Don't Mention the Rock Star
Page 25
“Need I remind you about Robyn Milner?” The celebrity reporter was sacked after her relationship with actor Tait Farrington came to light. They were sprung after she’d wrapped a company car around a lamppost while they were both high as a kite on drugs.
Zara continued: “If there is anything you need to declare in regards to a personal relationship that may affect your duties with Capital Media, this is the time to speak up.”
Now I understood how Bill Clinton felt before he uttered that immortal denial about Monica Lewinsky. My mind whirred, trying to come up with a phrase that would let me off the hook, yet not be an outright lie.
Fortunately, just then, Heidi popped her head around the door, apologising for the interruption but Tilly’s boss needed a quick word with her.
Grateful for the break in my interrogation, and feeling wound up like a ball of wire, I stretched out my legs and immediately cried out as an intense pain shot through my calf. Scrunching my face in agony, I bent over, pulling on my foot to ease the cramp. When I reopened my eyes, a bewildered Zara was standing over me.
“Leg cramp,” I explained. “I’ve started running again, and sometimes I’m rewarded with indiscriminate aches and pains.”
“You should take a magnesium supplement,” said Tilly, closing the door behind her.
Zara sat back down again and tapped her talons on the desk. “Let’s wrap this up, I’ve got an eleven o’clock with Digby Strause. Kellie, I’ll ask you again, is there any truth to these allegations?”
In that split-second I made up my mind. My past relationship was private and I shouldn’t be forced to share it with my employer. Particularly one who would have no qualms about commissioning a four-part series about the rock star and his secret ex-girlfriend.
“I can categorically deny everything,” I said. “I’ll admit AJ and I hit it off and exchanged a couple of texts. He’s a real funny guy. But there was certainly never any ‘inappropriate behaviour’. You know, reading between the lines of what he said at our interview, and I totally stand by everything I wrote in that story, I got the impression his marriage is in trouble-”.
“So why wasn’t that in your article?” Zara snapped. “If you had anything to suggest relationship woes, that should have been the lead.”
I chose my words carefully. “It wasn’t anything he said explicitly, just a feeling I got. So it wasn’t something I thought we could report with confidence. But I doubt I’m too far off the mark when I say this complaint is about Siena being vindictive because her marriage is failing. She’s probably trying to build a case against him in the event of a divorce.”
I was beginning to feel more confident. My voice took on a commanding tone, like a prosecutor on Law and Order. “Note that the email has come direct from her company, not the singer himself.”
I shook Exhibit A in my hand.
“Siena has had it in for me ever since that Kris Carson press conference when I asked about AJ’s drink-driving.”
Motive.
“I also heard from a friend of mine that she was nasty to staff at a radio station.”
Character assassination.
“I conclude, in my defence, that my interview subject AJ Dangerfield never made this complaint. Therefore, ipso facto, I should not have to answer it.”
Zara, my judge and jury, didn’t look convinced.
“I can solemnly swear …” I placed my hand on our bible – this week’s edition of Hello! “… that I have never ever made any unwelcome advances towards AJ Dangerfield.” That was totally true. I had made plenty of advances on Andy in my lifetime, not one of them unwelcome. “Zara, you have to believe me.”
She studied my face for a moment then nodded. Turning to Tilly, she said: “We’ve never had complaints about Kellie before, if we overlook that unfortunate Neil Lucas incident.” A brief smile crossed her face. “I recommend our legal team drafts a letter with her denial and requesting proof if they wish to take the matter further.”
Zara turned back to me. “If, like you say, this is Siena Ellement acting out of malice, then I’m sure the matter will slide. But I will need to ask you not to make contact with AJ Dangerfield again. That includes no reporting on anything to do with him, his band or his wife’s interests.”
You can ask, Zara, I thought to myself, but doesn’t mean I’ll comply. However my frantic ‘please explain’ text to Andy still went unanswered.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I could tell something was up with Dan as soon as I got in his car. He barely said hello and his knuckles were white from his death grip on the steering wheel. I tried a bit of friendly chit-chat about his classes that day and the weekend football but he was too agitated for conversation.
Instead I started singing loudly to the song on the radio – Nothing Compares to 2 U by Sinead O’Connor. I was up to the part about the flowers in the backyard when Dan slammed off the radio.
“Christ, Dan, what’s the matter with you?” I yelled as he squealed to a stop just millimetres from a car waiting at a roundabout.
“Kell, if I found out something bad about your boyfriend, you’d want to know …”
My stomach clenched. “He’s alright, isn’t he?”
“He’s fine. Just a dickhead but what’s new in that. Look, there’s no easy way to tell you this but you have every right to know.” He paused. “Andy’s got a girl pregnant.”
It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the car.
“That’s crazy,” I said shaking my head. No way. “Where on earth did you hear that?”
Dan explained how his basketball mate, Sean, had heard about it from Jeff – Andy’s former bandmate – who’d heard it from one of Andy’s relatives.
“That sounds like a lot of Chinese whispers to me. Sure it wasn’t Heath? Now that I could understand. He’s probably got little Heaths scattered all over-”
“It’s definitely Andy. Some college girl he met at a gig.” Dan glanced at me. “You okay?”
