Playing Along (11 page)

He glances one more time in the window of the Sushi restaurant. Happy couples on double dates. Laughing. Drinking. Fitting closely together as if carved from the same stone. He needs to walk.

LEXI
November 17
^th
, 2009
Beverly Hills

After an excruciating two hours, a hundred more declarations of ‘hilarious’, and Jason the waiter slipping her his phone number when she went to the restroom, Lexi is now waiting to bid a jubilant farewell to Bradley. Meg hustles her into the back of the car as soon as the valet drives up, while Tim gives his friend a hug.

“This was a blast, Lex. I’ll get your number from Tim,” says Bradley, leaning awkwardly forward to kiss her on the cheek. “We’ll hook up.”

More likely I’ll hang up
, thinks Lexi. “You do that!” she says with a nervous smile, shutting the door a little too quickly, leaving Bradley on the curb, tipped forward, looking for love in all the wrong places.

“Drive,” she orders Tim through gritted teeth.

“Well that was—”

“Dreadful,” says Meg before Tim can finish. “That was dreadful. What were you thinking?”

“You told me to find someone to—”

“You’re blaming me now? Blaming me for setting my best friend up with Mr. Neanderthal Frat Guy, who scarily seems to believe you two were separated at birth!”

“Come on, Meg. He’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad, Tim? He threw the food. He showed Lexi his—” Lexi’s head is beginning to pound. She wishes she could get out and walk the rest of the way. She feels like the sides of the car are closing in on her.

“STOP!” she yells from the back seat. “Don’t say another word until you drop me home. Not a word.”

GEORGE
17
^th
November, 2009
Melrose Ave, Los Angeles

Even on Melrose, home of the trendiest shops and restaurants, the streets are relatively quiet. George is accustomed to bustling cities that gain a vibrant momentum after dark. In contrast, LA appears to empty out, allowing only for movement between cars and doorways, dutiful valet parkers clocking up miles in strangers’ cars. George imagines what it might feel like for those guys, settling into the indent of the driver’s seat, still faintly warm from the owner’s body. Maybe he’ll write a song about it.

He’s been walking for twenty minutes and has only seen three other pedestrians. He remembers as a child making up stories about people he saw on the streets when he walked to church with his parents on a Sunday. He abhorred the constricting tie his mother insisted he wore and the way his father snapped at him for lagging behind.

“Hurry up, George, or you’ll make us late. Are you daydreaming again?” And he usually was. Dreaming about what life was like in another family. Dreaming about the girl across the road with the brown riding boots and if she liked chocolate sprinkles on her ice cream or preferred it plain. His imagination was always roaming some unexamined landscape. Somehow, despite Polly’s incessant histrionics, George constantly felt like everything that went wrong in their family was attributed solely to him.

LEXI
November 18
^th
, 2009
West Hollywood

“I have your approval to divorce him, right?” Meg is clearly trying to blame Tim for the whole date debacle. It’s the morning after and she has rung first thing while Lexi is making tea and an English muffin before work.

Lexi is well aware of Meg’s propensity to dodge accountability. She simply hates owning up to a mistake and would choose to hop around on hot sand for an hour, rather than shelter in the shade of a tree and admit defeat.

“You can’t get away with blaming it all on Tim,” says Lexi, contemplating the sorry sight of her soggy teabag and wondering if Meg will concede anything.

“Yes, I can. He told me the new guy at his office was perfect for you.”

“How would he know?”

“Well—he said he was tall and funny and—”

“Did he really say funny? Are you sure he didn’t say ’hilarious’? And did he happen to mention that he was horny, because he’s just moved here and gagging to get some action? And so
you
think to yourself—I know—Lexi, my best friend the charity case, who cares if I’ve never met the guy. He’ll do. She’s desperate too.”

“Please, Lex. It wasn’t like that—I promise. Tim just led me astray. He knows I worry about you. He thought you guys would hit it off. I trusted him. It was his fault—not mine.”

“Not yours? Not even a tiny bit yours, Meg? Look, I know you mean well but just at this moment I need you to stop worrying about me. You and my mother. I’m fine. There is absolutely nothing at all wrong. I am totally and completely fine,” and as Lexi reaches the end of her sentence, she feels the tears that have been slowly building over the last few weeks. They are unreservedly cascading down her cheeks, refusing any longer to be held prisoner. It’s a deluge. She can’t speak for crying.

