by Bree Darcy
After we fought our way off the ferry at Circular Quay, Andy was drawn to a twenty-something guitarist playing Oasis’ Champagne Supernova. He wasn’t attracting as much attention as the tourist-friendly didgeridoo-playing ensemble further down the boardwalk.
Andy leant down to throw twenty dollars in his guitar case, and noticing that he only had a smattering of small change, asked the guy whether he knew any Danger Game songs so he could sing along.
“Really?” the bearded busker said. “You’re - going - to - sing - with – me?” He excitedly reeled off a number of tracks he knew.
“Cool. Let’s try and get you a crowd with Runaway.”
I yanked on Andy’s arm. “I can’t hang around. I need to get home for the kids.”
Andy indicated to the busker he’d be back in a moment. “Tomorrow night, after work,” he said. “Meet me at my hotel. Room 701. Come straight up. We’ll stay in, kick back a little.” He pulled a small gift-wrapped box from his backpack and slipped it in my handbag. “Before I forget, I got a little something for you. Wear it tomorrow night.” He leant in to give me a kiss, before returning to his busker friend.
I retreated behind a building, where I watched Andy get mobbed as he sang Runaway. Then I opened his gift – a very recognisable blue box with white ribbon. My hands trembled as I popped the lid. Inside a velvet pouch was a heart locket with “Mine” engraved on it.
There was a small notecard inside. “Happy Valentines. I did promise you a tiffanys. Better late than never. Ax”
I had forgotten it was Valentine’s Day but now everywhere I looked women were carrying bouquets home from work, with huge smiles on their faces.
I carefully stashed my gift at the bottom of my handbag, then hurried away to the bus stop, gripping my bag like I had the crown jewels inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My back rested against the band’s new van as I sat in the shade to read a book. The second-hand Ford RV, with its interior decked out in brown laminate with tulip panels, was so not rock’n’roll. It was squishier than the old school bus too; Andy and I slept on a bunk bed above the driver’s seat. It was so tight that whenever you breathed out, your stomach touched the ceiling. But it did have a bathroom cubicle, which only I was allowed to use.
Heath, in a pair of red jogging shorts, clattered down the van steps to work out with makeshift weights. I couldn’t help but stare as he lifted a hessian bag filled with rocks. He really did have the most amazing physique, I thought, marvelling at his taut back muscles. And that six-pack was to die for. He obviously worked hard for it as he did repetition after repetition of sit-ups and trunk twists. By now a sheen of sweat covered his body, and the dirt was sticking to his golden skin.
Heath was well aware I was watching – he sent me a suggestive wink as he twitched each pectoral muscle individually – but I couldn’t drag my eyes away for long. How I wished Nikki was here to enjoy this knicker-melting moment. Heath was totally her type – actually remind me never to introduce them. There was no way he was adding her as another notch in his bedpost.
If only Michelangelo was alive to sculpt a Statue of Heath. Women could flock from miles around to admire the artistry. Actually Heath as a marble sculpture was a superb idea – you could admire the body, without having to deal with the real-life egomaniac.
I sniggered to myself. But my mirth soon turned to mortification when I realised Andy and Gerry had returned from their food-gathering expedition, and had been standing under a tree watching me perv on their bandmate.
Heath wandered over to them, not even bothering to hide his conceited smile. He wiped the sweat from his brow across Andy’s cheek. “You need to start working out. The ladies ain’t gonna get fired up over a puny singer with a concave chest.” Heath rooted around inside the shopping bag until he found a banana.
“Good book?” he inquired passing me on his way into the van. “Only you haven’t turned a page since I’ve been out here.”
* * *
The next day, my birthday dawned to morning drizzle.
“Did someone leave the cake out in the rain?” Dom stood in the doorway with a soggy cake box in his hands.
“Oh shit,” Andy said, sliding off the bunk bed. “That was supposed to be a surprise for you.” He lifted the sodden cake out. Bavarian chocolate with cherries on top. “I was going to sneak it in when you weren’t looking and forgot all about it.” He slapped his hand against his forehead.
