by Louise Voss
Why, oh why, hadn’t I worn a wig as well? Obviously hat and shades were nowhere near enough. I was still recognizable as me, but because I was no longer beautiful, all my musical achievements had ebbed muddily away in people’s memories. It was a cruel realization, to discover how quickly disfigurement could transform me from a respected rock star into a laughingstock. I had no idea that people could be so mean.
My queasiness had escalated into a full-blown green wave of nausea, and I blundered toward the nearest pub to try to find a quiet loo in which to puke. A bottleneck of drinkers were jostling one another in front of the doorway, however, and I couldn’t get in. As I stood, jiggling desperately from foot to foot, I realized what the problem was.
A man was holding everyone up, planted firmly in the narrow entrance to the pub, and clutching a pint in each hand.
“Come on, mate, get a move on,” someone shouted at him from behind.
“Oh, for God’s sake, someone get him out,” yelled a woman next to me, waving her lipstick-printed empty glass. “I’m dying of thirst here!”
Eventually a large burly person in an unbecoming sports vest and rugby shorts gave the man a shove, and he flew out of the porch, spilling his pints and apologizing profusely to the doorframe as his shoulder connected with it en route.
Suddenly we were face-to-face. The man looked exactly like Toby, if Toby’s body had been occupied by somebody else, someone loose and miserable.
I stared incredulously for a moment longer. It was Toby.
Lager dripped off his hands and wrists, dampening down the whorls of blond hair on his arms. I looked down and saw his legs in combat shorts, warm with fuzzy golden hair, and it gave me a tiny thrill, as if I was seeing him naked for the first time. I had an urge to hang on to one of those knees as if it was the only thing that would anchor me down. I suddenly felt like crying, realizing how much I’d missed him.
Then I noticed that the legs were swaying, and it sunk in that Toby was absolutely, horrendously, and disgustingly drunk.
He looked at me without focusing, looked away, and then did a slow-motion double take. I waited for his face to light up, to say hello. Instead he grinned vaguely, as if something had amused him.
My hand shot out and grabbed his soggy arm. “Toby? What are you doing here? This is such a coincidence!”
He stared at me as directly as he could and burst out laughing. “Helena, ohGodit’syou! YouhavenoideahowmuchIwannedtoseeyou,” he slurred, handing me one of his half-empty pints and stretching his free hand toward my face. I waited to feel his warm palm cup my cheek, but instead I felt him peel something off each side of my chin.
“Why’veyougotthesestucktoyourface?” he asked, squinting at the two little strips of CD top-spine that had somehow adhered to either side of my mouth, like goaty whiskers.
I groaned. For fuck’s sake. That was why people had been staring at me and tittering.
Without waiting for an answer, Toby gave me an enthusiastic hug. He smelled of stale beer and sweat, faint aftershave, garlic. A very different smell from the one I remembered as his.
“Listen,” he said. “Bitpissedatmoment. Reallywannaseeya, though. Missedcha, man, somuch.”
He hugged me again, nearly toppling us both, sending lager cascading down the front of my favorite dry-clean-only Betsey Johnson top.
I pulled away. “What’s going on, Toby? What are you doing here?” I wanted to add, “Drunk, in the middle of the afternoon.”
Just then a man appeared at his shoulder. He was thin and balding, but with great big dark eyes and chimney-brush eyelashes, like a little boy’s. He didn’t seem to be quite as drunk as Toby.
“Where’s my pint?” he said to Toby, glancing at me. The lack of interest in his gaze was a refreshing relief.
Toby pointed at the glass in my hand. “She’sholdingitforyou,” he said.
She? I was beginning to feel a tense, choking sensation in my gut, driving out the previous nausea and filling it with something much more painful: disappointment.
“I’m Helena,” I said pompously, handing him his pint. Since half of it had been spilled, it looked as if I’d had several hefty swigs out of the glass, but I decided it was beneath me to try to justify myself.
“Loveofmylife,” said Toby dreamily, and put his arm around my shoulders. I shrugged him off crossly.
The man’s eyelashes stood at attention. “I’m Toby’s friend Bill,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Tight-lipped, I shook his hand. “Listen, I should really get going. I was just passing through.”
