Playing Along (8 page)

GEORGE
13
^th
November, 2009
The Venetian Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada

George is dreaming. He’s dreaming there’s a massive snoring elephant asleep on his head. The snores are deafening. His skull feels ready to crack. He opens his eyes and for a split second thinks he is at home. Then he remembers he isn’t and thinks he must be on tour. Which city? Which hotel? On an average touring year they might visit a hundred. He can’t remember, and the snoring is getting louder and louder and the elephant is clearly still in the room. It is then he rolls over and sees the culprit. Fanny Arundel. Fast asleep, mouth wide open, emitting a noise unacceptable even for a sumo wrestler.

“Shit,” says George and climbs out of bed. His head no longer feels like it belongs on his body. He marvels at how he is managing to keep it on straight. He looks at the clock, 5:47 a.m. Fanny is sprawled on top of the sheets wearing a red lacy bra and a minuscule thong. George still has on his boxer shorts and socks—very rock and roll. He has absolutely no recollection of what happened. Did they or didn’t they? The last thing he remembers is Duncan ordering another round of tequila shots, while Gabe and Simon took bets on who could store the most olive pits in their cheeks. The roulette ball landed on 7. The rest is anyone’s guess. How did Fanny Arundel get in his bed? He hopes they didn’t have sex. Firstly, because what a bloody waste if he doesn’t even remember it, and secondly, because she’s a certified crackpot. Even with that body, which is currently very hard to ignore, George knows she’s trouble. Plus the snoring is nothing less than awful.

He goes over to the window, thirty-five floors up, and stares across the plugged-in landscape. It looks like a world of electric Legos just waiting to be dismantled and put back together in another configuration. A full pale moon is hanging over the horizon, preparing to switch places with the hot desert sun. What to do? George rubs his tender head considering his options. He could try and find Simon’s room or Gabe’s. He could just take his suitcase and sneak away and pretend he was never here with her. If he doesn’t remember a bloody thing, surely she won’t? She does have a reputation for being a cokehead.

For a second he stays with his nose pressed to the window, bewitched by the half light between night and morning. He’s always loved this time of day. “A Suitable Dawn” was the first song he’d written for this third album and it had been one of their biggest hits to date. He had written it while walking through the flower gardens in Kyoto on a sleepless, jet-lagged night. He’d wandered around until morning, and then the lyrics had come to him complete, like delicate petals landing in a perfect symmetry. He wrote it for the woman he had yet to meet. The woman he still hasn’t met.

“Good morning, lover boy…”

George pushes his forehead harder against the glass. “Morning, Fanny.”

His reverie is over.

LEXI
November 13
^th
, 2009
Venice Blvd, Los Angeles

Lexi never did fall back to sleep after returning to bed, and finally got up at six and downloaded the most recent Thesis album. She’s only listening to one song on the car journey to Venice though, “A Suitable Dawn.” Over and over again.

GEORGE
13
^th
November, 2009
The Venetian Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada

“You and I, George, I knew we’d be hot.” Fanny meows and beckons George back towards the bed.

“Did you?” says George, grabbing his jeans and t-shirt and dressing hurriedly.

“Yes. You’re such a tease. All this time, you’ve been holding out. Holding back all that passion. Christ, my mouth feels like sandpaper—have we got any wine?”

George takes a bottle of water from the fridge and puts it on the bedside table.

“It’s a little early for wine, don’t you think?”

“Oh George, you sound like my mother. But not last night. Last night you didn’t sound like my mother at all. Especially when you told me…” her voice trails off.

“What? What did I tell you?” he’s starting to think she might be bluffing.

“I’ll remind you later when we have a re-match. What’s the hurry anyway, come back to bed.”

George looks around for her clothes, if in fact she has any. He spots a polka-dotted miniskirt and a pink t-shirt on the floor, next to a pair of red shoes. He picks up the bundle and slides the shoes in her direction.

