Playing Along
Page 26
“Surely you must have mistaken me for a dapper Englishman, my dearest?” he says in a bad fake accent.
She manages a laugh, “Why yes—I thought you were Colin Firth. You mean you’re not?”
“Let me kiss you and you can make up your own mind,” Lance plants a very wet kiss on Lexi’s cold lips. She can’t get the hallway out of her mind. She can’t stop recalling how kissing George had felt like arriving home—to a place she never even knew existed.
GEORGE
17th February, 2010
the corner opposite The Metropolitan Hotel, 10:00 p.m.
George had jumped on the tube, pulling his old black beanie almost over his eyes to ensure that he wasn’t recognized. As he’d sat in the carriage, speeding forward towards the next station, he couldn’t stop focusing on the sign in front of him, “Obstructing the doors can be dangerous.” He wasn’t buying that. Opening doors could hurt just as much. If he’d obstructed the doors to his heart, he wouldn’t have been sitting there then. He wouldn’t have been on his way to try to convince the woman he loves to leave her fiancé and choose him and his unborn exorcist baby instead.
He’d vaulted off the tube at Hyde Park Corner and began running towards the hotel. He is nearly there. The temperature outside is plummeting and the sky looks like a sheet of cold dark metal, but the blood is rushing through him and he’s feeling pumped. If I can step out and sing in front of 20,000 people—I can bloody well have this conversation. I’ll just say to her—Lexi—I love you and I think you love me too. Let’s not let all of these misunderstandings obstruct our doors. Yes! That’s what he’s going to say. He’ll just go straight to her room and—
The black taxi pulls up exactly as he skids to a stop opposite the entrance of The Metropolitan. He sees her get out of the cab, astounded that there is even a thread of luck left with his name on it. He’s just about to cross the road when he spots the bloke climbing out of the taxi behind her. Except he’s not a bloke. He’s not even a guy. He’s a man. He’s a man with an expensive coat and curly blond hair. He’s probably wearing a gold Rolex and his boxer shorts most likely have a crease down the front.
George stops himself. He’s breathing rapidly, metamorphosing instantly into the spotty, awkward teenager hiding beneath his crafted façade. He can hear Polly and Amelia sniggering at him from behind his bedroom door. He doesn’t cross the road. He stays absolutely still and watches as this man spins Lexi around, making her laugh. He continues to watch as he pulls her in closely and kisses her passionately. Just like a film. Just like Colin Firth. It’s Lexi on the big stage now. It’s Lexi who is vivid on this freezing night. Irresistible. Untouchable. Out of his league. George has obviously cast himself in the wrong role.
LEXI
February 17th, 2010
Metropolitan Hotel, London, 10:00 p.m.
The fact that George hasn’t even attempted to contact her today is only further confirmation that all of her worst fears about him were true. But then again, he’s probably heard about her ‘engagement’, so why would he bother? Lexi feels emotionally depleted. She has spent the day with Russell and Lance wandering through antique markets buying second-hand scarves and sipping scalding coffee. Tomorrow morning she’ll be on a plane back to normality. To Andrew and Carl. To Meg and Tim. To her peculiar parents and their even more peculiar dog. She can put this all behind her. One day, she’s sure she’ll look back and laugh about this week—tell her grandchildren about the English rocker who very nearly stole her heart. She’ll only being lying slightly.
London is arctic tonight. As she steps out of the taxi the icy air shocks her. She is looking forward to the warm LA sun on her cheeks. She and Lance have just come from dinner at The Wolseley, a posh art deco restaurant in Mayfair where they ate oysters and hand-cut french fries. They drank nice wine. He gave her nice compliments. He told her nice stories about the nice bridge he is designing in Paris. It’s time for her to get accustomed to ‘nice’ again and for once, try to be satisfied. As he steps out of the taxi behind her, he grabs her waist and twists her to face him. He is wearing a navy cashmere overcoat and a silk patterned scarf.
“Surely you must have mistaken me for a dapper Englishman, my dearest?” he says in a bad fake accent.
