Playing Along (15 page)

LEXI
November 21
^st
, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles

Lexi arrives back to find Andrew and his new flame, Carl, flopped on the couch both fast asleep in front of the TV. So much for whirlwind romance; they’re already behaving like an old married couple after three dates. Having been in both camps, Andrew has explained to her that in gay dating there is no tedious game playing—it’s like Twister without spinning the dial—you can just go directly to all the most compromising positions.
Maybe they experimented with compromising positions earlier,
thinks Lexi, as she sneaks past them to her bedroom.

It’s midnight. Her ears are ringing. She lies down on her bed replaying the night’s events in her head. But every time she tries to remember exactly what happened, she returns to the most far-fetched plotline conceivable. George Bryce, charming English boy, super successful rock star, poet, singing her favorite song and staring into her eyes.
I’m delusional
, thinks Lexi, reaching for her laptop and flipping it open.
He was checking everyone out. He must do that at all the concerts. That’s what musicians his age do, right? He was probably high on ecstasy or something and preparing to indulge in a threesome backstage with Madame Harpist and her twin sister.
But even as she’s trying to convince herself of his debauched lifestyle, that other Lexi inside of her, that alter ego who is either full of insight or totally vain, is murmuring,
you are special, Lexi. Your mother was right. He
was
looking at you and he’s different, he might even be the—
“SHUT UP!” says Lexi out loud. She will not be swayed. She decides the best thing to do is some research into George to confirm her suspicions.

She googles Thesis. A trillion pages pop up. She googles George Bryce and chooses images, scrolling through them intently, looking for the harpist or other girlfriends. Lots of him with the band. Some of him with famous singers; Annie Lennox at a charity performance, Tom Chaplin from Keane, Kanye West and some girl called Fanny Arundel, a slutty looking singer she doesn’t recognize. She attempts to convince herself that she doesn’t actually find him that attractive, but with each picture her interest is only further piqued. Lexi looks at her clock—it’s 1:00 a.m.
. I’ll just quickly check out their website
she decides
and then I’ll go to sleep.

GEORGE
21
^st
November, 2009
Hollywood, Los Angeles

The post party is at an ultra trendy club in Hollywood, which George doesn’t even know the name of. He’s surrounded by faces wanting to talk to him. Hands on his arms, on his shoulders, in the middle of his back. Women he’s never met kiss him on the lips and pose for photographs with him like he’s a new attraction at London zoo. “You’re so cute!” Who would have believed that ‘cute’ would be the adjective most used to describe him these days? He couldn’t feel any less cute if he tried. He knows the gig went brilliantly but the satisfaction has worn off and he’s beginning to worry about something else, but he can’t put his finger on what. He’s holding a beer in his hand and contemplates if it’s the same beer he was holding before? He looks around the room hoping to spot Simon or Duncan or Mark or Gabe. There’s an extremely thin woman with a nose ring hanging onto him, explaining in great detail a concept album she’s working on.

“The concept is totally conceptual. It’s an esoteric take on the rise of the birth control pill pushing the boundaries for women—freedom or poison? I’m totally into harmonica. I was thinking you and I could collaborate?”

“Collaborate?” repeats George, wondering if he’s drunk again. Contemplating saying,
apparently I don’t even do that with my own band. Why would I want to with you?

“Take a ticket, darling,” a voice from behind intervenes, as a forceful arm links up with his, pulling him away from the nose ring.

“Fanny,” says George, actually feeling relieved that she’s managed to extricate him, but simultaneously wondering how he’ll now extricate himself.

“I’m next in line, right?” she says, possessively, manoeuvring him quickly across the room.

“You do pop up when I least expect it,” says George, scanning the room again to see if he can spot an exit strategy.

“I like to shock people. Now—talking of popping up when you least expect it…” she brushes the tips of her fingers against the front of his jeans. George can’t believe that her repertoire is that limited. He needs to move away from her. Why does she always have to find him when he’s feeling defenceless? And drunk.
I’m not as drunk as I was in Vegas
he reminds himself
. I am in complete control of my faculties. She’s bonkers. Bonkers is bad, George. Very, very bad.

“I thought you were in Vegas,” he says, at a loss.

