Playing Along (16 page)

“Our Scrabble games can get very heated, Kevin,” says George dryly, “I’ve even been known to throw a few tiles out the window.”

The two DJs laugh.

“We knew you had it in you, George, you’re hard core. But seriously guys, the show was excellent. Any of our listeners who were lucky enough to see it will agree—you guys were awesome.”

“The audience last night were phenomenal,” says George, remembering the woman in the third row. “Really, we’re indebted to our fans. If it wasn’t for them we’d be… well, we’d be rather lonely.”

“No chance of that!” says Bean. “You seem to have a way with the ladies. I don’t know what they’re putting in the water over there in the UK, but the chicks here dig you.”

“Not that we don’t!” adds Kevin.

“Aww—it’s a good thing we’re on the radio so you can’t see me blushing,” says George, keeping up.

“We’re going to take some calls from listeners in a moment and then we’re going to play the new single. But what I’d like to know is how the songs get written. Do you all pitch in, or is there one head chef?” Not exactly the best time for this question to be thrown at them.

“George usually comes to me with a lyric and a chord,” answers Simon. “Something like… lost sock, lost sock where have you gone… and then we elaborate on
that
lyric and
that
chord for days and days until—hey presto—we’ve written ‘Corners and Tables’.”

“Then they ask for my approval,” says Duncan.

“And yours, Mark?” asks Bean.

“Rarely,” says Mark, smiling, but George can hear the crackle on the line.

“And do you know when it’s working? I mean, are you guys like ‘Yes! This one’s gonna be big…’”

“Sort of opposite really,” says George, “I usually say ‘no—this one’s never going to work’ and then everyone spends more days and days attempting to convince me. It’s all rather exhausting really. It’s surprising we ever have enough energy to perform at the end of it.”

“You guys crack me up,” says Bean. “Are you ready for some calls?”

“Bring’em on,” says George, anything to end this line of questioning.

“On line number one we have Melinda from Silverlake. Melinda, you’re on with Thesis. Did you have a question?” George briefly entertains the obscure fantasy that maybe his mystery woman will call and reveal herself to him.

“Oh my God, like, yes, but oh my God, like I love you guys!”

“Like we love you too, Melinda,” says Duncan.

“I was at the show on Saturday and you guys looked so cute. I wanted to know, like, do you guys like plan what you’re going to wear before you go on stage, or do you just like wear whatever?”

“A hard hitting music question, boys—who’s going to tackle this one?” George’s heart sinks. So much for his soul mate seeking him out.

LEXI
November 24
^th
, 2009
Burbank, Los Angeles

It’s five a.m. and Lexi is considering asking Russell for a raise—as soon as they get their first client. Surely waking up this early goes above and beyond the call of duty? Plus she was right about the bean stew. When she arrived to collect him this morning, he seemed to have taken up residence in the bathroom.

“Is everything all right?” asked Lexi, praying she was not going to get particulars.

“All’s well. Just finding myself a tad nervous.”

“You’ll be great, Russell. Just be yourself.” Lexi’s only role this morning is moral support, which she can just about manage at this ungodly hour. The rest of her brain is still asleep.

When they arrive at the studio, they are greeted by Mildred Cotton, a statuesque woman with a short silver bob, probably in her early fifties, wearing a long purple dress and cowboy boots. Lexi can see now why Russell was so taken with her—she’s perfect for him (even though she’s sworn off using that word—in this instance she will allow it). Russell grows increasingly flustered when he sees her.

“Um, how is Cherub doing? Boris has been asking after her.”

“Oh, he is quite a flirt that Boris of yours,” says Mildred, taking off her black rimmed glasses. “A chip off the old block, huh Russell?”

“Well, I do like to think he’s only inherited my best attributes.”

“Seeing as I’ve yet to see all of your best attributes, my dear, I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” Go Mildred.

“Are you ready to wow LA with your forward thinking, Mr Hazelton?”

“I am, Miss Cotton, I surely am.”

“Magnifique! Well, you’ll only have a few minutes with Sophie, so make it memorable, and we’ll run the web address at the bottom of the screen at the close of the segment, as well as featuring it on our site. I think it’s just wonderful what you’re doing. A true visionary.”

