Cal went out of his way to make me feel comfortable. He introduced me to his manager, Nancy, and her husband, John, and I talked to them for a while. They both had soft handshakes and shiny silver threads of coarse hair at their temples, and had come with one of Nancy’s other clients, Loring Blackman, another famous musician who writes songs for other artists now. I got a kick out of meeting him because I’d listened to his music a lot in college. Loring and his wife, a jewelry designer, told me they lived in a brownstone three doors down from Cal in Brooklyn and were in town visiting one of Loring’s sons, who went to UC Berkeley. Cal told them I’d graduated from there and they asked me a lot of questions, the kind it didn’t bother me to answer. They were sweet and attentive with each other, and something about the way they interacted made me imagine for an instant that October and I could have ended up like that, had it not been for Cal. Deep down I didn’t believe it—I didn’t think I was brave enough to go the distance with a woman like October. Nevertheless, it made me feel better to have someone to blame other than myself.

The last to arrive was a photographer named Guy. He had a big, egg-shaped head, a long beard, and a loud, fuzzy voice like he was speaking through a distortion pedal. The first thing he told me was that he’d shot Cal’s last two album campaigns “but not his first one, because he couldn’t afford me then.” Guy was wearing a fur vest, and I disliked him within thirty seconds of our meeting. He was twitchy, reminiscent of an old neighbor in Berkeley who did a lot of bad drugs. The other thing I disliked about Guy was that he was very touchy-feely with October, resting his hand on her back as he spoke to her. And I could tell by the way she flinched and walked away that she disliked him too. She’s sensitive to touch, especially to someone who’s full of negative energy.

Guy had arrived with two models in tow. They had similar names that I can’t recall now, Carla and Claire, or something like that. They seemed nice enough, but they spoke with extreme Southern California accents—you know that monotone way of talking as if nothing matters—that made me want to bang my head against a wall.