by Bree Darcy
“Nothing special. Whatever’s in the pantry,” I replied, noticing with a sigh that a button was missing from his shirt cuff.
“I feel like a milkshake.”
“I’ll make it,” Ciara bounded over to the fridge. “Banana, strawberry or chocolate?”
“Chocolate. What’s with her?” he asked me.
“Your sister’s trying to get in my good books. She wants to go chasing after a pop star next week.”
“Who?”
“Kris Carson,” I replied as Ciara wouldn’t have heard over the whirr of the milkshake maker.
“That loser,” Ryan scoffed, sticking his finger down his throat and pretending to gag.
This his sister heard. “Kris is so much more better than the music you listen to. All those old dudes screeching.” Ciara shuddered as she mixed chocolate sauce into the frothy milk.
“Whatever, Ciara. As if you’d know good music if it came and bit you on the bum.” Ryan’s dark eyes flashed with irritation. “The bands I like have years of hit records behind them. Danger Game, I’ll have you know, have won three Grammys. How many has Pissy Krissy won?”
“As if Kris needs a Grammy, whatever that is.” Ciara slurped her milkshake. “He has two-hundred-thousand followers on Twitter.”
“Whoop-dee-doop. If you’re such a big fan, then you would know AJ, that ‘old dude’ from Danger Game, wrote Kris’ new single. He wrote Desperate when he was a teenager but for some reason it never appeared on any of their albums.”
It seemed I was not the only family member studying up on Danger Game’s history.
Ciara ignored her brother and turned her best puppy-dog expression on me. “Please, it’s my big chance to meet Kris. You must have been all desperate to see your idol when you were young. Elvis Presley or something?”
“I’m not quite that old, thank you very much. I will admit I would have walked over hot coals to get to Donnie from New Kids on the Block. But you have swim training, remember.”
“I’ll miss it, it’s no biggie. Meeting Kris is much more important. I’ll simply die if I don’t. Anyways you have to make it up to me. You interviewed him, were this close to him” – Ciara held her thumb and forefinger centimetres apart – “and didn’t even bother to get me – your only daughter, his biggest fan – an autograph.”
“As of last week I had never even heard you mention Kris Carson’s name. You girls are so fickle you have a new favourite every week.” I wiped up the ice-cream drips that Ciara had left on the bench and then smiled indulgently at her. “But I will call Jenna’s mum, have a chat to her and then I’ll think about it.”
I must admit I was secretly desperate to hear Kris sing a song Andy had written. If I could do it under the cover of picking up my daughter and her friend, then so be it.
“You are brilliant Mum. And if those Block Kids ever tour, I’ll come along to help you meet Johnny. He’s probably not that hard to chase down these days – he’d be in a wheelchair by now.”
“Get away with you, you cheeky sod before I change my mind.”
Ciara skirted my playful slap on her backside and headed off to her bedroom to start texting the news.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two pretty girls fluttered around Andy, giggling at his jokes and topping up his drink. One planted a kiss on his cheek before Andy pulled her on to his lap, tickling her until she had tears streaming down her face.
I stepped out from my hiding spot behind the jacaranda tree, arms crossed. “So what’s going on here, then?”
Andy shot off the fluffy pink rug, knocking over a one-eyed panda and a Cabbage Patch doll. He looked a picture, his face flushed beetroot, with a silver tiara perched on his head and a lilac feather boa around his neck.
“Girls, meet Kellie,” he said. “Kell, these are my cousins, princess Hannah and princess Mercedes. They, um, roped me into their tea party … I wasn’t expecting you ’til later.”
“Hello ladies,” I said, sitting down cross-legged next to them.
“Are you Andrew’s girlfriend?” asked Mercedes, nudging her younger sister.
“I am,” I replied. “I love your tutus – so pretty.”
Hannah stood up and twirled.
“We’ve been at ballet,” Mercedes said. “Can I plait your hair?”
“Maybe another time,” said Andy, grabbing my hand and hauling me to my feet. “You girls need to go inside and get Caprice to watch you til your ma comes home. I’m taking Kellie to my house.”
