Cherry Bomb

by Jenny Valentish

  The next morning I was wandering around Dad’s with my phone in one hand and the kettle in the other when Kane started prodding me via FaceTime. I let it ring a few times while I pencilled in my eyebrows and got my hair sorted, then I picked up.

  He arranged his face into contrition when I sliced through the niceties.

  ‘Did you want something, Kane?’

  ‘So . . . I told you India came up to be in my video . . .’ he began cautiously.

  ‘No. You didn’t tell me, actually.’

  He gave the impression of one who was getting old and befuddled. ‘Ah. Well, she did, and there was a bit of a thing,’ he said, ‘but it’s over already.’

  I had his Twitter feed open on my laptop; I was sitting there, at the kitchen bench, staring at it. Kane had me over a barrel, though—he knew I couldn’t raise too loud a fuss, not with a record coming out, and he knew that it wasn’t my style anyway.

  He tried a rueful laugh. ‘I’ve reached a new low. Things have been really bad, actually. If you knew what I’d been going through, you’d probably feel sorry for me.’

  I suddenly understood: Kane loved the drama. Faithless Kane, who jacked into my masochistic side and had me ready to risk my reputation, just wanted to feel a bit shocking. The inevitable sorrow and regret was all part of the package.

  ‘I’ve written a new song about you,’ he said, in an attempt to lift the mood.

  ‘Yeah? What’s it called, “Sucker”?’

  He tried to control his face, but there was a frisson of irritation from him, the front dropping already. Already. Kane, I thought, I would have let you ruin me.

  ‘I’d better go,’ I said.

  ‘Look . . . okay,’ he said, regaining composure. ‘Can we please talk again? Please? It’s really important to me. This has been my worst-case scenario, having this conversation with you.’

  ‘It’s okay, Kane, I’m not that bothered,’ I said. ‘This can be a practice run for when your wife finds out.’

  And I decided, as we disconnected, that I wasn’t going to write a better song about Kane than the song that he’d written about me. I just wasn’t going to write a song at all. He and India could continue to embarrass themselves on Twitter; I was going to take the higher ground.

  TOP 5 TAKING-THE-HIGHER-GROUND POSTS ON TWITTER

  1. YouTube: Carly Simon, ‘You’re So Vain’

  2. YouTube: Martha Wainwright, ‘Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole’

  3. YouTube: Kelis, ‘I Hate You So Much Right Now’

  4. Twitpic: Poolside at the Park Hyatt with band of handsomes and an espresso martini

  5. YouTube: Red Hot Chili Peppers, ‘Higher Ground’

  •

  Back at the rehearsal studio, the band we were auditioning for Flood Aid seemed to come as a package. It was like Jenner ordered them from IKEA in flat-pack form. Once assembled they looked like the sort of blandly handsome types who slipped rowies into girls’ drinks in wine bars. As we walked in, barricaded behind our sunglasses, they were trying to bash out ‘Cheap’.

  A choreographer stood facing them, a frown on his face. Mickiewicz had hired him to get them moving in a V-formation behind us. Rose and I stood and watched, forcing smiles. I had to feel a bit sorry for them—choreography was a humiliating experience. Jenner once got us stagecraft lessons from a performance coach, who lectured us on everything from how to stand while we were waiting for the breakfast TV host to walk over and thank us, to how to punch the air in a middle-eight. We’d had to laugh at that last one—we’d been busting those moves since high school.

  ‘What’ll we call them?’ Rose whispered to me, breaking away from Andrea for a moment. ‘I’m never going to remember their names.’

  We were starting to gain a reputation for being unable to retain band members in either hemisphere. They were always leaving in huffs, from the bassist who lost his rat’s tail when he dared Rose to cut it off, to the keyboard player who was accidentally left in the hotel when the rest of us were driven to the airport. It wasn’t our job to notice.

  ‘Rose?’ said Jenner, into the mic in the middle of the room, where he’d been talking in a low voice to the stooges. He put on a deep, doomy voice. ‘Rose Dall. Would you care to join us for this number?’

  The stooges cranked up ‘Fight Like a Girl’ and when they hit their stride Rose stepped up to the mic, sunglasses still on.

