Playing Along (26 page)

Meg cycles to try and catch up with Lexi. “The wine country? Are you kidding me? He is SO romantic.” But Lexi hasn’t heard any of them. She is picking up speed, the wind rushing in her ears, while the ocean streaks past her in a crayon blue blur.

GEORGE
3
^rd
February, 2010
Maida Vale, London

George clears his throat. The restaurant is noisy. A local pizzeria chosen specifically because his parents don’t like to go into the West End.

“All those people squashed on the streets together. It makes me nervous,” muttered his mother, when George had suggested somewhere on Regents Street. They have insisted on driving to London for his birthday, and much to his dismay, have brought Polly with them.

“The boys were dying to come, but they have a spelling test tomorrow and Martyn thought it would be too stressful for them.”

“Spelling?” asks George, “they’re like three or something. Isn’t it a bit early for spelling?”

“Actually, they’re four, George, and their nursery teachers have indicated that they all have an extremely high IQ.”

“They must have inherited that from Martyn’s side of the family.” George knows he’s being juvenile, but he can’t resist.

“Now… now… you two,” chimes in their mother, who was always pretty hopeless at keeping the peace.

“He started it,” says Polly accusingly, glaring at George.

“Well, dear, just ignore him.”

“She does ignore me, Mum.”
Come on!
thinks George.
Stop trying to get their sympathy. Why can’t I just shut my gob, unless it’s to eat garlic bread?

Polly is prickling and her cheeks are quickly becoming red and blotchy, “Just because you’re in a band you think we should be falling all over you? You always wanted to be the centre of attention. You and all your horrid moods. You could never get over the fact that I had Mum and Dad to myself for two whole years before you were born.”

George is speechless. Why does everyone think he wants what they have? He’s not even sure what he wants, so how the hell do they know?

“Polly, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” says George, struggling to find a less pathetic comeback.

“What, so you think you’re the only one with anything meaningful to say? Well, I’ll tell you something, little brother, fame is fleeting, but family isn’t. Where will the band be in forty years, George? You’re not the Rolling Stones.” Polly picks up her glass of red wine and downs it in one gulp.

The table is silent. The restaurant is alive with noise and activity, while the four of them sit there like discarded wax figures in the basement of Madame Tussauds. George wants to stand up and walk out, but his mother looks as if she’s going to burst into tears and he can’t bring himself to do it.

His dad speaks for the first time, “George, Polly just means that sometimes you’re hard to reach, son.” That’s ripe coming from him. “We’re here, aren’t we? We’re trying. Even Polly. Isn’t that right, Pol?”

Polly is busy pouring herself another glass of wine.

“One of the reasons I came tonight was because I wanted to tell you in person about my special news.”

George wriggles uncomfortably in his seat. What now? She’s probably pregnant with sextuplets. The waitress interrupts Polly’s imminent headline, arriving just in time with the pizzas. Her long dark plaits dangle in front of George’s face as she carefully places his in front of him.

“I saw you at the 02 in November—you were brilliant. I was right at the front.”

“Lucky you!” snaps Polly. “Now if you don’t mind we’re trying to have a family dinner.”

“Thanks very much,” says George, but the poor girl is so mortified, she can’t get away fast enough.

“Polly, that really wasn’t necessary.” George has lost his appetite.

“I think it was necessary, unless we want to spend the entire evening talking about you.”

“It
is
his birthday, dear,” says their mother, for once coming to his defense.

“I know that, Mum, but I was right in the middle of my announcement.”

“Announce away,” says George, mentally noting that perhaps it is finally time to cut all ties with Polly. What is he hanging onto? The hope of one day their relationship improving? He blames his sister for souring everything in the family and she obviously blames him. The truth is a destination in the middle that he just can’t seem to reach.
Destination in the middle. That’s a lyric
he thinks. Could even be a song title. Maybe even the title of their next album.
Destination in the middle. Couldn’t get there if I tried. Destination in the middle. Through a forest of your lies.
The words begin to bounce around his brain. He needs a napkin. He fumbles in his back pocket for a pen, so he can scribble them down. Polly looks disgusted.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you? You didn’t even hear what I just said.”

