Don't Mention the Rock Star

by Bree Darcy

  “Of course not. I love that he’s interested in learning about things.”

  “You know, the minute I saw Dan with his feet under your kitchen table, I knew you’d end up with someone like him. Some preppy boy with a college degree on his wall and a row of business shirts in his closet. Not someone like me who’s got nothing to offer nobody.” Andy stared moodily into the murky river.

  “Don’t knock yourself,” I said. “You’re the most talented person I know. You’re here because you probably lived off noodles for months and despite getting door after door shut in your face, you refuse to stop chasing your dream. I love that about you.”

  “I love everything about you,” whispered Andy, snaking his arms around my waist. He lifted my hair to nuzzle my neck. I broke out in goosebumps even though I was rugged up against the cold.

  “Andy, stop, it’s not right.”

  “It feels right to me,” he said, his hand sliding under my sweater to graze the underside of my breast.

  “It’s not fair to Dan.”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Andy’s breath was hot on my neck. Slowly I turned and stared into those mesmerising eyes. Our faces inched closer and I shuddered as he brushed his lips over mine. We crushed our bodies together as the kiss deepened.

  But Andy pulled away when he realised I was crying.

  “What’s wrong?” He wiped away my tears with his thumbs. “I know you adored my dreads but you’ll get used to my new look eventually.”

  “You say what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” I hiccupped. “That’s the point, I know how much it hurts when someone cheats on you. So I could never do it to him. Which means this moment… we have to pretend it never happened. And it can never happen again.”

  Andy pulled a pained expression. “I don’t want to pretend I don’t have feelings for you. Because nothing else matters to me like you do.”

  “Please, you have to or we can’t spend any more time together.”

  * * *

  “So you haven’t told me what you’ve got planned for your twenty-first?” We were standing admiring the Cutty Sark, the clipper ship on display near Greenwich Pier. I couldn’t tell you much about its history – after all, Dan wasn’t here to ask all the probing questions.

  “What we are doing – and when I say we, I mean you and me – is going to a restaurant then a West End show.”

  “You can’t not invite everyone. Dan especially – what’s he going to say?”

  “It’s my birthday and I can do what I bloody well like.”

  “Restaurant and a show – that sounds very rock’n’roll. Who’s being the middle-aged fart now?”

  “Do you want to see Cats or not?”

  “You got tickets to Cats! I’ve always wanted to see that. You know my favourite poem, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, was written by the guy who inspired the musical.”

  “I know. I remember you reciting it to me.”

  “Let us go then, you and I…”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “I was actually reciting the first line of the poem but yes, I will. What restaurant have you booked?” I hadn’t brought the sort of clothes to get me through the doors of a posh hotel.

  “Probably a fast-food joint. I’ve splashed all my cash on the theatre tickets.”

  * * *

  On the afternoon of Andy’s birthday, he was surrounded by wellwishers looking to get a free feed of cake at the pub across the road. Dom belted his way through his own version of the song: Happy birthday to you – Though you make us all spew – Get plastered you bastard – Happy birthday to you and then Andy blew out his candles, before making a dramatic bow.

  Amid the cheers, I whispered “I forgive you” in his ear before giving him a publicly acceptable peck on the cheek.

  Andy looked around frantically. “Damn it,” he said. “I thought all my wishes had come true. But Dan’s still here.” And he was, over at the bar, intently watching a game of rugby on the TV.

  I’d had to pack light so my present to Andy was a stainless-steel Hohner harmonica, with his name engraved on it. He could learn to play it while he whiled away all those long hours in the tour van.

  Pulling on my own birthday present from Andy – a leather jacket with Danger Game written across the back – we left Dan watching the rugby and headed out for our night on the town.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Help! Ciara madly in love with Kris Carson. Am being dragged along to concert with a sea of hysterical teenyboppers. May not survive.

  u think u have daughter problems? mine want to be reality stars! Producers want to do a show like the freakin osborns or Kardasheans called Living in the Danger Zone with cameras following us 24/7. girls hate me cos i said no effing way

  I would SO watch that. By saying no, you’re not only ruining your girls’ chances at stardom, you’re wrecking my opportunity to have a big laugh at your expense.

