Cherry Bomb

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by Jenny Valentish


  ‘Awesome,’ I said.

  ‘How are you going without the booze?’

  ‘I’m smoking heaps.’

  She nodded.

  ‘What’s going on with Alannah?’ I asked. ‘She called once but I was out on day release.’

  Actually, she’d called a lot, but I’d decided to let her wait.

  Rose sat cross-legged on the floor. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You’ll like this. She’s releasing the album through Quartz.’

  Andrew Quartz was Mickiewicz’s biggest rival—so our CEO had stayed true to his word and let Alannah go. He got to become a National Living Treasure, so it was a fair trade.

  ‘What did Mickiewicz say when you told him you were staying in The Dolls after all?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t tell him I was leaving in the first place,’ she said. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  I killed a smile before she saw it. So she had called my bluff in the car at the Music Bowl. . . but it wouldn’t pay to appear smug right now. I had come to understand that Rose needed to worry about me so that she didn’t have to worry about failing on her own, but it was still a delicate ecosystem that we needed to maintain.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  I looked down at her on the floor. She was in her Buddha pose but her eyes looked panicked.

  ‘What for?’ I said cautiously.

  ‘I just liked the apology you gave me,’ she said, referring to my Dry Cedars homework. ‘Maybe we should make it a thing, once a week, saying sorry.’

  Just like Rose, to coordinate our emotional outbursts.

  ‘Go on, then,’ I said, ‘you go first.’

  She pressed her middle fingers to her thumbs and closed her eyes, her back ramrod straight.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been more understanding about your sleeping around.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry you had such a hard time at school.’

  Her eyes flickered behind their lids. ‘I’m sorry you misunderstood that I was angry at the Sunday Mail, not you,’ she countered.

  I looked at her in mild disbelief. ‘I’m sorry your assistant was such a twat.’

  After a beat we both laughed. ‘I know,’ she said, opening her eyes. ‘Sorry. Anyway, Andrea walked after Flood Aid and never took my calls.’

  She got up and opened the wardrobe doors, taking a raptor-like look at the contents. Then she pulled my suitcase out and unzipped it.

  ‘Start packing,’ she instructed. ‘We’ve got shit to do and they’ll be kicking visitors out of here in ten minutes.’

  ‘Rose,’ I said, from the bed, ‘I’m not leaving. I’ve got a week left and it’s paid for. They’ve got a pool.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ she said, wheeling around triumphantly, ‘but do they have an entire series commissioned on The Dolls?’

  She paused for effect. ‘No,’ she said, answering her own question, ‘but VTV do, and they need to start filming this week if it’s going to tie in with the tour.’

  ‘Rose,’ I said.

  ‘It’s about time,’ she interrupted, then reached over and lifted up my T-shirt. ‘Good, you still have those bruises—the EP was asking about those. You’ll have to limp a bit, too.’

  ‘EP?’ I asked, yanking my shirt down and folding my arms.

  ‘Executive Producer. You’ll love her. Nina, I’ve already signed the contract for both of us.’

  I really wanted to get my thirty-day recovery chip. It was a big red coin with ‘To Thine Own Self Be True’ stamped on it, and it would be mine in seven days’ time. But my life wasn’t all about me; it was about me and Rose, and I needed to consider what was best for us both. As long as this TV series had plenty of live footage of us killing it, I could cope with the clips of Rose talking about how humble she felt.

  It only took me a minute to throw all the clothes Helen had packed me into my suitcase. I left the book she sent me, Getting Over It, in the bottom drawer for the next sad sack, although I had a romantic notion that they’d derive more comfort from the ‘FIGHT LIKE A GIRL’ I’d scratched into the wood.

  Rose took one last look around—which was why she never wound up leaving important things at hotels—then pushed past me into the corridor and grabbed the wheelchair. I stood back as she manoeuvred it awkwardly through the doorframe, taking off some paint.

  ‘Get in,’ she ordered. ‘This is a jailbreak.’

  I sat down with my bag on my knees and let her trundle me down the corridor and past the front desk. The nurse didn’t even look up from her computer screen.

  Once we were outside, Rose broke into a run down the drive, with the wheelchair going thunka thunka thunk over the paving slabs. I knew that the staff couldn’t actually stop me leaving, but I didn’t want to spoil her fun. I hadn’t laughed like this with Rose for years.

  She skidded me to a halt in front of a powder-blue convertible and I raised myself out of the chair, clutching my ribs. My kneecap twinged peevishly.

  ‘Nice wheels,’ I said.

  ‘Thank Uncle Mickiewicz,’ she said, over the double beep of the central-locking system.

