by Bree Darcy
“Give Ray Tesch’s publicist a call,” Andy said, shading his eyes from the setting sun. “I would say he’s about to announce he’s going solo.”
I looked at him inquisitively. How did Andy have this information about the biggest boy band on the planet?
“Young Ray sat behind me on the plane from LAX.”
“Thanks Mario.” I leant down and kissed his cheek. “I owe you one.”
And so I rushed back to the office to chase my scoop on Raspberry Kisses breaking up because their golden boy was striking out on his own.
* * *
When I opened my newspaper that Sunday morning, I got a very clear picture what Andy and Siena’s united front looked like. They were in the Whitsundays on a private charter boat costing twenty-two thousand dollars a night. The main photo showed Siena lying on the sun deck in a mint green string bikini. Andy, in a pair of black board shorts and his hair held back by a red bandana, rested his hand protectively over her stomach. In the next shot, he was lying on top of her, locking lips. The final shot was of them on a jetski, her head resting on his shoulders and her arms firmly wrapped around his waist.
“Why would you go on a lovey-dovey holiday together when you’re about to get divorced?” Nikki asked after I ranted about the boat’s plush facilities including a helicopter landing pad, hot tub and gym. “Unless he’s planning on drowning her, saying she accidentally fell overboard,” she mused. “That way he wouldn’t have to pay alimony. Or maybe she could get eaten by a shark while scuba-diving.”
I’m sure even the most ferocious great white pointer would cower from Siena.
“From the sounds of it Kell, I’m sorry to say, it doesn’t seem like he’s planning on leaving her any time soon.”
I hadn’t told Nikki about Chandler’s weak heart or his gambling debts, so she didn’t know the real reason they were still together.
“Men, they’re so fickle,” Nikki sighed. “The Shrimp can’t even stand by his decision to break his vow about being with her until death do us part.”
I think I understood what she meant.
* * *
Ciara was on the edge of her seat, watching with bated breath as the crew put the finishing touches to the stage. “Warrior Legacy so have to win,” she said for the umpteenth time.
“I don’t know,” chimed in Lenny. “When Darius forgot that second verse last week, that could have cost them the contest.”
When a family pass to the Hitmaker finale landed in my in-tray, I invited Lenny along to join me and the kids because Curtis wasn’t interested.
“But he covered up so well, by rapping those random lines,” Ciara said. “If they don’t win, Australia should hang its head in shame. People obviously don’t know good music when they hear it.” She glared at the girl sitting next to her, who was wearing a homemade T-shirt for rival finalists Dial8.
The auditorium fell silent as the lights dimmed and the host bounded on to the stage to introduce the judges and mentors.
Andy sauntered out, arm in arm with fellow mentor Geri Halliwell. From where we were sitting, about ten rows behind the judging panel, I could see the pair of them faking an arm wrestle for the cameras.
Fortunately, the show was pre-recorded because some technical hitch occurred during the opening act. All the auditorium lights were turned on again as the crew scrambled to fix the problem.
Andy swivelled around in his chair, scanning the crowd. He waved at Ryan, then caught my eye as Lenny leant in to whisper that one of the judges, a radio DJ, looked like Morticia from the Addams Family.
Andy swung back to face the stage. A second later, my phone vibrated. glad u could make it. yur husband isnt what i expected!
That’s not Curtis, you numbskull. It’s Lenny from work who’s old enough to be my father!
Andy turned to give me the thumbs-up as the lights dimmed for a second time.
Three hours later, with my bum numb from having to sit still for so long, the other contestants crowded around Warrior Legacy to congratulate them on their win. Ciara bolted towards the stage with Lenny in the hopes of scoring their autographs.
Ryan nudged me as Andy sidled out from backstage, greeting audience members as he made his way into the tiered seating.
“Thanks so much for the tickets,” I said when he reached us. “Ryan turns fifteen this week, so it’s a lovely treat for him.”