“Waste not, want not,” Gerry said, scooping a handful of cake into his mouth.
Dom was also the bearer of good news: a downtown club in Albuquerque had agreed to let the band perform in their basement that night, in an early slot before a popular local act.
“Swell,” said Heath, high-fiving the drummer. “How’d you negotiate that?”
“I may or may not have had to perform a sexual favour,” Dom joked. “The place should be packed for us as the punters get in early for happy hour.”
“Tonight’s no good,” Andy said, shaking his head. “No gig tonight, not on Kell’s birthday.”
“Don’t be silly,” I told him. “It sounds like a great opportunity.”
“We can do a gig any night, you only turn eighteen once. We’re going out to celebrate, just the two of us. Dom, call the club back and reschedule for tomorrow.”
“It’s tonight or nothing,” he replied.
“I’m more than happy to spend my birthday watching the band,” I said. “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do in fact.” I continued trying to persuade Andy as Heath shot daggers at me with his eyes.
“No, not happening. I’ve got tonight all planned.”
“It seems someone needs to rethink their commitment to this band, buddy,” Heath cut in.
Andy poked his finger into his chest. “Don’t tell me I’m not committed to this band. I came back, didn’t I, instead of staying with my girlfriend. So you can shut the fuck up.”
“Get out of my face before I make you,” Heath growled.
“Perhaps you fellas need to learn there are other things in life besides this band,” Andy continued. “Or, you can always go on tonight without me. Oh, wait. You can’t – because I’m the singer so without me there ain’t a band.”
“I think Heath is just trying to point out that now isn’t the time for us to lose focus,” Gerry said, laying a calming hand on both of their arms.
“Yeah, AJ, you need to focus on the band, not on Yoko Ono here,” Heath sneered, gesturing at me. “She’s your weapon of mass distraction, man. And if you don’t watch it, this will go kaboom.”
Dom, the voice of reason, finally waded in. “Leave them alone. AJ deserves to take the night off to celebrate Kellie’s birthday.”
Privately I tried to convince Andy to change his mind but he refused to budge. So that night, we headed off to a Holiday Inn while the guys lazed around the van, playing cards, drinking and simmering with resentment.
* * *
A few days later it was crunch time for me. I rang Mum collect-call from the caravan park office. Besides my belated birthday wishes, she also had the good news I’d been hoping for. I ran straight back to tell Andy. “I’m in. My score is definitely high enough to get me into the journalism course.”
My celebratory dance attracted the attention of the elderly couple from the caravan next door – the white-haired man gave me a wide toothless grin.
Andy hugged me tight. “That’s brilliant. I knew you’d do it. All that help I gave you with your homework …”
“Yes, somehow despite that, I made it.” I climbed into the van, to put my beloved patchwork journal – where I had noted my exam scores – back in my bag. “And it sounds like Nikki would have got into broadcasting but at a different campus. And Dan, he’s into business at the same uni as me. Hopefully he hasn’t changed his mind about giving me a lift, so instead of spending money on a car, I can save for a ticket back here at semester break.”
“So now’s probably not a good time
to beg you to stay.” Andy spun me around to face him.
“You know I can’t.”
“You can. You can do whatever you want. Stay with me. I’ll give you anything – anything you want. My body, all my worldly wealth” – I raised my eyebrow as I glanced over at his only belongings, a duffel bag and guitar – “marriage. Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. We’re both eighteen now. Let’s go get hitched. We’re in Vegas next, we can do it on my birthday.”
“Honey, we’re not getting married. Not right now anyway. You don’t have any worldly possessions and as much as I worship your body, I have to go home. I’ve been working towards this for years – I need to spend the next few years back home getting a university degree.”
“I’ll come with you then,” he said. “I’ll go back to working in a warehouse and find another shitty band to join. Ma will be pleased to have me back, at any rate.”
