Don't Mention the Rock Star

by Bree Darcy

  “My friend’s cousin had her mother-in-law book into the room next to their honeymoon suite on their wedding night,” Adele said.

  “That’s not so bad,” I replied. “Surely plenty of guests would have stayed at the hotel.”

  “Maybe,” Adele said. “But she was the only one who booked the room again the following year when they went back for their anniversary.” She clasped her cheeks in mock horror.

  “Yikes, that is creepy,” I agreed.

  Adele wiped the muffin crumbs from her mouth and gathered up her belongings. The lucky girl was off to interview the hunky diving champion who had been crowned bachelor of the year.

  Mind you, I couldn’t complain. Tonight I had a date lining the red carpet at the premiere of Red Rover, a sci-fi flick about a group of astronauts heading to colonise Mars. The hot tip was that American action hero Neil Lucas – of Gunner Grey fame – would make an appearance to support his old college buddy, former sitcom actor Wes Nolan, on his directorial debut.

  * * *

  Our photographer Zoe was pacing up and down. Her sister had gone into labour an hour ago and she was supposed to be her support person.

  “How long do you think they’ll be?” asked Zoe, eyeing the event staff who were prepping the scene for the stars’ big arrival.

  “Just go already,” I said. “Your sister needs you. Give me your camera and I’ll do the photos.”

  “I couldn’t. What would Zara say?” But Zoe’s eyes had lit up at the possibility.

  “Leave Zara to me. Go on, get going! I’ll be fine.”

  Zoe gave me a quick lesson on the relevant buttons on her spare point-and-shoot camera before she was swallowed up by the crowd. How hard could it be? And if worse came to worst, I’d use my phone. I’d taken some really cool action shots of Ryan at his Cobra Ninja class last week.

  The media throng was growing thicker by the minute and the fans jamming the entrance to the Tivoli Theatre were buzzing excitedly. It had threatened rain all day but the grey clouds had held their load and the event staff could breathe a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t need umbrellas to escort the guests down a soggy red carpet.

  It wasn’t long before the first of the VIP guests made their appearances. From my prime position on the rope, I was having a wicked time, snapping shots as the famous faces swanned past.

  “Bella, over here,” I called as the model swivelled to give me a view of her backless dress.

  “Tyron, looking hot tonight. Let’s see your new tatt.” I fired off a series of shots as the Acton Avenue bad boy pulled open his shirt to show the “Vive la Revolution” ink across his collarbone.

  As the Star Power contestants were herded along the red carpet, a group of photographers with lenses a mile long shoved in next to me. “Excuse me!” I shouted, straining to hold my ground. “I was here first.”

  “No hard feelings, sweetheart,” replied one with a Londoner accent and a boxer’s physique. “But that means jack shit.” He laughed as he turned his back on me to snap some Home and Away actors.

  Suddenly the air turned electric as word passed through the crowd that Neil Lucas had arrived. He was actually here! All the photographers scrambled to get an even better vantage point and I was jostled right out of the way. I couldn’t even see the red carpet anymore. How did Zoe deal with these thugs? I was used to observing proceedings from a more civilised distance.

  As I copped an elbow to the cheek, I realised my life wouldn’t be worth living if I didn’t get a fantastic shot of Neil. I owed it to Zoe. So channelling the desperate determination of a Walmart customer on Black Friday, I charged my way back through the heaving throng until I reached the rope again.

  But it was still no good. Neil was chatting to a nearby TV crew but the tightly packed paps still blocked my shot. So totally breaking with protocol, I decided to slip under the rope. Just for a second. I’d snap my picture then scoot back under before anyone spotted me. But as I bobbed up on the red carpet side, my shoulder hit a bollard and the jolt knocked Zoe’s camera out of my hands. As it spun, in slow motion, through the air I instinctively lunged forward to catch it.

  Instead my hands hit a solid object. Then slowly slid down a silky shirt covering rock-hard muscles until I crumpled to my knees.

  I reopened my eyes.

