Abby Road

by Ophelia London

  I recognized the strain in Todd’s voice, and I understood his frustration. I’d so been there.

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” I cleared my throat. “If I had my way, the whole album would end up sounding like one long Abby-sings-the-Beatles song.”

  Todd chuckled. I took it as encouraging.

  “Despite what you think, I’m not all that creative. I need producers to guide me.” I patted my mouth, covering another uncontrollable yawn. “Don’t worry. Max knows what he’s doing.”

  Something seemed to change in the air, and I knew instantly I had said the wrong thing. My eyes flickered to Todd’s face to catch his reaction. The half of it that wasn’t shrouded in shadow appeared just as dark.

  “Don’t put your blinders back on,” he said, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. He shifted and revved the engine. The car jerked forward. “Despite what you continue to believe, this is your band; you’re the leader. Do what you have to do.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I chose not to speak. He sat silently as well, which was probably for the best at the moment. Admittedly, Todd had a temper, but he was also the most in-control person I knew. Only a few times had I seen his composure slip.

  His composure was slipping now.

  “Don’t you realize how you behave when you don’t get your way?” He shook his head, staring out at the road. “You clam up; you shut down; you let everyone walk all over you.” His upper lip curled. He looked a little disgusted, disgusted at me. “To say that’s a terribly unattractive quality in you is an understatement.”

  My mouth fell open, but I didn’t know what to say.

  “Why do you let him do that?”

  “Who?”

  “Max,” Todd snapped. When he turned to look at me, I flinched at his angry, disappointed, confused expression. “Stand up to him. Speak up if you want him to respect you. Be brave. Every day, I have to watch you be reduced to a timorous, pandering pushover.”

  Me, mouth hanging open, stunned by his words. Even if he were right, he had no idea how much that hurt.

  Of course I knew my behavior changed when I was recording. The pressure was almost unbearable at times. And Max had become the last person to show sympathy. When we worked, he was all work. So I got out of his way. This reaction was a learned behavior, perfected over the course of five years. I was sure it had gotten worse since Christian, my original armored car, wasn’t with me anymore.

  At the thought of my brother, hot, sharp tears stung my eyes.

  “Timorous?” I repeated, not bothering to conceal the hurt in my voice. “Pandering?”

  Todd shot me an impatient look.

  “It’s called survival mode, Todd, and you know why.”

  He shook his head. “No. That’s crap, Abby, an excuse.”

  His comment knocked the air out of me.

  “I don’t buy it anymore,” his harsh voice continued. “If you’re not happy, then do something; if you need help, ask for it.”

  The rest of his chewing-me-out session had to wait so he could concentrate on whipping the car around a tight turn, much faster than necessary. I gripped the sides of my seat. My fuming driver’s eyes were set in a hard, flat glare; it didn’t look like he was watching the road at all.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I gasped after he shifted into fifth, rocketing the car forward. “You’re driving like a maniac. Slow down!”

  He did, eventually, pulling off the highway onto the gravel shoulder. He shifted to neutral and wrenched on the parking brake.

  I tore off my seat belt. “What is your problem?” I hissed, jerking open my door and nearly falling out. “My problem?” he replied sarcastically, cutting the engine.

  “You’ve been like this for days.” I slammed the door. “Why are you so pissed?”

  “Because I’m pissed at you, Abby. You’re pissing me off.”

  “Why?”

  He didn’t move.

  “Well, now you’re pissing me off!”

  Todd sat motionless behind the wheel of the convertible, still facing me. His brow was wrinkled, displaying a mixture of anger and fatigue.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I insisted, “or were you simply going to drive us off a freaking cliff?”

  “This isn’t—” He stopped himself by running his hand across his mouth, but I thought I heard an angry and muffled, “working.”

  His head was bowed now, his finger and thumb running back and forth along the bones under his eyes. “Get in the car,” he said coolly. “Before someone runs you over.”

  But I wasn’t about to move.