  Straightaway I sensed something different. She’d had singing lessons. Actually, there were all sorts of thing going on: not just the improved vocal control, but also the character details, such as the new rolling of the ‘r’s and the tough sexiness. Rose was going for a shtick. Amy Winehouse had her querulous contralto, Alannah Dall had her cheese-grater rasp, Lindsey Troy from Deap Vally did her Jack-White-on-an-empty-stomach. Rose was going for foxy French chanteuse, or something. Was this because of the time I told her she’d never be Stevie Nicks?

  Andrea was watching Rose intently, hugging a folder to her chest. I sighed as Jenner came over and put a companionable arm around my shoulder.

  ‘You’re both sounding phenomenal,’ he said, always knowing what to say at the right time, at the right dosage. ‘The songs are fitting together like light and shade. You should be very proud of this record, Nina Dall.’

  ‘I am,’ I conceded. ‘We are.’

  As Rose ran the band through ‘Ermine Queen’, I made for a stack of magazines in the kitchen. Cosmo had a quote from me in it: ‘If you’re having a bad hair day, always make sure your lipstick is louder than your hair.’

  They always made me sound stupid.

  Five minutes into flipping through The Score, I found a story that made my heart contort. It was confirmed: John Villiers was ‘on the comeback trail’ with Alannah Dall. The new music was reported to be ‘bold and compelling’. Moreover, John Villiers was quoted as saying he found it refreshing working with an old friend who knew the ropes and didn’t need nannying. [Laughter.] There was no mention of what he thought of my sex video.

  •

  When Grayson flew over from LA, I fully expected my cousin to disappear from view, but instead she invited me out with them.

  Rose was in the middle of arranging one of her songs with Noakes in the studio. ‘Gilded Cage’ was a strong tune—a single. Lyrically, it was her masochistic Britney fantasy of being so famous that nobody would let her out of their sight. Whole teams of men would write those songs for Britney, but Rose had written this one by herself.

  I wasn’t enjoying being back in Noakes’ sphere, but Rose wasn’t bothered. She reckoned his studio was better than Glasshouse because it had table football and a juice bar. When the session overran, I offered to pick up Grayson from her apartment in a cab. Rose’s place was in leafy Glebe, overlooking the lights of the city across Blackwattle Bay. It was a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar reminder that I should have the meeting with our accountant that I’d been putting off all year. I ought to be investing my money in things other than beer, hotel rooms and cowboy boots.

  Grayson was waiting outside in a duffel coat with a man-bag at his feet when the cab pulled up. I popped the door.

  ‘G’day,’ I said.

  He climbed in and kissed both my cheeks. ‘So good to see you,’ he said. ‘I love your hair.’

  He wasn’t wrong. I’d reached a good four inches now and it was blonde again. I ran a hand through it and fluffed it up as the cab pulled out onto Glebe Point Road.

  ‘Whoops,’ he said, as a Mazda driver sounded her horn. ‘So, what’s going on in the studio today? Is the album sounding amazing?’

  ‘Oh, we haven’t started yet,’ I told him. ‘It’s pre-production. That’s when you sort out the arrangements and tempos, maybe bash out a rough version with the band. When it comes to recording properly we’ll be laying down our parts one by one and going into lockdown mode—no hangers-on.’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear it,’ he said. ‘Rose says your new songs are going to kill it.’

  I braced my hand against th
e door as the driver weaved into the oncoming lane to overtake. ‘We sound so different on this album,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what people are going to think—it’s like two different bands.’

  ‘That could work,’ he said amiably. ‘It brings more texture.’

  Such a Rose word, texture. See also: rich tapestry, embroider, fabric. Her sense of fashion was always spilling over into her music.

  ‘She’s worried people take your songs more seriously than hers,’ he continued. ‘I mean, I love Rose’s songs, but she can’t write without your input. She’s found getting her material ready this past month a real struggle.’

  ‘It sounds great,’ I said, surprised.

  ‘I know, that’s what I said. But she values your judgement. She loves you, man, what can I say?’

  I chewed on that. ‘You’ve probably noticed we have our issues,’ I said.