She manages a laugh, “Why yes—I thought you were Colin Firth. You mean you’re not?”
“Let me kiss you and you can make up your own mind,” Lance plants a very wet kiss on Lexi’s cold lips. She can’t get the hallway out of her mind. She can’t stop recalling how kissing George had felt like arriving home—to a place she never even knew existed.
GEORGE
17th February, 2010
the corner opposite The Metropolitan Hotel, 10:00 p.m.
George had jumped on the tube, pulling his old black beanie almost over his eyes to ensure that he wasn’t recognized. As he’d sat in the carriage, speeding forward towards the next station, he couldn’t stop focusing on the sign in front of him, “Obstructing the doors can be dangerous.” He wasn’t buying that. Opening doors could hurt just as much. If he’d obstructed the doors to his heart, he wouldn’t have been sitting there then. He wouldn’t have been on his way to try to convince the woman he loves to leave her fiancé and choose him and his unborn exorcist baby instead.
He’d vaulted off the tube at Hyde Park Corner and began running towards the hotel. He is nearly there. The temperature outside is plummeting and the sky looks like a sheet of cold dark metal, but the blood is rushing through him and he’s feeling pumped. If I can step out and sing in front of 20,000 people—I can bloody well have this conversation. I’ll just say to her—Lexi—I love you and I think you love me too. Let’s not let all of these misunderstandings obstruct our doors. Yes! That’s what he’s going to say. He’ll just go straight to her room and—
The black taxi pulls up exactly as he skids to a stop opposite the entrance of The Metropolitan. He sees her get out of the cab, astounded that there is even a thread of luck left with his name on it. He’s just about to cross the road when he spots the bloke climbing out of the taxi behind her. Except he’s not a bloke. He’s not even a guy. He’s a man. He’s a man with an expensive coat and curly blond hair. He’s probably wearing a gold Rolex and his boxer shorts most likely have a crease down the front.
George stops himself. He’s breathing rapidly, metamorphosing instantly into the spotty, awkward teenager hiding beneath his crafted façade. He can hear Polly and Amelia sniggering at him from behind his bedroom door. He doesn’t cross the road. He stays absolutely still and watches as this man spins Lexi around, making her laugh. He continues to watch as he pulls her in closely and kisses her passionately. Just like a film. Just like Colin Firth. It’s Lexi on the big stage now. It’s Lexi who is vivid on this freezing night. Irresistible. Untouchable. Out of his league. George has obviously cast himself in the wrong role.
SIX MONTHS LATER
LEXI
August 10th, 2010
Venice Beach, Los Angeles
It really is the sweetest thing she has ever seen. Boris and Cherub are under the floral arch with Mildred and Russell, and they are both licking their paws. Boris has a bow tie fastened around his neck, and Cherub’s collar is a forest of freesias—most of which Boris has attempted to eat. Russell and Mildred are all in cream. Organic cotton of course. Lexi listens carefully as they exchange their vows.
“I promise to love you forever, Mildred, my precious dearest. I promise to cherish you and Cherub with tender love and care in this lifetime and beyond. And I promise to eternally honor our earth so that you and I may continue to live joyously upon her while she thrives.” Mildred presses her hand on top of Russell’s.
“I pledge, my darling Russell, to walk with you and be inspired by you. I pledge my love to you and Boris through every minute of every day. I pledge to support your quest to heal the wounds of this earth. I pledge to make certain that from here on out, your life is gooseberry free…” The congregation laughs, but Lexi also feel
s increasingly familiar tears in her eyes. She looks down the aisle at Andrew and Carl, Meg and Tim, and her mom and dad, and she feels blessed to have them all in her life. She has thought a lot about love in the six months since London. She still hasn’t come to any sage conclusions, other than those that billions of people have reached before her. It is unreliable. It is heavenly. It is the most bewildering feeling in the world. It can come in disguise. It isn’t easily found, and it is equally difficult to shake.
