Playing Along (6 page)

GEORGE
12
^th
November, 2009
Virgin Atlantic flight VS043 to Las Vegas

George stares out of the window of the 747 as it begins crossing the Atlantic. Simon is fast asleep with his headphones on and his mouth wide open. Mark and Anna are watching a film, Gabe is playing on his iPad and Duncan has lowered the divider between the business class seats and is shamelessly chatting up the French woman sitting beside him. George has already signed ten air sickness bags for the flight attendant’s friends and family. He reckons they might show up on eBay next week. The thought of someone paying silly money for his signature still floors him. There isn’t a morning that goes by when he doesn’t ask himself, how did this happen?

The captain has had the seat belt sign on for the last ten minutes and things are currently smooth, but George is expectant, waiting for the next jolt. Being a nervous flyer and being in a successful band are not a good combination. Half your life you’re in the air. He’s often imagined the headlines should Thesis perish in a plane crash—after all, hasn’t that been the fate of many a famous musician? He wonders if his family would feel guilty? More likely they would feign a few weeks of grief and then gleefully become the recipient of his royalties. Polly and the triplets would be set for life, and his parents might finally buy a new house without feeling forced to show any gratitude. He pictures it now, a ten-page spread in
OK magazine
—
Living without George. How the family of George Bryce are coping in the aftermath of his tragic early death.
He can just make out the triplets’ sickly expressions, as they pose in identical black shirts, next to a framed picture of the band.

George attempts to shake off the image and concentrate instead on the view outside. The sky is a twisted ribbon of white and grey clouds, and he finds the thought of the churning water below oddly soothing. Better to plummet into the ocean than crash into a row of houses on hard ground.
Hard Ground. Hard Ground. I Found. I found. And we sing the lonely sound. The only sound. This desire’s not a crime. See my need build over time
. The words start a ritual dance in his head, as the melody creeps up from behind, and the song finally begins to form. George feels his body relax. Before he knows it they will land.

LEXI
November 12
^th
, 2009
Venice, Los Angeles

Russell is slicing the beet into rough chunks and still talking about Boris. “It’s rather remarkable how quickly he has attached to you. Cats, as you know, are renowned for being antisocial, and Boris is very particular, but ever since you arrived—”

“Russell!” Lexi’s tone is firm. Russell looks surprised, as if unexpectedly woken up from a nap.

“Russell,” Lexi continues, now she has his attention, “we have got to concentrate here. Boris is the least of our concerns. You have hired me to get this business into shape, so let’s do it!” She is unaccustomed to sounding so assertive but it actually feels pretty good. She wonders if she should stand up and bang her fist on the table, or would that be a bit over the top?

Russell looks wounded. “I thought we were doing that, Lexi. We designed that new filing system from the old cereal boxes. I’ve never been so organized in all my life.”

“Yes, that’s a start, but we need a game plan. A target. A vision. Mother Earth is waiting for us to do the right thing—remember?” She is quickly learning to speak Russell’s language.

“You’re right, I know you’re right. I just get…” Russell trails off.

“Scared, you get scared, Russell. We all do. Now let’s tackle some of that fear and turn it into bio fuel!”

Lexi is on fire! Maybe she should become a life coach instead? Russell has a sparkle back in his eye. “Speaking of bio fuel, Lexi, I had this idea for a consultancy service…”

GEORGE
12
^th
November, 2009
Virgin Atlantic flight VS043 to Las Vegas

George has fallen asleep with his notebook splayed open on his lap. All the lyrics for “Over Time” had arrived in his head and landed on the page while the plane was still flying. The flight attendant with the signed air sickness bags comes by with a tray of orange juice and water. She stands for a moment and stares at him. His lips are slightly parted and his black hair is flopping over one eye and she imagines running her fingers over the contours of his face. She knows she’s about to do something she shouldn’t. She goes back to the galley and puts the tray down. She finds her handbag and takes out her phone. She walks casually back to George and surreptitiously snaps a picture. Her heart is racing.