  ‘Songwriters aren’t necessarily supposed to get along,’ he reasoned. ‘Look at the classic partnerships. But you’re family. You know you want the best for each other at the end of the day. That’s all that matters.’

  We slowed down into the traffic jam on George Street. Normally I’d be frustrated by the wait, but being with Grayson was like reading The Little Book of Calm. I was beginning to understand what Rose saw in him.

  I hung my arm out of the window and turned my head away. A ton of frozen yoghurt places had sprung up. What was that all about?

  ‘With all the attention you get, she’s probably worried she’s just seen as your plus-one,’ he ventured.

  ‘I hate the headlines,’ I said. ‘I don’t want the attention; I lie awake worrying about it all the time.’ I told him about the website listing all the men I’d slept with, which wasn’t even accurate, and the interview that electro artist Martine did, in which she alledged John Villiers wrote all our lyrics.

  Grayson laughed. ‘I get called an emo vampire and compared to ageing lesbians. There’s a whole Tumblr full of photos of me to prove their point. It’s the hair—they can’t handle it.’

  I laughed too. ‘You’re not an ageing lesbian, you’re a spunkrat,’ I said. ‘You turned Rose straight, didn’t you?’

  When we got to Noakes’ studio our crew were loading the gear for our recording stint the following week. Grayson and I slipped past them and into the control room, where Noakes was sitting with Rose.

  ‘Listen to this,’ she said, kissing Grayson and returning to her swivel chair. ‘Ben was just playing me what he’s been working on lately.’

  The look she shot me was loaded with meaning. Fuck this, it said.

  Noakes hit play and blasted out a slick electro number with a female singer squalling about pink sunshine over his trademarked synth sounds. It was way too cute.

  Fuck no, I telegraphed to Rose.

  ‘Awesome,’ I said to Noakes.

  Rose held out her hand and Noakes passed her his wallet. Since Mickiewicz had approved cocaine under ‘catering’ expenses at Noakes’ request, Rose would partake on the grounds that it was officially sanctioned. We weren’t allowed to have any while we were laying down vocals because it constricted the throat muscles, but after we’d wrapped up was fine. Noakes glided over in his chair when she was done. I watched Grayson with interest, but he took his turn, too.

  The four of us headed out for drinks in Darlinghurst. Noakes peeled off at about midnight and the rest of us kept going. At some point, Rose invited me back to her apartment. ‘You can stay in the spare room,’ she said. ‘It’s cool.’

  Back in Glebe, after she and Grayson removed themselves to her bedroom, I wandered around her warmly lit lounge, picking up stuff and having a nose-around, like I used to when we were kids. Shopping bags of unpacked clothes lined the length of one wall. She’d hung Chinese lanterns from the ceiling and stuck sprays of roses in over-sized test tubes on the mantel. There was a framed print of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s next to a framed photo of The Dolls, aged eighteen—our first poster in Popstars, blown up. They were hung perfectly symmetrically, so when Rose and Grayson came back in I tilted one frame fractionally out of line to make him laugh, but he didn’t see.

  I poked through Rose’s kitchen and found hot pink, silicon-handled implements that were either cooking utensils or sex toys, and a Le Creuset casserole dish that cost a ton—I knew this because Kane’s wife had one. It hadn’t occurred to me to own something like a casserole dish, but then I was still living out of my suitcase at Dad’s.

  Rose came in and pulled a box of Cornflakes out of a cupboard. ‘Mm?’ she said, angling it at me. I shook my head and she rejoined Grayson in the lounge room. If she was eating in front of him it must be serious.

  ‘So, Grayson, how did Rose do on the set of your film?’ I asked as I wandered back into the lounge room and riffled through her vinyl collection.

  ‘Incredible,’ he said from the couch, crossing one leg over the other. ‘She excelled. She’s a natural actress.’

  ‘Nina, don’t put on a record,’ Rose ordered. ‘We’re listening to this.’ She slotted in the demo of the album, and the first bars of ‘Fall From Grace’ cranked up.

  Coming down

  To my side of town

  But when you’re happy

  You can’t be with me

  ‘That’s me,’ yelled Rose over the verse. ‘This is Nina.’

