by Bree Darcy
“At least someone showed some sense,” I said.
“Nah-uh, not like put him down. But let him go, like drop him over the side. Like he was garbage. Lucky for AJ, the jock must have thought hard about whether he wanted to be showering in his college locker-room or inside a prison. He pulled AJ back over the railing. And then AJ headbutted the fucker. We didn’t stop running til we were halfway across town. Blood gushing everywhere, five stitches it took.”
Gerry stood in a trance for a moment, as if reliving the experience.
“That’s how AJ expects girls like you to treat him. Like he’s a piece of trash. In a way he’s waiting for you to kick him to the kerb.”
“I’m never going to do that.”
Gerry sighed. “Then my advice to you: take him as he is. The good with the bad. He likes drinking and getting high, he swears, he ain’t book smart. He’s got no money. But boy can he sing. The band needs him and he needs the band. Don’t try turning him into something he’s not.” Gerry watched me closely, his arms folded across his chest.
I nodded, indicating I understood.
We started jogging back towards the caravan park. “I can’t believe you made him fucking cook for you,” Gerry muttered.
* * *
The flash of lightning jolted me awake. Andy was squished up next to me, reeking of alcohol – he must have returned after I fell asleep. Another flash – I counted one … two … three … four …. five then the rumble of thunder.
My heartbeat raced as I gripped the blanket. I tried to relax but it was no good. I needed to empty my bladder and the harder I tried to ignore it, the stronger the sensation got. The room lit up again, this time I only counted to four until the thunderclap. The storm was getting closer. There was no way I was heading outside to the toilet block.
“Andy!” I tried to shake him awake. “Andy!”
He grunted and turned over.
“Andy!” This time I hissed it right into his ear.
“What?” Andy sat up and looked around dazed.
“I need to go toilet.”
“So go.” He lay down again.
“I can’t. There’s lightning.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No – I can’t go outside. Storms freak me out. But I really gotta go.”
Andy sighed and swung his legs out of bed. “Stay there.” He was illuminated by another flash of lightning. This time the thunder sounded overhead and heralded heavy rain. How were the other guys sleeping through this?
Andy came back with a beer bottle. “Use this and I’ll chuck it outside.”
“I’m not designed for whizzing in a bottle! I’ll need something bigger, like a bucket.”
And so it came that I had to squat and relieve myself into a tin can.
“Can you hold the blanket up, I don’t want anyone waking up and seeing me. And don’t you look either.”
After Andy had tossed its contents outside, we climbed back into bed.
“Come here.” Andy pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry. For before. And I’m sorry you have to live in a crappy bus with no toilet.”
And as the storm rolled away, he held me tight all night.
* * *
In Denver, Gerry’s donation bought me and Andy a room to ourselves in a motel just off the interstate. The bedspread was filthy, the light socket was broken, and the splattered remains of someone else’s food was embedded in the microwave but at least we had privacy. The rest of the boys were parked outside in the bus. Andy delighted in hanging out a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the doorknob.
By the second evening, though, the sign was routinely ignored.
“Gerry, there’s a door – use it,” I yelled as I caught sight of him perched on the toilet. Meanwhile Heath, never shy of showing off his body, strutted dripping wet across the room after his shower. They were getting ready for a night on the town, all except Dom, who was lying listlessly on the couch reading the motel’s fire evacuation leaflet. Maybe he was feeling down because his brother had left yesterday to return home to England. Gerry, as the only other holder of a Class A licence, was now our designated driver.
“You not going out then Dom?” I inquired.
“Nah, actually I’ve got a favour to ask,” Dom said, holding his hands together in prayer position. “Do you mind if I stay here with you and watch Beverly Hills 90210? I’ve been missing the show so bad.”
“That’s exactly what I’m planning on doing – you’re more than welcome to join me.”
“Oh, isn’t that nice,” Heath cut in. “You two can have a girly night in while the real men go out. You do know Dom’s more into Brandon than Brenda?”