“Oh, God—I’m coming over!” says Meg in a panic.

“You don’t need to come,” says Lexi between hiccupy sobs. “I really am fine. I just have a hangover, that’s all. Hangovers make me sad. I have to go to work now.”

“Lex, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You’ll make it up to me? Does that mean you agree you were wrong?”

“Not exactly. I had good intentions.” Aghhhh! Why was Meg so infuriatingly intransigent? Lexi wills the outburst to subside as she attempts to regulate her breathing.

“No more blind dates, okay?” she pleads, sniffing sporadically. “I’ll accept jewelry.” She has managed to calm her tears, the remaining few dripping pitifully into her tea.

“I’ll think of something even better,” says Meg in her reassuring voice, the one she uses with the kids when they have fallen over. “Now get to work, Lex. Take your mind off Bradley’s earlobes.”

Lexi shudders at the memory. “Thanks for the visual.”

“You’re welcome,” says Meg. “What does it say on that mug your mom gave you for your b-day,
Yesterday’s history, tomorrow’s a mystery but today is a gift?
”

Lexi looks down at her tea realizing she is holding onto the very same mug. She thinks back to high school, how she was always the one consoling Meg, telling her to get back in the saddle, brush herself off, confront the next hurdle. God, she must have been irritating.

“That’s the corniest thing ever, Meg.”

“Better than the horniest thing ever, right?”

“Ha ha. Can we just talk later?” says Lexi, pressing
end
on her phone before Meg has a chance to object. But as soon as she puts it down, it rings again, this time flashing Boris’s picture on the screen. Why on earth is Russell calling so early? She reaches for a Kleenex, wipes her nose and takes a shaky breath before answering.

“Russell?”

“Lexi, I’m so sorry, I know I’ll be seeing you in less than an hour but I just can’t keep it in any longer. I’ve just got to tell you—”

“Tell me what?” asks Lexi, needing to get off the phone so she can continue to cry.

“Tell you about my chance encounter yesterday evening with Mildred Cotton.”

“Mildred Cotton? Do I know her?”

“Not yet,” says Russell cryptically, “but you will.”

“Please don’t make me crack a code, Russell, I don’t have the energy for it this morning.”

“I was taking Boris for a stroll on the boardwalk last night, after you left. The wind had died down—it was a lovely evening. Anyway, he was in quite a chipper mood and before I know it he’s making advances towards this rather stunning Siamese, drinking in the view on someone’s veranda. I’ve never seen Boris quite so forward, curling his tail and purring up a storm.”

Lexi is bemused. Has Russell really called her at this time of the morning to recount some lengthy story about Boris and a girl cat?

“Russell, can this wait till I arrive?” asks Lexi, blowing her nose loudly into the telephone.

“I’ll hurry,” says Russell, clearly oblivious to her fragile state. “You see, while Boris is charming the feline, her owner comes out onto the veranda. She’s just delightful. As coincidence would have it, we share the same vet. Her cat’s called Cherub—isn’t that unusual?”

Lexi hopes her uncontrollable sobbing will kick in again. Anything to drown this out. She silently begs Russell to get to the point.

“Anyway, Mildred, that was her name, asks me about myself and I tell her about Let The Green Times Roll. She’s noticeably impressed. It turns out that Mildred is the executive producer of
Wake Up LA
—you know, on channel 9 in the mornings?”

“Doesn’t that start at 5:00 a.m?”

“Yes, yes that’s the one. Maybe it should be called
Wake Up Early LA
. All the same, she is well connected, Lexi, and she wants to showcase us on her
New in Town
segment.”

“At 5:00 a.m?”

“Well, maybe at 5:30.”

“Sounds good. When things are up and running. No publicity is bad publicity.”

“There’s just one little glitch.”

“What’s that?” asks Lexi, finding herself increasingly annoyed and maybe even envious. Could it be that while she was out on a blind date with Bradley the bonehead, not only Russell, but Boris as well, seem to have stumbled across love matches? Surely that was a cruel injustice?

“Well, she wants me on the show next Tuesday. As luck would have it, something’s fallen through and there’s an available slot.”