  A moment later, his head snapped up when a car appeared in the other lane. Its headlights hit Todd’s face, and I could see the hard glare in his eyes was gone. He looked plain worn out.

  My muscles unclenched, relieved that we weren’t yelling anymore.

  “I’m serious.” His right hand was on the headrest of the passenger seat. “Get in the car.”

  “Not with you driving like that,” I complained. My voice was softening, following his suit.

  “I’m sorry.” There was a touch of desperation in his voice. “It won’t happen again.” He reached over and opened my door from the inside. “Now, please.”

  My feet were moving before my brain could process the request.

  “Seat belt, please,” he instructed as he stared straight ahead into the night. After firing up the ignition, he tapped the gas, revving the engine just enough until I looked at him. He lifted a teeny smile.

  At a very safe and responsible velocity, we drove in silence. Todd turned on the radio to a sports station. The Giants lost to the Dodgers in eleven innings. Hal would be fit to be tied tomorrow. I stared out the windshield, chewing on my thumbnail.

  “I’m just looking out for you.” Todd switched off the radio. “You know that, right?” His face was still twisted with emotion. Both of his hands were wound around the steering wheel, but he let his right hand fall. It found my left hand. I could feel tension surging through his body.

  “That was really stupid of me.” His voice was almost a whisper. “And very unkind, those things I said. Please forgive me for losing my temper. It’s not, well, it’s not you.” He shook his head an inch and sighed, sounding a little defeated. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “About what?”

  He didn’t answer, but the way his gaze shifted made it seem that his thoughts had veered in a different direction. “I hope you’ll be patient with me.” He curled his fingers tighter around mine. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

  “It’ll get better. I promise. It’s a shock for everyone at the beginning.”

  “I guess.” He nodded. “It’s just, sometimes I don’t understand why . . .” He trailed off.

  I sat quietly with his hand in my lap, waiting for him to relax. It took only a few minutes that time. We were improving.

  “Okay, Abby,” Nate’s enthusiastic voice spilled through my headphones, “let’s run through it again. And . . . we’re rolling.”

  Through the thick glass that separated the control room from the recording booth, I saw both Nate and Todd. Max’s throne of a swivel chair was empty; he was letting Nate take lead on this one. Nate was concentrating on the flat computer screen in front of him, or screens, I should say—there were four, one on a laptop and three others in a sort of uneven cluster. Todd sat forward in his chair, elbows on the edge of the long mixing board. His attention was constantly moving from me to Nate’s screens to his own laptop. He nodded to me every once in a while, which was all the communication we shared.

  Every so often, Nate would grin, lean over to him, and they’d have a short conversation that I couldn’t hear. It always ended in laughter or even a friendly guy punch. Other times, Max appeared behind Todd, said something to him, and walked away. From what I could make out, Max’s comments seldom warranted a response, because Todd�
��s replies were always brief.

  When I finished that take, I stood still, staring at Nate through the glass, hoping against hope we wouldn’t have to run it again. Twelve times at any song was usually my limit. Anything beyond that came across too rehearsed, and we would have to move on, unfinished. Max hated that.

  I exhaled slowly, reminding myself that recording was a balancing act. And unfortunately, most of the time I sported the poise of a monkey in a tutu.

  While waiting for Nate’s decision, my mouth stretched open in a yawn, making my eyes water. My impatient glance moved to Todd, who was also yawning. Our gazes locked, and we grinned at each other through the glass, the pair of us mutually extra sleepy. Unbeknownst to the rest of the recording party, Todd and I had been up until four in the morning the night before, having much to discuss after his botched attempt at Thelma and Louise-ing us off the Pacific Coast Highway.

  Todd’s attention was suddenly pulled to whatever Nate was pointing at on the computer screen. Nate started laughing and so did Todd. I picked up a pencil, continuing the cluster of hearts I’d been doodling on the corners of my sheet music. I hadn’t had to consult my notes for hours. Todd was right; I did have a photographic memory.

