by PJ Vye
“You are deliberately trying to heckle me, aren’t you? I’m talking about fame. What’s wrong with fame?”
She gave him an incredulous look. “Do you not know me at all?”
“Tell me exactly—what scares you the most about being famous?”
She listed them off without a moment’s thought. “Answering questions; people talking about me; having to be nice to people you don’t know; small talk; crowds; lack of space; lack of peace; noise. I could go on forever. Why would anyone want to be famous? It escapes me…”
“Respect, for one,” he offered.
“Not all famous people are respected.”
“What about being proud of something you’ve achieved and wanting to share it with as many people as possible.”
“But that’s just pride or ego—boosting your own value above others.”
“Money, then,” he said.
“Money only matters if it motivates you. If you don’t value money, then fame has no value.”
“Money can solve problems, make a difference, change people’s lives for the better. Celebrity can raise the profile of serious issues—be a powerful tool for change.”
Willa kept her eyes on the board for a while, not making a move. Had he hit a nerve? Eventually she answered in a small voice that sent a chill of foreboding down his spine. “With fame comes responsibility, with responsibility comes pressure, and with pressure comes anxiety. Fame and I are oil and water.”
The following morning was fresh and their breath caused balloons of steam in the air as they stood outside, hands deep in pockets, waiting for the car to pull up. Phil had phoned to say he was at the entrance, so after giving him remote access, they braved the cool morning air to meet him outside.
Jack watched Willa now as she drew half circles in the dirt nervously with her foot. It wasn’t hard to tell she was struggling to remain calm. Introducing a new person into her sphere of acquaintance was an unavoidable necessity, and she was dealing with it in her own way. She’d spent the morning fussing in the kitchen, chopping and stacking wood by the door, and constantly winding her hair around her finger, reminding Jack of the early days with the media camped on her doorstep. Phil was a reasonable guy and Jack was certain she’d trust him once she knew him. It would just take some time.
They jiggled on the spot, pulling their jackets close in an attempt to stay warm as the black van emerged from the trees along the twisted dirt track.
The vehicle was large and with dark tint on the windows it was impossible to see Phil until he opened his door and stepped out. Without any hesitation he walked up to the anxious woman, and with his hand outstretched, said in his friendly, reassuring way, “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, Willa.”
She shook his hand, and Jack could tell she was making a big effort to meet his eyes when she answered, “Nice to meet you, Phil.”
The sound of the van door sliding open startled them both and Jack could only watch speechless as an entourage of people began to emerge from the vehicle. A sound behind him revealed two more similar vans heading down the dirt path to the cottage.
Jack glanced quickly over to check Willa’s reaction, and cursed under his breath. She didn’t look good. Covering the distance between himself and Phil in two long strides, he demanded, “What’s all this, Phil?”
“Sorry Jack. It took a bit longer than I expected to get the team together, but we made it. I’ve got a tech crew, hair, makeup, camera operators, a design team, media cons—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, man?” said Jack, exasperated. “There’s no way—” He looked around again as he spoke, but she was gone. “Crap.”
“Where did she go?” asked Phil, looking around. “She was right here.”
Jack was already heading off in the direction of the river as he barked his orders over his shoulder. “Get rid of this lot, Phil. Now. Then come and help me find her.”
“Jack, we can’t poss—”
“Now.”
Phil didn’t bother to argue any further.
He was unpacking microphones from hard cases in the studio when Jack arrived back sometime later.
“Did you find her?” Phil asked, looking up from his task.
“Has everyone gone?” Jack asked back.
“I sent the lot of them back to the city, on standby.”
“Pay them off, Phil. We won’t be needing them.”
“Where is she? She hasn’t changed her mind has she?”
“No,” answered Jack. “She hasn’t changed her mind, but she works best when she’s comfortable, unstressed.”
“Right, of course,” said Phil, staring intently at the CEO.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s the timeline?” asked Jack.
“Three weeks?”
“Ok. Let us know when you are ready and we’ll start.”
“I’m gonna need a hand, Jack, if it’s gotta be just you and me. Otherwise I’ll be here all night setting up.”
Jack considered pointing out that Phil had cost them several hours of recording time already, but thought better of it. It was a rookie mistake. One he himself may have made had he not known the girl so well and anticipated her reaction. Besides, he had an album to get made, peoples jobs to save, a rich and powerful life to get back to. It was all so close now.
He rolled up his sleeves and asked, “What can I do to help?”
The next few days disappeared in a whirlwind of studio time. They worked one song at a time, laying down the guitar tracks first, then the vocals, adjusting as they went. Willa rarely sang a tune the same way twice, so Phil made a habit of recording every version just to give him plenty of options for later on. Layering the vocals was another way for Willa to express her intrinsic abilities to sing creatively. With the options of multitrack, for the first time she could discover ideas around the central melody to create exquisite backing vocal lines that blended and become integral to the original idea. Much like her vocal interpretations of vintage songs, it came completely naturally to her. There was no sweating over possibilities—she just opened her mouth and the ideas poured forth. Many a time she would look up at the end of a run through to find both men on the other side of the glass, as still as statues, their mouths agape.