Lance and Lexi had stayed together for three months after returning from London. They had continued their nice conversations and their nice dinners and their nice sex life. They had even started watching Mad Men. Occasionally a Thesis song would appear on Lexi’s iPod while on shuffle and she would feel her heart shift to the left a little, as if trying to make room for the pain. When the song ended, her heart moved back into its correct position. At the end of April, she deleted the album from all of her playlists. Lexi couldn’t help but feel that Lance was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to pounce on her again with the shiny ring. Since coming back from London she had been battling a pervasive numbness in her chest—a fear that never again would she watch those neon colored spirals dance above her head in abandon, the way they had when she was with George. After Lance’s second trip to Paris Lexi sat him down and said, “Let’s talk.”
“Let’s not,” he’d said, looking nervous.
“I’m so sorry, Lance. I thought I could do this. You’re so good to me, but I’m just not ready to settle.” Lance had attempted to put up a fight but eventually surrendered, packing up his Clinique shaving lotion, his brown Top-Siders and his book of love sonnets. He bade her a sad goodbye, not fully comprehending that ‘settle’ hadn’t just meant settle down; it had meant that Lexi had decided she wasn’t yet ready to ‘settle’ for anything less than spirals.
A month later she heard from Carl that Lance was dating Aurelie, the French engineer he had been designing the bridge with. She hadn’t seen red, or even blue. He deserved to be happy and she deserved to stop hearing from her mother how she had sabotaged her own fairy tale ending.
Russell and Mildred are now exchanging eco friendly wedding bands made from recycled silver. It’s a miracle that either of them has found time in their hectic schedules to fit in the wedding at all. Business has been booming for Let The Green Times Roll in the last few months. Having a high profile band like Thesis as their first clients, as well as all of Mildred’s contacts behind them, has rocketed LTGTR off to a remarkable start. Lexi made certain when they arrived home to shift all of her attention to working with new clients and hiring new employees, handing over the Thesis account solely to Russell.
Had she imagined that George was going to show up at her hotel in London and sweep her off her feet? Had she fantasized that he would reveal that Fanny’s pregnancy was a false alarm and that he couldn’t live without her? Yes—she had imagined all of that. When it hadn’t happened (because she wasn’t Bridget Jones and never would be) she had tried to move on.
Occasionally she’ll hear Russell on the phone to Gabe. One time he hung up and said, “Gabriel sends his regards,” but for the most part she has remained successfully disconnected. What she can’t ignore is that Fanny’s baby must certainly be due any day. The news only got worse after she left London. Meg soon reported back to her that according to The Star, the baby might not even be George’s—it might be Duncan’s instead. Yuck! So she wasn’t far off about the threesomes and the orgies. The whole band were probably having sex with Fanny at once.
Meg leans over to her now and passes her a crumpled Kleenex. “Don’t get carried away, remember that marriage is totally overrated,” she says, scowling at Tim. In the grandest of best friend style, she has adapted her views accordingly, and has long since stopped hassling Lexi to conform.
“I remember,” says Lexi, accepting the crumpled tissue and holding it very tightly in her hand.
GEORGE
10th August, 2010
Hospital of St John and St Elizabeth, London
George is waiting in the hallway outside the delivery room. Fanny and Duncan had wanted him to join them in the room but he had declined. Apparently Sebastian’s spirit is also in the birthing pool, holding her left hand, while Duncan holds her right.
“That guy’s bloody useless,” Duncan had quipped when he had appeared in a towel to update George. “He would be a lot more helpful if he wasn’t fucking dead. I’m getting all the abuse, while she just smiles at him like an idiot.”
George still can’t believe this is happening.
His phone had rung at 2:30 that morning.
“Georgie my boy—bring it on! She’s fucking mooing like a cow! We’re on our way to the hospital. Get over there now, mate!” He could in fact hear some horrific farmyard noises in the background. If Fanny sounded in labour anything like she did when she was snoring, then they were all in for a long, loud night.
George had rolled out of bed and slipped on jeans and a shirt. They had been touring the States for the last seven weeks—and this was their first time home in a while to play some festivals, before heading back out on tour in September.
