“Can I give you a hand with that?” He recognizes the woman’s voice. Is it his mother? Polly? His fifth year art teacher with the large hoop earrings? His mind is not prepared to currently decipher anything. Perhaps the person behind him is all three women morphed together. Perhaps she is a guardian angel come to swoop him away to Las Vegas heaven? He turns around and comes face, to very close face, with Fanny Arundel. Her black hair is razor straight with a thick Cleopatra fringe.
“Hello, George, I guess I finally found you.” For a brief moment, he feels sober again. How has she miraculously appeared in this hallway? Has she been following him?
“Fanny! Fanny, Fanny, Fanny!”
“That’s a good sign, darlin’, at least you remember my name. For a while I was beginning to think you might have forgotten.”
“Forgotten? Me? Never. Such an interesting name—how could I possibly forget?” George is too drunk to consider an escape. The only door he can go through now is his.
“George Bryce—are you plastered?” says Fanny, teasingly.
“What? No. NO. Just wiped out after a long, long plane journey. I’m going to bed… to my bed…okay?”
George has managed to get his door open and is now trying to put it between him and her. She is clearly not going to give in and pushes past him into the room flopping directly onto the bed.
“You can’t fool me, George Bryce, clean living patron saint of pop and rock. You’re shit faced and I’m just a tiny bit high. Good combination.” Fanny looks at him with a mischievous smile and kicks off her four-inch heels, the same shade of deep crimson as her lipstick. George is suddenly mesmerized by her mouth. When was the last time he kissed a woman? Four months ago? Five months ago? She was a DJ on Radio One, very enthusiastic with yellow skinny jeans and an impressive knowledge of eighties music. It hadn’t lasted. He felt suffocated when they kissed—she never came up for air. But at this moment, in Las Vegas, reserves of self control plummeting, the thought of kissing Fanny’s red lips is like a million slot machines winning the jackpot. He drops down on the bed next to her, the sound of an avalanche of coins ringing in his ears.
“So, maybe. Maybe you are sort of right about the drunk thing. But, you know, Fanny… as they say, when in Vegas…”
She clicks her tongue and begins to wriggle out of her Little Miss Chatterbox tight pink t-shirt.
“Is that what they say?” asks Fanny, unveiling a skimpy red lacy bra.
“They do say that. I believe they do. Whoever they are. Do you know who they are, Fanny?” George tries to move but his limbs are not cooperating. Fanny rolls over on top of him and deftly gets up onto all fours.
“No I don’t, George, but I do know that you are so so cute…” Something in the tone of her voice reminds George of Polly cooing at the triplets, but in his drunken haze, nothing can deter him now. “And I’ve waited patiently for too too long…”
She lowers her breasts dangerously close to his mouth where they float like two summer cherries. The first time George had met Fanny, she’d brushed her hand against the front of his jeans and whispered, “Stand to attention, officer.” Embarrassingly, he had, and needed to make a hasty retreat to conceal the evidence.
“Don’t you just hate waiting?” says George, wearily, feeling like he has made the most profound statement of his entire life.
Fanny unhooks her bra, releasing two pert dark nipples and a breathy sigh. “Time’s up, Georgie, welcome to Fanny land…”
LEXI
November 13th, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles
Lexi can’t get back to sleep. She thinks maybe she was woken by a small earthquake. Or maybe not. Whatever it was, she feels rattled. She looks over at her clock. Three thirty in the morning. An insomniac’s netherworld. When she moved back to LA she had spent months not being able to sleep. But then her doctor prescribed a mild sleeping pill and she found herself dreaming again—disappearing into hours of uninterrupted slumber. She had never even taken the pill. Just the thought that she could if she wanted, appeared to have resolved the issue. The moon is full tonight and pressed cleanly onto the city-lit sky, like it’s been stamped there with silver ink. Lexi sleeps with her shutters open because she likes to be woken up by the light. It helps her to gauge how the day might go. Bright. Misty. She can recognize now the sort of clouds that will burn off by lunchtime, bringing the possibility of a sunny afternoon. Those are her favorite kind of clouds.