  The car smelled like it had just been taken out of shrink-wrap and the door made a pleasing clunk when I pulled it to. I settled my bag at my feet. John Villiers’ postcard was burning a hole in my hoodie pocket, but I didn’t have to look at it to know every detail: the Beefeater outside the Tower of London, the guard outside Buckingham Palace, the double-decker bus driving past the Houses of Parliament, the gurning punk rockers sitting on a wall—all divided into neat quarters.

  On the other side: Settled in . . . all good . . . pretty interesting scene . . . you’d like it . . . blah blah blah . . .

  And an address.

  Japan would still happen, I mused as Rose reversed out of the car park, the back wheels spitting gravel, but not till we’d been to London. It would be better for Rose in the long run, because we’d have a bigger profile by the time we got to Tokyo and would get more gifts from the fans. The best approach would probably be to have a quiet chat with Mickiewicz about the VTV series only going ahead if filming started in the UK. London was actually a sensible base for a band like The Dolls, because we had long outgrown Australia. Press-wise, there was no way you could top falling off stage at Flood Aid.

  I pulled out a notebook from my bag so I could jot a few notes about how to persuade Mickiewicz.

  – Suggest that Elementary thought it would be a good idea.

  – It would be nice for Rose, who is very embarrassed about Flood Aid.

  – Convince him you and he are cut from the same cloth and have an understanding.

  ‘Did Jenner tell you?’ Rose said, nudging my arm. I angled my notebook away from her. ‘The Mayor of Parramatta wants to give us the keys to the city. We’ve made it.’

  I laughed so much my ribs hurt. ‘Come on, Rose. It’s dead to me.’

  ‘Where shall we go?’ she persisted. ‘To Macca’s? Church Street Mall?’

  ‘To Hooters,’ I suggested, then added in seriousness, ‘but to Helen’s first.’

  She looked at me curiously and I crossed my arms.

  ‘I just thought we should talk,’ I said. ‘She’s had it tough, and Alannah and Dad have never been any help.’

  ‘We can stop there today if you like,’ Rose said. ‘Filming doesn’t start till tomorrow. Or maybe we should wait till we have the cameras with us—we can do a tour of all the old haunts and see if we bump into all the people you want to avoid.’

  Rose took the road to the freeway, heading for the west. ‘The Last Laugh’ came on the radio and she scrambled for the volume control.

  ‘Oh, great song,’ she roared in approval.

  I leaned back against the headrest and looked over, at her full, bright lips pursed in pleasure and her dark hair whipping around pastel-blue sunnies. I felt a flush of love for her—the fierce, possessive kind from back when we were twinsies and other people tried to encroach. We were inseparable back then, but then as we grew older other people started t
o get in the way—and neither of us could abide the company the other kept. It was too late by then, anyway. We were friends in title only.

  What happened to tear the two of you apart?

  Molly.

  Do yourself a favour. Come clean.

  Shut up, Molly.

  I remember when Molly first showed up. Rose and I were eight years old, and the only person to come between us had been Tony. By singling me out, he had poisoned our friendship as slowly and surely as drilling into a tree. I was exhausted from the effort of pretending she and I were still the same, so it was down to me to fix it.

  Perhaps I could have told her about what he was doing, but instead I said, ‘I dare you to kiss him’—and after I’d done that, I couldn’t say anything.

  ‘I dare you to kiss him.’ I said it behind the shed, as we watched him turn the chops on the barbecue. We’d stopped there in the middle of our game, to spy on him. She giggled at the naughtiness of it.

  My cousin Rose was always the bossy one, and I knew she would want to show me how it was done. I wanted to bring us back together. I just hadn’t thought it through. When Rose threw her shoulders back and flounced out of our hiding place towards the patio, I ran away. I knew what would happen. It would start with the searching look, the hand in her hair, then the pet name, the elicited promise of secrecy. He would tell her she had started it. And in Rosie Rabbit’s case, perhaps she did.

  But he didn’t follow through, I’m sure of it. He wouldn’t have wanted to, because I was the special one.

  But he could have.

  Nobody could ever hate me as much as I hated myself.

  Sitting there, in the powder-blue convertible with the radio on, a pain sliced through my skull so intensely that I couldn’t open my eyes. I never allowed myself to think about that day, and this was why. I couldn’t feel it. It felt like grief. When it let go of me a minute later, I gasped for air and doubled up.

  My kingdom for a vodka.

  Rose looked around and I turned my face into the slipstream at the passenger window.

  ‘The wind’s in my eyes,’ I said with a weak smile, waving a hand at myself. The velocity of it was sending the tears streaming down my face, pushing air into my lungs. I wished it would obliterate all the bad thoughts inside me and let me start again.

  For a second Rose cast me a look like the one she gave when she caught me blubbing back at Dingo’s, then she focused back on the road.