Dom laughed, raising his middle finger at Heath. “Don’t look so surprised, Kellie. Why do you think I moved to San Francisco in the first place?”
Accountancy major Dom was from Manchester in England but had scored himself a visa in the green card lottery thanks to his Northern Ireland birthplace. I really hadn’t given much thought to the fact I’d never seen him with a girl. I mean most gravitated towards Heath anyway.
“You don’t mind – about me being gay?” Dom asked, plonking himself on to the bed after the guys departed leaving an intense whaff of cheap aftershave in their wake. “My family, including Terry, don’t know so that’s why I’ve been playing it straight. But now he’s gone …”
“As long as you don’t have your eye on Andy.”
“You’re totes safe there. Not my type.”
“He’s not really my type either,” I confessed. “God only knows why I fancy him.”
Dom laughed out loud. “He can be an real annoying shite but get him behind a microphone and wow … As soon as I heard him belt out Otis Redding, I knew I had to be in his band.”
Dom wasn’t the original drummer – that honour went to another guy from their neighbourhood who ended up joining the army, thinking it was an easy way to get an education. The last thing they’d heard he was learning how hard it was to restore democracy in Haiti.
Desperate for a new drummer, Andy and Gerry went around posting notices in record stores and cafes. Dom was buying a Psychedelic Furs LP and had admired Gerry’s Rancid T-shirt. Next thing he knew he was back in Gerry’s basement, jamming with them.
Dom hunted around in the kitchenette until he found a glass to pour his Jack Daniel’s into. “Do you want one?”
“I’m not old enough to drink,” I replied.
“I didn’t ask if you’re old enough, I asked do you want one?”
“Alright then, I’ll give it a whirl.”
“Now that’s my type right there,” Dom leered as the show’s opening credits rolled. “Luke Perry. Did you notice Heath knew who Brandon and Brenda were? Must be a secret fan himself.”
We giggled and clinked our glasses together.
After another episode in which Brenda and Dylan had yet another row, and Brandon put the world to rights, Dom and I settled back for a gossip.
Sliding a photo out of his wallet he told me about his university boyfriend, Phil, who he had left behind in Manchester. “He’s still hiding it from his family too, which didn’t make it easy, do you know what I mean.” Two fresh-faced boys beamed at the camera, their arms around each other. Both were wearing horrible plaid shirts and high-waisted jeans. Phil looked a lot like Jason Donovan, blond mullet and all, while Dom’s frizzy hair was flattened under a fedora hat.
Dom poured us another refill. “So it doesn’t bother you, your man out having a buzz? Probably at a strip club as we speak.”
“I guess I have to trust him, especially since I’m usually not even in the same country.”
“I must say AJ is not one for the ladies like our Heath. I’ve never seen him as much as chatting up the groupies.”
“He claims he finds it all a bit demeaning – told me once he wouldn’t touch them with a bargepole.”
“Heath certainly likes touching them with his bargepole.” We collapsed ba
ck on the bed in a fit of giggles.
“So what about you?” I inquired. “Anyone taken your fancy?”
“Well, unfortunately Heath doesn’t want to touch me with his bargepole.” Dom sniggered again. “Actually he doesn’t want me to come out, full stop. Reckons people will think the whole band is gay. At least AJ’s been brill about it. Says it’s none of anyone’s business. That’s what’s so great about our kid – he doesn’t judge people.”
I thoughtfully swirled the liquor around in my glass. “What do you think about me and Andy? Do you think we’re right for one another? I mean I’m not even eighteen yet, but I feel like I’ve met the person I’m meant to be with for the rest of my life.”
“Well girl, if that’s the way you feel, what the hell are you doing living in another country? When I find the man of my dreams, I’m sticking tighter than Tori Spelling’s tit tape.”
As the night progressed, we continued downing shots and by the time, Andy returned, I was well and truly bladdered, as Dom would say.
“I’ve been waiting for youse to bring your bargepole home,” I slurred, grasping on to Andy’s shirt.
“Sounds like you two had a wilder night than us,” Andy laughed. “All right, bugger off Dom. Go keep Gerry company. Heath’s gone home with some chick so he’s all on his lonesome in the bus.”