But the sky tonight is thick and cloudless, bare except for the luminous moon. She attempts rolling over, but something tells her that she’s not falling back to sleep any time soon. She decides instead to get up and get a glass of milk and a sneaky vanilla wafer. Maybe she’ll just turn on the TV and check to see if there was an earthquake. There usually is a local channel with a 24/7 seismic cam. Maybe she’ll find an infomercial and buy a Thighmaster or an automatic card shuffler. Andrew and she could start a poker group and invite her parents. Should she be worried that her parents are having marital problems? Her mom did seem a bit odd tonight at the bookshop. Being an only child, Lexi was the intimate observer of her parents’ marriage and mentally documented how her mother repaired all breaks, even the hairline fractures which might have gone unnoticed. “I’ve left that teabag in for too long, honey. Here, let me make you a new one.”
Her mother was intent on preserving appearances and would do almost anything to sustain that. In comparison, Lexi loses tempo quickly in relationships—perhaps the legacy of Andrew—she wonders if she’ll ever find a middle ground. Lexi holds that thought as she rifles through the kitchen cupboards. Well stocked with vanilla wafers and a tall glass of milk, she settles down on the couch and flicks on the television. She presses the mute button so as not to disturb Andrew. He’d been very disgruntled by her mother’s comments that night.
“What if I am just pretending to be gay, Lexi? Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to stay in a relationship with a man. Do you think your mom is right? Should we have sex one more time, just to check?”
“You’re insane!” Lexi had screamed, outraged, slamming her bedroom door.
“I was just kidding!” he had yelled. “Very sensitive tonight.”
“You or me?” she had shouted back, pressing her forehead to her bedroom door.
“Both of us!” he had replied.
They just couldn’t seem to manage a civil conversation for long recently.
Lexi starts surfing through the channels searching for news. Home shopping. Cheap jewelry. Cher in Las Vegas. Friends re-runs. Music videos. Beyoncé shaking her bootie. Maroon Five looking very sleazy and then… who is this? Lexi turns up the volume slowly. She knows this song. She’s heard it before but she’s never seen the video. She loves this song. Who is it? The video is filmed in moody black and white. The band are standing in the woods, sheltered under trees, the camera jumping about. The lead singer is so attractive. He has these incredibly intense eyes and Lexi feels completely drawn in by them. And the lyrics. She’s never really listened to the lyrics before.
It was a suitable dawn
A beautiful dawn
Your fragile heart
So torn apart and I’m
Here now, here now
And I hear you, hear you
As my love rises like
a suitable dawn
The singer’s voice is so damn sexy and his eyes, she can’t get over those eyes. And then she realizes. The band is Thesis. Meg’s latest obsession. Of course. This time she might have to agree with Meg—the lead singer is seriously cute. As the video fades away, she feels a bit like a teenager again, hungrily daydreaming about making out with Eddie Vedder. The pit of her stomach is heavy and fluttery both at the same time. Oh I’m so stupid she thinks he’s gotta be at least ten years younger than me. He looks like a baby. She turns off the TV and eats another vanilla wafer. Distracted, she turns the TV on again and continues to channel hop. Maybe she’ll find another Thesis video. Nothing. She clicks the off button and tosse
s the remote onto the couch. Earthquake or no earthquake, she really should go back to bed. She’s got work in the morning. Russell to wrangle. The ozone layer to save. Who knows, maybe the work she ends up doing with Russell really will make a difference? Even in the last week, she’s stopped taking paper bags at the market and replaced all the lights in the apartment with energy saving bulbs.
Lexi walks quietly back to her room thinking there must be thousands of other people awake right now, so why does she feel like the only one in the world? It’s four in the morning and the moon is full but her milk glass is empty. She crawls into bed and pulls her cozy comforter up around her chin. She can’t seem to get the Thesis song out of her head. Your fragile heart, so torn apart, and I’m here now, here now… Hmmm. She wonders who the lucky girl is who had that song written just for her?