“Happy birthday, mate.” Andy slapped him on the back. “Geez, I remember turning fifteen. Sneaking alcohol and smoking joints with Gerry.”
I coughed.
“Not that you should do any of that of course.”
A young guy with a headset tore up the stairs. “AJ, Siena is looking for you.”
Andy raised his eyebrows, shrugged and melted back into the crowd.
The night before Ryan’s birthday, I presented him with a gift. “If your father or anyone else asks, I got this for a great price on eBay. But the truth is it’s one of AJ’s, he thought you’d make good use of it. His mobile number’s on the card, it would nice if you said thank you.”
And I left Ryan toying with his black and silver Fender Stratocaster.
* * *
The following week I received another directive from Ryan’s school to see the principal. What now?
“Did you observe your son before he came to school?” Mr Beamish asked.
I wracked my brain, flashing back through the scenes of my morning so far. Nope, Ryan had definitely left before I got up. Was I in trouble for not being up at the crack of dawn, laying out a nutritious breakfast and ensuring all schoolbooks were packed in alphabetical order?
The principal pushed the intercom button. “Miss Baxter, can you show Ryan Carmichael in.”
I gasped as my son entered. He had obviously been at the Nuclear Red hair dye, he looked like that singer from My Chemical Romance.
The principal flicked his eyes over my own heavily highlighted hair. “It is a school regulation that students must have their natural hair colour.”
“But surely it’s natural for teens to try out different looks. Just a way of expressing their individuality.”
“We don’t truck with students expressing their individuality at this school. And we certainly don’t tolerate make-up …”
I took a closer look at Ryan. Guyliner. Curtis was going to hit the roof!
“… or jewellery.”
I glanced again. Ryan was wearing a black skull ring and his nails were painted black. I was tempted to wrench open his mouth to check for a tongue stud.
“Ryan has had numerous uniform violations this term. And I think we would all concur that him dressing like this is not going to ameliorate the bullying situation. Is it, Mrs Carmichael?”
Initially I didn’t respond, wondering why the principal was addressing Curtis’ mother. Even after all these years I sometimes forgot that was my name now too.
“If Ryan is to continue at Holyoakes, he must adhere to the school rules. Now I suggest you take him straight home, wash that muck off his face and get him a decent haircut. Ryan can spend the rest of the day having a good hard think about his attitude and whether he wants to be educated at the finest institution on the east coast.”
I shot a withering look at Mr Beamish. “And I will spend the day having a good hard think about whether I want my son to be educated at an institution that stifles creativity and punishes people for being different. For those who pick on the weak, we shall overcome with passion in our bellies. For those who tread on the downtrodden, we shall overcome with fire in our hearts.”
I stood and, linking arms with my son, marched out of the principal’s office.
“What a tosser,” I said, loud enough for the administrative staff to hear.
In a further show of resistance, we didn’t go straight home to wash that muck off Ryan’s face, instead stopping at a cafe for a bite to eat. At home he would only disappear into his bedroom and a wall of silence would descend. Here, with him sitting across the table from me d
evouring a burger and chips, at least I had some hope of teasing out what was going on in his head – and with his hair.
“Thanks for sticking up for me. That was way cool, the way you quoted Danger Game lyrics at him.”
“Yeah, well, Andy had his fair share of trouble at school. Between him and Gerry they racked up more than twenty suspensions. But you have to realise your education is too important to throw away over some row about how you dress. A good education got me and your father to where we are today, it’s got you all the nice things you have.”
“School sucks, I hate it.”
“School doesn’t suck, Ryan. I loved it.”
A group of youths took over the table next to us, asking to borrow our spare chairs. At first I thought they were tradesmen but then they started talking about their metalwork teacher. “Excuse me guys,” I leant over to their table. “Are you from Ridgewood High?”
“Yeah,” said one, casting me a wary look as if I was going to whip out a ticket for truancy.