  “Perfect.” Nathan’s voice came through my headphones. “We got it.”

  “Okay, babe.”

  I looked up, hearing the new voice. Max was leaning over Nathan to speak through the talk mike. “Close the lid on tonight. Get your tail outta here. I gotta work with the guys.”

  Not requiring a second invitation, I peeled off my earphones and slid into my heels. After I made my way down the hall, I found Todd and Hal chatting in a corner outside the control room. Colorful stickers with logos like In-N-Out Burgers, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, Body Glove, and Ron Jon’s Surf Shop covered Hal’s scarred, scuffed, and well-loved guitar case. Always a little too protective, Hal was hugging his instrument in his arms.

  “Finished yet, duchess?” he asked with a playful smirk, knocking his shoulder against me.

  “Yes, your royal highness,” I replied. I looked at Todd. “His real name is Henry Beaumont Charles Xavier Richardson the fourth,” I explained. I then turned back to Hal. “He hates it.” I stuck out my tongue at the king.

  “Shut your cake hole, Abby.”

  “Temperamental musician,” I complained jokingly. “Moody little boy.”

  Hal growled and turned to Todd. “Would you look the other way so I can smack your girlfriend upside the head?”

  Todd lifted his hands. “Keep me out of this.”

  “Jealous much?” I said to Hal, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

  I was surprised when Hal’s cheeks went red. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to tease him. If he did have a little crush on me, like Lindsey said, then that was just mean.

  “You better get in there.” I pointed toward the studio. “Max was saying he wants more button on the kick before the mix down.”

  After one last glare, Hal knocked my shoulder and stomped off around the corner. If there was one thing he really loathed, it was being told how to play his guitar. He never voiced it, but Max drove him berserk. I still enjoyed pushing Hal’s buttons when I could.

  Todd was shutting down his laptop and gathering some books from a tall, round table in the corner of the lobby.

  “If you keep this up,” I said, gesturing to his computer, “you’re going to know more about producing than Nate.”

  Todd looked up. “And Max?” he said with a wink.

  “Todd Camford, L.A.’s newest impresario! Are you ready to see your name in lights?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Hilarious.”

  Hearing Max’s voice behind me, I whispered, “Let’s make a run for it before he changes his mind.” I motioned subtly at Max through the open doorway.

  Todd looked surprised. “Are you done for the whole day?”

  “Because of the red carpet tomorrow,” I confirmed, leaning on the couch shoved against the wall. “I’ve been starving myself to fit into that stupid dress.” I planted my hands on my hips. “But I’ve had the last fitting, so all bets are off. Shall we go back to your place and scramble something?”

  Todd grinned and slid a hand around my waist.

  “I bet you’re bored stiff in there,” I said as we walked past the control room. “You’ve been sitting in that same chair for more than a week.”

  “Nope,” he replied. I was relieved to hear joy in his voice again. “Just yesterday I was sitting in that chair.” He pointed at the short, blue-cushioned armchair that sat directly before the glass. “Front row, center. Best seat in the house.” As he looked at me, my heart went all gooey.

  Just then, Nathan rounded the corner, trudging directly toward us. His left arm was full of brightly colored manila folders, while his right hand pressed a cell phone to his ear. Luckily he stopped just before crashing into us.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, looking a little startled to see us standing there. His brown hair was floppier than usual, giving Hugh Grant a run for his money.

  “You all right?” Todd asked him.

  “Oh, sure. Good deal, good deal.” He turned on his heel, always a little too neurotic. “Just work stuff.” He took three steps toward his office and stopped. “Hey, Abby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was wondering, during that final take of ‘On the Rocks . . . ’” His head pointed toward the recording booth. “Why did you take those extra rests at the verse before the bridge?” He took a step toward me. “You did it that way only the last time through.”

  I shrugged. “Didn’t it work?”

  He snorted. “Of course it did. It was really genius. I just want to know what made you change your phrasing at the last minute.”