  Where are you tonight if not here?

  I’m up on the roof, I feel no fear

  The west is covered in little lights

  But where are you tonight?

  ‘And both!’ she conducted.

  Meet me at 150 Grace Street, baby

  Meet me where the sky meets the sea

  ‘Awesome,’ bellowed Grayson, tapping a beat on his leg. It was, too. With our demo sounding this good, the real thing was going to blow minds. Even in its raw form, Ryan’s guitar whipped the song along like a mad jockey. We’d had a clutch of string players at our bidding, responding to my every calculatedly cracked vowel with flurries of excitement, backing up my scheming with stabs of approval. The power! They’d follow me off a cliff if I let them.

  As long as Noakes didn’t stuff things up with his hipster production, we had something I couldn’t wait to unleash on the world. I was feeling warm inside, crisscrossing Rose’s lounge from the stereo to the red wine to the stereo, turning it up a notch each time. Grayson was even singing along to ‘Call Off Your Dogs’ by the third verse.

  Call off your dogs and return to me

  Endlessly, endlessly

  I only run away for the chase

  Because it all falls into place

  I settled at their feet and we listened to the recordings over a bottle of wine, by which time I was pleasantly drunk enough to tell them about Tamworth.

  I showed them pictures of India on my phone.

  ‘Ugh, her NAME,’ shuddered Grayson when I showed them pictures of India on my phone.

  ‘It’s like a porn star name,’ I said.

  ‘It’s like try-hard oh I’m so spiritual skank.’

  ‘It’s like a continent,’ Rose said, looking at us like were arseholes. She took the phone, though, and started to investigate for herself. The first page she pulled up made her snort. Love, India told the Weekend Woman, had to be transcendent, or it wasn’t worth having at all.

  ‘Mate, don’t be a hypocrite,’ she said at last. ‘It’s for the best. It’s really bad karma messing with a married man. He’s like the Bill Clinton of country music.’

  ‘His wife must know,’ I protested. ‘He even wrote a song called “(You Knew What I Was Like) When You Met Me”.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ said Rose, holding up a hand. ‘Feminism just rewound a couple of decades. So you’re happy to just accept sex in a relationship, and she’s happy to just accept money? Maybe both of you are aiming a little low.’

  Actually, I wasn’t looking for advice; I was looking for outrage on my behalf. Luckily Grayson was on side. ‘I can’t believe him,’ he said. ‘You’re so much hotter
than she is and he should be desperate to be with someone like you. His career needs it.’

  ‘I’m not criticising, doll,’ Rose said hastily, ‘I’m just saying your idea of how it was might be distorted.’

  ‘The sex was hot,’ said Grayson firmly. ‘That counts for something important.’

  He leaned forwards to where I was sprawled on the floor. ‘It’s important,’ he whispered, nodding conspiratorially, and the wine ripped a laugh from deep in my guts. I was really starting to warm to Grayson and, finally, it felt like Rose and I were on track after so many years of conflict. As long as these two bozos didn’t do anything stupid, like get pregnant or get too doped up on domestic bliss, everything would be okay.

  21

  WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

  As the pages of magazines filled up with new young starlets trading under single names, I started to feel less and less like I had a right to be there any more. Not just in the public eye. Anywhere. Young girls stopped registering me. Young men would surely follow.

  POUR ME ANOTHER—ALANNAH DALL (SABRE BOOKS)

  The weekend before we started recording our album, I decided I had to see John Villiers. I wanted to give him the chance to explain whether he was responsible for my aunt’s downfall or not, the way Mickiewicz had told it. He would be present at a segment Alannah was filming for VTV’s Where Are They Now? at Darling Harbour. Great idea, John Villiers—a where-the-fuck-are-they-now slot. That was the sort of numbnut idea Ian Essence would have come up with.

  Alannah had told me to come along to Tumbalong Park at one o’clock if I wanted to see her set, so on that listlessly hot afternoon, I shuffled down from Town Hall station with a beanie jammed on my head. I still managed to wind up with a gaggle of teenage girls shadowing me, but I lost them by ducking into a pub for twenty minutes. Noakes had given me some coke, so I had a little line in the toilets while I was at it.