“If my son here was at your school, would they send him to detention because of his hair?”
“Nah,” the boy laughed. “Cool hair, man.”
“And is it a good school? Does it cater for students with a wide range of interests?”
“Guess so,” shrugged a boy with a tattoo running up his forearm. ‘We’re in the motorshop training program.”
“Is there a music department?”
“Yeah, have you heard of Paul Haskell, used to play in the Riders?”
I nodded, recognising the name from somewhere.
“He’s head of music so loads of kids come just to be part of his band program.”
I turned back to my son. “Well Ryan. It seems it’s not school that sucks, just your particular one. I think a change of school may be in order. Now we just have to convince your father.”
* * *
Two weeks later, I was consoling Mum over the phone when the doorbell rang. She was upset because Ken’s return home from Dubai had been delayed yet again, this time because he was in the midst of some contractual dispute with his company.
Spotting my in-laws’ car through the window, I quickly advised her that he should look into getting some assistance from the Australian embassy, before reluctantly telling her I’d have to call her back.
“Oh Kellie,” Delia said, looking surprised to see me open my own front door. “Is Curtis around? I thought he had this week off.”
I explained he was out getting in some last-minute training for this weekend’s sprint triathlon. “He shouldn’t be much longer,” I said. “He was only planning a light session. Tea, coffee?”
I made my way into the kitchen, with Delia and Thomas trailing behind me. Thomas immediately buried himself in our newspaper, while Ciara, who was drawing at the counter, showed off her ladybird nail art to her gran.
“Was there anything in particular you wanted to see Curtis about?” I inquired.
“Well,” said Delia, with a dramatic intake of breath. “A little birdy told us Ryan has left Holyoakes but there’s obviously been a mix-up.”
Fortunately I didn’t have to offer any explanations as the front door slammed and moments later their son walked into the kitchen, his shirt soaked with perspiration.
“To what do we owe this pleasure, Mother?’ he asked, filling a glass of chilled water from the fridge dispenser.
“Your mother has heard a rumour that Ryan has left Holyoakes,” I said, frowning at him. He had promised to break the news to his parents days ago.
“Bridie Adams left a message on our answerphone saying we could expect a refund on next term’s fees,” Delia said. “When I called back, all the secretary would tell me was Ryan was no longer a student there.”
“It’s true, Ryan has left Holyoakes,” Curtis said. “He’s had some trouble there and Kellie decided it was best if he moves schools after term break.”
“What sort of trouble?” Delia focused on me. “I’ve always said it’s no good for children to have their mothers out working. It’s unsettling for them. Haven’t I always said that, Thomas?”
Wordlessly, Thomas turned to the share index page.
I waited for Curtis to explain further but then realised I was on my own. “I wasn’t happy with Mr Beamish’s educational philosophies and Ryan was growing unhappier by the second. I fully back his decision to try another school.”
“Oh pfft,” Delia interrupted. “A boy of his age doesn’t know what’s best for him.” She turned to her son. “Which school is he going to – because obviously the offer to pay his fees still stands? I hear Braidstone has a waitlist but I’m sure we could have a chat to the headmaster. Then again Catherine Adamson swears by Fairleigh – her grandson graduated dux last year and is studying medicine at Melbourne University.”
“Kellie has enrolled Ryan at Ridgewood.”
“Ridgewood? I’m not familiar with that one. Which girls’ school is it affiliated with?”
“Ridgewood is the local high school,” I said. “Only a ten-minute bike ride away.”
“A state school?” Delia spluttered. “Good grief! Thomas, say something!”
“It has a good academic reputation and more importantly for Ryan an excellent music program,” I continued.
Delia tutted. “It’s all well and good to play guitar as a hobby but it’s hardly likely to see him into a decent job, is it? Thomas, say something.”
She then proceeded to not allow her husband say anything by spouting off about a article she’d read about plummeting standards at state schools.