Bill touched my elbow briefly and bent to whisper in my ear—my good ear, fortunately.
“Ignore him—he’s not himself. I expect you know he’s never usually like this, drunk and stuff. It’s just that—”
Toby caught the word drunk and shoved his head in between ours. “Noneedtomakeexcuses,” he said. And then with supreme concentration he managed to separate his words: “I’m not as thunk as drinkle peep I am, you know.”
He roared with laughter and then sank into a miserable silence, morosely sucking the beer off each of his arms in turn. “Sorry, Ellna,” he said eventually, sounding like Ruby in disgrace.
I badly wanted to ask how Ruby was doing but didn’t think I’d get a comprehensible reply.
“I’ll call you, okay?” he added, obviously making a colossal effort to hold it all together.
“You don’t have my number,” I said.
“C’n I have it?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to see him again. Toby’s imploring look suddenly turned to one of horror, and his face went a nasty shade of mustard. “Aaargh,” he said, putting a hand over his mouth and shoving his pint back into my hand once more. “Gonnabesick.” And he dashed unsteadily off into the pub.
There was a sound of popping in my head, as all my romantic bubbles burst.
“Give him a chance,” muttered Bill again. “He really needs to talk to you.”
I was about to say, He’s married, what is there to talk about?, when I had a terrible thought. “Um, Kate … Kate hasn’t died, has she?”
Bill almost grinned, but not quite. “No. But Toby’s left her. As soon as she came out of hospital, she told him that she was having an affair. He and Ruby have gone to stay with his sister Lulu.”
I didn’t know what to say. I stared toward the dark interior of the pub, hoping that Toby would be able to feel my shock and sympathy vibes. My first thought was that he must have really loved Kate, for him to get so rip-roaringly inebriated.
“Poor Toby. Poor Ruby,” I said.
Bill put a hand on my forearm again, and my skin crawled with the effort of not shaking it off. I hated it when strangers touched me. “Helena, listen,” he said. “It’s not as much of a coincidence as you think, bumping into us here. We’ve been down here four days in a row, looking for you. Toby’s been on this bender, see, and he insisted on coming here because he knew you lived in the area. I told him it wasn’t such a good idea, but he wouldn’t listen—I mean, you don’t want to see him in this state, do you?”
I shook my head. “Who’s looking after Ruby?”
“Lulu, and Toby’s mum. She’s been staying there, too. They’ve been brilliant, but I think they are starting to draw the line at babysitting just so Toby can go out and get hammered. But at least he’s found you.”
I was getting even more irritated. Bill made it sound as if I were a lost puppy, or some mislaid car keys. I was tired and unwell and wanted to go home.
“I’m sorry,” I said stiffly. “I don’t give out my phone number. Why don’t you give me Toby’s address, and if I get the chance, I’ll contact him?”
Bill produced a Biro but couldn’t find any paper, so I handed him the receipt for All Mod Cons and watched as he scribbled down an address and telephone number.
“Please call him. He’d kill me if he knew I was telling you, but he’s really mad about you. He’
s in shock about Kate, of course, but they both knew it wasn’t working out long before her accident.” Bill’s eyelashes were practically begging me, and even though my head was pounding, I smiled.
“You’re a good friend to him, aren’t you?”
“Mmm. Well, speaking of which, better go and check he’s okay.” He handed me the receipt and, with a brief wave, vanished into the throng before I could say anything else.
I was still clutching Toby’s drink, so I walked over and left it next to the pub wall. As I set off toward my car, the dog who’d jumped into the water reappeared and stuck his damp nose into the abandoned pint, sucking greedily at it. I heard the splintering crack of breaking glass and the dog’s whine as his owner smacked him away from the beery shards, but I didn’t look back.
Once I was in the car, I glanced at Toby’s address. For a split second my heart did a tiny tap dance, but then I screwed the receipt into a tiny ball, dropped it to the floor by my feet, and drove home.
The Big Blue OST
DEEP BLUE DREAM
OCTOBER 1, 1987
I don’t really have the time to keep a diary, but Cynthia said I should try, after I told her on the phone the other day that everything was such a blur. She said, “Do it so you can remember the tour later on.”