George falters, “Yes I did.”

“What are you doing?” asks Polly, appalled. “You’re not going to give your autograph to that waitress, are you?”

“That might be nice, dear,” offers their mum. “You
were
a bit brusque with her.”

“No, no,” says George, wishing he could sprint back to his flat and get this song written. The verses are suddenly flapping around his head like trapped birds beating their wings against a window.

“So will you or won’t you?” asks Polly emphatically.

“Will I or won’t I what?” replies George, completely lost.

“George, are you high on drugs? You’re acting very strangely.” His mother puts down her fork and stares at him accusingly across the table.

“No, Mum, I am not high on drugs!”

“Will you or won’t you perform at my wedding?!” says Polly, raising her voice.

“Your wedding?” says George, even more confounded. “You mean you and Martyn aren’t married?” He could swear he attended some hideous event seven years ago. He has an image of a marshmallow with Polly’s head balancing precariously on top.

“I knew you weren’t listening. We
are
married, you idiot, but we are renewing our vows in August in honour of our seventh anniversary. The boys will be performing and we all hoped you might want to play a few songs, to help us celebrate.”

She’s even more of a loony than I thought
, decides George. Does she honestly believe that he would consider it a privilege to play in front of her and bloody Amelia Hoffman and all the other maniacs in their village? Plus, renewing their vows? It’s the worst thing he’s ever heard.

George looks up from his napkin. His parents are staring at him, waiting for a response. Polly is tapping her fake red nails on the side of her wine glass. He feels as if every table is holding their breath, waiting for him to respond.

“I can’t,” says George. The words feel like lead on his tongue.

“Typical,” says Polly. “You mean you won’t?”

“I can’t because we’ll be on tour in the States. I can’t just leave. I’m sorry, Pol.”

His parents both look crestfallen, but what’s new about that?

“You’re not sorry!” says Polly, scraping her chair back and standing up. “You’re not even sorry one little bit. And here I was trying to hold out an olive branch on your birthday. I don’t know why I bothered. Don’t worry about your nephews. I’ll break the news to them. It was Trevor’s idea anyway.”

George stares down at his pizza, focusing on the greasy pools of oil. His parents are both silent. Why couldn’t
he
be the one to scrape his chair for once and walk away? So much for liberating himself from Polly or proving his family wrong. Yet again, she’s won the round and he’s the eternal disappointment.

LEXI
February 10
^th
, 2010
Brentwood, Los Angeles

Lance and Lexi are fooling around on his bed.

“You’re driving me crazy, Lexi Jacobs,” says Lance in a husky voice. He has this habit of using her full name, which ever so slightly reminds her of being told off by her mother when she was ten. “Tidy up your room, Lexi Jacobs, haven’t I already asked you?”

Tonight is going to be the night. She’s leaving for London in two days and doesn’t want to wait any longer. Just an hour ago they were sitting at her parents’ dining table eating cheese and grapes and playing footsie under the table. Her father was going into great detail about the auditions for
American Idol
, and Lance, to his credit, was trying his hardest to appear fascinated.

Her mother had been begging for the last few weeks to meet Lance, and Lexi had finally buckled, giving in to that old part of herself that wanted to please her. Of course he was above and beyond Jeanette’s expectations. She could barely contain her excitement when she saw his smart blue blazer and handsome square jaw. Before long she had dragged Lexi into the kitchen, placing her hands firmly on her shoulders.

“Now you know how much your father and I love you and we would never tell you what to do, my angel.”

“Yes you would,” said Lexi, wondering if this dinner was a mistake.

“It’s only that we have noticed you looking a bit lost for the last few years. Well, the last ten years really. But that’s beside the point. You seem much better now. The job is super and Lance is divine. Divine, Lexi with a capital ‘D’. I’m just saying that it’s not all the time you meet a nice man like him. And he’s got hair and a career and a good sense of style. So just don’t…”

“Don’t what, Mom?” Lexi had asked, hoping her mother wasn’t going to run upstairs and unpack the wedding dress.

“Don’t think you don’t deserve this, darling. That’s all I’m saying. You deserve to be happy.”