  ‘Is this part of your twelve steps?’ she asked. ‘I’ll let you cry this once, but if you do it again I’ll report you to the recovery police at Dry Cedars and they’ll come and get you.’

  She pulled down a pack of smokes from behind the sun visor and offered me one. I leaned forward and pushed in the cigarette lighter, thankful for a distraction.

  ‘I’m writing a hit song, Rose,’ I said, indicating the notepad on my knees. ‘It’s emotional.’

  ‘Good. Make sure I get the first verse,’ she said. ‘You owe me.’

  Booze, my muse. We were both reliant on it—me in order to write and Rose in order to capitalise on my writing. She was like a kept woman, really.

  When the lighter popped I touched it to the cigger and inhaled with a judder. I drew the smoke down to the source of the pain and let it work its magic. So many sorries.

  ‘Blow the smoke away from my hair,’ she instructed. ‘I don’t want it going yellow.’

  I forced a smile, feeling my body unfurl as the nicotine hit. More relief would be good. Maybe if we stopped at the next town I could suggest a toilet stop in the shopping centre, and from there it would only be a quick hop, skip and jump to the nearest alcohol emporium. All done and dusted before anyone was any the wiser.

  I was unapologetic, like Rihanna.

  ‘It’ll get us back to number one, I swear. It’ll pay for all your dental bills, Rose,’ I promised. ‘It’ll pay for blonder hair, a new PA, whatever you need.’

  ‘It had better pay for a Grammy.’

  We passed a KFC, a Bunnings, a Petbarn, a Dick Smith’s . . . away from crisp sheets and new beginnings and back into familiar Westie terrain. Rose sang along to herself on the radio, thumping the wheel. I put my feet up on the dash and watched the white lines blur into one as they raced past us. I knew I’d pay for that day behind the shed for the rest of my life, unless, some way down the track, I decided to let myself off the hook. Not yet, though. Whoever won a Grammy about feeling fine? There was no currency in inner peace, and I had debts to pay.

  I was the protector of The Dolls.

  I turned up the chorus of ‘The Last Laugh’ and sang the ‘la la la la’ along with Rose, until it was all I could hear.

  CHERRY BOMB SOUNDTRACK

  CHAPTER 1: KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA

  THE RUNAWAYS: ‘CHERRY BOMB’

  RAMONES: ‘SHEENA IS A PUNK ROCKER’

  CHERRY GLAZERR: ‘TEENAGE GIRL’

  CHAPTER 2: REMEMBERING THE BAIN MARIES

  YEAH YEAH YEAHS: ‘PIN’

  KENICKIE: ‘COME OUT 2NITE’

  KILLING HEIDI: ‘MASCARA’

  CHAPTER 3: MEN

  DIVINYLS: ‘BOYS IN TOWN’

  THE UNDERTONES: ‘TEENAGE KICKS’

  THE BELLE STARS: ‘SIGN OF THE TIMES’

  CHAPTER 4: BAD MANAGER

  THE LONG BLONDES: ‘ONCE AND NEVER AGAIN’

  TONI BRAXTON: ‘HE WASN’T MAN ENOUGH’

  THE DISTILLERS: ‘DRAIN THE BLOOD’

  CHAPTER 5: DUMMY

  LYKKE LI: ‘YOUTH KNOWS NO PAIN’

  SKY FERREIRA: ‘NOBODY ASKED ME (IF I WAS OKAY)’

  BABES IN TOYLAND: ‘WON’T TELL’

  CHAPTER 6: AWARD FOR BEST PASH

  L7: ‘CAN I RUN’

  ABBE MAY: ‘SEX TOURETTE’S’

  HOLE: ‘BOYS ON THE RADIO’

  CHAPTER 7: IT’S ON

  THE RAVEONETTES: ‘SLEEPWALKING’

  PJ HARVEY: ‘YOU SAID SOMETHING’

  THE PRETENDERS: ‘NIGHT IN MY VEINS’

  CHAPTER 8: THE GOLD COAST

  WANDA JACKSON: ‘FUJIYAMA MAMA’

  STEVIE NICKS: ‘EDGE OF SEVENTEEN’

  JANE WIEDLIN: ‘RUSH HOUR’

  CHAPTER 9: THE BIG CHEESE

  DANIELLE DAX: ‘CATHOUSE’

  DAISY CHAINSAW: ‘LOVE YOUR MONEY’

  EMA: ‘SO BLONDE’

  CHAPTER 10: THE UTE MUSTER

  DAPHNE & CELESTE: ‘U.G.L.Y.’