  I rubbed my hands together, trying to keep warm as I stood outside the stadium in a snaking line of excited girls and their bemused chaperones. Despite the freezing weather, many were dressed in skimpy tops and bum-hugging skirts. Ciara was decked out in a Kris Carson long-sleeve tee which had arrived in a package courtesy of a mystery American benefactor. I told her I’d won it in an online competition. Jenna, meanwhile, had raided the merchandise stall and was wearing a KrisCrusher cap, T-shirt, zip-up hoodie and flashing arm band.

  Word broke that Kris’ black limo had arrived around the back, so while I minded our spot in the queue, Ciara and Jenna joined the hordes racing to catch a glimpse of their idol. But it was a false alarm, unless Kris was hiding among the hotdog buns of the catering van. This mania for the boy from Birdsville was pretty intense, considering he was only the support act for Blue Blood, the winner of the UK’s Hitmaker series.

  Finally the doors were thrown open and we powerwalked towards our plum seats.

  “We’re so close we can nearly reach out and touch him,” Ciara said, posing for a selfie in front of the stage.

  “What if he picks us to sing Heartbreaker to?” Jenna squealed.

  When the arena finally plunged into darkness, the screaming reached fever pitch as the announcer introduced the opening act. “Sydney, make some noise for Kriiissss Caaarson.”

  Kris, supported by a couple of guitarists, a keyboardist, a drummer and two female backing singers, launched straight into his latest hit song Show the Light, then segued into my personal favourite Desperate, the song written by Andy. I was bopping away to a cover of Jumpin’ Jack Flash when Ciara gripped my arm. Gordie and Kimberly Miller, the couple who managed Kris, were moving down the aisle. A frisson of excitement passed through the rows of girls – this was the time a fan was picked out to go up on stage to be serenaded by Kris.

  All of a sudden Gordie’s eyes alighted on Jenna. He pointed her out to his wife, who came over and whispered in her ear. Jenna squealed madly and after hugging Ciara was whisked away.

  Once we had watched Jenna on stage for Heartbreaker, Kimberly took us backstage to meet up with her again. We were led into a room of competition winners, all hyperventilating at the prospect of meeting Kris for a strictly enforced two minutes of his time.

  Desperate for the bathroom, I asked the woman overseeing us if there were any facilities nearby.

  “Can’t you wait?” she snapped, ticking something off on her clipboard before relaying an instruction through her headset.

  “Not really,” I replied, crossing my legs in the universal sign of can’t wait.

  “Come with me,” she sighed, leading me into a long grey corridor. “Third door on the left. Will you be okay to find your way back?”

  “Of course,” I said, so relieved I was finally able to relieve myself that I forgot about all those times I’d been convinced some bastard had stolen my car while wandering hopelessly lost in shopping centre carparks.

  Making my way back to the meet-and-greet room, wondering if my ears would ever return
to normal, I came to a dressing room door. I’m sure I didn’t pass this on the way. I was about to head back in the other direction when I spied a flash of red sole sticking out of a tiny alcove further along the corridor. The gold bejewelled Christian Louboutin heel was attached to a leg wearing black fishnets and if I wasn’t mistaken that breathy American voice was very familiar. Siena emerged from the shadows with Kris’ dad, Marty.

  Please don’t let her see me. I tiptoed slowly backwards, feeling my way along the wall.

  But Siena’s attention was firmly on Marty, as she grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

  “We’d better go before someone misses us,” Marty said breathlessly, before burrowing in for another snog.

  Fearing Siena might stab me with her spiky heels if she was aware there was a witness to her treachery, I darted through the nearest door, only to find myself staring at the back of a man standing at a urinal. Hearing my surprised squeak, he twisted his body around, thankfully keeping his lower half on task.