LEXI
November 12
^th
, 2009
Venice, Los Angeles

By the end of the day, Lexi has drunk four glasses of orange and beet juice, eaten a very unwieldy raw salad and paced a thousand circles around the house with Boris and Russell at her heels. Having spent hours bouncing around ideas, mind mapping the results, scrapping everything and starting over again, they have finally thrashed out a potential format for the venture. She is giddy with relief and Russell has quite literally let his hair down, shaking out his limp ponytail.

“I say we celebrate!” he announces, picking up a disgruntled Boris and twirling him around the room.

“All hail to the spider!” adds Lexi, glancing at her watch remembering she is due to meet Andrew tonight for dinner and a movie and is already running late.

The spider was her idea. It refers to the different ‘legs’ of the business plan, with Russell operating as the center hub and heart. This particular spider will have four legs with room to grow—a consultancy service for businesses looking to improve their commitment to the environment; a website where Russell can sell the recycled products he designs; a series of lectures and creative workshops to be run in schools on how to re-use and re-cycle, and last but not least, a book. Of course a percentage of all profits will go to charities saving the rainforest, the polar bears, the ozone layer and the pine nut. Lexi has no clue if she really can get the Green Times to Roll, but there’s a better chance of it now than there was four days ago.

Russell is hyper. “Light bulb! Why don’t I pull out some Diamante vinyl and I can whiz up a couple of my world famous lychee margaritas and you and I can smoke a little grass? I’ve got a special blend which I’ve been saving for just the right occasion.”

Lexi tries not to laugh, “Diamante?”

“Neil Diamond, my dear girl, Neil Diamond. He’s a god.”

“Oh, of course. I think my mom likes him.”

“She must have excellent taste, then. What do ya’ say?”

Lexi doesn’t want to hurt Russell’s feelings, but she knows this is not an invitation to be contemplated. She stands up and looks around for her bag.

“It’s tempting, Russell, but I promised to meet up with a friend tonight.”

Russell looks deflated. “No worries—Boris and I will share a straw—it’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”

“But listen, today was great. I really think we can do something with this now. Start narrowing in on ideas for the book and lectures and write them down. You could even do a blog. I know you want to save trees, but it’s time to see something on paper.”

“You’re right again. I’ll get going on it. And Lexi—” She pauses at the front door. The sun is setting on Venice beach and there is a soft orange glow filtering in through the front window.

“Yes, Russell?”

“Boris wants to say… thank you.”

Boris has passed out on the couch having been danced around the room and is purring contentedly.

Lexi waves in his direction, “You’re welcome, Boris.” She leaves the house and walks past the Mini and back towards her car. It will be a miracle if she can actually make this happen, but she is already feeling a small sense of achievement and winks at her inner Maria, who has come out of retirement and is busy making play clothes from retro print curtains.

GEORGE
November 12
^th
, 2009
Las Vegas, Nevada

George thinks Las Vegas is like chewing gum—after fifteen minutes the flavour has been sucked away and he’s looking to spit it out. Oh, but that first fifteen minutes! That first burst of neon and colour and perennial buzz and tasteless monstrosity and rush of desert heat—that first fifteen minutes is sublime. They’re here to shoot the third video for this album and George is frustrated by his lack of creative input. They’ll be working with a director called Pedro Myerson, who is known to be a temperamental genius. He has his own ‘concept’ for the shoot and Gabe has encouraged George to step back.

The band is grabbing dinner at the Venetian Hotel—an eerie impostor of the Italian city, except with a Delmonico Steakhouse and Abercrombie and Fitch. They are basically sitting in a giant indoor shopping mall built alongside the Grand Canal, complete with floating gondolas and a fake starry sky. Gabe is trying to convince George that Myerson is the right choice.

“Trust me, man, this guy is like Scorsese. The song is big—it needs a cinematic eye.” George actually prefers not to be featured too heavily in the videos at all. Most of the last few shoots have involved actors or been obscured and shadowy concert footage. He would like it to stay that way, but Gabe sometimes has different ideas.

“But we’ve barely seen a proposal, Gabe. What if he wants us all dressed in drag playing cricket in the desert?”

Gabe guffaws, “I think you’re onto something, George. Listen—I know you like to keep the videos simple, but it’s time for a change. Let’s give them something to talk about.”