With Willa still reticent to speak directly to Phil, Jack was the go-between, constantly communicating between the two, keeping the two most important people in his world happy. It was damn inconvenient but an absolute necessity. If he had to juggle a thousand people, he would have. Nothing was going to stop this record from being made. And if the first few days were any indication, they would be finished on time.
Through the glass screen, Jack watched Willa rubbing her forehead after a long morning session. She hadn’t said a word, but he could see she was tired, and he made a snap decision.
“Phil, I think we’ll break for lunch, then take the afternoon off.”
Phil looked in at Willa and then back to Jack. “I don’t think so, Jack. Let’s keep pushing on, eh? If we keep going at this rate, we’ll be done in another week. Ahead of schedule. Can you imagine it?”
“Not gonna happen, Phil,” said Jack. “We need a break.”
“I don’t need a break,” said Phil.
“Good. You can keep working. Willa needs a break.”
“No she doesn’t. Did she ask for a break?”
“No.”
“So what makes you think she needs the entire afternoon off? This country air has made you soft.”
“I’m telling you, that’s it for today,” Jack said. “Let that be the end of it.”
Phil shook his head and muttered something under his breath.
Jack pressed the intercom into the studio and said, “That’s it for today, Willa. We’re gonna take the afternoon off.”
She nodded curtly, put down her guitar and briskly walked out of the studio. Phil watched her leave, noticing for the first time her hand shaking as she opened the door, “Is
she ok?”
“She will be.”
“Where’s she going?”
“Somewhere quiet, I expect. The river probably.”
Phil shook his head and then returned to the computer to run back up checks on the morning’s work.
Jack picked up on his forced silence and said, “If you’ve got something to say, Phil, say it.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Fine. I’ll see you later.” Jack headed towards the door.
“What astounds me the most,” said Phil to Jack’s back, “Is that you have never understood women. Not a single one. Not the women you’ve slept with, certainly not the women you work with, and not even the one you married. So how is it possible, that you understand this one woman better—more completely, than anyone else can seem to?”
Jack turned around and shrugged his shoulders, not understanding it himself.
“Do you know what happened to her? What made her this way?”
Jack left his hand on the door handle and stood a moment. “No I don’t. But maybe she doesn’t have to have a reason. Maybe that’s just who she is.”
He allowed Willa a few hours of solitude before he began his search, not surprisingly finding her by the river. He handed her a sandwich and she silently ate as they watched the river flow, the occasional stick or leaf matter floating past, their only focus. The chatter of birds and the frog calls were like a meditation soundtrack. And Jack was convinced food tasted better when eaten outside.
Eventually, when he felt the moment was right, he interrupted nature’s rhythm patterns. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
Instinctively, he left it at that. He was only just beginning to understand the parameters of her well-being, and he was determined to give her space when she needed it.
It was some time before he spoke again. “I wanted to give you this.” He handed her his iPod touch with a set of headphones attached.
“What for?” she asked, looking at the blank screen.
He swiped his finger and showed her the list of songs contained within.
“I organised for someone to find out where they dumped your property, after you were evicted. They found it.”
The pain on her face was too much for him to bear and he had to look away. “I’m sorry Willa, but there was nothing left of any value. Everything was broken and the cassettes had been smashed or buckled from sitting in the sun.”
“Yes, I know,” she said.
He hurried on, trying to limit the hurt. “But I had the guy recover as many of the cassette covers he could find. All the titles you had handwritten on, I downloaded onto this iPod, so you can listen to the songs that were on your cassette tapes. I know it’s not the same, but… I’m just so sorry about what happened. I wish it could have been different.”
She took the small machine in her hands and touched the screen tentatively. He showed her how to swipe and tap, to find the song list, how to play, how to change songs. She’d never used this kind of electronic device before and as she placed the buds in her ears and music filled her head, her face brightened with such joy. “Wow. All these songs in one tiny rectangle. Thanks, Jack.” She shouted.
A prickle of pleasure spread through him and he couldn’t remember ever feeling so good about giving a gift before.
A pair of lorikeet birds; a mass of green, orange and blue feathers, flew onto the ground only an arm’s length from them and got busy pecking in the dirt. They hopped around flicking up sticks and dust until a magpie called out his ownership of the tree and they disappeared in a flurry of colour and wind.
“You know its hours like these that help me understand why you live like this—as a hermit,” he said, stretching out beside her.
She pulled out one of her earphones. “Excuse me,” she answered. “I prefer recluse.”
“Sorry, my mistake. Recluse,” he said. The smile she returned gave him the strength to ask. “Why did you do it? Reject society, live alone and all that?”
Without a seconds hesitation she replied, “Why are you an alcoholic?”