  And somehow, despite having my head buried in a crotch, I could still see all the camera flashes.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe you were on Sunrise,” Nikki snickered. “And the top story on Perez Hilton. There’s even a meme of you doing the rounds. My best friend is famous!”

  “I’ve never been so humiliated,” I said. Well apart from that time my bikini top came undone when I dived off a jetty at camp.

  Neil Lucas had been lovely about the whole incident really. As I peeled myself away from his nether regions, my face burning in mortification, he’d held out his hand and gallantly helped me to my feet. He waved off all the responding security personnel and encouraged me – in his seriously hot gravelly voice – to pose with him. Then he picked up Zoe’s camera, which thankfully was still intact, winked at me and sauntered off down the red carpet.

  It showed he was a real pro at handling women throwing themselves at him.

  “I’ve had endless interview requests,” I told Nikki. “I’ve even had messages from celebrity agent Digby Strause saying he wants to represent me. I just want this whole thing to go away. Andy Warhol had no idea what he was talking about. My fame – or shame more like – has gone on far longer than fifteen minutes.”

  “If you can’t bear showing your face in public, you can always go shove it in Neil Lucas’ groin again.” That set Nikki off on a fresh peal of laughter.

  The good news was that in Zara’s eyes having a viral sensation on her staff outweighed the fact our photos were rubbish.

  And in even better news, Zoe’s sister had a healthy baby boy.

  * * *

  On Monday, I slunk back into work, hoping the furore over me getting too up close and personal with Neil Lucas had died down.

  “Well hello there,” said Lenny, with a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t the Gunner Groper.”

  I ignored him as I logged in.

  “I’ve been taking messages for you,” Lenny said, dropping a bundle of notes on my desk. “LOTS of them.”

  I swept my arm across to brush them straight into the bin.

  “There was one call from an American guy-”

  “I’m not interested in talking to any of them.” All those comedians on the late shows had been making jokes at my expense. Even Ellen had had a crack.

  “This one guy said he was an old friend – what was his name again? It started with A …”

  My pulse quickened.

  “Adam, Anthony … ANDY, that was it.”

  “Where’s the message, Lenny?” I scuffled around in the bin, trying to locate it.

  “I stuck it right there.” Lenny pointed at my computer screen. “So it wouldn’t get lost. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

  I grabbed on to Lenny’s arm to prevent him leaving. “Did he say anything else?”

  “Nope, just left his name and number.”

  I started overturning everything on my desk. Maybe the note had fallen behind the plant pot. I shook my thesaurus, hoping it would fall out, and checked inside every magazine holder. Perhaps it was stuck to the bottom of my chair or had floated behind the filing cabinet. Drat it! No sign. I re-emerged from under my desk, brushing off the fluff clinging to the knees of my trousers.

  “Look Lenny, if he calls again, can you email or text me the number immediately. Or better still, give him my personal mobile number.” I scrawled it on a piece of paper.

  “Yes ma’am.” He saluted. “So who’s this Andy guy, anyway? And why are you so desperate to talk to him?” He narrowed his eyes.

  “Just an old family friend,” I replied nonchalantly, before clicking on Sebastian Sloane’s website in the hope that another celebrity scandal had
pushed my embarrassing story into the dark outer rim of cyberspace. Thank you Harry Styles for finding yourself a new squeeze! But I couldn’t concentrate on a single word. Why on earth would Andy be calling me after all this time?

  It was the end of my working week and there still hadn’t been a follow-up call from Andy. I was living on tenterhooks but I had no way of contacting him. Andy wasn’t on any of the social networking sites. I could try his record company but Siena’s warning to stay away was still fresh in my mind. I’d just have to wait for his call. Not that that was unusual for us.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Screeches reverberated through the air as the band tuned up. If you combined nails scrapping down a blackboard, with the most irritating car alarm and Fran Drescher’s nasal whine, then you’d be getting close to the excruciating sound assaulting our eardrums.

  Nikki was supposed to be at the party with me but took an extra shift at the pizza parlour instead. “You know I’ve got my eye on that pair of acid-wash jeans,” she pleaded. “I need them for Corey’s graduation barbecue. Three more shifts” – you could see her tallying up her pay in her head – “and they’re mine.”