Andy and his mum, Maria, lived next door to his aunt Carmela and her husband, Ed. They had five daughters but only the youngest two, Tania and Caprice, lived at home. Mercedes and Hannah were among their eight grandchildren.
We clattered up the steps to the porch of his cream brick house, the wrought-iron railing wobbling under my hand. The flyscreen door smacked against the wall as Andy ushered me inside. To the left was a lounge room, with plastic matting protecting plush salmon carpet. But Andy steered me the other way, into his bedroom at the end of the hallway. He pulled up his blind to let in some light before quickly rearranging the rumpled quilt on his bed.
Scrunching my nose, I gingerly prodded my foot at a bunched-up pile of socks and underwear in the middle of the room until he scooped them up and carted them off to the laundry. I made the most of Andy’s brief absence to spray a can of musk Impulse around. His walls were haphazardly lined with posters torn from magazines, not arranged symmetrically with edges neatly trimmed like mine.
“Is that Gerry?” I pointed to a tacked-up photo of Andy and another guy lying on sun loungers. Andy was wearing shades while the other boy squinted into the sun, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“It is.” Andy smiled at the photo fondly. “He was always hanging out at our place. He never really got on with his old man.” He reached under his bed to pull out an opened can of cola. He took a swig before offering it to me. Couldn’t say it tempted me.
I examined more photos, glad to finally put a face to his best friend. There was one of Gerry eating a sausage with a goofy expression on his face. Another of him sitting on a tree branch, with the same goofy expression. He was pipecleaner thin and a dead ringer for Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.
He and Andy had bonded at junior high over how much they hated school – and how much everyone hated them. They never paid attention in class, weren’t into sports, and liked bands no one had heard of.
A photo of the two friends sitting on a couch with a really good-looking guy caught my eye.
“That’s Heath, our lead guitarist.” Andy rolled his eyes. “All the girls notice him.”
“He is pretty hot,” I admitted, scrutinising Heath closer. He had cropped dark brown hair and was wearing tight black jeans and a striped shirt, unbuttoned to give a glimpse of well-honed pecs. His smooth, chiselled chin looked like it belonged in a shaver commercial and he’d angled his face at the camera like a seasoned model. Meanwhile Andy and Gerry were wearing threadbare trackpants and looked as if they hadn’t showered for days.
“Then I’m glad he’s over there and you’re over here,” Andy said.
I tucked his hair behind his ear and planted a kiss on his cheek, to show where my allegiances lay. “He does look a bit up himself,” I said.
“Yeah, you got that right. Heath is an arrogant bastard but he can play a mean guitar and writes some ace stuff. If he could sing better, no doubt he’d try to dump me from my own band. He even wanted to change the name, didn’t like the fact it was named after me.”
“So why was it named after you, why not Gerry for instance?” I asked.
“Easy decision really. When you consider what Gerry’s last name is.” Andy paused. “Bitel.” He paused again to let it sink in. “Sort of how the French would pronounce the Beatles, don’t ya reckon?”
That day I asked the question I’d been dreading the answer to: “Do you think you’ll go back to America?”
Andy had spent the past hour moaning about the band he rehearsed with. They we
re called Bad Disease – and according to him they were beyond bad. Awful. Diabolical. Possibly tone deaf. Definitely talentless.
Jeff was a veterinary student who elected himself the lead singer because he owned the garage they practised in – well, it was attached to his parents’ house. According to Andy, he was the most controlling personality he’d ever met and always had a sour expression on his face. “You wouldn’t be smiling either if you had to stick your hand up a cow’s arse,” I told Andy.
Then there was Liam, whose folks were happy to fork out for a drum kit since they thought all that banging might help him deal with his anger about their divorce. “You would think being a bank teller would mean he could count to four and stay in time. One. Two. Three. Four. Pretty simple and all a drummer needs to be able to do,” Andy would despair.
And bassist Colin, the youngest at sixteen, was too shy to be lead guitarist, which was where Andy came in, stuck to the side listening to Jeff murder the songs.