“Next Tuesday? Russell, that’s less than a week. It’s impossible. We won’t even have the website up and running by then—it’s far too soon to start publicity.”

“I know, I know. I thought you’d say that, but it’s only that I got carried away. I think I made the business sound a bit bigger than it actually is. I was feeling amped from shooting the video. You know—conquer the capitalists. Recruit the masses!”

“So just call up Mildred Cotton and tell her to book you in for next month. We’ll be in a much stronger position by then to promote things.”

“Yes, but there’s a slight problem there too. I arranged to take her out to brunch after the show, to talk about the cats really. Cherub’s been having some issues.”

Lexi sighs, “What can I say, Russell? It’s five-thirty in the morning, hopefully no one will be watching.”

“I knew you’d be cross. My enthusiasm got the better of me.”
Among other things
, thinks Lexi.

“I’m not cross, I’m just… ready to go back to bed.”

“Are you unwell? Now that you mention it, you do sound a bit peaky.”

“It depends how you define that. I think I’ll be in a bit late today if that’s okay? I’ll see you around eleven.”

As Lexi hangs up she hears Andrew’s key in the door. She had assumed he was home and still sleeping.

“Andrew! In here,” calls Lexi, plotting a plan for them to both skip school and hike up Franklin Canyon instead. Some fresh air and exercise will clear her head.

“Oh, boy,” he calls back, appearing dramatically in the kitchen alcove, hair uncharacteristically ruffled. “Ask me if I’ve just had the best night of my entire life.”

Lexi takes one look at his ridiculously smug grin and flops her head onto the table, almost tipping over her stupid mug.
Today is a gift, today is a gift, today is a gift
—the words loop around her brain, taunting her with their precooked wisdom. If only something would happen to convince her they were actually true.

GEORGE
18
^th
November, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles

George wakes up to the sound of a room service tray rattling down the hallway outside his room. For a few years after uni, he and Simon had shared a small flat near Queensway in London surrounded by cheap, musty hotels. The dawn chorus had been the jangle and scrape of suitcase wheels dragged along the pavement outside their window. Ever since then he has come to find the sound rather comforting, and the room service trays always call it to mind.

George knows the day ahead is going to be manic. He wonders if he and Simon have time for a quick half hour in the hotel gym before the madness descends. Since the days of running around Regents Park, many a solution has been reached or song idea premeditated while the two of them run side by side on neighbouring hotel treadmills. Sometimes George finds it easier to talk things through when he’s moving. He picks up his phone, cringing at a text message from Fanny,
Greetings from my Pussy,
accompanied by a picture of a rather demented looking black cat. Simon answers immediately in a low whisper.

“You ready to run off your egg and bacon bap?” asks George, hopefully.

“Guess what, mate? You know how I texted Stacey back last night? Well, she hopped on a late flight and surprised me. Let’s put it this way—I haven’t had much sleep.”

“Right. Excellent. Good on you, Sim. Um, well, I might just go on my own then, unless you change your mind. I don’t suppose Duncan will be up yet and Mark’s probably—”

“Hey, George—look, gotta go mate. We’ll talk later, okay?” Simon hangs up before George can respond.

A profound sense of loneliness rises in his chest, and he knows he will continue to feel it, even as his day becomes populated with more and more people. The only time George doesn’t sense that loneliness lurking is when he’s on stage. On stage he feels large inside. Alive. In contact. So why is it that just last night he was fantasizing about walking away from it all? He wants to turn down the bloody volume inside his own head. He gets out of bed quickly and rifles through his bag, pulling out an old pair of shorts, a Sesame Street t-shirt and a black beanie. It’s 8:30 and he doesn’t have to be in the lobby to meet Gabe and the rest of the band until 9:30. George decides he will take a jog around the neighbourhood instead. He enjoyed his walk last night. He grabs his iTouch, selects his
run away
playlist and sprints out the door.

Later on that day, some die-hards might get word of where they are staying and start loitering outside, waiting to get a photo or an autograph. But now all is clear. The sky is a cloudless flat palette of blue, the mountaintops so sharply outlined, George can see snow. The very first time George visited LA, the plane flew through a thick layer of yellowing smog and he could virtually taste the pollution festering in his mouth. He didn’t know then that the light played tricks on you here, and on magic days it shone so brightly that even the pavements seemed to dazzle.