I don’t think I want to remember it, though. This tour is a complete nightmare, I can’t stand it. I just want to be with Sam. What sort of pathetic friend must she think I am, that I just carry on like normal, while she’s lying there so sick? If I could talk to her for more than two minutes at a time, then I’d be able to persuade her to let me come over. But she’s not too sick for a spot of the old emotional blackmail. She says she’ll never speak to me again if I quit the band or leave the tour. I know she’s bluffing. Of course she’d still speak to me, but I also know that she’d never forgive herself if I chucked in the band because of her.
I suppose she’s right. Wait till the tour’s done and then I can go straight over to Salisbury and stay with the Grants. It’ll be easier all round when Sam’s first round of chemo is finished. She’s too ill to even talk to me on the phone most days, and Cynthia says she can’t face any visitors. At least if I wait awhile, she’ll be able to appreciate my company more.
BUT I FEEL SO GUILTY! I think B.I.’s success makes it worse, too. Spin Shiny’s been number one for four weeks now, but frankly, I couldn’t care less. It’s only success. And money, I guess—although come to think of it, we haven’t seen very much of that. I’d have thought we’d be getting far more royalties than we actually do.… Oh, who knows. Who cares.
Boston, NYC, Philly, and D.C. this week.
OCTOBER 9, 1987
We were on Saturday Night Live and The Tonight Show last week. It was kind of funny. The whole time we were playing, all I could think of was whether the hospital lights hurt Sam’s eyes the way the studio lights hurt mine. Dumb, really. It’s this awful dream I keep having: Sam’s lying helpless, strapped to a table in a great big empty operating theater, with one huge white light glaring right in her face, while all that poison is getting pumped into her body, killing all her cells and not just the leukemia ones in her bone marrow. I wish there was an easier way to make her better.
Shit, crying again. My eyelids are permanently like two great big puffy water wings—the makeup lady on The Tonight Show nearly had a fit. Cucumber slices just don’t do it for me anymore.
Still, let’s look on the bright side. I’ve lost tons more weight.
New Orleans, Austin, Dallas. A bunch more places, too, but I can’t remember where and I don’t have the itinerary at hand.
OCTOBER 18, 1987
I’m crossing off the cities on my tour schedule, one by one, after each gig, like a prisoner counting the days to freedom on his cell wall. Half the time I don’t even know where the hell we are. Why am I wasting time writing this when I should be finishing writing to Sam?
Well, at least if I try and get at least some of the terror and pain and guilt out of my system in this diary, then hopefully it’ll be easier to find something lighthearted to tell her in my letters. Blathering on to her about the band, even though she always says she wants to hear it, makes me feel awful. Here am I, banging on about our success, when she’s fighting for her life.
Surprise, surprise: crying … again. Change the record, Helena.
Success is definitely going to Justin’s head. He’s started taking cocaine—how predictable. Joe has, too, but thankfully David’s got more sense. I have to admit that I tried it, a tiny bit, and yes, it was pretty nice. I felt great. But somewhere, from the depths of my being, however tempting it is to get completely out of it and forget about Sam, I haven’t repeated the experience. I only tried a weeny little amount, a line as thin as a piece of cotton, practically, but Justin’s already on great big thick ones. He can handle it, but I don’t dare. The last thing Sam needs is me becoming a drug addict! I remember when she came to New York that time, she was horrified when the boys spliffed up. I have to keep focused on her recovery; it’s the least I can do, when I’m stuck on a different continent from her.
David and I have had a few whispered conversations about whether or not to confront J&J about the coke (I didn’t dare mention to him that I’d tried it, too). But we decided ultimately that, unless they seem to be getting way out of control, it would just cause more trouble than it’s worth. So David’s gone for a spot of damage limitation instead. He figured out who they were buying it off, and apparently it’s Gavin the roadie’s girlfriend, Trish. Then he took Trish aside and told her, totally politely, that she was NEVER to tell Jus or Joe that she had any more than a gram at a time to sell them, and that if she did, he would personally see to it that she went to jail! I hope he knows what he’s doing—Gavin’s built like a brick outhouse. But I think David’s so brave.
