Russell looks deeply moved. Boris sits next to him on the kitchen counter staring uneasily at the juice. “You really believe in me, don’t you, Lexi? I don’t think anyone has ever said those things to me before, ever. If I were to be entirely honest it would seem the majority of people I meet regard me as a bit,” he pauses, obviously trying to come up with the most suitable word, “freakish.”
Lexi stops pacing, feeling terrible for having thought exactly that about Russell less than two weeks ago. But since getting to know him a bit, she has changed her mind. If she’s been practicing leaps of faith, then believing in Russell might well be the biggest leap yet. She looks Russell square in the eye.
“Aren’t we all, Russell? A bit freakish? This planet would be very tedious without people like you to add a bit of… of…” it’s her turn now to find the perfect word. But she quickly remembers that perfect is banned. “Pizazz.”
“Pizazz?” he says, letting the word buzz on his tongue. “Pizazz, I like that.”
“I thought you might.”
“I guess it’s down to work then! Boris and I will begin typing my inaugural speech and you can make your calls and drink your juice. But one last question.”
“Yes?” says Lexi, hoping he’s not going to suggest they smoke weed again.
“Can Boris be in the video?”
“Of course Boris can be in the video, Russell,” says Lexi, relieved. “It wouldn’t be the same without him, would it?”
“No,” says Russell, thoughtfully, “I guess it wouldn’t.”
GEORGE
13th November, 2009
Las Vegas, Nevada
Pedro Myerson is followed around by three PAs at all times. One holds an arsenal of medicines in a Perspex container (George thought they were an assorted array of Tic Tacs before Simon set him straight). One holds his paper-thin laptop. And the third one doesn’t hold anything, but apparently is necessary in case the other two unexpectedly drop dead. They have obviously been programmed to keep an appropriate distance from their revered boss, and yet appear to anticipate his every need, stepping forward at intervals, as if summoned by a silent dog whistle. Initially amused by the spectacle, the band are rapidly losing patience with the eccentric genius.
“This guy’s got his head up his butthole,” declares Duncan, as the four band mates lie in the hot sand shoulder to shoulder, while Myerson and his DP prepare lighting for the next take.
“Talking of, George, how was your midnight feast? Fanny was salivating looking for you. I was tempted to give her my room number instead.”
George might have guessed it was Duncan who put Fanny back on his trail. He is certainly not in the mood to indulge in his banter now. The video shoot is even worse than he might have imagined. Myerson is incredibly patronizing and earlier in the day communicated painstakingly slowly his thoughts about the shoot.
“I see you all in white. Bright white. Asleep in the sand—okay? The hot desert sand. Do you understand? It’s like it’s searing through your skin. Skin. Okay?”
“It was searing through my skin, just now,” Simon had said glibly. “It’s bloody hot out here, mate.” Pedro had ignored the comment and continued, directing the remaining portion of his vision to George.
“This song, ‘I Knew It’. This song you wrote is powerful. It juxtaposes elements of light and dark. The pure and evil forces residing within us all. The images need to reflect these themes. Suffocation. Purification. Do you understand me? Mortification. I knew it, right? I knew it. Okay?” George had hesitated, somewhat at a loss for words. Was Myerson hoping to enlighten him about the meaning of his own lyrics? He had in fact written the song about something far less lofty, but far more familiar to him. The certainty of uncertainty. How the only thing you could ever rely on in life is just how unpredictable things are.
Case in hand. He now finds himself and the boys half buried in scorching sand, decked out in hideous white suits, with a scattering of decapitated palm trees hovering above them. George is wishing he had indeed spoken up. He could have said, “No, Pedro, not okay. Let’s film casinos full of middle America and us on a stage in the background; like the bad band at a bar mitzvah. Bad band. Okay?” That would have been poetic irony. Oh, and as an afterthought, he could have suggested a set-up with Fanny, because all arrows were pointing towards them being a match made in heaven, where surely they could persuade old, dead Sebastian to complete the threesome?