“Yes, he really is,” says Lexi, feeling totally dispensable. “Crunch, anyone?” She picks up a bowl of what appears to be granola clusters with dried fruit, and Russell and Mildred both grab a handful, although they can’t seem to take their eyes off each other. Their hands collide in the snack bowl. It’s all very romantic.

A woman’s head appears around the doorway, “Mr Hazleton, can we have you in make-up for a moment? We just need to powder your nose.”

“Well, that’s a first,” says Russell embarrassedly.

“I’ll walk you over there,” says Mildred, and before Lexi can even say goodbye, the room has cleared out and she’s left holding the granola.

She puts it on her lap and continues eating. Her mind drifts to George Bryce. She tries to push him out, forcibly, but he keeps finding his way back in. Meg had called her yesterday gushing about hearing them interviewed on KROQ, “He’s such a sweetheart. He was really witty and said his fans meant everything to him. I’d love to just meet him, you know, like one time, to tell him what their music means to me.”
Yeah, you and Radar3Girl and a trillion other sex crazed teenagers
, Lexi wanted to say.
And me
.
And me
. But she didn’t. She listened to Meg at length and then rushed to her computer when she got home to see if she could find the interview.

What was George doing right now? Most likely on a plane back to London. Or screwing his harpist. Or snorting coke. Or getting a blow job from a skinny eighteen-year-old. The list was endless. Her speculation is broken by Mildred, flying back into the room, flapping her arms up and down, her dress swirling around her like a billowing sail.

“Lexi! Lexi—it’s Russell—he’s… he’s swelling. I think it might have been something he ate. Is he allergic to anything that you know of?”

Lexi’s mind races. In the short time she has known Russell, she has been subjected to a catalogue of his personal health issues, from digestive flare-ups to an irritable colon. More information than she ever wanted to recall. But has he ever mentioned allergies? Gooseberries maybe. That’s right. He’s allergic to gooseberries. Or was that Boris? She looks down into the bowl of granola and spots suspicious looking shrivelled green culprits, hiding behind the dried cranberries.

“I think he’s allergic to gooseberries,” she says, holding the bowl out in front of her, in a feeble attempt to offer Mildred some proof.

“Well, he looks like one now, and he can barely speak. His tongue is swollen. His eyes are like fountains. I’ll have to call the medics.”

“Can I see him? Is he okay?” Lexi is having a
Grey’s Anatomy
moment and half expects McDreamy to walk in behind Mildred with a clipboard in hand.

“The problem is, Lexi, he’s due to go on air in seven minutes. I’m sending you to make-up. You’ll have to take his place.”

Lexi snorts in disbelief, “Me?”

“Yes, you! You
are
his partner, aren’t you? Who else can talk about the business? I can’t have an empty slot at 5:30—it’s prime real estate. Kitty here will look after you. I’m going to be with Russell.”

Mildred sweeps out leaving Kitty behind, the same woman who had popped her head around the door five minutes before when life was still relatively normal. Lexi feels her armpits getting damp. It’s been fourteen years since she was in the debate club and that was never filmed. She desperately tries to summon her inner Maria, who apparently is still asleep. Her only consolation being that almost everyone else is as well.

“You’ll be great!” says Kitty, too enthusiastically. “Just be yourself!”

GEORGE
24
^th
November, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles

George is wide awake. He went to bed at one a.m. and he’s been tossing around fitfully ever since. His head is cluttered full of thoughts, like a stack of sealed envelopes waiting to be read. Every time he rips one open—another five appear and the pile just keeps getting higher. He’s already spent two hours working on a song. He’s called it “Third Row,” but the lyrics are clumsy and the melody has yet to materialize.

He ended up sending Fanny a text on Monday saying
Take care, love George.
He felt it was suitably non-committal but not a complete blow off. She texted back
Touring with Twisted Kale. Malcom and I have been hanging. Sebastian approves. You and I cool?
George wrote
Absolutely. Cool. Tell Malcom I say hello.
Chapter closed. Malcom can have her. He’ll know just what notes to hit.

George kicks the duvet off and stares at the ceiling. If he smoked, this would be a good time to have a cigarette. If, if, if.

They haven’t even started their North American tour yet and he’s feeling like hibernating back in Maida Vale. He’s had enough of BBQ chipotle chicken pizzas and sandwiches the size of a small car. Even the eternally optimistic weather is starting to grate on him. It’s November. He wants to get caught in a downpour.