Lexi allows Lance to slip his fingers under the elastic of her lacy underwear, trying her hardest not to think about her mother or her Visa card.
I deserve to be happy
, she tells herself, wriggling out of her panties.

Lance sighs. “You’re so sexy, Lexi,” and before he can say ‘Jacobs’, she covers his mouth with her lips, surrendering each second just a little bit more.

GEORGE
10
^th
February, 2010
Camden, London

George and the boys are in the studio playing. Mark has presented them with lyrics to a song he’s been writing called “Never Anyone” and the four of them are messing around with a hook and experimenting with melodies. George, unused to working with someone else’s words, feels like he’s being force-fed, but is trying as hard as he can to rise above the judgement and stay with the process.

He puts his hand up to momentarily pause everyone.

“Mark, I’m really into the first verse. It flows and I’m there with it. But when you say ‘break me, rake me, desiccate me’ in the chorus—it’s just not working. Anyone else feeling that?”

“It’s too aggressive,” says Simon.

“I wanted to convey how it feels to be at the mercy of someone else,” says Mark. George has no intention of asking if this song has been written about him.

“Yeah,” says George, “but that comes with a yearning, doesn’t it? Something softer. It could be simple…” he sings quietly into the microphone, “Break me, rake me, undertake me…”

“That actually works better,” says Mark magnanimously.

“It does,” agrees Simon.

“Bingo baby,” says Duncan, pointing his drumstick in the air.

George brushes his hair away from his eyes. He thinks he might finally be learning how to share.

LEXI
February 13
^th
, 2010
Los Angeles International Airport

Lexi and Russell are waiting in line to check in at British Airways. Russell is visibly nervous and has twitched his way through most of the car journey while plying himself with Rescue Remedy, virtually sucking the dropper dry.

“Do you think Mildred will remember to give Boris his ginkgo tablets?” asks Russell worriedly. “They help with his melancholia.”

“Melancholia, are you kidding me, Russell? It’s going to be party central at Mildred’s house. Boris and Cherub are going to be living it large. Relax.”

“I’m just not so sure if this is a good idea, Lexi.”

Lexi glances to the left, “You think that line would move quicker?”

“Not the line—the whole journey.” Russell looks at Lexi forlornly. “Maybe you should go without me?”

“Russell, you are
not
abandoning me at the gate. No gooseberries here, may I remind you. This is huge. Thesis are our first clients and this trip is essential for client relations. Human contact in business is irreplaceable. It can’t all be done over a computer screen.”

“But the environmental impact of a transatlantic flight is monumental. I’m wracked with guilt. I haven’t slept in days. Surely, I should practice what I preach?”

Lexi is exasperated. “Russell—as far as I can tell you have arranged planting a whole rainforest in Peru to offset the carbon emissions of this one flight. Plus you’ve packed like two pairs of underwear and a tank top in an organic hemp backpack to diminish luggage weight and help with fuel consumption. You’re an eco saint. In fact I bet when we land in London the Queen of England will be waiting there to knight you, right at the baggage claim. Be prepared. ”

Russell breathes in deeply. “Okay, but I’m going to miss Boris and Mildred.”

Lexi pats his arm reassuringly, “They’ll be fine. You’ve lived the majority of your life without Mildred. You can manage a few days without her now, and Boris is in good hands.”

“I know, I know. But I don’t want to live any more of my life without her, Lexi. I’ve decided that when we return, I’m going to ask for one of those good hands in marriage.” Russell straightens his shoulders.

Lexi smiles. “Really? That’s great news, Russell. I’m so pleased for you.” And she is, truly. Maybe soul mates aren’t actually mythical creatures after all? Was Lance her soul mate? She knows what her mother would say, “Ish Pish—anyone can become your soul mate if you work hard enough at it. Stick with them.
Your
problem, honey, is that you find fault and bail out too quickly.” Or was her problem that she’d spent her entire life believing every word her mother had said?

The woman in the pristine blue suit with her hair coiled in a tight bun beckons Russell and Lexi to move forward.

“Welcome to British Airways. Passports and tickets please. Will you be travelling to London with us today?”