“Look, Fanny, last night was… was last night. And you… you are a really talented… talented singer. And me… I’m hopeless at… well hopeless in the mornings really, just a grouch. Not a morning person. Not at all. And today we’ve got this video shoot and—”

Fanny stands up and stretches her arms high above her head, her breasts barely restrained by the bra. When she turns around, George gets a prime view of her famous tattoo,
high blood pressure,
brazen in bright red cursive script an inch above her bottom. She whistles as she exhales.

“Say no more, George Bryce. I get it. We speak the same language. I’m an artist too, and I know how important it is to get into that Zen space before a performance. I totally respect that. I sometimes channel Sebastian when I’m in that zone. He was my mentor, you know. He gave me my big break. When he died, my world shattered around me.” Fanny slips into her shoes and stumbles towards George. “He speaks to me now, George. When I’m meditating. Sebastian told me that you and I were going to be hot together. He told me it would all work out in the end. He was here last night watching us…”

George is utterly creeped out and wishes she would leave.

“Great!” he says a little too enthusiastically, steering Fanny towards the door. “Well then, Sebastian must be about as tired as I am, and probably has a hangover equally as gruesome. He’s going to want to rest. In your room. Do you know where it is?” Before he can dodge her, Fanny leans in and kisses George full on the lips, trying to push her tongue insistently into his mouth. He pulls away, aware that there are scores of men who would cut off any number of limbs to find themselves in this position, but ironically, George just isn’t feeling it. He hands Fanny her clothes.

“You should get dressed.”

Fanny takes the rolled up ball of fabric but doesn’t bother to put anything on. She opens the door and swaying down the hallway,
high blood pressure
on full display, calls behind her, “Reach out, George, reach out.”

“Most definitely,” says George, closing the door as she vanishes around the corner. He briefly questions if he should worry about Fanny roaming the halls half naked, but reminds himself that surely in Vegas that’s hardly out of the ordinary.

I’m such an arse
he thinks. He can’t even manage to throw caution to the wind without throwing God knows what else into the gale. The day looms ahead of him. A video shoot with a control freak director. Another forty-eight hours in this surreal city. Fanny, the ghost channelling stalker. At least he has the acoustic show to look forward to. He leans his back against the door and surveys the hotel room, a space so thoroughly devoid of soul. George has to be one of thousands of people staying in this beast of a hotel, so why, right at this moment, does he feel like the only one?

LEXI
November 13
^th
, 2009
Venice, Los Angeles

Russell greets Lexi with a freshly prepared glass of green juice. “New recipe!” he declares proudly.

“Thanks,” says Lexi who is still feeling the effects of her sleepless night.

What she wants to do now is get to work, rein Russell in, and start making some progress. She’s decided that designing a website is the first point of call.

“So,” says Lexi, enjoying her new professional vigor, “I was thinking website. Our priority now is to generate interest from organizations who might consider using your consultation services. We need to get businesses on board and then we can get testimonials. It’s all about word of mouth.” Lexi produces her iPhone from her bag.

“I’m going to start calling contacts today. I know a brilliant website designer who I’m certain would give us a break on the price, considering the current climate.”

“Okey dokey,” says Russell, “Boris and I will just take out the compost then. Boris has been a tad anxious ever since—”

“No!” says Lexi, with more force than intended. “No Boris talk right now, Russell. The compost will have to wait.” She takes a sip of the green juice (a foul tasting concoction) and begins pacing back and forth, something that appears to have become a habit in this job.

“I’ve been asking myself—what’s the most unique selling point of this business? And I realized the answer is—you. It’s your passion and expertise. It’s your stunning devotion. We have to get you out there as the face of Let The Green Times Roll. We need to make a video to play on the home page. You… talking to the masses… pleading with the consumers and the capitalists… inspiring millions… like a leader. Make the world stop and listen, Russell—I know you have it in you!”

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
13
^th
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.