  So feeling rather lost and lonely, I stood on the periphery of a group, listening in to their conversation. Then someone bumped my arm, making me almost spill my drink.

  “Wotcha, Kell.” It was my schoolfriend Dan looking very preppy in a pair of khaki pants, navy polo shirt and boat shoes. “Fancy seeing you here. I didn’t know you were friends with Sean.”

  Birthday boy Sean was the cousin of Jeff, the lead singer of Andy’s band. Somehow, someone thought it would be a great idea for Bad Disease to play at his party. Someone who obviously hadn’t heard how bad they were.

  “How do you know Sean?” I asked.

  “He’s in my basketball team.” Dan was one of those all-round good guys – a talented sportsman, really smart and ambitious. He was super cute too – thick wavy hair, soulful brown eyes, killer bod – if you liked your boys tall, dark and handsome. I glanced over at my own boy – short, dark and … interesting looking.

  “How do you know him?” Dan asked.

  “I don’t,” I replied. “I’m here with someone from the band.” That sounded weird tripping off my tongue.

  “Not Jeff!” Dan exclaimed.

  “No, the guy in the stripy shirt.”

  “The weedy American? With the long hair? You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’ve heard all about him from Sean, how he’s a right idiot. And a pothead too. Apparently he’s only in the band because his aunt’s friends with Jeff’s neighbour or something.” Dan looked disappointed in me. “So are you going out with him?”

  “Hmm,” I nodded. Hurry up, I urged the band. Start playing so we could stop talking.

  “Wouldn’t have thought he was your type. What school does he go to?”

  “He doesn’t go to school. He’s a packer at a fruit and veg warehouse.”

  Dan raised his eyebrows. “How’d you meet?”

  “Around. So can you believe it’s only a month to exams? I couldn’t find my history notes the other day and nearly freaked-”

  At that point our conversation was interrupted as Jeff took to the microphone to wish his cousin a happy birthday before launching into their first song. If only the ground could have swallowed me up there and then because it immediately became apparent to Dan how appalling the band was.

  “Hope your boyfriend keeps his day job,” Dan yelled. “Doesn’t look like he’ll cut it as a musician.” He laughed and stuck his fingers in his ears.

  Several humiliating songs later, Andy pushed his guitar behind his back and approached the mic. “I hear the birthday boy is a Queen fan.”

  There were some half-hearted yelps from the crowd. “This is our tribute to them – don’t mess it up boys. Let’s go!”

  If the ghost of Freddie Mercury had risen and started singing Another One Bites the Dust, I don’t think Sean’s family and friends could have been more stunned. Andy strutted around, his strong voice piercing the night as he paid homage to one of the greatest frontmen of all time. Jeff retreated to the background, dejectedly singing a few harmonies while drummer Liam surprised even himself by keeping the infectious beat on track.

  The applause was thunderous as the song ended but Andy shooshed them. “The next song is for somebody who means the world to me.”

  I could feel Dan’s eyes on me so kept my swooning on the inside as Andy’s voice soared with the melody about finding somebody to love.

  By the time he closed with We Are the Champions, hands were waving lighters in the air and the crowd was singing along.

  “So,” I turned to Dan. “You still think the weedy American can’t cut it?”

  Dan had returned to his basketball mates by the time Andy came over to me, plastic cup of bourbon in his hand.

  “You were fantastic,” I said. “And when I say you, I mean only you.”

  “I wish you could hear Danger Game instead of these chumps. We’d have really rocked this place.” Andy took a swig of his drink. “So who’s that dude?”

  “Huh?” I pretended to look puzzled.

  “That douchebag over there with the cruddy haircut and shit taste in clothes. You know him?”

  “That’s Daniel – from school. He really enjoyed your performance.”

  “Really?” I forgot Andy could never get enough praise. “Let’s go over then so you can introduce me.”