GEORGE
13th November, 2009
The Venetian Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada
George is dreaming. He’s dreaming there’s a massive snoring elephant asleep on his head. The snores are deafening. His skull feels ready to crack. He opens his eyes and for a split second thinks he is at home. Then he remembers he isn’t and thinks he must be on tour. Which city? Which hotel? On an average touring year they might visit a hundred. He can’t remember, and the snoring is getting louder and louder and the elephant is clearly still in the room. It is then he rolls over and sees the culprit. Fanny Arundel. Fast asleep, mouth wide open, emitting a noise unacceptable even for a sumo wrestler.
“Shit,” says George and climbs out of bed. His head no longer feels like it belongs on his body. He marvels at how he is managing to keep it on straight. He looks at the clock, 5:47 a.m. Fanny is sprawled on top of the sheets wearing a red lacy bra and a minuscule thong. George still has on his boxer shorts and socks—very rock and roll. He has absolutely no recollection of what happened. Did they or didn’t they? The last thing he remembers is Duncan ordering another round of tequila shots, while Gabe and Simon took bets on who could store the most olive pits in their cheeks. The roulette ball landed on 7. The rest is anyone’s guess. How did Fanny Arundel get in his bed? He hopes they didn’t have sex. Firstly, because what a bloody waste if he doesn’t even remember it, and secondly, because she’s a certified crackpot. Even with that body, which is currently very hard to ignore, George knows she’s trouble. Plus the snoring is nothing less than awful.
He goes over to the window, thirty-five floors up, and stares across the plugged-in landscape. It looks like a world of electric Legos just waiting to be dismantled and put back together in another configuration. A full pale moon is hanging over the horizon, preparing to switch places with the hot desert sun. What to do? George rubs his tender head considering his options. He could try and find Simon’s room or Gabe’s. He could just take his suitcase and sneak away and pretend he was never here with her. If he doesn’t remember a bloody thing, surely she won’t? She does have a reputation for being a cokehead.
For a second he stays with his nose pressed to the window, bewitched by the half light between night and morning. He’s always loved this time of day. “A Suitable Dawn” was the first song he’d written for this third album and it had been one of their biggest hits to date. He had written it while walking through the flower gardens in Kyoto on a sleepless, jet-lagged night. He’d wandered around until morning, and then the lyrics had come to him complete, like delicate petals landing in a perfect symmetry. He wrote it for the woman he had yet to meet. The woman he still hasn’t met.
“Good morning, lover boy…”
George pushes his forehead harder against the glass. “Morning, Fanny.”
His reverie is over.
LEXI
November 13th, 2009
Venice Blvd, Los Angeles
Lexi never did fall back to sleep after returning to bed, and finally got up at six and downloaded the most recent Thesis album. She’s only listening to one song on the car journey to Venice though, “A Suitable Dawn.” Over and over again.
GEORGE
13th November, 2009
The Venetian Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada
“You and I, George, I knew we’d be hot.” Fanny meows and beckons George back towards the bed.
“Did you?” says George, grabbing his jeans and t-shirt and dressing hurriedly.
“Yes. You’re such a tease. All this time, you’ve been holding out. Holding back all that passion. Christ, my mouth feels like sandpaper—have we got any wine?”
George takes a bottle of water from the fridge and puts it on the bedside table.
“It’s a little early for wine, don’t you think?”
“Oh George, you sound like my mother. But not last night. Last night you didn’t sound like my mother at all. Especially when you told me…” her voice trails off.
“What? What did I tell you?” he’s starting to think she might be bluffing.
“I’ll remind you later when we have a re-match. What’s the hurry anyway, come back to bed.”
George looks around for her clothes, if in fact she has any. He spots a polka-dotted miniskirt and a pink t-shirt on the floor, next to a pair of red shoes. He picks up the bundle and slides the shoes in her direction.