The weeks following the Brits were like a dank fog. His life, which had momentarily been bathed by Lexi in a shimmering rainbow light, had disintegrated rapidly into a series of relentless dark storms. George had walked away from The Metropolitan that night convinced, not for the first time, that he should really give up on his dream of being loved by anyone intimately. He had spent the next few days locked in his flat writing some of the most depressing songs he had ever penned. Gabe finally persuaded him to come out with the boys. Two weeks later Simon handed him a ticket to Vegas where he was forced to return to the scene of the crime, as well as being forced to bear witness to Simon and Stacey’s ludicrous nuptials at The Real Elvis Wedding Chapel. Simon had Stacey’s name tattooed on the inside of his arm and George’s lyrics became even darker.
Starting the North American tour had helped.
The weirdest turn of events though had been Duncan’s transformation. Since finding out about Fanny’s pregnancy, he had become uncharacteristically sentimental. While George was gutted at the prospect of being the father of Fanny’s baby, Duncan was jubilant. He pursued her hotly, indulging her belief in Sebastian’s existence, as well as indulging her rampant sexual appetite, which by all accounts had gone into pregnancy overdrive. She soon loosened her grip on George, but the fact remained that he might still be the father of the baby. The three of them had eventually agreed amicably that there would be a paternity test after the baby was born. Fanny had apologized to George for trying to mislead him. “I don’t like being ignored, Georgie.” George knew he was the only one to blame and until today, had remained emotionally incarcerated.
The hospital smells like plastic. He nibbles on his cuticle. His mother, who has very recently learned how to text, sent him a message ten minutes ago, “Well?”
Last week she had phoned to say, “George, your father and I are not finding this situation very pleasant. This morning in the co-op Sharon Hillway was gossiping about us behind the shortbread display. We are trying to be supportive, but please let me know if I am going to be a grandmother, before I have to hear it in the post office from some old biddy who has been reading about you in the newspapers.” George is strangely touched by his mother’s concern. He wonders if she’s been knitting booties. He texts her back now, “No news yet.”
The noise from inside is beginning to reach a fever pitch. It sounds as if Fanny and Duncan are both chanting ancient Buddhist prayers, and every so often she screams, “Whooopeeeeeeeee!” George stands up in pressing need of some fresh air. He takes the lift down to reception. He hasn’t stepped in a lift since February without thinking about Lexi. In fact he thinks about her all the time with a weighty regret. These days the image that revisits him the most is the very first time he saw her—running. He still wants to know what made her cry that day and he wonders if s
he’s ever cried over him? He’s asked Gabe not to talk to him about her. He’s made a choice to let her go. Let her get on with the life she is meant to lead. Without him complicating matters. Without him spoiling it for her.
As he approaches the entrance to the hospital, he sees a swarm of photographers like a cloud of bees waiting to sting. George should have guessed. Fanny’s ‘people’ probably called the press the second she went into labour. At least George and Duncan had dissuaded her from the live Internet feed from the coast of Devon. It occurs to George that this is a sign of things to come. If the baby really is his, then this will be too.
Every time he takes his kid out for an ice cream, they’ll probably be hounded by these piranhas. His kid out for an ice cream. His kid. George turns away from the entrance and heads back towards the lifts. This isn’t what was meant to happen he thinks to himself. I’m not ready to be a dad, especially not with Fanny as the mother. A disarming panic begins festering inside him. He thinks of the grandchildren he was planning to have with Lexi—the sweet little tearaways with tousled hair and their granny’s sparkling green/grey eyes. Their faces fade into nothing, replaced in his mind by a zany toddler with Fanny’s pouty lips and a creepy man’s face.
The lift doors open. George really does feel cornered now. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. As he approaches the birthing wing, he hears something different. It’s no longer the Fanny and Duncan show, instead he can hear a baby’s extremely ear-piercing cry. He nods to the nurses at the desk who point him down the hallway. Duncan, still wearing only a towel, is standing outside the door of the room cradling a small writhing bundle. George feels choked up, but he doesn’t know if it’s emotion or bile or both.