But he had been too hung-over to be assertive. Plus he wants to trust Gabe. He needs to trust Gabe, who now sprints over to the boys and says excitedly, “I’ve just seen this shot on the monitor. It’s the ticket, boys. It looks magnificent. Really.”
George is unconvinced. The set is swarming with a multitude of people, doing a multitude of seemingly extremely important jobs.
“Have they finished lighting this shot—can we move now?” asks George, who is having a spontaneous memory of being five years old on holiday in Cornwall, while Polly buried his entire body beneath the sand, forcing him to swallow a massive mouthful until he nearly choked to death. He vividly recalls hearing his mother say, “Look how sweet, Lawrence, the children are playing.”
“I’ll check,” says Gabe and runs off again.
“There’s something wrong with this picture,” says Mark. “That Myerson chap has three assistants and there’s only one of him. There’s four of us and we have—Gabe.”
“I’ll gladly take one of his, mate,” says Duncan, “I’ve had my eye on the short one with the big—”
“Box of pills?” interrupts George.
“Is it lunch yet?” adds Simon.
“Anyway, I thought Anna was your assistant, or is it the other way around?” says Duncan sarcastically.
“Give it a rest, Dunc,” says Mark.
“We said, didn’t we—when we first started out—we said we’d keep it real.” George stands up, feeling aggravated. “There’s enough people who are essential when we tour without having to hire an entourage just for the hell of it.”
“Well, this is real enough for me,” says Simon. “I have sand in every crevice imaginable and no sandwich on the horizon. I’m ready to be a diva. People!” he yells, shaking the dust from his mop of red hair, as make-up and wardrobe rush to his side.
George declines help from an eager wardrobe assistant trying to brush off his suit and does so himself. He heads straight for the craft service table sheltered under a canopy, offering a selection of cut up vegetables, cheese and oversized biscuits. A young guy, no more than eighteen years old, is manning the table. He looks slightly flustered as George approaches.
“Uh, hi. George, um, wow. I think, you know, in your trailer, they’ve got special food for you.”
“No, this is great. Carrots, I love carrots.” George grabs a handful. “So you know my name, what’s yours?”
“Eliot, my name’s Eliot and damn, you know, I am such a big fan,” Eliot fumbles awkwardly with a stack of plastic cups, almost knocking them all over. “Not cool,” he mutters under his breath.
“No, honestly, that’s really nice to hear, Eliot. You play anything yourself?”
“Yeah, I do. I, you know, write some lyrics and play guitar and my friends and I we’ve started a band.”
“Excellent. Called?”
“Extra Utensils.”
“I like it. Who are your influences?”
Eliot looks embarrassed, “Besides you? Wow, like, Bon Iver, The Shins, Bright Eyes.”
“Impressive selection. You have anything recorded?”
“Yeah, we have some stuff, like on my computer.”
“Eliot, listen to me. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“I thought so. You’ve got a lot more misery to suffer through. It carves an edge—you’ll need it. See that guy with the afro and the glasses over there,” George points to Gabe, who is circling a palm tree on his phone. “I want you to take him some celery and some cheese sticks or something, and tell him I told you to
ask for his card. Don’t do anything with it now. Put it away. In four years’ time, call him up and send him a demo. Tell him to pass it on to me. I’ll remember you. Vegas Eliot with the carrots.”
Eliot looks bewildered. “Are you totally serious?”
“Totally serious,” says George.
“Wow, like really serious? That’s sick. You must have people like asking you for stuff all the time. Why me?”
George shrugs.
“Because, Eliot, you didn’t ask.”
He grabs another handful of carrots. “Hey good luck. I’ll see you later, mate.” George wanders back towards the mayhem, feeling invigorated, having bypassed the celebrity trappings to make contact with a real human instead. A klutzy boy with sweaty palms whom he knows only too well. A boy whose life he could possibly inextricably alter. The power of this influence at times feels extraordinary. It goes beyond the music. Beyond the record sales. He feels the weight of the responsibility and with that a craving to get it right. To do something better.
“George. Mr. Myerson would like to see you in his trailer immediately,” instructs assistant number one, striding towards him with the box full of pills.