* * *
Several nights later, in a different motel room, in Kansas, I woke to the TV still blaring. I glanced at the digital clock. 2.47. Their post-gig drinking session was obviously still going strong. I stretched, trying to uncrink my neck. One thing about staying in rundown motels, you soon learnt to sleep no matter how uncomfortable the bed and how often neon lights flashed into your room.
I must have dozed off again as it was nearly four o’clock when the sound of slamming car doors woke me. Those boys had better keep their voices down or the neighbours won’t be too pleased. The key rattled in the door and into the room spilt three bodies, unsteady on their feet. I switched on the bedside light, ready to go into harpy mode, when I noticed Gerry’s right arm had a blood-soaked T-shirt wrapped around it. A shirtless Andy looked up, and I gasped. One of his eyes was red and swollen, there was a gash on his left cheekbone and dried blood on his bottom lip.
“What happened?”
Gerry grimaced as I gently pulled Andy’s bloodied shirt away from his forearm to examine the wound.
Apparently after the gig, while loading up the bus, they ran into some cowboys smoking in the alley.
“They were a total bunch of dickheads. Slagging us off, calling us fags.” This indignation came from Gerry, who was sporting bowl-cut hair and dressed in bright yellow pants with legs cut off at the knees. Was it any wonder he didn’t get a howdy-doody welcome from the locals? I glanced over at Dom, eyeliner smeared under his eyes.
Gerry continued. “So then AJ bared his arse and suggested a number of things he thought they’d like to do to him.”
“Oh Andrew J,” I sighed. “Why must you taunt them?” I had a feeling Andy pulling his intimidating Karate Kid pose wouldn’t fly out here.
“It would have been fine,” Andy said, revealing a chipped front tooth. “I mooned them, then hightailed it for the bus. Those rednecks didn’t have a chance of catching us.”
“Except I couldn’t get it started,” Gerry interjected. “We were all ready to give ’em the finger as we drove off into the night. Instead we got into a fight. Lesson for today, AJ, don’t insult someone unless your getaway vehicle is A-OK.”
Andy explained that someone took to Gerry with a broken bottle. “Those bozos were definitely getting the worse of it before the bouncers broke it up,” he said defiantly.
“They didn’t kidnap Heath, did they?” I asked. One could only hope.
Dom wrapped some ice in a teatowel and held it to his cheekbone. “Nah. He’d pulled a couple of birds and was long gone. Missed all the excitement.”
Later that morning, after Heath swaggered home, a taxi dropped us back at the bar. It came as no surprise that the old bus, left exposed in the carpark overnight, had smashed windows, slashed tyres and dented panels. Derogatory messages were spray-painted in red all over it. Fortunately the guys had had the sense to store their musical equipment back inside the venue.
I turned to Gerry as we surveyed the damage. “That spare cash of yours, you need to put it towards a new van,” I said. I could see the doubt in his eyes but he nodded. And so ended our brief interlude with motel accommodation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Andy plonked a red juice in front of me. “See, I remember how much you love watermelon.” He leant back on the chair, one leg crossed over his knee, and stared out to sea. Then he turned his intense green eyes on me. “So? Fire away. Ask me anything.”
I took my time savouring my sweet drink before speaking. “This is ridiculous. I can’t interview you.”
When news broke that the Danger Game frontman was in Sydney to film a new reality show called Hitmaker, masterminded by his legendary father-in-law, guess who drew the short straw.
Only the day before I had replied to his texts – magnanimously telling him I was too busy to catch up. It didn’t sit right with me to see him, especially not now he was single. But I was hardly in a position to refuse when Zara assigned me the interview. I certainly wasn’t telling her about our past, unless I wanted to see it splashed all over the Starfix website.
