Cherry Bomb

by Jenny Valentish

  ‘Turn it up!’

  Kane’s brow darkened. ‘If we could stick to the topic of raising the profile of our flying doctors,’ he said, in the same voice people used on the news to protest they weren’t heroes and that anyone would have done the same. ‘I think you’ll find they’re much more deserving of the spotlight than I am.’

  When Kane addressed the camera I fancied he looked right at me and it gave me a thrill despite myself. It was the same look he gave me when he was blackly complaining about his manager or explaining the royalty rates of Spotify. Either way, we’d have been having sex within about thirty seconds.

  ‘I’ve seen that shirt,’ I said. ‘He wore that all the time.’

  Rose waved me down. ‘Oh god, he’s in damage-control mode. This is so entertaining.’

  The program cut to footage of India looking harried, scurrying out of a yoga class with her head down.

  ‘Look at her,’ I had time to say. ‘She’s so Boohoo.com.’

  Then it flicked abruptly to a story about bikies shooting each other on a picturesque stretch of coastline. That was the moment Rose’s phone beeped.

  ‘It’s India,’ she mock-gasped, rolling her eyes, but it wasn’t. It was Jenner. I assumed our manager was calling to tell us not to bother about the press call we were supposed to do at a wildlife park on the biggest day of our career, where we would pose with the sort of native animals affected by floods. I expected he would announce that it was a fucking stupid idea in the first place. But instead he told Rose to check out the Sunday Mail website and not to worry about it too much.

  My cousin’s face was already pained in preparation as she pinwheeled my laptop across the bed towards her and stabbed in the web address. ‘A Rose in name only?’ the headline said when the page loaded.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I murmured.

  A ‘friend’ had sold Rose out—a story in the fluff section. It was much worse than Erica Riley’s big sook about being kicked out of The Bain Maries. This new exposé suggested punk-rock princess Rose Dall was a social climber who had set her sights on Hollywood A-lister Grayson Bryson. This made Grayson Bryson a love rat, because he was still involved with a delicately beautiful actress at the time that he was ensnared by the feisty Dolls singer. The story noted that Rose had dumped handsome young Sydney bartender James Jones the moment he was no longer of any use to her career.

  Rose, it observed, had changed.

  ‘It’s Carly,’ Rose pronounced in fury, twirling her hair into a dreadlock at the thought of the door bitch at Dingo’s. ‘It must be. Sadie said she’s been going around slagging me off all the time.’

  ‘How much did they pay her?’ I wondered, peering over Rose’s shoulder at the screen.

  ‘Oh, who cares?’ she said. I knew she was distressed at being faced with her shadow self from Westmead. I sympathised, but it wasn’t like I was freaking out over the obligatory paragraph halfway down about hotel fires and sex clips, which was guaranteed to provide Hank with even more comedy material. My shadow selves trailed me like stalkers.

  By the time Brendan knocked on our door with Sadie to take us to the photo op, Rose was inconsolable. ‘What’s Grayson’s agent going to say if he sees it?’ she moaned, clutching her throat. ‘You need to get them to take it down. I mean it, Brendan. Take. It. Down.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said opaquely. He checked the time on his phone. ‘You two are supposed to be ready. Nina, you go in the car with Sadie and get a head start. Rose, you can come with me and we’ll stop by the chemist and get you some Rescue Remedy.’

  ‘It’s going to take more than Rescue Remedy,’ I observed, pausing in the middle of yanking off my jeans. Brendan had seen everything over the years, so I headed out into the hall in my undies and heels, and finished levering myself into my dress in the lift.

  I could see Rose’s brow creping behind her giant sunglasses. ‘We’re so much bigger than Dingo’s now,’ she complained, ignoring the couple who got in at the next floor. They stared at the breakfast special on the lift wall until we reached the lobby and they got out. Beyond the gleaming marble floor of the foyer lay Desperation Quarter: the shantytown of pokie machines where cologne had to be pumped in to disguise the smell of poverty. The doors slid closed again like the Wizard of Oz’s curtain.

  ‘That part of my life is completely irrelevant. What don’t they understand about that?’

  ‘It’s sour grapes,’ Brendan said levelly.

  ‘But what if she keeps bringing old shit up about me to whoever asks?’

