a closet really -- you can get an office chair in there and that's it -- but I've sound-proofed it with foam and egg-trays and old padded envelopes my manager Bradley sent round from his office. Helen, my wife, when she used to live with me, she'd see me going in there with my sax and she'd laugh and say it was like I was going to the toilet, and sometimes that's how it felt. That's to say, it was like I was sitting in that dim, airless cubicle taking care of personal business no one else would ever care to come across.

So how does someone like me get to be here among these stars and millionaires, having my face altered by the top man in town? I guess it started with my manager, Bradley, who isn't so big-league himself, and doesn't look any more like George Clooney than I do. He first mentioned it a few years ago, in a jokey sort of way, then seemed to get more serious each time he brought it up again. What he was saying, in a nutshell, was that I was ugly. And that this was what was keeping me from the big league.

Until two days ago, Lindy was in the next room here at this swanky hotel, and like me, had her face encased in bandages. Lindy, of course, has a big comfortable house nearby, and hired help, so Dr. Boris let her go home. In fact, from a strictly medical viewpoint, she could probably have gone much sooner, but there were clearly other factors. For one, it wouldn't be so easy for her to hide from cameras and gossip columnists back in her own house. What's more, my hunch is Dr. Boris's stellar reputation is based on procedures that aren't one hundred per cent legal, and that's why he hides his patients up here on this hush-hush floor of the hotel, cut off from all regular staff and guests, with instructions to leave our rooms only when absolutely necessary. If you could see past all the crêpe, you'd spot more stars up here in a week than in a month at the Chateau Marmont.

"Billy's ugly all right. But he's sexy, bad guy ugly. You, Steve, you're… Well, you're dull, loser ugly. The wrong kind of ugly. Listen, have you ever considered having a little work done? Of a surgical nature, I mean?"

"Look at Marcus Lightfoot," he said. "Look at Kris Bugoski. Or Tarrentini. Do any of them have a signature sound the way you do? No. Do they have your tenderness? Your vision? Do they have even half your technique? No. But they look right, so doors keep opening for them."

"What about Billy Fogel?" I said. "He's ugly as hell and he's doing fine."

I went home and repeated this all to Helen because I thought she'd find it as funny as I did. And at first, sure enough, we had a lot of laughs at Bradley's expense. Then Helen came over, put her arms around me and told me that for her at least, I was the most handsome guy in the universe. Then she kind of took a step back and went quiet, and when I asked her what was wrong, she said nothing was wrong. Then she said that perhaps, just perhaps, Bradley had a point. Maybe I should consider having a little work done.

"No need to look at me like that!" she yelled back. "Everyone's doing it. And you, you have a professional reason. Guy wants to be a fancy chauffeur, he goes and buys a fancy car. It's no different with you!"

But at that stage I gave the idea no further thought, even if I was beginning to accept this notion that I was "loser ugly." For one thing, I didn't have the money. In fact, the very moment Helen was talking about fancy chauffeurs, we were nine and a half thousand dollars in debt. This was characteristic of Helen. A fine person in many ways, but this ability to forget completely the true state of our finances and start dreaming up major new spending opportunities, this was very Helen.

Money aside, I didn't like the idea of someone cutting me up. I'm not so good with that kind of thing. One time, early in my relationship with Helen, she invited me to go running with her. It was a crisp winter's morning, and I've never been much of a jogger, but I was taken by her and anxious to impress. So there we were running around the park, and I was doing fine keeping up with her, when suddenly my shoe hit something very hard jutting out of the ground. I could feel a pain in my foot, which wasn't so bad, but when I took off my sneaker and sock, and saw the nail on my big toe rearing up from the flesh like it was doing a Hitler-style salute, I got nauseous and fainted. That's the way I am. So you can see, I wasn't wild about face surgery.

At first Helen seemed to see it my way, and the topic didn't come up again for some time. That is, not until she phoned from Seattle to say she was leaving me and moving in with Chris Prendergast, a guy she'd known since high school and who now owned a string of successful diners across Washington. I'd met this Prendergast a few times over the years -- he'd even come to dinner once -- but I'd never suspected a thing. "All that sound-proofing in that cupboard of yours," Bradley said at the time. "It works both ways." I suppose he had a point.

Then, naturally, there was the principle of the thing. Okay, I've told you before, I'm no stickler for artistic integrity. I play every kind of bubble-gum for the pay. But this proposition was of another order, and I did have some pride left. Bradley was right about one thing: I was twice as talented as most other people in this town. But it seemed that didn't count for much these days. Because it has to do with image, marketability, being in magazines and on TV shows, about parties and who you ate lunch with. It all made me sick. I was a musician, why should I have to join in this game? Why couldn't I just play my music the best way I knew, and keep getting better, if only in my cubicle, and maybe some day, just maybe, genuine music lovers would hear me and appreciate what I was doing. What did I want with a plastic surgeon?

What happened was that a few weeks after her phone call, Helen came back to the apartment to organise moving out her belongings. She looked sad walking around the place -- where, after all, we'd had some happy times. I kept thinking she was about to cry, but she didn't, and just went on putting all her things into neat piles. Someone would be along to pick them up in a day or two, she said. Then as I was on my way to my cubicle, tenor in hand, she looked up and said quietly:

But I don't want to dwell on Helen and Prendergast except to explain their part in getting me where I am now. Maybe you're thinking I drove up the coast, confronted the happy couple, and plastic surgery became necessary following a manly altercation with my rival. Romantic, but no, that's not the way it happened.

"Talk about what?"

So I put the sax back in its case and we went into our little kitchen and sat down at the table facing one another. Then she put it to me.

"Steve, please. Don't go into that place again. We need to talk."

"Steve, for God's sake."

"Steve, why are you looking at me like that? This is a great offer. And God knows if he'll still be willing in six months. Say yes right now and do yourself a big favor. It's just a few weeks of discomfort, then whoosh! Jupiter and beyond!"

There was no going back on her decision. She was happy with Prendergast, for whom she'd carried a torch since school. But she felt bad about leaving me, especially at a time when my career wasn't going so good. So she'd thought things over and talked with her new guy, and he too had felt bad about me. Apparently, what he'd said was: "It's just too bad Steve has to pay the price for all our happiness." So here was the deal. Prendergast was willing to pay for me to have my face fixed by the best surgeon in town. "It's true," she said, when I looked back at her blankly. "He means it. No expense spared. All the hospital bills, recuperation, everything. The best surgeon in town." Once my face was fixed, there'd be nothing holding me back, she said. I'd go right to the top, how could I fail, with the kind of talent I had?

Fifteen minutes later, on her way out, she said in much sterner tones: "So what is it you're saying? That you're happy playing in that little closet for the rest of your life? That you just love being this big a loser?" And with that, she left.

"This guy's rich? And he's willing to get you a top surgeon? Maybe he'll get you Crespo. Or even Boris."

The next day I went into Bradley's office to see if he had anything for me, and I happened to mention what had occurred, expecting us to laugh about it. But he didn't laugh at all.

So now I had Bradley too, telling me how I had to take this opportunity, how if I didn't I'd be a loser all my life. I left his office pretty angry, but he phoned later that same afternoon and kept on about it. If it was the call itself holding me back, he said, if it was the blow to my pride involved in picking up a phone and saying to Helen, yes, please, I want to do it, please get your boyfriend to sign that big check, if that's what was holding me up, then he, Bradley, was happy to do all the negotiations on my behalf. I told him to go sit on a tall spike, and hung up. But then he called again an hour later. He told me he'd now figured it all out and I was a fool not to have done so myself.

I stopped him here to point out that though over the years I'd become accustomed to the depths to which he could sink when persuading me to do something to his professional advantage, this latest ploy was somewhere so far down in the pits it was a place no light penetrated and where steaming horseshit would freeze in seconds. And on the subject of horseshit, I told him that while I understood how he, on account of his nature, couldn't help shoveling the stuff all the time, it would still be sound strategy on his part to come up with the sort that had at least a chance of taking me in for a minute or two. Then I hung up on him again.

"Helen's got this carefully planned. Consider her position. She loves you. But looks-wise, well, you're an embarrassment when you're seen in public. You're no turn-on. She wants you to do something about it, but you refuse. So what's she to do? Well, her next move's magnificent. Full of subtlety. As a professional manager I have to admire it. She goes off with this guy. Okay, maybe she's always had the hots for him, but really, she doesn't love him at all. She gets the guy to pay for your face. Once you're healed up, she comes back, you're good-looking, she's hungry for your body, she can't wait to be seen with you in restaurants…"

Finally, maybe six weeks after Helen came up with the offer, I mentioned casually to Bradley that I was thinking it over again. That was all he needed. He was off, making phone calls and arrangements, shouting a lot and getting excited. To give him his due, he was true to his word: he did all the go-between stuff so I didn't have to have a single humiliating conversation with Helen, let alone with Prendergast. At times Bradley even managed to create the illusion he was negotiating a deal for me, that it was me who had something to sell. Even so, I was having doubts several times each day. When it happened, it happened suddenly. Bradley called to say Dr. Boris had a last-minute cancellation and I had to get myself to a particular address by three-thirty that same afternoon with all my bags packed. Maybe I had some final jitters at that point, because I remember Bradley yelling down the phone at me to pull myself together, that he was coming to get me himself, and then I was being driven up winding roads to a big house in the Hollywood Hills and put under anesthetic, just like a character in a Raymond Chandler story.