So after witnessing a nauseating magazine photo shoot of my ex arm in arm with some bikini babes on Bondi Beach, we were sitting up at the pavilion. No one was any the wiser that the guy in the Panama hat, mirrored sunglasses, striped cotton shirt and cut-off navy cargos was actually AJ Dangerfield. After signing hordes of autographs for starstruck beachgoers, Andy had been involved in an elaborate identity switch, swapping clothes with another similar-looking guy who roared off in a Range Rover with blackened-out windows to throw the fans off the scent.
“Would it make you more comfortable if we did this in bed?” Andy smirked. “You were always good at asking questions then – wanting to know about the philosophy of life when all I wanted was to have a kip.”
I shot him a withering look. “Okay, smart alec. I do have a question for you. That time, when Gerry got in trouble, why didn’t you call?”
Andy sighed. “Oh boy, that was a crazy time. The media were having a field day, Chandler was having a meltdown and somehow, somewhere, I lost that piece of paper with your number on it. I didn’t know your new surname, I couldn’t remember where you worked. And I had to focus on Gerry. I couldn’t afford to be distracted…” He caught my bemused expression. “You know what I mean. Gerry needed me. The next time I was speaking to your ma -”.
“You spoke to my Mum?”
“Every Christmas since I left. Without fail.” He cocked an eyebrow at me, daring me to contradict him.
Someone had been good at keeping that a secret! All these years, Mum had never breathed a word.
“I thought I might have caught up with you there one year but …”
It was an unwritten rule that we spent Christmas with the Carmichaels. I hadn’t been with Mum for the festive season in all the years I’d been with Curtis.
“Ken sounds like a lovely bloke, doesn’t he?”
“She told you about Ken?”
“Sure did. I know everything there is to know about him. Did you know he has the same surname as my Uncle Ed’s best mate – not that they are related, I checked – and his birthday is the same as mine? It’s nice to see your ma so happy. Anyway, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, back then I was about to ask your ma the best way to get in touch with you when she got all excited telling me she was becoming a nonna. You were having a baby! I took it as a sign that it was best to leave you alone.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat and wiped the corner of my eye, pretending a grain of sand had blown into it. All that time I’d spent waiting for him to get in touch. Rebuking myself for wanting him to call me so badly. Thinking I
meant nothing to him anymore.
“Should I have persisted?” Andy said, resting his hand on top of mine.
“No, you did the right thing.” I pulled my hand free and switched on the digital recorder. “Right, down to business then. So tell me, Mr Dangerfield, why has it been such a long time since your last album?”
* * *
“Hold the front page – or whatever the fuck we call it in this digital age.” Zara stormed into the office. “AJ Dangerfield’s gone and got himself papped at Lady Bay Beach – stark bollocks naked.”
“Isn’t that a gay hangout?” Adele queried.
“He does wear an awful lot of eyeliner,” Lenny mused.
Zara ignored the pair of them and clicked her fingers at Zoe. “Let’s get these shots uploaded, although we’ll need a few strategically placed smiley faces. We’ll link to Kellie’s interview from yesterday.”
Zara was still on a high from the Brodie Hagerty sex scandal. That story had been picked up across the nation as columnists mused whether Brodie would still be on the scene when the baby arrived.
I snuck out to the bathroom to sent a text: WTF? Nude shots of you on a gay beach?!
Moments later I got my reply: So thats y there were no girls around! Yur fault, u told me to check out that bay.
Didn’t tell you to venture down to a nudist beach and get snapped in all your glory.
When in Rome …
Nutcase. See you later?
Bring lotion. Bad sunbrn
I slipped back into the office and joined Zoe to examine the photographs – from a purely professional point of view, of course.
* * *
That night was book club, so I didn’t need an excuse for being home late. Adele was passing on my apologies to the ladies. It would have been rude turning up anyway, since I hadn’t read past the first chapter. It was a memoir about a woman who lost her hand in a factory accident and developed a passion for beekeeping. Not my sort of read although I’m sure Aunt Beth would have been riveted.
During my interview with Andy, he had begged, pleaded and grovelled until I agreed to see him again, for old times sake. I always have had a hard time saying no to him. Tonight we were dining at the swish Italian restaurant at the Star Casino.