“Look, Fanny, last night was… was last night. And you… you are a really talented… talented singer. And me… I’m hopeless at… well hopeless in the mornings really, just a grouch. Not a morning person. Not at all. And today we’ve got this video shoot and—”
Fanny stands up and stretches her arms high above her head, her breasts barely restrained by the bra. When she turns around, George gets a prime view of her famous tattoo, high blood pressure, brazen in bright red cursive script an inch above her bottom. She whistles as she exhales.
“Say no more, George Bryce. I get it. We speak the same language. I’m an artist too, and I know how important it is to get into that Zen space before a performance. I totally respect that. I sometimes channel Sebastian when I’m in that zone. He was my mentor, you know. He gave me my big break. When he died, my world shattered around me.” Fanny slips into her shoes and stumbles towards George. “He speaks to me now, George. When I’m meditating. Sebastian told me that you and I were going to be hot together. He told me it would all work out in the end. He was here last night watching us…”
George is utterly creeped out and wishes she would leave.
“Great!” he says a little too enthusiastically, steering Fanny towards the door. “Well then, Sebastian must be about as tired as I am, and probably has a hangover equally as gruesome. He’s going to want to rest. In your room. Do you know where it is?” Before he can dodge her, Fanny leans in and kisses George full on the lips, trying to push her tongue insistently into his mouth. He pulls away, aware that there are scores of men who would cut off any number of limbs to find themselves in this position, but ironically, George just isn’t feeling it. He hands Fanny her clothes.
“You should get dressed.”
Fanny takes the rolled up ball of fabric but doesn’t bother to put anything on. She opens the door and swaying down the hallway, high blood pressure on full display, calls behind her, “Reach out, George, reach out.”
“Most definitely,” says George, closing the door as she vanishes around the corner. He briefly questions if he should worry about Fanny roaming the halls half naked, but reminds himself that surely in Vegas that’s hardly out of the ordinary.
I’m such an arse he thinks. He can’t even manage to throw caution to the wind without throwing God knows what else into the gale. The day looms ahead of him. A video shoot with a control freak director. Another forty-eight hours in this surreal city. Fanny, the ghost channelling stalker. At least he has the acoustic show to look forward to. He leans his back against the door and surveys the hotel room, a space so thoroughly devoid of soul. George has to be one of thousands of people staying in this beast of a hotel, so why, right at this moment, does he feel like the only one?
LEXI
November 13th, 2009
&
nbsp; Venice, Los Angeles
Russell greets Lexi with a freshly prepared glass of green juice. “New recipe!” he declares proudly.
“Thanks,” says Lexi who is still feeling the effects of her sleepless night.
What she wants to do now is get to work, rein Russell in, and start making some progress. She’s decided that designing a website is the first point of call.
“So,” says Lexi, enjoying her new professional vigor, “I was thinking website. Our priority now is to generate interest from organizations who might consider using your consultation services. We need to get businesses on board and then we can get testimonials. It’s all about word of mouth.” Lexi produces her iPhone from her bag.
“I’m going to start calling contacts today. I know a brilliant website designer who I’m certain would give us a break on the price, considering the current climate.”
“Okey dokey,” says Russell, “Boris and I will just take out the compost then. Boris has been a tad anxious ever since—”
“No!” says Lexi, with more force than intended. “No Boris talk right now, Russell. The compost will have to wait.” She takes a sip of the green juice (a foul tasting concoction) and begins pacing back and forth, something that appears to have become a habit in this job.
“I’ve been asking myself—what’s the most unique selling point of this business? And I realized the answer is—you. It’s your passion and expertise. It’s your stunning devotion. We have to get you out there as the face of Let The Green Times Roll. We need to make a video to play on the home page. You… talking to the masses… pleading with the consumers and the capitalists… inspiring millions… like a leader. Make the world stop and listen, Russell—I know you have it in you!”
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