  “Nah,” I said sliding my hands around his waist. “Come one, let’s get out of here. I hear you’re looking for somebody to love.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was time to make my annual pilgrimage west for Mum’s birthday so for the next ten days my husband would be left to take care of the house, the kids, everything. And although he never admitted it and swore Ryan and Ciara to secrecy (I won’t reveal which one squealed), right around the time I checked in my luggage at the airport, Delia moved hers into our spare room. She always left behind a lingering scent of her lilac perfume anyway.

  Delia’s imminent arrival was why I’d been in a frenzy the past few days cleaning the house from top to bottom. My dust-free mantels would pass the white glove test, my linen cupboards were arranged to Martha Stewart standards, and my lingerie collection had been secreted among my winter woollies, away from prying eyes.

  I was especially looking forward to getting away this year – if I had to hear one more time about Delia’s extensive search for the perfect butterscotch mud cake for Curtis’ birthday bash, I’d scream!

  But first I had one last day of work to survive and since it was Melbourne Cup day, it would be a hectic one. Adele was glued to the picture agency wires compiling the photo galleries. An unflattering shot of Misty, the weather girl who had snared Zara’s ex, was mandatory. As was a fetching one of our esteemed leader, who had flown down to hobnob with the celebrities in the famed Birdcage.

  A fashion blogger with a snarky sense of humour was covering the Fashions on the Field contest, while I was collating the celebrity gossip flowing from the marquees. Our Melbourne reporter, Raff Young, and his photographer had been briefed to pay close attention to what happened when supermodel Trinity came face to face with her estranged actor husband Michel, who had been caught snogging his male co-star. To our dismay, the PR fraternity worked overtime to keep the pair in separate tents. Never the vain shall meet.

  The customary international guests were trotted out, including Tanisha Montgomery, the actress with the awful mother-in-law; and veteran American singer Remy Fields, who was attending with her third husband, a backing dancer who was born the same year her debut album won a Grammy.

  Obviously the horse racing action on the track was of zero interest to us apart from working out who won Lenny’s sweeps. The Melbourne Cup was known as the race that stopped the nation because at three o’clock everyone stopped work to cheer on their horse. More than one hundred million dollars was wagered on this one event. In our office, prize money was awarded for fi
rst, second, third and last. We also secretly awarded money to the person who drew the horse which most looked like Gina Fenney, the wife of our CEO.

  Lenny, who had imposed a strict dress code for the occasion, was in striking green and yellow polka-dot jockey silks – and who knew those snug white pants came in beer-gut size! Adele had fashioned a fascinating fascinator out of pipecleaners that would have had princesses Beatrice and Eugenie salivating. And I’d gone for a tangerine wrap dress with a UFO-sized cream hat.

  I returned from downing champagne in the conference room – my horse Just a Flirt had finished a respectable sixth – to find a letter in my in-tray. Recognising the handwriting, the distinctive loops of the ls in my name, I ripped open the envelope.

  “Save me the stamps,” Lenny called as he passed by to hand prize money to Bethany whose horse had won by a nose. “I really want that one of the red rocks of Arizona.”

  Was there nothing that escaped his attention?

  I walked to a quiet alcove to speed-read the brief letter, my heart racing along with my eyes.

  Kell

  Jimmy Fallon showed this clip of an Aussie reporter greeting this actor in a wierd way. I COULDN’T BELIVE IT WAS U!!! still throing yurself headfirst into work I see.

  I called yur office and left my cell no but perhaps u didnt get it or dont want to talk to me.

  PLEASE! i miss u

  call me, maybe

  Ax

  Scrawled at the end was that elusive phone number.

  Now I certainly didn’t want him thinking I’d be waiting all these years for him to contact me again. I could act blase, I could play it cool.

  So, after thinking about it for a nanosecond, I punched in a brief text message. I double-checked the number then pressed send. Then I checked no one was watching before fist pumping the air.

  * * *

  Later that night, while waiting to board my flight, my phone beeped with a message from my ex: wasnt sure now yur rubing shoulders with moive stars wether u be intrested in talking to me. actually it didnt look like that was shoulders u were rubing