Over the next few weeks, work seemed scarcer than ever, and each time I called Bradley to see if he had anything, he'd say something like: "It's hard to help a guy who won't help himself." In the end, I began considering the whole matter more pragmatically. I couldn't get away from the fact that I needed to eat. And if going through with this meant that eventually a lot more people got to hear my music, was that such a bad result? And what about my plans to lead my own band one day? How was that ever going to happen?

After a couple of days I was brought down here, to this Beverly Hills hotel, by the back entrance under cover of dark, and wheeled down this corridor, so exclusive we're sealed off entirely from all the regular life of the hotel.

The first week, my face was painful and the anesthetic in my system made me nauseous. I had to sleep propped up on pillows, which meant I didn't sleep much at all, and because my nurse insisted on keeping the room dark all the time, I lost sense of what hour of the day it was. Even so, I didn't feel at all bad. In fact, I felt exhilarated and optimistic. I felt complete confidence in Dr. Boris, who was after all a guy in whose hands movie stars placed their entire careers. What's more, I knew that with me he'd completed his masterpiece; that on seeing my loser's face, he'd felt his deepest ambitions stir, remembered why he'd chosen his vocation in the first place, and put everything into it and more. When the bandages came off, I could look forward to a cleanly chiseled face, slightly brutal, yet full of nuance. A guy with his reputation, after all, would have thought through carefully the requirements of a serious jazz musician, and not confused them with, say, those of a TV anchorman. He may even have put in something to give me that vaguely haunted quality, kind of like the young De Niro, or like Chet Baker before the drugs ravaged him. I thought about the albums I'd make, the line-ups I'd hire to back me. I felt triumphant and couldn't believe I'd ever hesitated about the move.

It was during this phase that Gracie first told me Lindy Gardner was next door. Had she brought this news in my earlier, euphoric phase, I'd have greeted it with delight. I might even have taken it as the first indicator of the glamorous life I was now headed for. Coming when it did though, just as I was falling into my trough, the news filled me with such disgust it set off another bout of nausea. If you're one of Lindy's many admirers, I apologise for what's coming up here. But the fact was, at that moment, if there was one figure who epitomised for me everything that was shallow and sickening about the world, it was Lindy Gardner: a person with negligible talent -- okay, let's face it, she's demonstrated she can't act, and she doesn't even pretend to have musical ability -- but who's managed all the same to become famous, fought over by TV networks and glossy magazines who can't get enough of her smiling features. I went past a bookstore earlier this year and saw a snaking line and wondered if someone like Stephen King was around, and here it turns out to be Lindy signing copies of her latest ghosted autobiography. And how was this all achieved? The usual way, of course. The right love affairs, the right marriages, the right divorces. All leading to the right magazine covers, the right talk shows, then stuff like that recent thing she had on the air, I don't remember its name, where she gave advice about how to dress for that first big date after your divorce, or what to do if you suspect your husband is gay, all of that. You hear people talk about her "star quality," but the spell's easy enough to analyse. It's the sheer accumulation of TV appearances and glossy covers, of all the photos you've seen of her at premieres and parties, her arm linked to legendary people. And now here she was, right next door, recovering just like me from a face job by Dr. Boris. No other news could have symbolised more perfectly the scale of my moral descent. The week before, I'd been a jazz musician. Now I was just another pathetic hustler, getting my face fixed in a bid to crawl after the Lindy Gardners of this world into vacuous celebrity.

Then came the second week, when the effect of the drugs wore off, and I felt depressed, lonely and cheap. My nurse, Gracie, now let a little more light into the room -- though she kept the blinds at least halfway down -- and I was allowed to walk about the room in my dressing gown. So I put one CD after another into the Bang & Olufsen and went round and round the carpet, now and then stopping in front of the dressing-table mirror to inspect the weird bandaged monster gazing back through peephole eyes.

It was towards the end of the second week, when I was starting to feel a little better both physically and mentally, my nurse handed me an envelope with a knowing smile, saying: "Now that ain't something you'll get every day." Inside was a page of hotel notepaper, and since I've got it right here beside me, I'll quote it just the way it came.

The next few days, I tried to pass the time reading, but couldn't concentrate. Under the bandages, parts of my face throbbed awfully, others itched like hell and I had bouts of feeling hot and claustrophobic. I longed to play my sax, and the thought that it would be weeks yet until I could put my facial muscles under that kind of pressure made me even more despondent. In the end, I worked out the best way to get through the day was to alternate listening to CDs with spells of staring at sheet music -- I'd brought the folder of charts and lead sheets I worked with in my cubicle -- and humming improvisations to myself.

Gracie tells me you're getting weary of this high life. I'm that way too. How about you come and visit? If five o'clock tonight isn't too early for cocktails? Dr. B. says no alcohol, I expect same for you. So looks like club sodas and Perrier. Curse him! See you at five or I'll be heartbroken. Lindy Gardner.

Lindy gardner had on even more bandages than I did. I'd at least been left an opening at the top, from which my hair sprang up like palms in a desert oasis. But Boris had encased the whole of Lindy's head so it was a contoured coconut shape, with slots only for eyes, nose and mouth. What had happened to all that luxuriant blonde hair, I didn't know. Her voice, though, wasn't as constricted as you'd expect, and I recognised it from the times I'd seen her on TV.

Maybe it was because I'd become so bored by this point; or just that my mood was on the up again; or that the thought of having a fellow prisoner to swap stories with was extremely appealing. Or maybe I wasn't so immune myself to the glamor thing. In any case, despite everything I felt about Lindy Gardner, when I read this, I felt a tingle of excitement, and I found myself telling Gracie to let Lindy know I'd be over at five.

"So how are you finding all this?" she asked. When I replied I wasn't finding it too bad, she said: "Steve. May I call you Steve? I've heard all about you from Gracie."

"Well, I know you're a musician. And a very promising one too."

"She told you that?"

"Oh? I hope she left out the bad part."

Her room was significantly bigger than mine, and this was just the lounge part of her suite. We were sitting facing each other on matching white sofas, and between us was a low coffee table made of smoked glass, through which I could see the hunk of driftwood it rested on. Its surface was covered with shiny magazines and a fruit basket still in cellophane. Like me, she had the air-conditioning up high -- it gets warm in bandages -- and the blinds low over the windows against the evening sun. A maid had just brought me a glass of water and a coffee, both with straws bobbing in them -- which is how everything has to be served here -- then had left the room.

"Steve, you're tense. I want you to relax when you're with me. Some famous people, I know, they like the public to be tense around them. Makes them feel all the more special. But I hate that. I want you to treat me just like I'm one of your regular friends. What were you telling me? You were saying you don't mind this so much."

In answer to her question, I told her the toughest part for me was not being able to play my sax.

"But you can see why Boris won't let you," she said. "Just imagine. You blow on that horn a day before you're ready, pieces of your face will fly out all over the room!"

She seemed to find this pretty funny, waving her hand at me, as though it was me that had made the wisecrack and she was saying: "Stop it, you're too much!" I laughed with her, and sipped some coffee through the straw. Then she began talking about various friends who'd recently gone through cosmetic surgery, what they'd reported, funny things that had happened to them. Every person she mentioned was a celebrity or else married to one.

"So you're a sax player," she said, suddenly changing the subject. "You made a good choice. It's a wonderful instrument. You know what I say to all young saxophone players? I tell them to listen to the old pros. I knew this sax player, up-and-coming like you, only ever listened to these far-out guys. Wayne Shorter and people like that. I said to him, you'll learn more from the old pros. Might not have been so ground-breaking, I said to him, but those old pros knew how to do it. Steve, do you mind if I play you something? To show you exactly what I'm talking about?"

"No, I don't mind. But Mrs. Gardner…"

"Gracie said I was 'up-and-coming'?"

"Okay. Lindy. I just wanted to say, I'm not so young. In fact, I'll be thirty-nine next birthday."

"Oh really? Well, that's still young. But you're right, I thought you were much younger. With these exclusive masks Boris has given us, it's hard to tell, right? From what Gracie said, I thought you were this up-and-coming kid, and maybe your parents had paid for this surgery to get you off to a flying start. Sorry, my mistake."

"Please. Call me Lindy. We're equals here."

She went over to a cabinet and a moment later held up a CD. "You'll appreciate this. The sax on this is so perfect."