I wish David and I fancied each other. He’ll make someone a lovely husband. And he’s been so supportive of me in the past few weeks. He didn’t even gang up on me with the others when we had that row. Okay, so he didn’t exactly take my side either, but it can’t have been easy for him: It was after I cried onstage in Chicago last week.
I don’t know what happened—I’m usually pretty good at holding it together when we’re playing. When my eyes fill up, I just turn round and fiddle with the amp or my bass cable, or something. (It’s a weird feeling, looking at stage lights through teary eyes. They all swirl together, like gasoline in a puddle. I’ve never dropped acid, but it makes me think that it might be like that.) Anyhow, last week we were in the middle of “Love and a Door” and I got an image of Sam’s hair falling out, and her face getting all sucked-in and gray. Suddenly I just felt so fucking furious. I wanted to scream at God, “How could you let this happen? Sam is a beautiful person, and she’s never done anything to deserve this! It is not fair!” And it wasn’t just like my eyes filled up, it was as if my whole body filled up. I couldn’t blink it away that time, not a chance. I actually thought that I was going to explode. It was all I could do to not throw my bass into the crowd. I wanted to hurt them for being so trivial as to care about stupid us and our stupid, dumb songs, when there were so much more important things to care about.
I unplugged my bass and walked offstage, mid-song. I saw David’s face from behind the drum kit; his jaw just dropped. I didn’t stop to see what Justin’s and Joe’s reactions were, but after the show they had such a go at me. It was awful. I was crying and crying and they just kept shouting about “professionalism” and “commitment.” Then Joe even yelled at me for not being pleased about our success! If it hadn’t been for Sam, and for David intervening, I would have quit then and there. Even Mickey told me to “try and pull myself together” on the phone. He said that Justin had complained about me. Well, to hell with the lot of ‘em. Those are all my songs they’re playing every night, so they can hardly fire me, can they?
NOVEMBER 9, 1987
Fantastic news!! Sam’s come through her first round of chemo, and it’s been
successful! I knew she could do it! Please, God, I know I don’t talk to you much these days apart from complaining, but please carry on making her better. Please. She’s fighting so hard. Help her get through the next round, too, if she has to do it again.
Oh, and Spin Shiny’s gone platinum. That’s pretty cool, too.
I’m completely exhausted.
Atlanta, Athens, Tampa, Miami. I like playing in Athens; I’m glad I had some good news before going onstage there. It was the first show I’ve enjoyed in ages.
Plus I’m getting on better with the boys now, too. It was pretty shaky there for a while, after the row. But we all went out for margaritas after the Miami show, and it was fun. Although I was pissed off when Joe said, “Careful, Helena, you just smiled. You don’t want to make it a habit—your face might shatter.” He’s so juvenile.
God, I’m so tired.…
MARCH 31, 1988
Having a few problems with the folks at the moment. I don’t know why Mum gets so upset when I don’t come home in between tours—it’s not as if she pays me any attention when I am there. But apparently I’d told them that I might be down in February, when we got back from those dates in Canada, and of course I just flew straight over to England to see Sam. I’ve tried to make Mum understand that Sam needs me, that it’s still one step forward, two steps backward, and I can’t risk not being there. Especially not to go and be paraded in front of Mum’s friends and their spotty teenage sons gurning at me and asking for autographs.
Last time I went to Freehold, I hardly even saw Dad much. He was working, and then he was off on the golf course the rest of the time. If I wasn’t getting so famous, I think they’d forget that they even have a daughter.
They’re a complete mystery to me, those two, a “totally self-contained unit” of coupledom. I don’t know why they bothered to have a child—maybe they didn’t, and I was a mistake. It’s so weird being around them: They complain, laugh, cry, cook, shop, live for each other alone, within the exclusive confines of their relationship. Dad’s always so protective of Mum since she had that eating disorder, or whatever it was, when I was a kid—but she seems fine now, and he’s still just as clucky over her. Well, I guess they always were a couple with a child, not a family. I suppose that was why they encouraged my friendship with Sam so much—it gave them more time for each other.