  He was dressed in black jeans and T-shirt with his long greasy hair tied up in a ponytail, so I took an educated guess that he was a roadie. Roadies as a breed tend to live in a cone of silence. They see all sorts of strange things go on but never breathe a word to anyone. And I’d known enough roadies to guess he was probably pissing pure bourbon into that trench. So he was not at his intellectual peak right now.

  I flashed him an identity card from my purse – a hot pink VIP card from Clothing Collective. “Security check,” I said deepening my voice.

  By now the roadie was zipping up his jeans and cast his eye over my bright blue jacket, sparkly top and red skinny jeans.

  “Undercover, of course. Just sweeping through, checking for … uh … dangerous items. Bombs, drugs, you know.”

  The roadie self-consciously put his hand over his breast pocket where he no doubt had a spliff ready to go.

  A northern English accent boomed out in the corridor. “I told you, I don’t need someone to hold my hand while I pee.” I would hazard a guess it was Blue Blood lead singer Jordan Valenski. I’d watched him on a breakfast show that morning, his accent was so broad and he used so much slang that the production team would have been wise to run subtitles.

  I put my finger to my lips and faced the roadie. “Not a word, wouldn’t want to alarm the talent.” And with that I flung myself into the nearest cubicle, locking the door just as Jordan entered the bathroom.

  It was a great hiding spot, if you ignored the whiff of piss mixed with bleach. I silently eased down the toilet seat, and clambered on top. My crouching thighs screamed in protest as I tried to remain as still and quiet as possible.

  “Wotcha.” Jordan acknowledged the roadie on his way out. Then there was a splatter of urine hitting the stainless-steel urinal and a loud sigh from Jordan. He must have been busting too.

  Then the door opened again and this time I heard Jordan greet Marty. There was a slap of hands – I hope Jordan had washed his first – and then Jordan was laying on the compliments. “No blagging, your lad was sick. Youse must deffo be proud of him.”

  “I am that,” Marty said. “Shame I can’t stay for your show, I’m sure it’ll be a killer. But something’s come up.”

  Something in the crotch region I would think.

  The door swung open again. I listened carefully, as their conversation faded into the distance. I waited another minute to make sure the coast was clear, then snuck out.

  The woman with the clipboard and headset was stalking up the corridor. “Your daughters have finished. They were wondering what had happened to you,” she said looking from me to the sign on the men’s toilet door and back again. “Blue Blood is about to take the stage so I suggest you quickly move back to your seats.”

  “Deffo,” I said. “It’s gonna be sick.”

  * * *

  Adele and I were finishing up a gallery of photos for the Emmy nominations, when Zara flew over. “I need you to write some copy to go with these pictures,” she told Adele as she accessed the live picture feed. “It’s our exclusive.”

  A series of photos revealed Siena getting up close and personal with Marty in the Chinese Gardens. Although never touching, their body language screamed intimacy. Siena fitted right into the stunning scenery in a jade dress, with intricate floral motifs. Marty, as usual, looked like a beach bum, unshaven in a long-sleeved tee and jeans.

  “Seems you were spot on the money, Kellie, when you said the Dangerfield marriage was in strife. We haven’t got proof that these two are together but it certainly looks cosy. So make it sound like they’re having an affair without actually saying it. You know what I mean.”

  “I saw them kissing at the Kris Carson concert on Saturday night,” I blurted out.

  Zara’s eyebrows disappeared behind her blunt fringe. “WHAT! Why on earth didn’t you say something? Forget what I said about you staying away from stories about Siena Ellement and AJ Dangerfield. I need you to tell Adele what you saw – you can be an anonymous witness. We’ll need to get a right of reply from Siena too. Marty Carson may be a free agent but this proves she’s cheating on that delicious husband of hers.” She shook her head. “Some women simply don’t appreciate how lucky they are.”

  * * *

  “Do you mind?”