Her room had a Bang & Olufsen system just like mine, and soon the place filled with lush strings. A few measures in, a sleepy, Ben Webster-ish tenor broke through and proceeded to lead the orchestra. If you didn't know too much about these things, you could even have mistaken it for one of those Nelson Riddle intros for Sinatra. But the voice that eventually came on belonged to Tony Gardner. The song -- I just about remembered it -- was something called "Back at Culver City," a ballad that never quite made it and which no one plays much any more. All the time Tony Gardner sang, the sax kept up with him, replying to him line by line. The whole thing was utterly predictable, and way too sugary.

"Don't be hard on her. She said you were a musician so I asked her your name. And when I said I wasn't familiar with it, she said, 'That's because he's up-and-coming.' That's all it was. Hey, but listen, what does it matter how old you are? You can always learn from the old pros. I want you to listen to this. I think you'll find it interesting."

Tony Gardner stopped singing a moment, the strings swelled into the bridge, and the piano player started a solo. At this point, Lindy seemed to come back to the planet. She stopped swaying around, turned the music off with the remote, then came and sat down in front of me.

"Isn't that marvelous? You see what I mean?"

After a while, though, I'd stopped paying much attention to the music because there was Lindy in front of me, gone into a kind of dream, dancing slowly to the song. Her movements were easy and graceful -- clearly the surgery hadn't extended to her body -- and she had a shapely, slim figure. She was wearing something that was part night-gown, part cocktail dress; that's to say, it was at the same time vaguely medical yet glamorous. Also, I was trying to work something out. I'd had the distinct impression Lindy had recently divorced Tony Gardner, but given I'm the nation's worst when it comes to showbiz gossip, I began to think maybe I'd got it wrong. Otherwise why was she dancing this way, lost in the music, evidently enjoying herself?

"The singer. That was who you thought it was. Just because he's no longer my husband, that doesn't mean I can't play his records, right?"

"Oh no, it won't bore me. But I hope you don't think I'm nosy. Tony always used to say I was nosy, I should just let people be, but you know, I think he was just being snobby. A lot of famous people, they think they should be interested only in other famous people. I've never been that way. I see everybody as a potential friend. Take Gracie. She's my friend. All my staff at home, they're also my friends. You should see me at parties. Everyone else, they're talking to each other about their latest movie or whatever, I'm the one having a conversation with the catering girl or the bartender. I don't think that's being nosy, do you?"

"No, of course not."

"And that's a lovely saxophone. You see now why I wanted you to hear it."

"I'm sorry?"

"The next time you come, sweetie, I want you to bring them. I want to hear how you sound. Will you do that?"

"Steve, are there recordings of you somewhere? I mean, of your own playing?"

"Yeah, it was beautiful."

"Your ears weren't deceiving you, by the way."

"Yeah, that was beautiful," I said, not sure whether we were still only talking about the sax.

"Sure. In fact I have a few CDs with me next door."

"Okay, if it's not going to bore you."

"No, I don't think that's nosy at all. But look, Mrs. Gardner…"

"Lindy, please."

I had to reassure her some more that I'd had a good time and that I'd come back. Then as I was going out the door, she said:

"Oh, you're not feeling well?"

"Lindy. Look, it's been fabulous being with you. But these drugs, they really tire me out. I think I'm going to have to go lie down for a while."

"It's nothing. It's just these drugs."

"Steve, do you play chess? I'm the world's worst chess player, but I've got the cutest chess set. Meg Ryan brought it in for me last week."

"Too bad! You definitely have to come back when you're feeling better. And bring those recordings, the ones with you playing. Is that a deal?"

Back in my own room, I took a Coke from the minibar, sat down at the writing desk and looked out my window. There was a big pink sunset now, we were a long way up, and I could see the cars moving along the freeway in the distance. After a few minutes I phoned Bradley, and though his secretary kept me on hold a long time, he eventually came on the line.

"Are you all right? You sound… dispirited."

"How should I know? I'm still the Invisible Man."

"How's the face?" he asked worriedly, like he was inquiring after a well-loved pet he'd left in my care.

"What's the matter with you? You sound depressed. What have they been pumping into you?"

"I'm fine. In fact, my head's straighter than it's been for a long while. That's the trouble. I can see it now. Your scheme… I should never have listened to you."

There was a moment's silence, then he asked: "The operation's a failure?"

"I am dispirited. This whole thing was a mistake. I can see that now. It's not going to work."

"What is this? What scheme? Look, Steve, this isn't complicated. You're a very talented artist. When you're through with this, all you do is what you've always done. Just now you're simply removing an obstacle, that's all. There's no scheme…"

"I'm sure the operation's fine. I mean all the rest of it, what it's going to lead to. This scheme… It's never going to play out the way you said. I should never have let you talk me into it."

"Look, Bradley, it's bad here. It's not just the physical discomfort. I realise now what I'm doing to myself. It's been a mistake, I should have had more respect for myself."

"What's wrong is I've got Lindy Gardner right next door. And she just invited me over, and she's going to keep on inviting me over. That's what's wrong!"

"She put on her husband's record! Fuck it, I think she's playing another one right now. This is what I've come to. This is my level now."

"Damn right something happened. That's why I'm calling, I need you to get me out of this. I need you to get me to a different hotel."

"Steve, what's triggered this? Did something just happen over there?"

"Lindy Gardner's next door?"

"Steve, you're telling me Lindy Gardner's next door? You spent time with her?"

"Look, I can't go through that again. I've just been in there, it was all I could do to stay as long as I did. And now she's saying we have to play with her Meg Ryan chess set…"

"Different hotel? Who are you? Crown Prince Abdullah? What the fuck's wrong with the hotel?"

"So you weren't rude to her?" he asked as soon as I was through.

I did calm down then for a while, and I gave a brief account of how Lindy had asked me over, and the way things had gone.

"No, I wasn't rude to her. I kept it all held in. But I'm not going back in there. I need to change hotels."

"Steve, you're not going to change hotels. Lindy Gardner? She's in bandages, you're in bandages. She's right next door. Steve, this is a golden opportunity."

"Steve, hold it, let's go over this again. Steve, just shut the fuck up, then explain it to me. Explain to me how you get to be with Lindy Gardner."

"It's nothing of the sort, Bradley. It's inner-circle hell. Her Meg Ryan chess set for God's sake!"

"I'm asking you to deal with this, Bradley. Okay, I'm in deep, I've had the surgery, you talked me into it, because I was fool enough to believe what you said. But I don't have to put up with this. I don't have to spend the next two weeks with Lindy Gardner. I'm asking you to get me moved pronto!"

"Meg Ryan chess set? How does that work? Every piece looks like Meg?"

"She wants to… Jesus, Steve, you haven't even got the bandages off and everything's going your way. She wants to hear you play?"

"And she wants to hear my playing! She's insisting next time I take in CDs!"

"It won't be big-league anything, Bradley, because I'm not going over there again, and I don't want any doors opening for me other than ones that open because of my music. And I don't believe what you said before, I don't believe this crap about a scheme…"

"Bradley, very soon you won't have to be concerned about my stitches at all, because you know what? I'm going to pull off this mummy mask and I'm going to put my fingers into the corners of my mouth and yank my face into every kind of stretchy combination possible! Do you hear me, Bradley?"

"I don't think you should be expressing yourself so emphatically. I'm very concerned about those stitches…"

"I'm not getting you moved anywhere. Do you realise how important a person Lindy Gardner is? You know the kind of people she's pals with? What she could do for you with one phone call? Okay, she's divorced from Tony Gardner now. That doesn't change a thing. Get her on your team, get your new face, doors will open. It'll be big league, five seconds flat."

I heard him sigh. Then he said: "Okay, calm down. Just calm down. You've been under a lot of stress lately. It's understandable. If you don't want to see Lindy right now, if you want to let gold go floating by, okay, I understand your position. But be polite, okay? Make a good excuse. Don't burn any bridges."

Lee's okay and I was pleased to see him. He stayed for an hour or so, and we swapped news of mutual friends, who was in which band, who'd packed their bags and gone to Canada or to Europe.

I felt a lot better after this talk with Bradley, and had a reasonably contented evening, watching half a movie, then listening to Bill Evans. The next morning after breakfast, Dr. Boris came in with two nurses, seemed satisfied and left. A little later, around eleven, I had a visitor -- a drummer called Lee who I'd played with in a house band in San Diego a few years ago. Bradley, who's also Lee's manager, had suggested he come by.

"It's too bad how so many of the old team aren't around any more," he said. "You have great times together, next thing you don't know where they are."

He told me about his recent gigs, and we laughed over some memories from our San Diego days. Then towards the end of his visit, he said:

"It's strange all right," I said. "But then again, Jake was always a good musician. He deserves what he's getting."

"And what about Jake Marvell? What do you make of it? Strange world, ain't it?"

"Jake was always a nice guy," I said. "And as far as I'm concerned, it's good to see any sax player getting recognition."

"Yeah, but it's strange. Remember how Jake was back then? In San Diego? Steve, you could have blown him off the stage every night of the week. And now look at him. Is that just luck or what?"