“What?” he said. “I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Denial—first sign.”
“Not even close,” he answered, defensively. “Have you seen me with a drink once since we got here?”
“No. But how many times have you thought about it?”
Damn it. She was onto him. He still hadn’t touched a drink since they’d arrived, but that hadn’t stopped him wanting it, and far more desperately than he cared to admit to her.
“Most people think an alcoholic is someone who drinks a neat scotch before breakfast and walks around with a bottle in a paper bag all day,” she said. “But it comes in as many different forms as there are people. Your particular challenge, I expect, is binge drinking.”
“What makes you the expert?” he asked, trying to divert attention.
“I was a social worker, remember?”
“Ah yes. Tell me—why don’t you do social work anymore? The alcoholic in me is dying to know.” The question was as much out of hurt as it was curiosity, and he instantly regretted it. To his surprise, she didn’t retreat from him.
“What’s that saying..? First do no harm?”
“Ok,” he said. “So you became a recluse so you wouldn’t harm people? Should I be worried?” Jack gave her a bright smile to keep the conversation light.
But her answer was serious. “Yes.”
“Oh, come on,” he answered, bumping her in a jesting motion with his shoulder. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“I wish I could scare you,” she replied, eventually smiling.
“Oh you do, believe me, you do,” he said. But not for the reason you might think. “Seriously. Why a recluse? Why not drugs or bi-polar, or my escapism of choice, alcohol?”
“Are you married?” she asked.
“Why are you answering a question with a question?”
She gave him a look that told him she wouldn’t continue until he went first. So he took a leap and began, “I was married for two years. Divorced now, no kids. She told me there were three people in our marriage and she got sick of sharing me with the drink. She gave me way too many chances really. I didn’t deserve her, I guess. Or maybe I just didn’t love her enough to change. Maybe I’m just a selfish bastard. Maybe, just maybe, I am an alcoholic.”
“There you go, that wasn’t so hard was it?”
“I’m not though. If I was an alcoholic, why can I go weeks without a drink?”
“Stubbornness?”
“Mmmm. Ok let’s talk about something else. All this talk about drinking is making me thirsty. Tell me, how are you coping with all of this? Phil and the studio and all that.”
“It’s ok, really. I’m just not used to being inside from dawn until dusk for days on end. I feel better now.”
“Is there anything I can do to make it easier?”
“Having you around makes it easier. Hard to admit that a baboon like you could actually bring me comfort. But you do.”
“Well, it’s hard to believe that a freak like you can sing like a bird. But there it is.”
She slapped him hard on the leg, like a sister might slap a brother. But he felt the glorious sting of it through his every nerve. It was the first time she had touched him and it was as if a current of fire had shot into his heart.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said. Suddenly the tranquillity of their surroundings seemed to be suffocating and he quickly got to his feet and walked away. He needed a drink.
Jack had been staring at the ceiling for most of the night. It wasn’t like him to be so reflective—to be considering his life direction or to question the choices he had made. But tonight he couldn’t get it out of his head.
He’d always been strong, driven to succeed. But his ambition hadn’t always been to become a music executive. This job had somehow chosen him, and whilst he had always believed it suited him, now he was beginning to question what it was he truly wanted.
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In the city, sitting in the executive chair, it seemed like being respected and renowned with power and privilege was the only possible destination. Being the best—the most successful—was the most satisfying revenge of all.
It was strange how a place like this could dilute those feelings that had become his sign posts. He was beginning to feel directionless with no clear path to follow. The uncertainty clouded his mind to the point that he had to get out of bed and clear his head.
He padded around the kitchen, drinking a glass of water as he stared at the shelves lined with coloured temptation. The water became hard to swallow as his mind skipped back and forth over the idea of adding a dash of something—just to help him sleep.
Jack found a position on the couch where he could see the bar and as he sat down, a guitar that had been leaning against the seat, toppled over in the disturbance and fell across his lap. He stared at it awhile, like it was some foreign object that had fallen from the sky, but then he eventually conceded to its tease and placed it in his arms, feeling the smooth coolness of its neck and the familiar roundness of its belly, tucked in under his arm.
He touched the strings, sliding his fingers along each one, and then slowly he found a shape on the fretboard with his left hand and plucked the strings with his right. It was the first time he had handled an instrument since his college days, and once he started his fingers would not be stilled. Fifteen years of pent up musicianship sang on the instrument as he played through the classical pieces he once laboured over. Once in a while, he would forget a section and would get a run up and try again, allowing his fingers to take the lead and still his mind enough to let them be in control.
Jack didn’t hear Willa approach until she sat down on the couch near him, frightening him into silence.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She stood up to leave.
“It’s ok,” he said. “Don’t go. Did I wake you?”
She shrugged off his question with her own. “Got anymore secret abilities you haven’t told me about?”
“You mean like my x-ray vision?”
“Oh my God,” she pretended to look shocked. “You can do that too?”