“If it was down to the music, then yeah I would go home,” Andy replied. “I really miss playing with the boys, being out front and singing. But there’s ma to think about. Plus I’ve got another very good reason for staying.” Andy rolled me over on his bed and smothered me with kisses.
After a while I sat up: “Can you believe I haven’t heard you sing yet? Play me something.”
Andy reached for his acoustic guitar in the corner and licked his lips, proclaiming this to be his most nerve-wracking performance ever.
I steeled myself for the worse. Andy had such high hopes – music was all he wanted to do. He was forever talking about Danger Game’s plans for world domination. What if he was completely deluded about his talents, a perfect fit for the rest of Bad Disease’s dire members? What would I say to him?
Andy started strumming, his hair falling across his face. It was Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight. And he was absolutely wonderful.
As I listened, with tears in my eyes, I realised there was no way Andy could stay here. He had to move back to San Francisco to be with his real band.
Andy ended the song with a dramatic flourish on the guitar strings. “So?” He cocked his head at me, waiting for my response.
My face lit up with pride. “It was amazing, you are amazing. One day I’ll be telling everyone I knew you before you were famous and they’ll never believe me.”
“What do you mean, people won’t believe you. You’re always gonna be right by my side.”
He wrapped his arms around me, and we lay together like that until the light faded.
Thinking about that moment years later, I realised there weren’t many people who could say they fell in love with AJ Dangerfield before they heard him sing. His wife certainly couldn’t. I’d say that was fifteen-love to me, wouldn’t you – not that I was keeping score.
CHAPTER FIVE
As if Monday mornings weren’t tough enough, today we were having to deal with Zara in the foulest mood ever. Her ex, game show host Patrick Ellison, had taken up with a TV weather girl appropriately named Misty and their love affair was splashed all over this week’s Reach magazine.
Dressed all in white, they were snapped frolicking in the Royal Botanical Gardens. You had to give credit to the photographer – who knew there were so many angles to capture of a couple gazing adoringly at each other? Especially when fifty-three-year-old Patrick was so paranoid about his jowls showing.
After four years together, Zara had been close to sending out their wedding invitations when Patrick – who already had two failed marriages under his belt – suddenly claimed he needed space and moved out of their North Shore apartment.
It was not long after Misty had appeared on a special celebrity week of Pinpoint as part of a blonde bombshells team which didn’t fare particularly well since they would have trouble pinpointing Tasmania on a map of Australia. And it soon became apparent that Patrick had taken to pointing something rather personal in young Misty’s direction.
Zara took great delight in savaging his reputation any chance she got. “There’s a reason he’s on a show called Pinpoint. A pin just about sums it up,” she would say, waggling her little finger.
According to Lenny, our office spy, when Reach magazine reached Zara this morning, she stormed up to the twelfth floor, demanding to know why its editor-in-chief, Amanda Russo, had wasted valuable editorial space on such D-grade celebrities. Amanda had replied cuttingly that the only D thing about Misty was her bra size. “Must be why you’ve been deluding yourself you’re an A-lister all these years,” she spat, eyeing up Zara’s flat chest.
Amanda had been Zara’s nemesis since their days as fresh-faced editorial assistants on the now-defunct Razzle Dazzle magazine. Their feud escalated when both claimed to have discovered farm girl turned supermodel Bella London and reached fever pitch when Amanda dared perch her pert bottom on the front row seat reserved for Zara at a showing of Harold Hinter’s spring-summer collection.
I decided the best plan was to stay well clear of Zara, particularly as the last thing I needed was a late assignment to delay me from meeting Ciara and Jenna at Kris Carson’s pop-up appearance. So every time she ventured out of her office, barking orders or castigating her secretary, Heidi, for various crimes against office management, I jumped on the phone, pretending to be in the midst of a crucial conversation. In between, I filed stories on the tawdry memoirs of a radio shock jock and reworked a piece off Sebastian Sloane’s website about an aging Hollywood star selling her Bel-Air mansion.