"Recognition's right," Lee said. "And right here in this hotel too. Let me see, I've got it here." He rummaged in his bag and produced a tattered copy of LA Weekly. "Yeah, here it is. The Simon and Wesbury Music Awards. Jazz Musician of the Year. Jake Marvell. Let's see, when is this fucker? Tomorrow down in the ballroom. You could take a stroll down those stairs and attend the ceremony." He put down the paper and shook his head. "Jake Marvell. Jazz Musician of the Year. Who'd have thought it, eh, Steve?"

"I guess I won't make it downstairs," I said. "But I'll remember to raise a glass to him."

"Jake Marvell. Boy, is this a screwed-up world or what?"

About an hour after lunch, the phone rang and it was Lindy.

SHE TOO HAD ON a dressing gown, but it was the kind she could have worn to a movie premiere without too much embarrassment. Sure enough, the chess set was there on the low glass table, and we sat down on opposite sides like before and began a game. Maybe because we had something to do with our hands, things felt much more relaxed than the last time. As we played, we found ourselves talking about this and that: TV shows, her favourite European cities, Chinese food. There was far less name-dropping this time round, and she seemed much calmer. At one point she said:

"The chess set's all laid out, sweetie," she said. "You ready to play? Don't say no, I'm going crazy here with boredom. Oh, and don't forget now, bring those CDs. I'm just dying to hear your playing."

I put down the phone, then sat on the edge of the bed trying to figure out how it was I hadn't stood my ground better. In fact, I hadn't put up even a hint of a "no." Maybe it was plain spinelessness. Or maybe I'd taken on board much more of Bradley's argument on the phone than I'd admitted. But now there wasn't time to think about it, because I had to decide which of my CDs were most likely to impress her. The more avant-garde stuff was definitely out, as was the stuff I'd recorded with the electro-funk guys in San Francisco last year. In the end, I chose just the one CD, changed into a fresh shirt, put my dressing gown back over the top and went next door.

"You know what I do to stop myself going crazy in this place? My big secret? I'll tell you, but not a word, not even to Gracie, promise? What I do is go out for midnight walks. Just inside this building, but it's so vast you can walk around forever. And in the dead of night, it's amazing. Last night I was out there maybe a whole hour? You have to be careful, there's still staff roving around all the time, but I've never been caught. I hear anything at all, I run away and hide somewhere. Once these cleaning guys saw me for a second, but like that I was away into the shadows! It's so exciting. All day you're this prisoner, then it's like you're completely free, it's truly wonderful. I'm gonna take you with me some night, sweetie. I'll show you great things. The bars, the restaurants, conference rooms. Wonderful ballroom. And there's no one there, everything's just dark and empty. And I discovered the most fantastic place, a kind of penthouse, I think it's gonna be a presidential suite? They're halfway through building it, but I found it and I was able to walk right in, and I stayed there, twenty minutes, half an hour, just thinking things over. Hey, Steve, is this right? I can do this and take your queen?"

"That's right."

"All right, I tell you what. Since you're the guest, and you were obviously distracted by what I was saying, I'm gonna pretend I never saw it. Isn't that nice of me? Say, Steve, I can't remember if I asked you this before. You're married, right?"

"She's okay about it. In fact, this was her idea in the first place. Look who's not paying attention now."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. I didn't see that. Hey, Lindy, you're a lot smarter at this than you let on. Now what am I supposed to do?"

"Actually she hasn't been here at all. But that was always the understanding we had, before I came in here."

"Yeah?"

"Oh hell. I'm such a lousy player anyway. Say, I don't mean to be nosy, but does she come visit you much?"

"So what does she think of all this? I mean, this isn't cheap. Quite a few pairs of shoes she could buy with this kind of money."

She seemed puzzled so I said: "It might sound odd, I know, but that's the way we wanted to do it."

"Right." Then after a while she said: "So does that mean no one comes to visit you here?"

"There's this saxophone player we both knew a few years back, in San Diego, guy called Jake Marvell. Maybe you've heard of him. He's big-league now. But back then, when we knew him, he was nothing. In fact, he was a phoney. What you'd call a bluffer. Never knew his way around the keys properly. And I've heard him recently, plenty of times, and he hasn't gotten any better. But he's had a few breaks and now he's considered hot. I swear to you he's not one bit better than he used to be, not one bit. And you know what this news was? This same guy, Jake Marvell, he's getting a big music award tomorrow, right here in this hotel. Jazz Musician of the Year. It's just crazy, you know? So many talented sax players out there, and they decide to give it to Jake."

"I get visitors. Matter of fact, someone called this morning. Musician I used to work with."

"Sure." Then I said: "The guy who came to see me today, he told me some news. It was kind of strange. A coincidence."

"Oh yeah? That's good. You know, sweetie, I've never been sure how these knights move. If you see me do something wrong, you just say, okay? It's not me trying to pull a fast one."

"Yeah?"

Lindy was sitting up, her attention fully on me. "That's too bad. And this guy, he's no good, you say?"

I made myself stop, and looking up from the chess board, did a little laugh. "What can you do?" I said, more gently.

"He's as good as the next guy. I was just talking. I'm sorry, you have to ignore me."

"I'm sorry, I was kind of out of line there. They want to give Jake an award, why shouldn't they?"

"But if he's no good…"

I indicated the CD beside me on the sofa. "I don't know if it would interest you. You don't have to listen…"

"Hey, that reminds me," Lindy said. "Did you remember to bring your music?"

She was examining the CD case, holding it close to her face, then away from her again. "So are you in this picture?" She brought it up close again. "I'm kind of curious what you look like. Or I should say, what you looked like."

"Oh, but I do, I absolutely do. Here, let me see it."

I handed her the CD. "It's a band I played with in Pasadena. We played standards, old-fashioned swing, a little bossa nova. Nothing special, I just brought it because you asked."

"I'm second from the right. In the Hawaiian shirt, holding the ironing board."

"This one?" She stared at the CD, then over at me. Then she said: "Hey, you're cute." But she said it quietly, in a voice devoid of conviction. In fact, I noted a definite touch of pity there. Almost immediately, though, she'd recovered. "Okay, so let's hear it!"

"'The Nearness of You' coming up."

I'd settled on this track after some thought. The musicians in that band had been top-notch. Individually we'd all had more radical ambitions, but we'd formed the band with the express purpose of playing quality mainstream material, the sort the supper crowd would want. Our version of "The Nearness of You" -- which featured my tenor all the way through -- wasn't a hundred miles from Tony Gardner territory, but I'd always been genuinely proud of it. Maybe you think you've heard this song done every way possible. Well, listen to ours. Listen, say, to that second chorus. Or to that moment as we come out of the middle eight, when the band go III-5 to VIx-9 while I rise up in intervals you'd never believe possible and then hold that sweet, very tender high B-flat. I think there are colors there, longings and regrets, you won't have come across before.

As she moved towards the Bang & Olufsen, I said: "Track number nine. 'The Nearness of You.' That's my special track."

So you could say I was confident this recording would meet with Lindy's approval. And for the first minute or so, she looked to be enjoying herself. She'd stayed on her feet after loading the CD, and just like the time she'd played me her husband's record, she began swaying dreamily to the slow beat. But then the rhythm faded from her movements, until she was standing there quite still, her back to me, head bent forward like she was concentrating. I didn't at first see this as a bad sign. It was only when she came walking back and sat down with the music still in full flow, I realised something was wrong. Because of the bandages, of course, I couldn't read her expression, but the way she let herself slump into the sofa, like a tense mannequin, didn't look good.

"That was very nice," she said. "Thank you for letting me hear it." It sounded formulaic, and she didn't seem to mind that it did.

When the track ended, I picked up the remote and turned it all off. For what felt a long time, she stayed the way she was, stiff and awkward. Then she hauled herself up a little and began fingering a chess piece.

"Maybe it wasn't quite your kind of thing."

"No, no." Her voice had become sulky and quiet. "It was just fine. Thank you for letting me hear it." She put the chess piece down on a square, then said: "Your move."

I looked at the board, trying to remember where we were. After a while, I asked gently: "Maybe that particular song, it has special associations for you?"

She looked up and I sensed anger behind her bandages. But she said in the same quiet voice: "That song? It has no associations. None at all." Suddenly she laughed -- a short, unkind laugh. "Oh, you mean associations with him, with Tony? No, no. It was never one of his numbers. You play it very nicely. Really professional."

"Really professional? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean… that it's really professional. I mean it as a compliment."

"Professional?" I got to my feet, crossed the room and got the disc out of the machine.

"What are you so mad about?" Her voice was still distant and cold. "I say something wrong? I'm sorry. I was trying to be nice."

I came back to the table, put the disc back in its case, but didn't sit down.

"So we going to finish the game?" she asked.

"I'm not mad at all. Time's getting on, that's all."

"If you don't mind, I've got a few things I have to do. Phone calls. Paperwork."

"What are you so mad about? I don't understand."