  CAT POWER: ‘LOST SOMEONE’

  MARTHA WAINWRIGHT: ‘BLOODY MOTHER FUCKING ASSHOLE’

  CHAPTER 11: CHEAP TRICK

  ALTERED IMAGES: ‘I COULD BE HAPPY’

  BANGLES: ‘WALKING DOWN YOUR STREET’

  ROBYN: ‘DANCING ON MY OWN’

  CHAPTER 12: FIGHT LIKE A GIRL

  LANA DEL REY: ‘THIS IS WHAT MAKES US GIRLS’

  BEACH HOUSE: ‘MYTH’

  CHEETAH: ‘SPEND THE NIGHT’

  CHAPTER 13: LOS ANGELES

  THE RUNAWAYS: ‘QUEENS OF NOISE’

  THE GO-GO’S: ‘THIS TOWN’

  CYNDI LAUPER: ‘HEADING WEST’

  CHAPTER 14: TALL POPPIES

  JACK OFF JILL: ‘FEAR OF FLYING’

  THE PREATURES: ‘IS THIS HOW YOU FEEL?’

  THE DONNAS: ‘WHO INVITED YOU’

  CHAPTER 15: ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME

  HOLLY AND THE ITALIANS: ‘TELL THAT GIRL TO SHUT UP’

  BELLY: ‘NOW THEY’LL SLEEP’

  DUM DUM GIRLS: ‘WRONG FEELS RIGHT’

  CHAPTER 16: THE AMERICAN TOUR

  LADYHAWKE: ‘BACK OF THE VAN’

  MARTHA AND THE MUFFINS: ‘ECHO BEACH’

  ELASTICA: ‘WAKING UP’

  CHAPTER 17: INTERVENTION

  NEKO CASE: ‘HOLD ON, HOLD ON’

  CONCRETE BLONDE: ‘TOMORROW WENDY’

  THOSE DARLINS: ‘SCREWS GET LOOSE’

  CHAPTER 18: I TOUCH MYSELF

  STRAWBERRY SWITCHBLADE: ‘SINCE YESTERDAY’

  BLONDIE: ‘IN
THE FLESH’

  THE MOTELS: ‘TOTAL CONTROL’

  CHAPTER 19: TAMWORTH

  BOW WOW WOW: ‘GO WILD IN THE COUNTRY’

  SAVAGES: ‘HUSBANDS’

  THE PRETENDERS: ‘NIGHT IN MY VEINS’

  CHAPTER 20: SOAP SCUM

  LUCINDA WILLIAMS: ‘KING OF HEARTS’

  ADALITA: ‘BLUE SKY’

  RONNIE SPECTOR: ‘NEVER GONNA BE YOUR BABY’

  CHAPTER 21: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

  LUSH: ‘HYPOCRITE’

  SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES: ‘THE PASSENGER’

  MAZZY STAR: ‘FADE INTO YOU’

  CHAPTER 22: BOSS

  M.I.A.: ‘PAPER PLANES’

  THE SLITS: ‘SO TOUGH’

  GOSSIP: ‘HEAVY CROSS’

  CHAPTER 23: TRUMP TRUMP TRUMP

  JUNK HORSES: ‘I PHONE, NO ANSWER’

  WARPAINT: ‘ELEPHANTS’

  LYDIA LUNCH AND ROWLAND S. HOWARD: ‘ENDLESS FALL’

  CHAPTER 24: NO NO NO

  METRIC: ‘DREAMS SO REAL’

  TRANSVISION VAMP: ‘SISTER MOON’

  CATCALL: ‘THE WORLD IS OURS’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing is a solitary pursuit, but no woman is an island. Hearty thanks to Jessica Adams, Trevor Byrne, Susie Cavill, Esther Coleman-Hawkins, Claire de Medici, Nick Dent, Kelly Doust, Ben Eriksen, Sara Foster, MJ Hyland, Emilie Johnson, Jade MacRae, Anneliese Mackintosh, Kate McMahon, Jo Paul Taylor, Tiffany Reichert, Elizabeth Russell, Roberto Seba, Tamara Sheward and Sheridan Wright for their input in varying ways. All at Allen & Unwin, especially Jane Palfreyman, Kathryn Knight and Jane Symmans. Thanks also to Mum, whose voice I heard in my head throughout, patiently explaining the rules of grammar. (This was particularly awkward on p. 253 and p. 318.) And to Justin Healey, for his understanding and support during a year in which my mind was off in some other deranged dimension.

  JENNY VALENTISH grew up in an unlovely satellite town of London, where she learned the art of escapism through music. At sixteen she started interviewing musicians and has done so ever since for a variety of magazines and newspapers, becoming editor of Triple J magazine and now Time Out Melbourne. None of those musicians wound up in this book, obviously. She has also been in a bunch of bands herself, but you wouldn’t have heard of them.

 

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