I wound down the window, seeking some fresh air. “Can you stop the car?” I frantically gathered up my belongings, ready to bale out. “I have to go to Maria’s. I need to speak with him.”
Dan did an illegal U-turn at the next traffic lights so we were heading back towards home. “Tell me the address and I’ll drop you off. You know, as sorry as I am, I’m glad you’re finally finding out what a lowlife he is. He was never right for you and maybe now-”
“Dan, excuse me, but you hardly know Andy. He wouldn’t …. Look, forget it. I don’t want to talk about it until I’ve spoken to him.”
The look on Maria’s face when she opened the door said it all. It wasn’t just a ridiculous rumour. And I’m sure the shattered expression on my face meant Maria knew exactly why I had shown up unexpectedly.
“Oh, Kellie.” She pulled me into a tight embrace.
As a rule every fortnight, on a Friday night, I’d head over to Maria’s house to wait for a collect call from Andy, wherever he was. He’d chat to his mother, then to me. At the moment the band were back in San Francisco, living in a grotty flat, working during the day and playing regular gigs at night thanks to Chad’s hustling.
Maria dialled the long-distance number and after getting through to a drowsy Andy – it was the middle of the night there – she left us alone to talk.
“Hey, I wasn’t expecting you until Friday. Did you get the record? Be honest, what do you think? Do you love it? Rare Acceptance is even being played on the radio. It’s only a college station – some dude Chad knows – but hey, it’s a start.” Andy finally took a breath. “I’m missing you so bad, babe. Six weeks and counting …”
“I’m not coming,” I replied coldly. Maybe now Andy would realise this wasn’t a social call.
“What do you mean? The record’s not that bad, is it?”
“I’m sure you’ll be far too busy learning how to change diapers.” I exaggerated the American accent for the last word.
Silence echoed down the line.
&n
bsp; “You found out.”
“Yes, I bloody well found out. What were you planning to do, casually introduce me to your pregnant girlfriend when I arrived?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. Heck, I don’t even know for sure it’s mine.”
“Are you kidding me? Let me explain it to you real simple. There is one way to know for sure – one hundred per cent certain in fact – that there is no way this baby is yours. Because you never slept with her, you arsehole.”
Andy didn’t say anything and I was beginning to wonder if the line had cut out. Then he started apologising, his voice cracking with emotion. “I know I’ve stuffed up. Big time. But it doesn’t have to change anything. You still have to come. Please, things are all messed up and I need you.”
“Stuffed up! That doesn’t even begin to describe it. Of course it changes everything. You’re having a baby with someone else. And I find out because every freaking person in Perth knows about it.” I knew I should keep my voice down, I didn’t want to upset Maria, but I couldn’t help myself. “Who was she? One of the groupies you say you never go near?”
“Kell, I know I’ve been stupid. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But you don’t know how hard it is for me-”
“How hard it is for you! Don’t even start. Why don’t you try being me for a second? Left behind while you play to crowds of girls who are all too keen to get inside your pants. Sounds like they’ve been succeeding too.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight. You know what I’m like when I’m wasted -”
“Oh, if you’d only told me that in the first place. That makes it perfectly alright then.” I was laying on the sarcasm real thick. “When I have to explain to everyone why you’ve fathered someone else’s child, I can say ‘Yes, dear Andy often gets so hammered he forgets he shouldn’t be shtupping another girl’. Listen, nothing gives you an excuse to forget you have a girlfriend who loves you – LOVED you.”
“Kell, please, don’t say that. Don’t give up on me. I’ll do anything. Come over and I’ll -”
“How long have you been sleeping with other girls?”
“I promise, it only happened this one time. It never meant anything.” He paused waiting for me to say something. “It was a quick blowjob backstage. And it only happened because Heath said-”
“I don’t care what that emotionally stunted jerk says or does. What I do care about is what you get up to. And it was obviously more than just a blowjob because even a thick-head like you would know you can’t make babies that way.”
There was no response from Andy.
“You’re an absolute bastard, Andrew Jovanni Dangerfield. I never want to see or speak to you again. Go and have your baby, and leave me the hell alone.”
I couldn’t face talking about it with Maria. So I quickly made my excuses and left to walk home. But Dan was still waiting outside for me.
“You get through to him?” he asked as I climbed into the passenger seat and fastened my seatbelt.
I nodded, turning away as an angry-hot tear dripped down my cheek.
Dan put his hand over mine. “You deserve better than him, you know that right? And I’m here, for whatever you need. To talk to, a shoulder to cry on, to kick the crap out of him if he ever shows his face around here again.”
When Dan dropped me home – after I repeatedly assured him I’d be fine, that I just wanted to be alone – there was a padded package on the doorstep, postmarked from San Francisco. I ripped it open to find Danger Game’s Fidget Blitz EP, the recording Andy had excitedly told me about.
The cover showed the silhouettes of the four guys against a sunset sky. I ran my finger over Andy’s figure, he was standing side on, bending backwards with his guitar raised in the air. Then I took out the disc and smashed it repeatedly against the veranda pole until it was in pieces. So it matched my heart.