I've said already how my sleep rhythm had been screwed up after the surgery. That evening I became suddenly tired, went to bed early, slept soundly for a few hours, then woke in the dead of night unable to go back to sleep. After a while I got up and turned on the TV. I found a movie I'd seen as a kid, so pulled up a chair and watched what remained of it with the volume down low. When that was over I watched two preachers shouting at each other in front of a baying audience. All in all, I was contented. I felt cosy and a million miles from the outside world. So my heart just about jumped out of my chest when the phone rang.

She at least got to her feet to walk me to the door, where we parted with a cold handshake.

I realised now she wasn't drunk, but I couldn't put my finger on what was up with her. She probably wasn't high on anything either -- just peculiarly awake and maybe excited about something she had to tell me.

"I don't want to say. I want it to be a surprise."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"You sure everything's okay?" I asked again.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

"Sure. Everything's good. Very good."

"I guess so. It's difficult keeping regular hours."

"Steve? That you?" It was Lindy. Her voice sounded odd and I wondered if she'd been drinking.

"Yeah, really, but… Look, sweetie, I have something here, something I want to give to you."

"I know it's late. But just now, when I was passing, I saw your light on under your door. I supposed you were having trouble sleeping, just like me."

"Yeah. It sure is."

"Sounds interesting. I'll come and get it, maybe after breakfast?"

"I was kinda hoping you'd come and get it now. I mean, it's here, and you're awake and I'm awake. I know it's late, but… Listen, Steve, about earlier, about what happened. I feel I owe you an explanation."

"Forget it. I didn't mind…"

"You were mad at me because you thought I didn't like your music. Well, that wasn't true. That was the reverse of the truth, the exact reverse. What you played me, that version of 'Nearness of You'? I haven't been able to get it out of my head. No, I don't mean head, I mean heart. I haven't been able to get it out of my heart."

I didn't know what to say, and before I could think of anything she was talking again.

She took the CD from me as soon as she opened the door, like I was the delivery boy, but then grasped me by the wrist and led me in. Lindy was in the same glamorous dressing gown as before, but she looked a little less immaculate now: one side of the gown was hanging lower than the other, and a woolly dangle of fluff was caught on the back of her bandages near the neckline.

"Will you come over? Right now? Then I'll explain it all properly. And most important… No, no, I'm not saying. It's gonna be a surprise. Come on over and you'll see. And bring your CD again. Will you do that?"

"I take it you've been on one of your nocturnal walks," I said.

"I'm so glad you're up. I don't know if I could have waited till morning. Now listen, like I told you, I have a surprise. I hope you're gonna like it, I think you will. But first I want you to make yourself comfortable. We're gonna listen to your song again. Let me see, which track was it?"

I sat down on my usual sofa and watched her fussing with the hi-fi. The lighting in the room was soft, and the air felt pleasantly cool. Then "The Nearness of You" came on at high volume.

She began to sway to the music like before, only this time she didn't stop after a verse. In fact, she seemed to get more lost in the music the longer it went on, holding out her arms like she had an imaginary dance partner. When it finished, she turned it off and remained very still, standing at the end of the room with her back to me. She stayed like that for what felt like a long time, then finally came towards me.

"To hell with them. We pay enough for this place, it's not our problem. Now shhh! Listen, listen!"

"Don't you think this might disturb people?" I said.

"I knew it the first time. That's the truth. That's why I reacted the way I did. Pretending not to like it, pretending to be snotty?" She sat down facing me and sighed. "Tony used to pull me up about it. I've always done it, it's something I don't ever seem to get over. I run into a person who's, you know, who's really talented, someone who's just been blessed that way by God, and I can't help it, my first instinct is to do what I did with you. It's just, I don't know, I guess it's jealousy. It's like you see these women sometimes, they're kind of plain? A beautiful woman comes into the same room, they hate it, they want to claw her eyes out. That's the way I am when I meet someone like you. Especially if it's unexpected, the way it was today and I'm not ready. I mean, there you were, one minute I'm thinking you're just one of the public, then suddenly you're… well, something else. You know what I'm saying? Anyway, I'm trying to tell you why I behaved so badly earlier on. You had every right to be mad at me."

"I don't know what to say," she said. "It's sublime. You're a wonderful, wonderful musician. You're a genius."

"Well, thank you."

"Steve, I want you to come and receive this. This is going to be a presentation."

She stood up suddenly. "Now, the surprise! Just wait there, don't move."

The late-night silence hung between us for a while. "Well, I appreciate it," I said eventually. "I appreciate you telling me this."

I was puzzled, but got to my feet. As I went to her, she pulled off the handkerchief and held towards me a shiny brass ornament.

"Well, thanks. This is a surprise. Hey, this looks pretty. What is it? An alligator?"

She placed it in my hands and kissed me lightly on the cheek through the crêpe.

"An alligator? Come on! It's a pair of cute little cherubs kissing each other."

"You thoroughly deserve this. So it's yours. Jazz Musician of the Year. Maybe of all time. Congratulations."

She went through into the adjoining room and I could hear her opening and shutting drawers. When she came back, she was holding something in front of her with both hands, but I couldn't see what the something was, because she'd thrown a silk handkerchief over it. She halted in the middle of the room.

"Oh yeah, I can see it now. Well, thanks, Lindy. I don't know what to say. It's really beautiful."

"An alligator!"

"I see. And it's not possible, is it, this is the real award? I mean the actual gong they were going to hand to Jake?"

"Of course it's the real thing. What would be the point, giving you any old junk? There was an injustice about to be committed, but now justice has prevailed. That's all that matters. Hey, sweetie, come on. You know you're the one who deserves this award."

"Sure, that's what it says."

"Well, it's yours. You deserve it."

"I'm touched, Lindy. I really am. And what does this say down here? I don't have my glasses."

"It says 'Jazz Musician of the Year.' What else would it say?"

Lindy didn't reply for a few seconds, but kept standing there very still. Then she said:

"Sure. Sure it's possible."

"That's what it says?"

"I'm sorry. It's just the way this guy has his leg stretched all the way out. But I see now. It's really beautiful."

I went back to the sofa, holding the statuette, sat down and thought a little. "Say, Lindy," I said eventually. "This item you've just given me. It's not possible, is it, you came across it on one of your midnight walks?"

"Jesus."

"Sure, sure. So that was an hour ago, would you say?"

"An hour. Maybe two hours. Who knows? I was out there some time. I went to my presidential suite for a while."

"I appreciate your viewpoint. It's just that… well, this is kind of like stealing."

"I'm not turning it down, Lindy. The sentiment, the honor, all of that, I accept it all, I'm really happy about it. But this, the actual trophy. We're going to have to take it back. We'll have to put it back exactly where you found it."

"Stealing? Didn't you say yourself this guy's no good? A fake? And you're a genius. Who's trying to steal from who here?"

"Tonight? You picked it up tonight?"

She shrugged. "Just some place. One of the places I go. An office, you'd call it maybe."

"Lindy, where exactly did you come across this thing?"

"Look, who cares? What are you so worried about? They lose this one, they can just go get another one. They've probably got a closet full somewhere. I presented you with something you deserve. You're not going to turn it down, are you, Steve?"

"Of course I picked it up tonight. I didn't know about your award last night."

Once we'd agreed to take it back, Lindy became quite possessive about the award, holding it close to her bosom all the time we hurried through the passageways of the vast, sleeping hotel. She led the way down hidden stairways, along back corridors, past sauna rooms and vending machines. We didn't see or hear a soul. Then Lindy whispered: "It was this way," and we pushed through heavy doors into a dark space.

"Lindy, you haven't thought this through. What will you do when this gets out? Can you imagine what the press will do with this? The gossip, the scandal? What will your public say? Now come on. We're going out there right now before people start waking up. You're going to show me exactly where you found this thing."

Once I was sure we were alone, I switched on the flashlight I'd brought from Lindy's room and shone it around. We were in the ballroom, though if you were looking to dance just then, you'd have had trouble with all the dining tables, each one with its white linen cover and matching chairs. The ceiling had a fancy central chandelier. At the far end there was a raised stage, probably large enough to put on a fair-sized show, though right now the curtains were drawn across it. Someone had left a step-ladder in the middle of the room and an upright vacuum cleaner against the wall.

She suddenly looked like a kid who'd been scolded. Then she sighed and said: "I guess you're right, sweetie."

"Screw them! Who cares?"

"Of course it is. Where I found this" -- she held up the statuette -- "there were other ones too. Best Newcomer. R&B Album of the Year. That kind of stuff. It's going to be a big event."

I wandered further into the room and threw the torch beam around some more. "Maybe this is where it's going to happen. Where they're going to give Jake his award."

Now my eyes had adjusted, I could see the place better, even though the flashlight wasn't so powerful. And for a moment, as I stood there looking up at the stage, I could imagine the way the place would look later on. I imagined all the people in their fancy clothes, the record-company men, the big-time promoters, the random showbiz celebrities, laughing and praising each other; the fawningly sincere applause every time the MC mentioned the name of a sponsor; more applause, this time with whoops and cheers, when the award winners went up. I imagined Jake Marvell up on that stage, holding his trophy, the same smug smile he'd always have in San Diego when he'd finished a solo and the audience had clapped.