“Where is Ryan?” Delia concluded. “RY-an!!! RY-an! I’ll talk some sense into him. I can’t bear to think of him going to a school like that, hanging around with a bunch of hooligans.”
Ryan strolled into the kitchen, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. Delia sunk back on the bar stool as she took in her grandson’s punk hair. “Oh good lord! Thomas, say something!”
* * *
Once his parents had left, Delia still in a state of shock, I sarcastically thanked Curtis for backing me up.
“It was your decision to let him change schools. I’ll not pretend I’m thrilled about it,” he replied.
“Don’t you want your son to be happy?”
“I want to see him educated.” Curtis tossed his coffee dregs into the sink. “Happy is overrated. I don’t remember anyone checking my CV for my level of happiness.”
“And what’s this about your parents paying Ryan’s school fees? That’s the first I’ve heard of it.” I shoved past Curtis with a pile of afternoon tea dishes. “If I remember rightly when I asked if we could lend Mum some money for her shoulder operation, you told me we couldn’t because of the school fees. And I’m presuming your parents have been paying Ciara’s as well. Or is this privilege only granted to first-born males? What I would like to know is if we didn’t pay their fees, what happened to that money?” I banged the back of Curtis’ shins as I yanked open a cupboard door and angrily squirted washing up detergent into the sink.
“I reinvested it in shares for their future education. I’m not taking money away from our children simply because your mother didn’t plan ahead and get health insurance. Not that Ryan is likely to be needing our assistance for university at this rate, his academic record isn’t exactly setting the world on fire.”
“Maybe if he didn’t have a father who seems intent on running him down all the time, he’d stand a better chance. I don’t think you realise how much you put him down, you never say anything encouraging to him.”
“It’s a bit hard to say anything positive when he doesn’t do anything worthy of praise. His school grades are appalling, and instead of studying harder, he’s either playing computer games or his damn guitar. I can only put his poor results down to laziness because surely he must have some of the Carmichael intelligence gene in there somewhere.”
I flicked sudsy water at Curtis. “Personally, right now, since you’re being such a prat, I’m glad he’s not a b
it like you.”
Don’t they say a mother knows best? Ryan was soon thriving at his new school. He symbolically burnt his school tie. His Facebook friends trebled. And he was invited to join the school rock band, whose members were very envious of his amazing electric guitar. I often heard him practising when I passed his room. He even had one of his new friends teaching him how to play songs over Skype. Curtis was so wrong, I don’t think happy was ever overrated.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
My heart raced as we queued in passport control, knowing who was waiting on the other side of those doors.
It raced even harder when the Australian backpacker ahead of us was escorted to an interrogation room, because an official doubted she had sufficient funds for someone on a holiday visa. Knowing the meagre extent of my own bank account, I started panicking. Please don’t let them put me straight back on a plane home. I hadn’t come all this way for nothing.
But Dan and I wended our way straight through Customs. And then there he was, holding a big sign that said “WELCOME TO LONDON KELLIE”. He pointed out to Dan that he’d pencilled in his name at the bottom. In tiny letters.
My first impression of the city of my dreams was that it was cold, grey and crowded. But, apart from sorely wishing I’d packed some woolly gloves, I couldn’t be more excited to be here! My travel guide was already well-thumbed, with all the places I wanted to visit marked with pink highlighter.
After a Tube ride to Camden Town, in north London, we found the rest of the band propping up a bar across the road from our cheap hotel. They had been up in Manchester – Dom’s old stomping ground – playing gigs for the past two weeks. Now they were ready to make the rounds of the record companies in the capital, hoping to convince some A&R guys to check out their shows. Their independent-release album Mean Streets, financed by Chad, was their calling card.
“Look who’s back on tour with us. Yippee!” Heath was just as sarcastic as ever. And even better looking, if that was possible. His dark brown hair had golden highlights and touched the collar of his shirt while his carefully cultivated stubble enhanced his square jaw.