  I stopped plaiting Sadie’s hair. ‘She better not,’ I said, with a surge of fierceness. ‘I’ll kick her in the clacker. Do you want me to call her, Rose?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she snapped, as the doors opened into the car park. Her massive handbag slid down into the crook of her arm as she gesticulated. ‘It’s not fair that I get this story when I’m the one who keeps my head down and works hard.’

  The last two words dissolved into sludgy self-pity. Part of me observed interestedly as something uncontrollable flared in my brain.

  ‘You have changed, though, Rose.’

  ‘Get in the car,’ Brendan said.

  ‘But she has,’ I said. ‘We used to be punk-rock. We used to mean it. What’s next? Separate tour buses? Backing dancers?’

  I’d remembered to say ‘we’ instead of ‘you’—the shrink had told me it was less hostile.

  ‘Oh, please,’ Rose urged, her voice teetering. ‘Why don’t you have a go too? Everyone’s bullying me, so you may as well.’

  I saw Brendan’s shoulders sag as he unlocked his car. I couldn’t agree with him more. ‘Bullied’ had to be the most over-used word of the year. Politicians, shock jocks, celebs . . . everyone was being bullied, apparently. Whatever happened to ‘heckled’?

  Secretly, though, I knew Rose had a point. She’d gone to a private school before she moved to mine, and she was just too fragrant for us; a flower among the paving slabs. Within a week of her settling in, someone had whispered to the rest of the year that she’d made the switch because she’d been picked on at her previous school—and then they were all on to her. Once you’d had that sort of experience, people could detect it in you. For the rest of your life you’d have to keep up the delicate construct; the balance of being not too fragrant, but fragrant enough.

  Whoever snitched on her had had to bear the guilt of it ever since, though, so don’t judge them too harshly.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ I breathed, when it was just Sadie and me in her little Fiat.

  ‘Crazy,’ she countered, pulling the rear-view mirror back towards her. ‘Poor Rose.’

  ‘I know, right?’ I cracked the lid of a vodka bottle from its moorings and her head swung around.

  ‘Before Flood Aid?’ she asked, swerving the wheel.

  ‘Careful,’ I said, indicating the exit coming up. ‘The barrier.’

  ‘You be careful,’ she retorted. ‘I’m not being held responsible by management on my first-ever job for you.’

  I shushed her and riffled through the CDs in the glove box. ‘Can I plug in my iPod?’ I asked. ‘I’ll play you the Old Dogs song that’s supposedly about me, but definitely isn’t. Well . . . you can tell me what you think.’

  •

  Forty minutes and a loop of ‘Calico Girl’ later we were in the Yarra Valley, using my phone GPS to find the wildlife park. The elephant’s name was Barry and he was waiting to meet us, catastrophe or not. Elephants weren’t particularly under threat in Victoria, which had been worst hit by floods, but Rose had insisted that we fit one in among the koalas and echidnas. Elephants were her totem animal, apparently. She certainly never forgot a grudge.

  When Sadie’s car crunched on to the gravel car park, a man in a khaki shirt hared towards us. In a deft movement I dropped the vodka bottle between my thighs and put my cardigan over my lap.

  ‘You must be Nina Dall, judging by the hair. I’m Mike. G’day,’ he said, leaning through the window and pumping my hand vigorously. �
��The Herald’s here already and we’ve arranged for some of the local press to be here to meet you.’

  I exchanged looks with Sadie. The local press were not on my priority list, and Jenner should have been there to fix this anomaly.

  ‘We’ve laid on a bit of a brunch,’ Mike continued, unabashed. ‘Champagne, strawberries, sandwiches. It will give you a chance to meet Sheryl and the team.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I interrupted. ‘Who’s Sheryl?’

  He laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sheryl’s my wife and my partner in crime. We’ll take you to meet Barry first, shall we? He’s very excited to say g’day.’ Mike withdrew his head from the window.

  ‘Um, Mike?’ I called out. ‘This is my hair and make-up artist. Is there somewhere she can set up?’

  He trudged the few steps back to the car. ‘Sure,’ he said, sounding less certain. ‘I’ll show you where the ladies’ room is.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ I muttered to Sadie as she pulled on the park brake. ‘Okay, follow me in a sec with your things.’