"It's going to be some party," she said. "Four hundred, five hundred people?"

"How do I know?" I felt a sudden tide of irritation. "How do I know? Well, think about it. A panel that considers Jake Marvell the year's outstanding jazz musician. What other kind of people are they going to honor?"

I waited for Lindy to say something to this, but nothing came. Then when she did speak, there was some new note, something tighter, in her voice.

"Yeah?" Lindy sounded puzzled. "Is that what you want to do, sweetie?"

"Maybe we've got this wrong," I said. "Maybe there's no need to return this. Maybe we should throw it in the garbage. And all the other awards you found with it."

I let out a sigh. "No, I guess not. But it would be… satisfying, wouldn't it? All those awards in the garbage. I bet every one of those winners is a fake. I bet there isn't enough talent between the lot of them to fill a hot-dog bun."

"How do you know some of these guys aren't okay? How do you know some of them don't deserve their award?"

"But what do you know about these guys? Even this Jake fella. How do you know he didn't work really hard to get where he has?"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean? How dare you speak to me that way?!"

"Your opinion? So this is your opinion? I guess I shouldn't be so surprised. For a moment there, I was forgetting who you were."

"What is this? You're Jake's greatest fan now?"

Eventually, she indicated with the statuette towards the back of the hall, then led the way past the tables, still not speaking. When we were there, I put my ear against the door for a few seconds, and hearing nothing, opened it carefully.

"I'm just expressing my opinion."

Lindy had gone silent, and when I turned to face her, I couldn't see well enough in the light to guess what she was thinking.

We were in a long narrow space that seemed to run parallel with the ballroom. A dim light had been left on somewhere, so we could just about make things out without the flashlight. It was obviously not the office we were after, but some kind of catering-cum-kitchen area. Long extended work counters ran along both walls, leaving a gangway down the middle wide enough for staff to put final touches to the food.

It occurred to me I was losing my grip. I said quickly: "Okay, I'm out of line. I'm sorry. Now let's go find this office."

"Lindy, where's this office? We need to find it."

She reached towards the turkey. Then suddenly she straightened and turned to face me.

"What you were saying. When you said you weren't surprised. About my opinion. What was that about?"

"Do you think they'd mind if I pulled off a leg?"

She was leaning over a plump roast turkey. Instead of replacing the lid, she laid it down carefully next to the bird.

"I think they'd mind a lot, Lindy. But what the hell."

"It's a big baby. You want to share a leg with me?"

"Okay. Here goes."

"Sure, why not?"

"Hey, cookies!" She seemed completely to have regained her equanimity. "Too bad it's all under cellophane. I'm famished. Look! Let's see what's under this one."

She went on a few more steps, to a big dome-shaped lid, and raised it. "Look at this, sweetie. This looks really good."

"So what was that supposed to mean back there?"

"What was what supposed to mean?"

But Lindy seemed to recognise the place and went striding purposefully down the gangway. About halfway along, she stopped suddenly to examine one of the baking trays left on the counter.

"Look, all I'm saying is that the wrong people end up with the awards. That's all. But you seem to know better. You think that's not what happens…"

"Look, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be offensive. Just thinking aloud, that's all."

"Thinking aloud? Well, how about thinking aloud some more? So I suggest some of these guys may have deserved their awards, why is that a ridiculous statement?"

"So you don't think I work hard? You think I sit on my ass all day? I sweat and heave and break my balls to come up with something worthwhile, something beautiful, then who is it gets the recognition? Jake Marvell! People like you!"

"Some of those guys, maybe they worked damn hard to get where they have. And maybe they deserve a little recognition. The trouble with people like you, just because God's given you this special gift, you think that entitles you to everything. That you're better than the rest of us, that you deserve to go to the front of the line every time. You don't see there's a whole lot of other people weren't as lucky as you who work really hard for their place in the world…"

"No prizes? No prizes? Look at you! Who gets to be famous? Who gets the fancy houses…"

"How fucking dare you! What do I have to do with this? Am I getting an award today? Has anyone ever given me a goddamn award? Have I ever had anything, even in school, one lousy certificate for singing or dancing or any damn thing else? No! Not a fucking thing! I had to watch all of you, all you creeps, going up there, getting the prizes, and all the parents clapping…"

At that moment someone flicked a switch and we were blinking at each other under harsh bright lights. Two men had come in the same way we had, and were now moving towards us. The gangway was just wide enough to let them walk side by side. One was a huge black guy in a hotel security guard's uniform, and what I first thought was a gun in his hand was a two-way radio. Beside him was a small white man in a light-blue suit with slick black hair. Neither of them looked particularly deferential. They stopped a yard or two away, then the small guy took an ID out of his jacket.

"That's right, officer!" Lindy's voice was still way over the top. "We got a little hungry, the way I'm sure you do too sometimes in the night."

"Guests of the hotel?"

"I guess room service isn't up to much," the cop said.

"We were having trouble sleeping," Lindy said. "So we were just walking."

"No, it's not so good," I said.

We both started to answer at once, then laughed. But neither of the men laughed or smiled.

"Good evening," I said.

I felt the soft material of Lindy's night-gown brush against my back. Then she'd taken my arm and we were standing side by side.

"Good evening, ma'am," the cop said. "And are you folks up at this time for any special reason?"

"Good evening, officer," she said in a sleepy, honeydew voice quite unlike her usual one.

"LAPD," he said. "Name's Morgan."

"Just walking." The cop looked around in the stark white light. "Maybe looking for something to eat."

"Yes, we are," I said. "We're guests."

For a moment the cop and the security guard went on looking at us in silence. Then the cop asked:

"Just the usual stuff," the cop said. "Steaks, pizzas, hamburgers, triple-decker clubs. I know because I just ordered from all-night room service myself. But I guess you folks don't like that kind of food."

"Sorry to trouble you folks. But you understand this area isn't open to guests. And one or two items have gone missing just lately."

"Well, you know how it is, officer," Lindy said. "It's the fun. The fun of creeping down and taking a bite, you know, a little bit forbidden, the way you did when you were a kid?"

Neither man showed any sign of melting. But the cop said:

"Really?"

"Yeah. You folks see anything odd or suspicious tonight?"

"No," I said. "We haven't seen anything odd."

The security guard had been coming closer, and now he came past us, squeezing his bulk along the counter. I realised the plan was for him to check us over more closely, to see if maybe we were concealing anything on our persons, while his partner kept us talking.

Lindy and I looked at each other, then she shook her head at me dramatically.

"Nothing at all?"

"So that's why you're here with us," Lindy said. "To protect us and our belongings."

"Not exactly, ma'am. But certain items of value have gone missing."

"No, nothing," I said. "What kind of thing did you have in mind?"

The interview seemed to be over and the cop moved aside to let us out. Relieved, I made a move to go, but Lindy said:

"Do you mean, officer," Lindy said with shocked horror, "that rooms have been broken into?"

"Suspicious people. Unusual activity."

"I suppose it was kind of naughty of us, coming down here to eat. We thought about helping ourselves to some of that gateau over there, but then we thought it might be for a special occasion and it would be such a shame to spoil it."

I could sense the security guard shift behind us.

"That's right, ma'am." The cop's gaze moved fractionally, and I got the impression he'd exchanged a look with the man behind us. "So if you see anything odd, please call security right away."

"This hotel has good room service," the cop said. "Twenty-four hours."

"And was it good?"

"Sure."

"Officer, may I ask you something?" she asked. "Do you mind?"

"I don't know what you mean, ma'am."

I tugged at Lindy, but she seemed now to be seized by the oft-cited mania of criminals to flirt with being caught.

"Let's leave these gentlemen to get on with their investigations," I said, tugging at her arm. But still she didn't budge.

"You were talking just now about seeing something odd. You see anything odd yourself? I mean, about us?"

"And you just ordered something up yourself, officer?"

"Come on," I said, pulling her along now quite forcefully. I could feel both men staring at our backs all the way to the exit.

"Oh, I see," Lindy said. Then turning to me: "Wasn't that considerate of him?"

The cop looked at us carefully, as though to verify this last statement. Then he said: "As a matter of fact, I did notice, ma'am, yes. But I didn't wish to make personal remarks."

"It was pretty good. I recommend you folks do the same."

"Like we both of us have our faces entirely wrapped in bandages? Did you notice that?"

"Try me."

When we stepped out of the elevator, she put her arm through mine again. "Okay, we're safe," she said. "Now I want to take you somewhere. This is really something. See this?" She was holding up a key card. "Let's see what this can do for us."

She used the card to get us through a door marked "Private," then a door marked "Danger. Keep Out." Then we were standing in a space smelling of paint and plaster. There were cables dangling from the walls and ceiling, and the cold floor was splashed and mottled. We could see fine because one side of the room was entirely glass -- unadorned by curtains or blinds -- and all the outdoor lighting was filling the place with yellowish patches. We were up even higher than on our floor: there was in front of us a helicopter-style view over the freeway and the surrounding territory.