Andy never called me but he did write. Constantly. I would get home from uni to find yet another letter propped up against my bedside lamp. But I never read them. Some I ripped up, others I burnt. One day, an envelope arrived with only a photo inside. Curious, I pulled it out. It was of Andy holding a newborn with a scrunched-up face and a shock of black hair. “Emma” was scrawled on the back in his handwriting. The proud look in his eyes said it all. I dropped the photo and ran to the bathroom. As I dry-retched, any wild hopes that it was all a horrible mistake evaporated. Here was the absolute proof that he had cheated on me.
And then the letters stopped.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The office was humming for a Sunday night as we prepared for Australian television’s night of nights. We crowded around the TV as the first smattering of reality stars, game show hosts and soapie actors appeared on the Logies red carpet. There was much oohing and OMGing as the procession of fashion hits and misses paraded past.
Boo! Hiss! Misty the weather girl strutted her stuff in a gold sequinned gown, the back slashed nearly to her bottom. Patrick smiled smugly, his hand gripping her pert backside, as the cameras flashed.
“How can I put her on the worst-dressed list?” Adele despaired. “She looks stunning.”
“Maybe her shoes don’t match,” I offered pathetically, before suggesting we leave her off the lists altogether. What does a celeb hate more than bad press – no coverage at all.
“I like your devious mind,” Adele grinned.
My good pal Todd Zuchetti was his usual charming self as he was interviewed about his chances of winning Best Newcomer. On his arm was a young woman who volunteered at his bullying organisation. When he heard her own story about her classmates laughing at her when her date to the formal stood her up, he instantly asked her along as his plus-one.
Tripping behind them on her sparkly platforms was platinum blonde socialite Belindah de Lacey, with her Gollum-looking plastic surgeon husband. Her outrageous fashion sense combined with his inexhaustible credit cards meant she was a regular on our worst-dressed list. Tonight she was wearing a metallic silver mini with cut-outs in all the wrong places for her voluptuous figure. Even Lenny reared back when her tandoori-coloured face and blindingly white teeth filled the screen.
The latest crop of young soapie actresses sashayed along in sky-high heels. One looked extremely nervous, blinking at the camera, as an interviewer asked who she was wearing. “Vur-sachy,” she replied, swishing the ruffles on her lavender dress. “With shoes from Loo-is Voo-tunn.”
There should be a law preventing you from wearing a designer if you couldn’t pronounce their name properly.
“Oh my god! Wardrobe malfunction!” screamed Adele as model Petra Prochazka blew a kiss to the crowd, unaware her right nipple had snuck free of her low-cut black gown.
“Hasn’t she heard of Hollywood tape?” Mike tutted.
“I would bet that nip slip was planned,” I commented as an aide rushed to cover her up. Petra had experienced several indecent exposure episodes lately, no doubt staged to score maximum media coverage. I mean who else would go swimming in a so-called invisible suit, designed to become see-through when wet, when a phalanx of photographers had their lenses trained on you?
The screams from the crowd escalated as singer Kris Carson, who was opening the night with his latest single, exited a limo, in a tight white suit with calf-high black boots.
His dad Marty whipped past, escorting a dark-haired woman who looked a lot like Siena. It wasn’t, was it? I guess it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she had stopped off in Melbourne on her way to the Hitmaker finale. But did that mean Andy was here as well? Surely he would have let me know?
As I expected, Siena hadn’t responded to my company’s letter asking for proof that I had harassed her husband. I’m not sure what she had hoped to achieve with her nasty email – maybe she believed I’d be fired on the spot. But she had been successful in shutting down our communications. I still hadn’t heard from Andy.
I decided to chance sending him one more text: Hi! How’s things going? Is this a good time to talk?
I checked Siena’s Twitter account – there was no mention of her being in Australia. But then again it hadn’t been updated since her father’s heart attack. And her last Instagram photo was of her pug wearing a yellow party hat for the twins’ birthday.
I texted our reporter Raff Young, asking if he could see the record company heiress at Kris’ table. He soon messaged back, confirming she was there.
As the telecast went into its tributes to the stars who had died over the past year, I snuck out to grab a can of soft drink from the vending machine. It was going to be a long night waiting for the main awards to be announced.
I answered my phone before the first bar of my ringtone finished. “Hey you. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. It’s been a nightmare here.” It was Curtis. “Ryan and Ciara have been bickering all afternoon. What time are you home?”
* * *
The next day, I was returning to my desk with a coffee from the cafe downstairs when I stopped suddenly.
Adele banged into my back, spilling her chai latte. “What ARE you doing?” she yelped, before following my gaze to Zara’s office. “Isn’t that …?”
I nodded.
“Wow,” she said. “Wonder what he’s doing here. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Zara laugh like that before.”
The fact that Adele had seen him too meant I wasn’t dreaming. It was indeed Andy in Zara’s office, jumping up and down, telling a story our boss found so funny, tears were streaming down her face.
My phone showed no message from him.
I pretended to be deep in research for my interview with the model who’d won She’s Got It but really I was taking in everything that went on in the glass office.