  I pushed out my bottom lip, pensively. “Well, I’d been thinking about it during the other takes, wondering how it would sound. It made sense to me. I don’t know, I just . . . felt it.”

  Nate raised a smile, and then he glanced at Todd. “I told you, man,” he said. “I told you she was good. Complete natural.”

  A noisy group of six or seven office workers marched past us, separating Todd and me from Nate. After they passed, Nate was still standing at the doorway, one hand on the knob. “By the way, what is she still doing here?” He was speaking to Todd while pointing at me.

  I caught a quick flash of unspoken understanding in both men’s eyes.

  “I’m taking her home right this second,” Todd assured him in a fatherly voice.

  I could see that he and Nate were becoming good friends. Ten or so twelve-hour days could do that to two guys. Plus, on a personal note, I obviously considered Todd to be irresistible. I hoped it was only a matter of time before even Max Salinger succumbed to Todd’s charms.

  “Good deal.” Nathan nodded in approval before opening the door. “Hey,” he said to Todd, “good luck on the carpet, man.”

  Todd cleared his throat and slid his hands in his pockets, looking a little embarrassed. “Thanks. Any advice?”

  Nate scoffed. “Not from me. I don’t do those industry shindigs.” He nodded at me. “Strictly A-list celebs.”

  “A-list?” I chuckled. “I’m just there to hobnob and get autographs. Hey, do you think I’ll finally meet Paul McCartney this year?”

  Todd and Nate groaned in unison.

  {chapter 21}

  “LONG TALL SALLY”

  Mustang Sally was not up for an award, but we were presenting one. When wrapped in the right packaging, and if all the planets were aligned, red-carpet events could be pretty cool.

  On the upside, dressing up for one night wasn’t so bad. Red carpets meant meeting with Jillian, my stylist, to sort through the designer endorsements shooting down the pipe. At every RC event, I was asked the same question, “Who are you wearing?” a zillion times, as my small army dragged me from one interview to the next. I always made sure I was well informed about each article of clothing and jewelry attached to my body.

  On the downside, red
carpets made for excruciatingly long evenings, the sleazy paparazzi came out in full-force, and if the RC was in Los Angeles, the sky was either pouring down rain or the air was a hundred degrees. Or both.

  “Mwah! Mwah! You look beautiful, Abigail. You look like a million bucks! Love the dress!”

  Ironically, those same bloodsuckers chewed you up and spat you out the next day, replaying ad nauseam that split second you’d scratched your nose or adjusted your underwire. The majority of my morning-after reviews were kind if not over the top. At least I had that. I knew of a few A-list women who sank into dark depression and even resorted to unnecessary surgeries after an RC snafu.

  That particular Sunday evening, I was more nervous for Todd, it being his first industry event as well as our public debut. I could hold my own against those press jackals, but Todd was brand new to the hype, and it wasn’t exactly his scene. Although not even A-list celebs could hold a candle to him in his vintage Armani tux, snowy-white French-cuffed shirt, black silk tie, and gold cufflinks.

  Eat your heart out, Sinatra.

  I squeezed Todd’s hand between both of mine when our car stood next in line at the throat of the red-carpet drop-off point.

  He looked at me, his eyes big and green, surprisingly serene.

  I guess I’m more nervous than he is, I thought, still wringing his hand.

  Despite how neither of us cared about such things, Todd and I surely appeared a gorgeously smashing couple that night. My hair was piled high in shimmering ringlets, with long golden tresses tumbling down my back, bouncing when I moved. My black silk, beaded, slit-up-to-here, cut-down-to-there had been designed specially for me. A major rush job, since my measurements had altered slightly over the summer.

  My free hand moved to my wrist and then my neck, rechecking the borrowed baubles, lest we forget to mention the Fort Knox–worth of crown jewels that had been lent to me for the occasion. Throat, wrists, fingers, ears—all important areas of skin—screamed Harry Winston, Cartier, and Tiffany’s. Exhibiting that much ice in public was an unnerving feeling, but it was all part of the game.