Playing Along (25 page)

Mildred strides over wearing a long flowing silk top adorned with yellow and black dragonflies, large round sunglasses obscuring most of her face. “What’s it going to take to persuade you to get back in front of the camera, young lady? I know Russell is divine, but you mustn’t let him have all the limelight.”

Lexi looks up from her iPhone where she is tackling her ever-expanding Inbox. Inquiries have been piling up.

“Oh, Mildred, you’re sweet, but I have far too much to do behind the scenes at the moment. Thanks to you of course.”

“I’ll accept that excuse for now, but just don’t forget how good you were.”

“I’ll try not to,” says Lexi, flattered by Mildred’s sudden interest.

“There’s more to you than meets the eye, my dear. It’s obvious to everyone else but you.” Lexi can feel her cheeks redden. She can manage compliments about her shiny hair, her smooth skin, her cute outfit, her efficient time-keeping, but Mildred’s comment touches a different part of her. A part that is waiting and wanting to be seen again. She hadn’t realized that Mildred had given her any thought at all since her TV debut.

A sudden burst of laughter erupts from the fifth graders. Russell has a sock on each hand and is recreating a scene from
Star Wars
using a broken umbrella as a makeshift light saber.

One of the children is waving her hand wildly.

“My mom won’t let me play with trash. She says trash spreads germs and germs crawl into your bloodstream and then you wake up with an infection which scratches, or even worse, you wake up dead.”

“Well, technically,” says Russell, “you can’t actually wake up, if you’re dead.”

“Still,” says the girl. “She won’t let me.”

“I bet you use a lot of hand sanitizer in your house then?” says Russell knowingly.

“She keeps it on a key chain,” the little girl looks very impressed.

“Excellent. Your homework, Ellen, is to collect all the empty hand sanitizer bottles you can over the coming months. I want you to paint them every color of the rainbow and erect a sculpture in your bedroom. Tell your mother you are working on celebrating the earth, while she works on eradicating germs, which by the way, with moderate exposure, can be very beneficial for boosting your immune system, but that’s another lesson.”

Ellen beams.

“My genius…” says Mildred proudly to Lexi and wafts back to the action.

Lexi is left feeling distracted. She looks out over the tops of the trees bordering the descending dusty trails. She has another date with Lance tonight, her fourth in two weeks. They are taking the shuttle up to the Getty to see the photography exhibit and drink a glass of wine as the sun sets. She thinks she’s beginning to remember the meaning of the word romantic again. Lance is chivalrous, intelligent, attentive, good looking, motivated. All the boxes checked. All the boxes. So there are no sparks dancing in spirals above their heads when they kiss, but the kisses are nice all the same. Lexi reminds herself that spirals are totally unhelpful. Anyway, it’s early days and they haven’t even slept together yet. She’ll know when the moment is right. He’s not putting any pressure on her, unlike her mother and Meg who begin every conversation with “Soooo…..” Lexi feels acutely observed since meeting Lance. Every time she’s with him, she imagines the two of them on a stage at the Hollywood Bowl, surrounded by stadium seating—her mother, father, Meg, Tim, Andrew, Carl, Johnnie, even Jack and Annabelle, all sitting in the front row, eating popcorn, praying for a happy ending.

GEORGE
15
^th
January, 2010
Abbey Road Studios, St. Johns Wood, London

Fanny’s warm breath tickles his ear. She smells like Marmite. “I’ve missed you, George. We need to hook up again soon.” George has a ghoulish vision of actually being hooked up above Fanny’s bed, pinned to the wall like a Damien Hirst. He scratches his ear to try and distance her lips from his skin.

“Want a Twiglet?” She holds out an open packet.

“No thank you,” he says, hoping she’ll stop talking.

“Go ahead, George, indulge. I’d like to have a lick of your Twiglet right now, right here.” George almost spits his tea out.

“Bryce—are you with us? Second verse—in C minor. You come in strong with the line ‘Let’s hope that hope helps Haiti’s heart and hope that hope heals every part’ and then Guy slides in on bass.” George nods, feeling like he is in a school assembly and has been caught whispering to his neighbour. He wants to say, “But sir, it wasn’t me really!” Fanny crunches on her Twiglets innocently.

“Yes, Miles, sounds great. I’m with you.”