George stretches across the bed and removes his t-shirt from on top of the digital alarm clock. He chucked it there hours ago, taunted by the red numbers brazenly illuminating the room. 5:33 a.m. One more day in LA.

He reaches for the remote control and turns on the TV. If he can’t sleep or write, he may as well watch music videos. The screen comes to life. He’s just about to start channel surfing when he recognizes the woman’s face on the screen. The woman’s face on the screen. The woman on the screen! It’s her! It’s his mystery lady. Third row. Orange glow. Running. Crying. The song is writing itself now. It’s actually her. He catapults himself to the end of the bed so he can get closer to the telly, and he turns up the volume. She’s talking animatedly, to a woman with big hair.

“You see, Sophie, at Let The Green Times Roll, we’re not just committed to the environment—we’re committed to helping people save the environment and that’s the difference. We all know that our world is suffering, but what we don’t all know is what we can do to help. Re-using and recycling is a start, but that’s just the beginning. We’re here to advise businesses and individuals on how they can push past the beginning and do more, so that future generations have a better chance…”

“So you offer a consultancy service?” says the interviewer.

“That’s correct—a green consultancy service. We put the structures and guidelines in place to help people improve their environmental awareness, cut their carbon footprint and change their habits. Empowering yourselves is possible if you find the knowledge you need to guide you. At Let The Green Times Roll, we have that knowledge.”

George doesn’t know what to do. If he looks away, she’ll be gone again and that will be the third time. Third row. Third time. This has to be more than a coincidence. Something in the universe is bringing this woman back into his view. She’s so articulate. She has a softness surrounding her, which he feels drawn to. Her skin is radiant with a scattering of freckles.

“Sorry to say our time is up but thank you very much to Russell Hazleton for coming to talk with us. Most inspiring—glad you are New in Town. Details of Let The Green Times Roll are on the screen below and on our website. Next up—getting the most from your roast. Graham is here with some exciting new alternatives to Thanksgiving turkey…”

George dives sideways to the bedside table and grabs his pen and paper. He scrawls down the website and writes in big black letters the words, RUSSELL HAZLETON. Surprising name. Very surprising morning.

LEXI
November 24
^th
, 2009
Burbank, Los Angeles

It’s all happening too quickly. One minute she’s eating granola and daydreaming about George Bryce, and the next she’s on television with barely any lipstick on and Russell’s shoes to fill. It’s going well. Really well. She’d practiced with Russell so many times yesterday, she virtually knows the material by heart. But when the camera rolls and she begins to talk, Lexi isn’t just going through the motions anymore. As an ambassador for the burgeoning company, she genuinely feels enthusiastic and even, dare she say it, passionate. Russell’s zeal has been truly contagious and Lexi is ready to spread the word.

The only weird part is when Sophie calls her Russell. It seems no one had thought to tell her about the last minute change.

When they cut to a commercial break, Sophie looks at her quizzically. “You’re not Russell, are you?”

“No,” says Lexi apologetically, her heart beating at an unnaturally fast pace. “He had an incident with a gooseberry. I’m Lexi Jacobs—nice to meet you.”

“Well, you were very good on air. You’ll be sure to get some interest.”

“Thanks!” says Lexi, forgetting for a second why she was forced on air at all, until she sees Mildred heading towards her.

“Is he okay?” asks Lexi guiltily, trying to hide how thrilled she is with her performance.

“Oh, he’s fine. What a little boy—all that fuss over a gooseberry. Kitty gave him a homeopathic remedy and he settled down immediately. No need to worry though, my dear, we saw you on the monitor and you were fabulous.”

Lexi looks at her watch—it’s not even six a.m. yet. At least she had her TV set to record at home. She’ll have to have a popcorn party and invite everyone over to see her debut.

“Oh, it was nothing,” says Lexi modestly, “I just tried to think about what Russell would want me to say. He’s the brainchild behind all of this. He’s the one.”

“Perhaps, but you’re a pretty close two. Have you ever considered a career in broadcasting, Lexi?”

Broadcasting? What did she mean—like a weather girl? Or maybe she could do one of those shows on MTV and then she might have a chance of meeting George? No—she wasn’t trendy enough—was she? And old. Surely she was too old?