“There is no way that’s going to happen, even if you could get a visa. If you don’t do this Danger Game thing, you’ll regret it the rest of your life. Gerry and Heath think I’m a distraction, I don’t want to prove them right. And I certainly don’t want to end up living in a trailer park like this with seven snotty-nosed kids running around.”
“Seven? Boy, you’re keen! Anyway what’s wrong with living in a place like this, as long as we’re together? You’ve even got an inside toilet now, what more can a girl want?”
“I want more than this, Andy. We’d be arguing about eating baked beans every day, having to work a couple of jobs just to make ends meet, you wouldn’t have time for your music. We’d end up hating each other. You say I’m smart – well, listen to me. You need to keep touring until Danger Game break through. I can’t hack this life, living out of a van, never remembering which town we’re in. I want to go home and I want to go to university. As Sting says, if you love somebody, set them free. You need to go do your thing and I need to go do mine.”
“I effing hate Sting.”
* * *
Then everything changed during my last week in America.
“This is the life,” said Andy as he floated by on a pool mattress, Ray-Bans protecting his eyes from the sun. Last week, we’d been shivering with the cold mornings … today in Palm Springs it was a balmy twenty-seven degrees. With lots of sun and little rain, the southern Californian city was proving to be my kind of place, despite its plethora of golf courses and senior citizens.
Chad Hemmings, a smooth-talking guy Heath met at a gambling table in Vegas, offered to let us stay at his digs in Palm Springs. We had slept in enough dingy living rooms of fans for me to be dubious and expecting the worse. But as the van wound through the streets, past sprawling properties, my hopes rose.
And they soared as we pulled up to the ornate wrought-iron gate of the address we’d be given. “Are you sure this is it?” I asked Heath.
“You still here?” he replied. Heath certainly wouldn’t be shedding any tears over me returning home.
A quick chat to our host, Chad, over the intercom confirmed we had indeed found the right place. I was in pure real estate heaven.
Chad didn’t seem to mind as I excitedly sped through the archways from one spacious room to another, marvelling at the timber floors, stone fireplaces and low-beamed ceilings. Apparently Cher’s ex Sonny Bono lived nearby.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a lagoon-style heated pool. In the distance the mountains formed a stunning backdrop. There was a two-bedroom guesthouse out the back with its own bathroom – not only did it have a toilet but a deep pedestal bath with a chandelier hanging over it. The room Andy and I claimed as our own had glass doors leading out to a private courtyard with comfy outdoor seating and palm leaves shielding it from onlookers. I threw myself on to the massive bed – what they call a Californian king – and swore they would have to prise me off it, I was staying here forever.
“This is where we’re going to live,” Andy continued now, rolling off the pool mattress and swimming over to me.
“Palm Springs?”
“Not necessarily, I mean this type of home. With a pool and a tennis court, and a gorgeous view.”
Chad’s grandfather had made his money through land development. And now Chad wanted to sink a chunk of his inheritance into making Danger Game a success. He was a recent business college graduate, very slick and over-confident. His heroes were Richard Branson and Chandler Ellement, who both started out in the music business. Chad was talking about paying for a recording studio session to lay down six tracks for an EP. In return they’d sign him as their manager, relieving Dom of the responsibility.
Chad’s parents were currently sunning themselves in the Bahamas and his younger sister had joined the thousands of hopefuls in Los Angeles trying to catch the eye of a casting director. So we had the run of the place.
That night I snuck into the kitchen to slice up an orange. I could hear Heath and Chad talking in the living room – they had become best buddies over the past week – but didn’t pay much attention until I heard my name. I crept over to the swing door, and peered through at them.
“I said to him, if you had to choose a number one record or her, what would you choose?” Heath paused. “He fucking said her.”
“And that, my friend, is why you’ll never have a number one.”
“That’s why the girl’s gotta go,” Heath continued.
“I’ll drink to that.”
But instead of pouring a drink, Chad laid out two lines on the coffee table, which he and Heath snorted up.