“I see,” says George, eyeing the portable pharmacy. “What is all that stuff anyway? What’s wrong with him?” He reckons this is quite a loaded question. Duncan has now sidled over to George with a large bucket of popcorn.
“Mr. Myerson suffers from BPV among other thyroid-related conditions,” the assistant replies robotically.
“What does that stand for?” asks Duncan, “Bloody poncy video?”
She is clearly unamused. “Benign Positional Vertigo. He gets dizzy.”
“Well, that explains it,” says George, helping himself to the warm popcorn and aiming a kernel in Duncan’s ready and waiting open mouth.
LEXI
November 17th, 2009
Venice, Los Angeles
Russell has tried on about six different outfits, each worse than the one before. Lexi’s phone marathon paid off and she managed to reach an old contact, Billy, who agreed to design a website at a reasonable cost. He liked the idea of a video introduction but suggested Lexi film it herself, if budget was an issue. So she has borrowed Meg’s Flip video camera and positioned it carefully on a tripod in the front yard, with the blossoming Mini strategically placed in the background. What she hadn’t factored for are the Santa Ana winds, blowing a hot, dry, billowy breath across the entire city all the way to the shore, where Lexi is struggling to keep the camera standing. She knows the Santa Anas can drive ordinarily sane people berserk. She can’t exactly categorize Russell as sane to begin with. He appears now in the doorway, wearing linen trousers and an embroidered Mexican poncho, longing for Lexi’s approval. She shakes her head for the seventh time.
“Sorry, Russell, it’s just not right. You look like you’re going to a wedding in Cancun.” He looks thoroughly fed up.
“Am I that obvious? June 2000, The Ritz Carlton. Boris’s vet, Arnold, married Lucinda. It was a splendid event. Everyone told me I looked very festive.”
“You do. Look festive but… it’s not the look we’re going for in the video. We need casual but concerned. Serious yet comfortable. Trustworthy. Natural but not too crunchy granola… do you get the picture?”
Russell’s ponytail, whipped up by the wind, snaps against his cheek.
“I’m trying my darnedest, Lexi, but nothing seems good enough for you. You might have noticed that fashion is not a priority for me. I have far more pressing matters to think about. I’m not going to parade around out here anymore humiliating myself. I’m changing into my organic, hemp, long sleeved T-shirt… and that will just have to do.”
Lexi grips the tripod to stop it from toppling. She can’t believe that now she’s on Russell’s hit list, when just a few days ago she could do no wrong. She’s only trying to help.
“Okay,” she says, tired of constantly being conciliatory. “Why didn’t you just put that on in the first place?” She feels like sticking out her tongue. Clearly the winds are working their voodoo on her as well. This video is set to be a disaster. That’s if they even get around to filming it. Russell walks back into the house in a huff, followed by Boris with his tail hanging between his legs.
Lexi’s phone rings and Meg’s grinning face beams out from the screen. She picks it up, ready to vent.
“Shoot me now—I’m having the day from hell, and it’s not even lunch yet.”
“I don’t want details,” says Meg. “You’re coming for dinner with Tim and me tonight.”
“I am? I do want details.”
“Forget it. We’ll pick you up at 7:30. Look ravishing—like you always do.”
“I’m really not sure, Meg, I mean I haven’t even begun filming Russell yet. It might go late tonight.”
“Well, make sure it doesn’t. Okay? Look, Annabelle’s fallen in the toilet again! Gotta go, hon. I’ll see you at 7:30. Byyyeee!” Meg hangs up.
“Byyeee!” Lexi repeats sarcastically, this time pointedly sticking her tongue out at her phone, while her hair blows in a wild halo above her head.
GEORGE
17th November, 2009
United Flight to Los Angeles
Goodbye Vegas, hello LA. George is relieved to put sin city behind him and move on with the itinerary. There should already be a loud buzz building around the upcoming acoustic gig—intentionally masterminded by Gabe. All the radio stations will be talking about it. Other than record execs and some industry faces, the tickets for the show are being given to fans registered on the website. They won’t find out until the night before if they have been allocated seats or where the venue is, and every ticket holder will receive a free limited edition t-shirt. The t-shirt has a picture of a dog on it, sitting at a corner table with a pint of lager, and a single yellow rose in a vase. Thesis, LA 2009 is inscribed in small font on the back centre of the shirt. George designed the t-shirt. He is a stickler for details.