Miles Freeman is an iconic eighties producer who has gathered the cream of the music crop here today to record a charity single for Haiti’s earthquake victims. He seems immensely proud of the dreadfully saccharine lyrics he has concocted. The room is buzzing with talent, but at this moment they are all a bit like sixth formers, shuffling their feet, waiting for the bell to ring so they can go and have a smoke.

George is here because he can’t stand the helpless feeling he gets watching the news. The force of impotence is stifling and the divide between those who have and those who haven’t appears to be expanding on a daily basis. He is compelled to watch how the country crumbled in minutes, one structure falling in on the next like children’s building blocks. Except it wasn’t a game. It was all real and here on the other side of the world people are getting on with their lives—eating Twiglets, worrying about the weather, watching Arsenal play Tottenham. It’s meaningless. So he agreed to make the cheesy single in hopes that the proceeds would actually go somewhere. Do something. Not end up lining the pockets of some corrupt government officials.

“Miles, sweetie,” Fanny raises her hand and waves it dramatically in the air, “I think I should duet with George on that line. We make beautiful music together.”

Tinchy Stryder sniggers from the front row. Someone else wolf whistles. It really is feeling like school now.

“We’ll discuss, darlin’,” says Miles in a thick Irish accent. “Let’s take five and come back for first rehearsal.”

George moves away from Fanny as quickly as possible and weaves his way through the crowd of his peers. It’s still difficult to believe that he belongs here. He half expects that at any moment someone very official, wearing a uniform with a shiny badge, will tap him on the shoulder and escort him out of his life, finally revealing him to be a genuine impostor. Looking around the room he wonders if every one of the ‘stars’ here feels the same way? Underneath the peacock tails were they all trembling just like him? Matt Bellamy from Muse strides over and shakes George’s hand. “Congrats on the Brit nomination, mate. We’re in good company now.”

George is half tempted to ask Matt if he too feels like a fraud.

“Cheers, Matt, the boys and I were saying the same. You guys are tearing it up. Everyone’s talking about your shows.”

“Oh, well—it’s not an easy job is it, George, but someone’s gotta’ do it. You touring soon?”

“States in the spring. I’m preparing myself for the bacon blur.”

“The bacon blur?” Matt looks confused.

“Yeah, you know the drill,” says George, “one large American breakfast blurring into the next.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Matt pats him on the shoulder and makes a beeline for Dizzee Rascal. George is feeling noticeably more vulnerable without the rest of the band. Simon was supposed to be with him today but Stacey had insisted that they keep their private reservation on the London Eye. When George had questioned Simon choosing to go on London’s biggest tourist attraction, versus being part of the charity single, Stacey had intervened.

“George, it’s like totally hard to get a private reservation. We have the pod all to ourselves and it will take weeks for me to book that again. You can represent the whole band, can’t you?”

“That’s not the point, Stacey. It’s the principle of it. Do you know how many people died in Haiti? Do you have any idea what the survivors are going through? This is something we can actively do to help.”

“I know, George. It’s like totally horrible but don’t give me a guilt trip. I’ll buy the friggin single. I’ll wear the friggin t-shirt. I’ve been waiting forever to go on the London Eye and Simon promised me, didn’t you, babe?” Simon had nodded obediently, a response George was becoming a bit too familiar with. Thinking back on the exchange makes his skin crawl. “Love is blind” is taking on a whole new meaning. In Simon’s case, love is not only blind but scarily ignorant and selfish as well. The sex better be damn good to justify her.

George looks around the busy studio, hoping Fanny doesn’t creep up on him again. He’ll see most of this lot at The Brits in a month’s time. Thesis are up for three awards this year, British group, British single and Listener’s Choice album. He knows the right thing to say, “It’s great just to be nominated,” which is true, but it’s still even greater to win. One more month. He can wait. He’ll have to. Not just for the Brits, but to finally see Lexi again. Gabe announced yesterday that Lexi and Russell would definitely be visiting in February.

“I thought it would be fun if they came to the Brits ceremony with us,” he suggested, “as a kind of highlight of their trip. I’ll add their names to our table. You good with that?”

George feigned disinterest. “Fine.”

Gabe had no clue how fine it actually was. George isn’t exactly counting the days, but he’s close to it. By the time the Brits roll around he might possibly have confirmed that Lexi Jacobs is the woman he could love… the anonymous ‘you’ in “A Suitable Dawn”… the shining light in the third row. He just has to talk to her first.