  Lenny was peering over Adele’s shoulder, reading her screen as she typed. “So Siena and Kris Carson’s dad, hey? Although I’m certainly not surprised she’s cheating on that wimpy husband of hers. You should really come up with a couple name for them, like Brangelina or Kimye. Siena … Marty – it has to be Smarty.” Lenny pointed out a typo, then thankfully moved on to discuss the latest Star Power performances with the work experience girl.

  As Adele filed the story after getting a ‘they’re only friends’ comment from Siena’s spokeswoman, I sat debating with myself for a few moments before pulling out my phone and tapping out a message to Andy. He had texted me asking how the concert went but I hadn’t replied as I didn’t know what to say. ‘Great concert. My ears are ringing from all the screaming and my eyes are still bugging out from watching your wife stick her tongue down another man’s throat.’ Not exactly a tactful way to let him know that Siena had deviated from their united front agreement. But now, since our story would definitely be picked up in the US, it was only fair to give him a heads-up.

  Don’t know how to tell you this but check out starfix.com/1584620/siena-and-marty/ If there is anything I can do let me know. Love you.

  I sent it before realising what I’d absent-mindedly said at the end.

  But I had no time to stew over it because Zara was bellowing that she needed to see me. Pronto. Even Usain Bolt couldn’t have got to her office fast enough.

  By the time I returned to my desk, there was a message waiting for me. Xplains y S happy to stay on in Oz. Had my suspishions. Good luck to them. Love u 2

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I pressed print and leant back in my chair, stretching my arms above my head. I had been slaving away over the computer all afternoon after offering to create a press kit for the band. Dan, unimpressed I was working during our holiday, had booked himself in for a tour of the Lords cricket ground.

  I took the draft copy over to Chad for approval. He had somehow commandeered a small office above an Indian restaurant as band HQ for the week.

  Chad scanned the pages, red pen in hand. “I don’t want this bit about AJ’s kid,” he said, scratching through that sentence. “You’ve made a mistake here with Heath, describing him as ‘lead guitarist and songwanker’.”

  “Whoops,” I laughed. “Freudian slip. I meant ‘songwriter’.”

  “And there is no way we’re mentioning Dom’s boyfriend. I want the girls in the front row to think they have a shot at getting laid.”

  “You sure Dom will be happy with that?”

  Chad stared at me hard. “I’m their manager, I call the shots.”

  “Fine.” I eyeballed him back. “I was planning to write up an arti
cle now about how the band met and how they’ve got to this point. Sound okay?”

  “Great, add some quotes from each of them too,” he advised, as if I hadn’t been studying the fine art of writing an article for the past two years. “Hey, here’s the boys back now to help me plaster the streets for Thursday night. Heath, you stay behind and answer any questions Kellie has. Focus on the songwriting, I want to show the band has real depths.” Picking up a ream of posters for the Armoury gig, he charged down the stairs, with Dom and Sam trailing behind.

  Heath sauntered over to the small meeting area, munching on a papadum.

  “Where’s the others?” I asked.

  “Is that your first official question or are you just being nosy?” Heath smirked. “The photographer wanted more shots of AJ, and Gerry’s gone for a run. Satisfied? Now before I answer anything else, I need a coffee.”

  “Kettle’s over there,” I said, refusing to rise to the bait, knowing he expected me to jump up and make it for him. “I’m sure a man of your immense talents can talk and make coffee at the same time.”

  “Remembering your diabolical cooking skills, you’d be the last person I’d want making me coffee. You know,” he said, filling the kettle, “AJ’s songwriting has really taken off lately. You can’t write a decent song if your whole experience is living some white picket fence dream with the only girl you’ve ever screwed. So I should be thanking you for dumping his sorry ass.”

  “Well if songwriting is all about how many people you’ve screwed, you should be one of the world’s greatest,” I retorted.

  “You should include that in the article – Heath Whitehead, the world’s greatest songwriter, world’s greatest lover.” He puffed out his chest.

  “And here I was thinking the reason you had all those one-night stands was because you were a dud in the sack and the girls never came back for more.”