The band are also appearing on the cover of this week’s SPIN magazine and have a double page spread and the cover of the LA Times calendar on the weekend. George will religiously scour them all. So far most of the American reviews of the latest album have been favourable.
“Thesis rocks another well honed dissertation.”
“Bryce and the boys have lost their milk teeth—Corners and Tables has some serious bite.”
Of course there’s also, “Back me in a corner and let me hide under the table—another dull, Coldplayesque album from Britain’s most overrated soft rockers.” A lot of bands don’t bother reading reviews at all, but George does. He sometimes imagines Polly and his parents sitting and gloating over the bad ones, nodding conspiratorially. He really wishes that one day they would just come to one of his shows. His parents haven’t seen him perform since the band was just starting out. There’s always an excuse. Too noisy. Too far. Maybe next time. Polly came once to the Hammersmith Apollo with her husband, Martyn, but they left before the end of the show so they could get back to the triplets.
The plane is descending bumpily. George keeps his eye on the mountaintops and remembers he needs to show Simon the lyrics to “Over Time,” the ones he worked on last time he was in turbulence. The captain’s voice booms out loudly over the PA, “Captain Hank Adams here. Sorry for the rollercoaster ride, folks. We’ll get you safely on the ground in just a few minutes, but for now, enjoy the Santa Anas. Apparently they make all sorts of weird and wonderful things happen in LA.”
LEXI
November 17th, 2009
Venice, Los Angeles
By some miracle, Lexi had managed to get a decent amount of footage of Russell in his suitably neutral, chemical-free garment, coupled with the wedding trousers. Eventually they had to tie his ponytail into a tight knot at the nape of his neck to stop the wind from blowing it into his mouth. Russell complained that he looked bald, but Lexi convinced him that it was the only option. His speech was nothing short of stellar—stirring yet informat
ional, with just the right hint of eccentricity. Boris took pride of place on the roof of the Mini, providing a creative backdrop. He did fall off at one point, rolling over while in a deep sleep and plummeting onto the grass, but Lexi had suggested they include it in a bloopers link, and before long, Russell was smiling again.
Now she is sitting in the back of Meg’s and Tim’s SUV surrounded by mangled Barbies, lethally sharp pieces of Transformers and a plentiful scattering of cookie crumbs. She feels something moist soaking into the back of her jeans.
“Uh, guys, did one of the kids pee back here or something?”
“Oh, shit!” says Meg. “Jack’s Gogurt exploded yesterday. I must have missed some.”
“Great,” replies Lexi, anticipating a massive wet patch in the middle of her butt. “Well, at least it’s just the three of us tonight. You won’t mind me smelling like curdled yogurt.”
“No worries, Lex, we’re used to it, but you might just want to spray a bit of this.” Meg rummages in her purse and passes back a miniature bottle of perfume. “It’s yummy. Smells like grapefruit.”
Lexi takes the bottle and spritzes her wrists.
“So what’s the occasion anyway? Did I forget our anniversary, Meg? Where are you taking me?”
“Oh, nothing special. Tim was just saying today that he hadn’t seen you in such a long time and so—”
“Meg—will you just tell her already?” Tim, who is driving, glares pointedly at his wife. Lexi has always considered Tim to be the quintessential all-American man. He’s solid as they come. Great dad on the weekends. Plays golf. Works in investment banking. Favorite film is Anchor Man. Drinks lots of beer but knows when to stop. Worships his wife. These are all the reasons why Lexi knows Meg loves him, as well as being most of the things that drive her to distraction. He’s clearly fond of Lexi, but were she to give it some thought, she would find herself hard pressed to recall a time when he actually had a conversation with her, short of, “Hey Lex, what’s up?”
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