LEXI
February 3
^rd
, 2010
Venice, Los Angeles

“How many times a week does he work out, Lex? He’s totally rocking that lycra,” says Meg appreciatively, appraising Lance from a distance. Lexi and Meg are waiting in the parking lot while Lance and Tim rent bikes for their first official double date. There isn’t a cloud in the LA sky and the beach stretches before them like a silky white oasis.

“Yeah, he’s not leaving much up to the imagination, is he?” responds Lexi, who hadn’t known where to look when Lance arrived to pick her up that morning.

“Mr. Armstrong at your service,” he’d said, presenting her with a single red rose hidden behind his back. Lance tried really hard. His effort grade was off the charts.

Meg keeps staring. “Why make us wonder? If you’ve got it flaunt it, right? I wish Tim would work out a bit more. He’s going to need a training bra soon if he’s not too careful. Tim—” Meg shouts across the parking lot, “will you get me a bike with a cushy seat. You know I’m a bit sensitive down there.”

“Really, hon? I wouldn’t remember,” says Tim, even louder.

“Very funny,” says Meg scrunching her nose up at him.

“You’re not still punishing him, are you?” asks Lexi, hoping to deter Meg from any further inappropriate yelled exchanges.

“Not exactly,” replies Meg, adjusting her helmet. “We just don’t have time anymore. Once the kids are in bed we’re like, should we watch
Mad Men
or have sex?
Mad Men
always wins.”

Lexi still hasn’t slept with Lance. Lance is being extremely patient, although it is starting to feel a bit like when she was first dating Andrew in high school. She remembers her mother once trying to talk to her about sex when she was a teenager. “Boys like to compare it to baseball, sweetheart. I like to compare it to shopping. At first you browse. Then you touch. Then you try. And finally you buy. Going all the way is like when the saleslady runs your credit card. It’s a very important transaction and not one to be taken lightly…” When Lexi had first started sleeping with Andrew, every time he ejaculated, she could hear the sound of a receipt printing.

Lexi looks over at Lance. He flashes his blindingly white smile. She’s leaving for London in two weeks and suddenly wonders what she’s waiting for? Is she scared that if the sex isn’t good then she’ll run away? Find an excuse to leave him behind just like she always does, incurring yet again the wrath of her mother and everyone else in the audience? Lexi reminds herself that she’s changing. Making choices for herself and not for her mother or Meg or anyone else. What is it that Johnnie had said?
Lance is a keeper.
Well, if she doesn’t run that credit card soon then she’ll never find out.

The boys come over leading two bikes for the girls.

“Your carriages await, fair maidens,” says Lance in a mock Shakespearean accent.

“Why thank you, kind sir…” says Meg and hops onto her bike while mouthing to Lexi, “He’s too cute!”

“Isn’t
your
trip across the pond pretty soon?” asks Tim, as the four of them cycle their way out of the parking lot and onto the bike path. A stocky woman boasting a very small bikini and not so small biceps whizzes by them on rollerblades.

“The thirteenth,” says Lexi. She still has trouble fathoming that in a few weeks she and Russell will be on a flight to London on a real business trip. A couple of months ago she’d barely even heard of Thesis, and now they are about to initiate her into a world she’d never even envisioned.

“Lucky! You’re going to London to meet George Bryce, again. It’s not fair.”

“I told you,” says Tim proudly, “he’s your free pass. I’d do that for you—one night—but only if he can guarantee me a night with Scarlet Johansson.”

“I thought you were meeting with a band?” calls Lance behind him.

“She is,” shouts Meg, “and George is the lead singer and
I
love him. Too bad he’s going out with that skank, Fanny Arundel. I saw another picture of them today at some Haiti benefit. She is
out
there.”

Lexi doesn’t feel a thing when she hears this. Good sign. Her ludicrous crush is losing power rapidly.

“I don’t know a thing about pop music,” says Lance. “I’m an opera kinda guy. Have you ever seen
Madame Butterfly
, Lexi? I think it’s playing in San Francisco at the Opera house. We should take a road trip and stop off in the wine country on the way.”

“Rein it in there, buddy,” shouts Tim, “you’re giving me a lot to live up to.”