We crossed the ballroom with an outward show of calm. But once we were past the big swing doors, we gave in to panic and broke into a near-run. Our arms stayed linked, so we did a lot of stumbling and colliding as Lindy led me through the building. Then she pulled me into a service elevator, and only when the doors closed and we were climbing did she let go, lean back against the metal wall and start up a weird noise, which I realised was how hysterical laughter sounds coming through bandages.

"It's going to be a new presidential suite," Lindy said. "I love coming here. No light switches yet, no carpet. But it's slowly coming together. When I first found it, it was much rougher. Now you can see how it'll look. There's even this couch now."

In the centre of the room was a bulky shape with a sheet draped completely over it. Lindy went to it like it was an old friend and flopped down tiredly.

"It's my fantasy," she said, "but I kind of believe in it. They're building this room just for me. That's why I get to be in here. All of this. It's because they're helping me. Helping me build my future. This place used to be a real mess. But look at it now. It's taking shape. It's gonna be grand." She patted the space next to her. "Come on, sweetie, have a rest. I'm feeling drained. You must be too."

"Boy, am I sleepy," Lindy said, and her weight fell onto my shoulder. "Isn't this a great place? I found the key in the slot, first time I came here."

The couch -- or whatever it was under the sheet -- was surprisingly comfortable, and as soon as I'd sunk into it, I felt waves of tiredness coming over me.

"The award? Oh yeah. The award. I hid it. What else could I do? You know, sweetie, you really deserved that award. I hope it means something to you, my presenting it to you tonight, the way I did. It wasn't just a whim. I thought about it. I thought about it really carefully. I don't know if it means much to you. I don't know if you'll even remember it ten years, twenty years down the line."

"Mmm?" She was falling asleep again. "I hid it the only place I could. I put it in that turkey."

"Hey, Lindy."

"Mmm?"

We were quiet for a while, and I felt myself falling asleep. But then I remembered something.

"Lindy. What happened to that award?"

"I will for sure. And it does mean a lot to me. But Lindy, you say you hid it, but where? Where did you hide it?"

"I did exactly the same thing once when I was nine years old. I hid my sister's glowball inside a turkey. That's what gave me the idea. Quick thinking, right?"

"You put it in the turkey."

"Yeah, it sure was." I felt so tired, but I forced myself to focus. "But Lindy, how well did you hide it? I mean, would those cops have found it by now?"

She slumped against me and the next moment she was making snoring noises. Concerned about her surgery, I adjusted her head carefully so her cheek wasn't pressing on my shoulder. Then I too began to drift off.

"I don't see how. There wasn't anything sticking out, if that's what you mean. Why would they think to look up there? I was pushing it behind my back, like this. And kept pushing. I didn't turn around to look at it, because then those boys would have wondered what I was doing. It wasn't just a whim, you know. Deciding to give you that award. I thought about it, real hard. I sure hope it means something to you. God, I need to sleep."

I woke with a jerk and saw signs of dawn in the big window in front of us. Lindy was still fast asleep, so I carefully extricated myself from her, stood up and stretched my arms. I went to the window and looked at the pale sky and the freeway far below. Something had been on my mind as I was falling asleep and I tried to remember what it was, but my brain was foggy and exhausted. Then I remembered, and I went to the couch and shook Lindy awake.

"They find the thing in there, they report the big find. Then that cop remembers us. He remembers we were there, standing next to that turkey."

"What is it? What is it? Whaddaya want?" she said without opening her eyes.

"I told you already. It's in that turkey."

"Sweetie, are you sure we have to do this? I'm so tired now."

"So what? So they find the thing in there. So what?"

"Lindy," I said. "The award. We've forgotten about the award."

"Crime? Hey, what do you mean crime?"

"While that trophy stays in the turkey, they can link us to the crime."

"We have to do it, Lindy. We leave it the way it is, you'll get in trouble. And remember that means a big story for the press."

"Doesn't matter what you call it. We need to go back there and get that thing out of the turkey. It doesn't matter where we leave it after that. But we can't leave it where it is now."

"Okay, so listen. Those cops may not have thought to look inside the turkey. But sooner or later, someone's going to find it. Maybe someone's carving it right now."

Lindy seemed to get more awake. "Yeah," she said. "I see what you're saying."

"No wonder we couldn't find that office with all the awards," she said. "This is the wrong ballroom."

This time round there were cleaning noises and voices down corridors, but we still made it back to the ballroom without encountering anyone. There was also more light to see by, and Lindy pointed out the notice beside the double doors. It said in plastic mix-and-spell letters: J. A. POOL CLEANSERS INC BREAKFAST.

Lindy thought about this, then she straightened up her posture a few notches and looked up at me. "Okay," she said. "Let's go back there."

We crossed the ballroom, then cautiously entered the catering room. Like before, a dim light had been left on, and now there was also some natural light from the ventilation windows. There was nobody in sight, but when I glanced along the work counters, I saw we were in trouble.

"It makes no difference. What we want is in there now."

"Looks like someone's been here," I said.

"Yeah." Lindy took a few steps down the gangway, glancing about her. "Yeah. Looks that way."

All the canisters, trays, cake-boxes, silver-domed platters we'd seen earlier had vanished. In their place were neat piles of plates and napkins positioned at regular intervals.

Lindy wandered further down the gangway, then turned to me. "Remember, Steve, the last time we were here, before those men came in? We were having quite a discussion."

"Okay, so they've moved all the food," I said. "Question is, where to?"

"Yeah, I remember. But why go over that again? I know I was out of line."

"Yeah right, let's forget it. So where's that turkey gone?" She glanced around some more. "You know what, Steve? When I was a kid, I so wanted to be a dancer and a singer. And I tried and tried, God knows I tried, but people just laughed, and I thought, this world is so unfair. But then I grew up a little and I realised the world wasn't so unfair after all. That even if you were like me, one of the unblessed, there was still a chance for you, you could still find a place in the sun, you didn't have to settle for being just public. It wasn't going to be easy. You'd have to work at it, not mind what people said. But there was definitely still a chance."

At the far end of the room, where the counters came to an end, there were three steps leading up to a green door.

"Well, it looks like you did okay."

"It's funny the way this world works. You know, I think it was very insightful. On the part of your wife, I mean. Telling you to get this surgery."

"Let's leave her out of it. Hey, Lindy, do you know where that leads? Over there?"

We opened the door as cautiously as the last one, then for a while I became utterly disoriented. Everything was very dark and each time I tried to turn I found I was beating back curtain material or else tarpaulin. Lindy, who'd taken the flashlight, seemed to be doing better somewhere in front of me. Then I stumbled out into a dark space, where she was waiting for me, shining the torch at my feet.

"That's because we're not exactly together just now. Since you must know."

"Why don't we try it?" Lindy said.

"I've noticed," she said, in a whisper. "You don't like talking about her. Your wife, I mean."

"It's not that exactly," I whispered back. "Where are we?"

"And she never comes to visit."

"Hey, sweetie, look! This is it! We've found it!"

"About you and your wife being separated."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be nosy."

"Talk about what?"

"You didn't mean to be nosy?!"

"Well, it isn't. It's just a temporary thing, something we're trying out. Hey, I've got something. There's something in here. This is it."

She was pointing the beam at a table a short distance away. It had a white tablecloth on it, and two silver domes side by side.

"You have to get right in there. I pushed it right up. These birds are bigger than you think."

"Nothing here," I said.

"I'm telling you there's nothing in there. Hold the flashlight over here. We'll try this other one." I carefully took the lid off the second turkey.

I went up to the first dome and carefully raised it. Sure enough, there was a fat roast turkey sitting there. I searched out its cavity and inserted a finger.

"Did I say we were separated? Did I say that?"

"I said we weren't exactly together. That's not the same thing."

"It sounds the same thing…"

"You know, Steve, I think it's a mistake. You shouldn't be embarrassed to talk about it."

"I thought…"

"What do you think I'm trying to do?! Jesus! Did you have to push it in so far?"

"Then why don't you pull it out, sweetie?"

I whispered to Lindy to turn off the flashlight and it went dark. She said into my ear: "Let's get out of here," and I could hear her creeping away. I tried again to pull the statuette out of the turkey, but now I was afraid of making noise, and besides, my fingers just couldn't get any purchase.

At first it was hard to say how many of them there were. Then the voice came closer and I realised it was just the one guy, talking continuously into a cellphone. I also realised exactly where we were. I'd been thinking we'd wandered into some vague backstage area, but in fact we were up on the stage itself, and the curtain facing me was the only thing now dividing us from the ballroom. The man on the cellphone, then, was walking across the floor of the ballroom towards the stage.

"Sssh! There's someone out there!"

The voice kept coming closer until it felt like the guy was right there in front of me.