  After one last lightning-fast slug, I rolled the bottle under the passenger seat, tugged down on my dress and followed Mike up the hill. Near the entrance, I stumbled and tipped on to my hands, but I was lagging behind Mike, so he didn’t notice. Over at a table laden with snacks I recognised the Herald photographer, and he gave me a wave.

  ‘Where’s your cousin?’ he asked with his mouth full of my sandwich.

  ‘Coming. She’s got the shits because of a story in the Mail,’ I called back.

  ‘I saw it,’ he said. ‘All publicity’s good publicity though, innit?’

  ‘That’s what I think.’

  I put down my handbag and accepted the baby wallaby Mike was handing me. ‘Oh, cute.’

  ‘This is Sheryl,’ said Mike, introducing us to a keeper dressed in khakis identical to his.

  ‘Nice outfit,’ I noted and we exchanged sisterly smiles.

  As Mike briefed the photographers, I let go of the wallaby that was vibrating in my lap and checked my phone for an India update. I was disappointed when there was nothing to see. ‘Mike,’ I said, putting it back in my pocket. ‘I’m going into make-up.’

  By the time I came out of the toilet block with my face on, Rose had arrived with Brendan. The body language between the pair of them didn’t look great, but Rose had pasted on a ‘show must go on’ expression.

  As my cousin disappeared into Sadie’s makeshift dressing room, Mike invited me up to the elephant enclosure for a shot with the star of the show. I sidled over to one side of Barry so that I could see where he was at all times. He regarded me as I patted his trunk, which he snatched away.

  Click. Click. Click.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ said Mike. ‘Barry’s a sweetheart.’

  I sidled closer and pointed at Barry with my painted lips forming an O.

  ‘What about a sexy pose?’ one of the local photographers piped up.

  ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ I said, making them laugh. I crouched on the ground, with my knee awkwardly lowered in front of me to cover my knickers, and did a porn-star glower at the cameras through my lashes. Barry’s trunk writhed angrily in my hand.

  ‘Any questions for Nina?’ Mike asked, flitting around and playing the hostess.

  ‘It must feel good to be releasing another album and have some positive news at last for Dolls fans,’ one reporter mused, the first stinking cab off the rank. I sighed inwardly.

  ‘Any news is good news,’ I said. ‘We’d hate to be boring.’

  I watched Rose pick her way across the enclosure in her heels, holding on to Brendan for balance.

  ‘Animal rights!’ she said, flashing the peace sign. Japanese pop stars always did that and Rose was obsessed with Japan, where fashion was ditzy and gifts from fans were plentiful. Clay had shown us pictures of plastic lunchboxes you could get over there with the Dolls logo and our picture on it. They came in red and white or black and white. They were so ready for us.

  By contrast, Barry was getting the shits, jerking his great head around. With a storm approaching from the northeast and a long hour of sequins ahead of him, he cast me a look that said it all. I knew how he felt. Rose wanted to hug him and so he was manoeuvred forward a few metres so she could crouch on the wall of the enclosure.

  Do you think too much attention has been paid to your image? Molly queried, as I retreated out of the line of sight and lit a cigarette. Strangely, it was a relief to hear from him again.

  Undoubtedly, Molly. It was only when our sophomore album, Tender Hooks, came out, that we were really taken seriously.

  And some critics have suggested that in reality it was a Nina Dall album. I don’t know how you respond to that?

  I gave a gracious laugh, just as Barry shook his head so vigorously that the Herald photographer had to dart forwards and steady Rose. Her face was suddenly a picture of uncertainty and I was struck by a vision of Barry taking an almighty swing with his trunk, unaware that he was around star quality.

  I snuck my phone out of my pocket so I could send a photo to John Villiers, who would appreciate this: ‘And then it hit her . . .’

  And then it hit me.

  John Villiers wasn’t there. Nobody needed two whole suitcases and all their sound equipment in their hotel room for an overnight stay. He had finished Alannah’s album and seen her safely through Where Are They Now?, so he was done in Australia. Done with it. Of course it was safe for him to fuck me, the night before he left the country.

  Striding out of the enclosure and away across the grass, I dialled his number. It went straight to voicemail. I stared at my phone, helpless.