* * *
The next day I elected to hang around the pool while Andy and Dom went with Chad to organise some T-shirt printing. Despite Chad’s unsavoury aspects, you had to give him credit for knowing how to pull strings. He had arranged a gig at a Rock Barn on the outskirts of Los Angeles – it promised to be Danger Game’s biggest audience to date – and sweet-talked a graphic designer pal to create a T-shirt so they had merchandise to sell.
I was starting to feel the burn of the sun so headed into the guesthouse to shower. When I emerged from the bathroom, Heath was lying naked on the bed.
“What the hell are you doing?” I said, grabbing a T-shirt off the floor to cover myself. “Get out!”
“I thought we could have a little fun. I don’t think I’ve had an Australian girl before. I hear you lot are very talented down under.” He pointed towards his crotch.
I was staring at him speechless when there was a rap on the door and Gerry burst in. He looked from me, barely covering my modesty, to Heath on the bed.
“I heard voices, I thought AJ was back,” Gerry stammered. “Obviously I was wrong.” He backed out of the room.
Grabbing a towel to wrap around myself, I tore after him. “Gerry, it’s not how it looks. Let me explain. I’d never … Heath just-”.
“Save it. I don’t want to hear the sordid details. But don’t worry, I won’t say a word to AJ. He doesn’t deserve this. I suggest you get dressed cos he’s due back any minute. And the sooner you pack your bags and piss off home, the better.”
He turned to face Heath, who had followed us out of the bedroom. “As for you, if I ever see your dick where it shouldn’t be again, I’ll fucking cut it off.” He stormed off.
Heath slung his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll make sure no one interrupts us next time.”
* * *
I gave Heath a wide berth from then on. Like Gerry, I thought it was best to pretend it never happened. I certainly didn’t want to provoke another argument between Andy and Heath.
The Rock Barn gig was a huge success. At the end Andy was on an enormous high. He pulled me into a tight hug, saying “We killed it, tonight, baby.”
“You certainly did, Andy,” I said giving him a kiss, aware of the envious stares of fans and the disgusted one of Gerry.
“This feels like a turning point for us,” Andy said. “Getting a decent crowd, recording our first EP. Next time you come back, no more stinking vans, I promise. Stick
with me babe, we’re going straight to the top.”
Two days later I tearfully bade my boyfriend farewell at LAX airport.
“Promise you’ll be back as soon as you can.”
“I promise. Nothing’s going to keep me away.”
But sometimes promises had to be broken.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Far from concentrating on a feature about film stars treading the boards on Broadway, my mind was instead focused on one particular character causing drama in my life – Andy. Slipping the heart locket out of its velvet pouch, I ran my finger over the Tiffany and Co. engraving on the back, remembering back to the time Andy had vowed he would one day buy me something from the famously expensive store. It was totally gorgeous but also wildly inappropriate. I planned to return it tonight.
My phone rang so I quickly shoved it into my top drawer.
“Good afternoon, lovely,” Mikaela, the assistant to fashion designer Harold Hinter, said in her sing-song voice. “I saw your piece on AJ Dangerfield – fab interview by the way – and was wondering if you had any plans to see him again?”
“No! Of course not. Why would I be seeing him again? I barely know the guy.” I sounded more defensive than O.J. Simpson’s legal team being shown a leather glove.
“Oh, no worries,” Mikaela replied. “You don’t happen to know who dresses him?”
I was about to reply “himself, he’s not that much of a diva” when she continued. “We’re super keen to see him in our new hipster-slash-rocker line. But I haven’t had much luck contacting anyone at the Hitmaker production company or his management team. I thought you might be able to put me in touch.”
I gave Mikaela the details of the publicity person from the Bondi interview and had barely eked out a few more paragraphs about Broadway when an email arrived from Dawn.
I would hazard a guess she’d been talking to Nikki about my impending visit to a certain rock star’s hotel room because it contained a link to an article about women who regretted hooking up with old boyfriends after getting back in touch via Facebook. It ended with one of the women lamenting, “If I could have my time again, I would never have let myself get caught up in the past and the passion.” The Past and the Passion sounded like a superb album title.