"… It's not my problem, Larry. We need the logos to be on these menu cards. I don't care how you do it. Okay, then you do it yourself. That's right, you do it yourself, bring them over yourself, I don't care how you do it. Just get them here this morning, seven-thirty latest. We need those things here. The tables look fine. There are plenty of tables, trust me. Okay. I'll check that out. Okay, okay. Yeah. I'm gonna check that out right now."

For the last part of this, his voice had been moving over to one side of the room. He must now have flicked a switch on some wall panel, because a strong beam came on directly above me, and also a whirring noise like the air-conditioning had come on. Only I realised the noise wasn't the air-conditioning, but the curtains opening in front of me.

Twice in my career I've had it happen when I've been on stage, I've had a solo to play, and suddenly it hits me I don't know how to start, which key I'm in, how the chords change. On both occasions this happened, I just froze up, like I was in a still from a movie, until one of the other boys stepped in to the rescue. It's only happened twice in over twenty years of playing professionally. Anyway, this is how I reacted to the spotlight coming on above me and the curtains starting to move. I just froze. And I felt oddly detached. I felt a kind of mild curiosity concerning what I'd see once the curtain was gone.

What I saw was the ballroom, and from the vantage point of the stage, I could appreciate better the way the tables were laid out in two parallel lines all the way to the back. The spot above me was putting the room in shade a little, but I could make out the chandelier and the fancy ceiling.

The cellphone man was an overweight bald guy in a pale suit and open-neck shirt. He must have walked away from the wall as soon as he'd flicked the switch, because now he was more or less level with me. He had his phone pressed to his ear, and from his expression you'd guess he was listening with extra attention to what was being said at the other end. But I supposed he wasn't, because his eyes were fixed on me. He kept looking at me and I kept looking at him, and the situation might have gone on indefinitely if he hadn't said into the phone, maybe in response to a query about why he'd gone silent:

"It's all right. It's all right. It's a man." There was a pause, then he said: "I thought for a moment it was something else. But it's a man. With a bandaged head, wearing a night-gown. That's all it is, I see it now. It's just that he's got a chicken or something on the end of his arm."

I don't remember how we got back to our floor. I was lost again in a mess of curtains coming off the stage, then she was there pulling me by the hand. Next thing, we were hurrying through the hotel, no longer caring how much noise we made or who saw us. Somewhere along the way I left the statuette on a room-service tray outside a bedroom, beside the remains of someone's supper.

"How the hell do I know? Some kind of magic show maybe."

"No, it's exactly what I say. And now he's taking his chicken off. Oh, and he's producing something out of it. Hey, fella, what is that? An alligator?"

Straightening up, I instinctively started to stretch out my arms in a shrugging motion. My right hand still being inside the turkey beyond the wrist, the sheer weight brought the whole arrangement back down with a crash. But at least I'd no more worries about concealment, so I went right at it, no holds barred, in an effort to extricate both my hand and the statuette. Meanwhile the man went on talking into his phone.

These last words he'd addressed to me with admirable nonchalance. But now I had the statuette in my hands and the turkey fell to the floor with a thud. As I hurried towards the darkness behind me, I heard the man say to his friend:

Back in her room, we flopped down into a sofa and laughed. We laughed till we were collapsing into each other, then she got up, went to the window and raised the blinds. It was now light outside, though the morning was overcast. She went to her cabinet to mix drinks -- "the world's sexiest alcohol-free cocktail" -- and brought me over a glass. I thought she'd sit down beside me, but she drifted back towards the window, sipping from her own glass.

"Yeah. I suppose so."

"Even last week, I didn't think about it so much. It seemed such a long way off. But now it's not so long."

"You looking forward to it, Steve?" she asked after a while. "To the bandages coming off?"

"That's right," I said. "It's not long for me either." Then I said quietly: "Jesus."

She sipped her drink and looked out of the window. Then I heard her say: "Hey, sweetie, what's the matter with you?"

She kept looking at me for a while. "I tell you, Steve," she said eventually. "It's gonna be fine. Boris is the best. You'll see."

"I'm fine. I just need to get some sleep, that's all."

"Hey, come on!" She took a few steps towards me. "Cheer up there. You're not still mad at me, are you? We were a great team down there, weren't we? And I'll tell you something else. From now on I'm gonna stay part of your team. You're a goddamn genius, and I'm gonna make sure things go well for you."

"Yeah."

"Hey, what's wrong with you? Listen, this is my third time. Second time with Boris. It's gonna be just fine. You're gonna look great, just great. And your career. From here it's gonna rocket."

"Maybe."

"No maybe about it! It'll make such a difference, believe me. You'll be in magazines, you'll be on TV."

I said nothing to this.

"It won't work, Lindy." I shook my head. "It won't work."

"Like hell it won't work. I'll talk to people. People who can do you a lot of good."

"Hey, come on. I may not be married to Tony anymore, but I still have a lot of good friends in this town."

I kept shaking my head. "I appreciate it. But it's no use. It won't work. It was never going to work. I should never have listened to Bradley."

"Sure, Lindy, I know that. But it's no use. You see, Bradley, that's my manager, he talked me into this whole thing. I was an idiot to listen to him, but I couldn't help it. I was at my wit's end, and then he came out with this theory. He said my wife, Helen, she had this scheme. She hadn't really left me. No, it was all part of this scheme she had. She was doing it all for me, to make it possible for me to get this surgery. And when the bandages came off, and I had a new face, she'd come back and it'd be all right again. That's what Bradley said. Even when he was saying it, I knew it was bullshit, but what could I do? It was some kind of hope at least. Bradley used it, he used it, he's like that, you know? He's lowlife. All he thinks about is business. And about the big league. What does he care if she comes back or not?"

"Look, sweetie, listen. I hope your wife comes back. I really do. But if she doesn't, well, you've just got to start getting some perspective. She might be a great person, but life's so much bigger than just loving someone. You got to get out there, Steve. Someone like you, you don't belong with the public. Look at me. When these bandages come off, am I really going to look the way I did twenty years ago? I don't know. And it's a long time since I was last between husbands. But I'm going to go out there anyway and give it a go." She came over to me and shoved me on the shoulder. "Hey. You're just tired. You'll feel a lot better after some sleep. Listen. Boris is the best. He'll have fixed it, for the both of us. You just see."

I stopped and she didn't say anything for a long time. Then she said:

I put my glass down on the table and stood up. "I guess you're right. Like you say, Boris is the best. And we were a good team down there."

"We were a great team down there."

I reached forward, put my hands on her shoulders, then kissed each of her bandaged cheeks. "You have yourself a good sleep," I said. "I'll come over soon and we'll play more chess."

But after that morning, we didn't see much more of each other. When I thought about it later, it occurred to me there'd been some things said during the course of that night, things I should maybe have apologised about, or at least tried to explain. At the time, though, once we'd made it back to her room, and we'd been laughing together on the sofa, it hadn't seemed necessary, or even right, to bring all of that up again. When we parted that morning, I thought the two of us were well beyond that stage. Even so, I'd seen how Lindy could switch. Maybe later on, she thought back and got mad at me all over again. Who knows? Anyway, though I'd expected a call from her later that day, it never came, and neither did one come the day after. Instead, I heard Tony Gardner records through the wall, playing at top volume, one after the next.

So that's the story of my time as Lindy Gardner's neighbor. I wish her well. As for me, it's six more days till my own unveiling, and a lot longer still before I'm allowed to blow a horn. But I'm used to this life now, and I pass the hours quite contentedly. Yesterday I got a call from Helen asking how I was doing, and when I told her I'd gotten to know Lindy Gardner, she was mightily impressed.

Then two evenings ago she knocked on my door and said she was about to check out. Boris was pleased with her and had agreed to take the bandages off in her own house. We said our goodbyes in a friendly way, but it was like our real goodbyes had been said already, that morning right after our escapade, when I'd reached forward and kissed her on both cheeks.

When I did eventually go round there, maybe four days later, she was welcoming, but distant. Like that first time, she talked a lot about her famous friends -- though none of it about getting them to help with my career. Still, I didn't mind that. We gave chess a try, but her phone kept ringing and she'd go into the bedroom to talk.

We talked a lot of unimportant stuff -- what she'd watched on TV, how her friend had stopped by with her baby. Then she said Prendergast was asking for me, and when she said that, there was a noticeable tightening in her voice. And I almost said: "Hello? Do I detect a note of irritation associated with lover boy's name?" But I didn't. I just said to say hi to him, and she didn't bring him up again. I'd probably imagined it anyway. For all I know, she was just angling for me to say how grateful I was to him.

"Hasn't she married again?" she asked. And when I put her straight on that, she said: "Oh, right. I must have been thinking about that other one. You know. What's her name."

When she was about to go, I said: "I love you," in that fast, routine way you say it at the end of a call with a spouse. There was a silence of a few seconds, then she said it back, in the same routine way. Then she was gone. God knows what that meant. There's nothing to do now, I guess, but wait for these bandages to come off. And then what? Maybe Lindy's right. Maybe, like she says, I need some perspective, and life really is much bigger than loving a person. Maybe this really is a turning point for me, and the big league's waiting. Maybe she's right.