  The bastard had shot through to London, I knew it. The pair of them had betrayed me. I took a loud suck on my cigger and exhaled with a grizzle.

  From across the way I heard Barry trumpet and Rose wail. I couldn’t even raise a smile. Anxiety was riding me bareback.

  ‘Oh my god, it’s totally an omen,’ Rose was saying, trotting out of the enclosure with a claw hooked onto Brendan’s arm. ‘Seriously. That elephant’s fucking mental.’

  I stubbed my cigarette out and saw Brendan register my face but decide to leave it. His phone rang and he flicked it up to his ear.

  ‘What is it?’ Rose whispered to me, while Brendan was distracted. She said it like an accusation.

  ‘John Villiers,’ I said shortly.

  ‘Oh, fuck John Villiers,’ she spat. She looked at Sadie and back to me. ‘Well, seriously! Alannah called last night. She didn’t want me to say anything, but she’s worried about you. She said you were upset about something last time she saw you and then you went home with him. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I don’t tell you everything, Rose,’ I shot back. But it wasn’t that. It was because my hold on John Villiers now felt more fragile than ever. I’d already felt him slipping away, before I’d even realised he’d gone.

  ‘Noakes told me all about him, Nina,’ Rose was saying. ‘I presume you already know.’

  It pained me to ask, it really did. ‘What?’

  ‘His old smack problem.’

  ‘So? Everyone took smack back then, Rose,’ I scoffed. ‘It was like us taking eccies; it was creative. What do you think Nick Cave’s “From Her to Eternity” is about? What about the Choirboys’ “Run to Paradise”? What about Paul Kelly’s “Careless”?’

  She screwed up her face in irritation. ‘Yes, I know, Nina, but he bought the smack Danger Michaels OD-ed on. No wonder he’s working with us for nothing—we’re doing him a favour.’

  I had to hold onto my guts. ‘The Danger Michaels?’ I checked. I couldn’t picture Danger Michaels without him being shirtless in leather pants, which was a weird idea when he was sharing a needle with John Villiers.

  They would have just finished recording Daybreakers, thought to be Danger’s best work yet—although it was irresistible claiming such a thing when someone had died immediately after. I imagined the pair of them in the top suite at the Berkshire, maybe a
few scarves flung over the lamps, John Villiers rolling up his shirtsleeve on the four-poster to reveal a strong, tanned forearm.

  ‘John . . .’ Danger would just have time to croak, raising himself feebly from a pillow.

  ‘Nina,’ Rose scowled. ‘We could have been working with Danger by now. Do you get it? Alannah could have made the introductions.’

  I thought of the old Juice interview with Alannah that I used to have on my bedroom wall. She’d called John Villiers a chameleon: at various times playing psychologist, nanny, ally, antagonist or drug buddy, depending on what role the band needed filling. But whatever he’d ordered in under ‘catering’ that day hadn’t been very productive.

  ‘How come we didn’t know?’ I demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s an incestuous scene; it probably got kept quiet. How come he didn’t tell you, if you’re so close?’

  I shoved past her, heading for the car.

  ‘Ow,’ she protested, although if I’d wanted it to hurt, it would have. She rubbed her arm. ‘I hope it was worth it, Nina. He’s ruining our career now just like he ruined hers. Poor Alannah.’

  And that’s when I wheeled around and properly smacked her.

  •

  The Sidney Myer Music Bowl was no Hollywood Bowl, but it was pretty good. After I’d changed back at the hotel room, our roadie, Turbo, came to pick me up. He drove us around the back of the Bowl, through catering, downstairs to the dressing rooms, where Jenner would be waiting with the band. As I stepped down out of the Tarago a group of bleach-blonde girls wailed ‘Nina!’ from behind a fence.

  ‘Ninalikes,’ observed Turbo as we hurried past. ‘Cool.’

  Rose had fired our new bassist for taking a picture down his pants with her phone during rehearsals, so we now had a stand-in whom I literally got to shake by the hand and meet for the first time in the dressing room. Jenner and Brendan turned to look at us.

  ‘Where’s Rose?’ Brendan said, hanging up his phone.

  ‘I thought she was with you?’

  He flicked out his hand in frustration. ‘I dropped her at the hotel and she was going to go up and get changed.’