George is distracted by Duncan. He’s wound up like a spring and is rubbing his hands together. When they first formed the band, the four of them had vowed not to succumb to the temptation of drugs. “It’s such a bloody cliché,” George had insisted. He had experimented when he was younger, but found most drugs either made him feel seriously depressed or numb. He was naturally prone to melancholy and didn’t need a substance to enhance that, and when he was numb he couldn’t write. He needed to write. He knows that the others have most likely strayed over the years. George has told himself it isn’t a problem until it’s a problem.

Duncan’s pupils look like pinpricks and George is beginning to wonder if now it’s a problem. He’s bouncing in his seat, “Vegas, baby, Vegas! I’m talking Tom Jones, Frank Sinatra, Engelbert Humperdinck—all the greats! This place is a riot. Who’s going to hit the tables with me?”

Anna looks protectively at Mark. “I’m really tired. I think you and I should go back to the room and get some sleep.”

Mark nods obediently, “Yeah, not tonight, Dunc, Anna and I are going to hit the sack.” Duncan’s mouth hangs open, “But it’s only eight o’clock, mate—live a little.”

“It’s not eight o’clock in London, Duncan,” says Anna frostily, “it’s four o’clock in the morning. We aren’t on Las Vegas time yet.”

“Give me a fuckin’ break! Vegas doesn’t keep time, Anna, haven’t you noticed there’s no clocks anywhere?” Anna stands up and takes Mark’s hand, virtually dragging him away from the table. Mark shrugs at the boys and dutifully follows. Duncan shakes his head in disgust, “Man, he’s whipped.”

Mark had confided to George on the plane earlier that Anna has been uneasy recently, complaining that they don’t have enough quality time together. “She wants to take baths in candlelight—and give each other massages. I’ve got to make more of an effort.” George had listened sympathetically, secretly wishing he had the same sort of issues to contend with. He steps in now remembering his pact with Simon earlier. “Relax, Dunc. Simon and I are up for it—aren’t we, Simon?”

“Yes Sir!” says Simon, saluting. “And by the way—this club sandwich isn’t bad. I wasn’t sure what to make of the four layers but when I—” Simon is cut off abruptly by a peroxide blonde with an extremely oversized bottom barreling towards their table. She is squeezed into tight white jeans and a T-shirt with the words
Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder
emblazoned across her ample chest.

Zeroing in on George, she turns to her friend and screeches in a loud southern accent, “I know who this is! You’re that Irish singer, the one with the funny name. I’ve seen you on MTV winning all those awards. You’re Bow Wow, aren’t you?”

“Well, uh… I could be,” George says, desperately attempting to remain composed, while Duncan, Gabe and Simon are all stifling the giggles.

The woman is oblivious. “Didn’t I tell you, Lorraine? Didn’t I say we’d see someone famous in Vegas? Can you sign this?” she says, lifting up her t-shirt to reveal rolls of dimpled fat and a bra with generous square footage.

“You got a pen, sweetie?” she asks Duncan, who is reveling in the sideshow.

“Sorry, love, I don’t. But Bow Wow might.”

George holds up empty hands. “I can’t currently oblige, but it was nice of you to stop by,” he says, inching himself away from the woman’s formidable bust, as Simon kicks him under the table like a twelve-year-old.

Unperturbed, she pulls her t-shirt down and walks away declaring to her friend, “Did you hear those European accents? Those Irish boys are sure polite.”

Gabe opens his arms wide, “Welcome back to Vegas, lads!”

LEXI
November 12
^th
, 2009
The Grove, Los Angeles

Lexi was indeed late to meet Andrew and they missed the beginning of the movie. He got very huffy and insisted they wait for the next showing, and after sharing a pizza, they are now wandering around the huge Barnes and Noble bookstore in The Grove shopping mall.

“Are you sure nothing’s going on with you and your new boss? You seem to be working very late.”

“No way! He listens to Neil Diamond and drinks wheatgrass.”

“The maiden doth protest! Isn’t that a sign that you’re lying?” Lexi clenches her jaw. She feels like screaming. Andrew has been especially annoying recently. His latest lover, Heston, has recently dumped him and he’s acting like a clingy child. In high school she had mistaken his possessiveness for true love.

“Andrew. Back off please. I’ve had a long day. You found me this job for goodness sake, and suddenly it’s like you’re trying to make me feel guilty for working at it.”