Now I was prepping for an interview with the videographer who shot the Hamilton Island wedding of two actors using a 3D camera. I grabbed one of the pairs of 3D glasses that appeared to breed in my bottom drawer after movie premieres and settled back to watch the video link the guy had emailed me. The footage was so amazingly realistic that when the bride threw her bouquet, I almost reached out to grab it.
I was so engrossed, my colleague, Adele, had to click her fingers in front of my face to signal she was back from her meet and greet with the Star Power talent show finalists.
The pair of us had shared the same cubicle space for nearly three years so it was lucky we got on like a house on fire. Adele had a wicked sense of humour and a flair for making delectable muffins. Hailing from New Zealand, she came across the ditch (or the “dutch” as she would pronounce it) after the Christchurch earthquake. She had lost two close friends in the disaster and her boyfriend Max’s house had been declared uninhabitable.
After I explained to her what I was watching, Adele jammed my 3D glasses on top of her own specs and hopped around, pretending to pop the bubbles the guests were blowing to send off the newlyweds. We didn’t notice Zara’s approach until she was standing right behind us.
“Who got married this time?” she barked.
“Peter Keys and Rosie Coren,” I replied, spinning around in my chair. “They met on the set of that gory 3D hitchhiker film. And now they’ve shot their wedding in 3D. It’s pretty spectacular, even without any splattered blood.”
“I’ll give it six months, tops,” Zara sniffed. “I’m pretty sure he’s gay. Now Adele, I need to talk about your Star Power feature. Did you get the dirt on that contestant with the criminal past?”
As they drifted off towards her office, I grabbed a magazine off Adele’s desk. It featured a photo spread with stars such as Ashton Kutcher and Zac Efron sitting courtside, cheering on the Los Angeles Lakers. An animated AJ Dangerfield pumped a yellow and purple foam hand in the air, while a bored Siena checked her phone.
I picked up my own phone. “Everywhere I go lately I’m reminded of him. A magazine article, a song on the radio, posters on my son’s wall …”
“Perhaps the universe is trying to tell you something,” Nikki replied drolly. “Hey, you don’t happen to know what IABUWY stands for, like in a text?”
“No idea, hang on, I’ll check.” I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, while typing in the search bar. “I - am - breaking - up - with - you,” I answe
red.
“WHAT!” Nikki screeched. “Tim just texted me that. Are you sure that’s what it means?”
Tim was the investment banker Nikki had been seeing for the past few months. By day, he researched equity positions, by night, let’s just say his focus turned to a different sort of position. Nikki was hardly reticent in sharing all the X-rated details about her young lover. Still it wasn’t half as harrowing as the time she was in her Fifty Shades of Grey experimental phase.
“Who breaks up with someone via text?” Nikki ranted.
“Ummm, you. Didn’t you send a message like that to that photographer you met at that art gallery thing?” In our friendship, I generally acted as the voice of reason.
“Pfft, that’s hardly the same. In the harsh light of day, I simply realised he was a lot older than I thought. Nearly forty.”
I didn’t bother to remind Nikki that she was nearly that age herself.
“I should have twigged when he put on Sade – on an actual record player! But it wasn’t until I woke up, and saw that not only did he have chest hair, it had smatterings of grey in it.” The horror was evident in her voice. The men Nikki dated tended to be from the metrosexual generation. They waxed. Extensively.
“After I fled his apartment, I simply texted to let him know I wasn’t available to meet him for our planned date later that night – or at any other time this century. I was being considerate.” I could hear Nikki pacing. “You know, Tim has really shown why banker rhymes with wanker. Right, I’m hanging up now so I can reply. I’ve got a real simple message for him, just two letters so there will be no misunderstanding – an F and a U.”
* * *
Wedding interview in the bag, I wandered off to the break area to refill my water glass. Lenny was the only one there, eating his usual ham, cheese and pickle sandwich on multigrain and flicking through a magazine.
“So who’s yours?” Lenny flashed his yellowing teeth at me.
“Who’s mine what?”
“Your celebrity free pass.” He held up the cover of Papped Magazine which featured the cast of TV soap Acton Avenue. “There’s a story in here about it. Apparently Angie hit the roof when she heard who Brad had in mind for his.”