“I was,” she replies, “and now I’m here. And you were in Vegas. And now
you’re
here. So what do you say, G, your place or mine?”

LEXI
November 22
^nd
, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles

One hour later, Lexi is still hunched over her computer, trawling through mindless comments on the Thesis fan boards. She’s had to register on the website and couldn’t decide upon a username, finally settling on Dawn77. She wants to go to sleep. She really truly wants to snap the computer shut and close her eyes so she can return to her private space with George, which has now been invaded by thousands of incredibly annoying fans who appear to be horrifyingly obsessed by him. But somehow she just can’t bring herself to log out and turn away. She’s finding Radar3Girl particularly irritating at the moment. Who does she think she is? The world’s greatest expert on George Bryce’s wardrobe? And she was clearly at tonight’s concert. Her last post reads:

Anyone notice George was wearing the same blue and black shirt he wore at Coachella last year? I think he’s only worn it at three gigs in the last eighteen months but I think he looks SEXY in it. Were his jeans Levis?? Hees soooooo funny. This gig was off the hook!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And I’m loving the red laces. GO GEORGE!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m yours. I’m buying red laces tomorrow. I LOOOOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Doesn’t she know that people are dying in Afghanistan? Doesn’t she know that an exclamation point loses meaning if overused? Lexi is tempted to post in response:
Fuck off Radar3Girl—you sound like you’re 14 and if you must know, George was looking at me tonight!!!!!!
Luckily she restrains herself and finally shuts down her computer. She switches off the light and sinks into her pillow, her head spinning her a decade and a half back in a tornado of longing. But for what exactly—she can’t say.

GEORGE
22
^nd
November, 2009
Chateau Marmont Hotel, Los Angeles

This time there’s no mistaking what has happened. George is in Fanny’s en suite bathroom at the Chateau Marmont, muttering to himself, as he splashes cold water onto his face, “Fucking wanker.”

He hasn’t shaved in days and looks wasted.
Living the life
muses George.

His reflection peers back at him pathetically, like a little boy in need of a hug.

Fanny’s impressive snores are reverberating right through the locked door. She’d fallen asleep minutes after a second very high-pitched, dramatic orgasm, orchestrated by her own skilled methods.

“No sweat, cupcake. I just need an extra top up,” she’d explained, wriggling into position.

George wonders if at that point her dead boyfriend, Sebastian, had shown up to lend a helping hand. Fuck. He just wants to get away. What is he doing here? It’s like she repels him and attracts him at the same time.

The woman in the orange shirt appears in his mind. The beautiful runner with the tears and the singing lips. It was her fault. She flicked his switch back on again. She made him want something he couldn’t have, so he took something he could have instead.

LEXI
November 23
^rd
, 2009
Venice, CA

Lexi has fully recovered from Saturday night and is back at work. She’s returned to being a grown-up and hasn’t looked at the Thesis website once this morning. Yesterday had been different. She’d only wanted to see if Radar3Girl had posted any more inane comments. She hadn’t intended on staying on for another hour—watching videos of the band and perusing the merchandise in the shop. Anyhow, she’s rationalized that it’s far better to be fantasizing about some unattainable rock star than a real man, who could distract her from her work and make footprints on her heart.

It was all good research for Russell’s website. She’s picked up lots of excellent design ideas. In fact, Billy said he should have the initial site map up and running today—just in time for the onslaught of publicity they’ll get after
Wake up LA
. Not. Thank God it’s on at 5:00 a.m.

Russell is full of beans. Literally. He’s making a mung bean stew to support his digestion before tomorrow’s appearance.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” asks Lexi. “You might fart your way through the whole segment.”

“Quite the opposite, my dear. I need to flush out tonight so I can feel cleansed and focused in the morning.”

“If you say so,” says Lexi, making a note to leave early this afternoon before the flushing out process begins.

“Have you heard from Billy yet?” asks Russell, feeding Boris a spoonful of stew.

“Next on my list to call,” says Lexi, “and then we’ll do a run through again for the morning. Do you know the interviewer’s name?”

“Sophie Samuels. I’ve been tuning in over the last week. She has lots of hair.”

Lexi considers how this might affect Russell’s performance. Perhaps he’s a bit envious.

Her phone vibrates alerting her to check her e-mail. Just in time—it’s Billy with the link to www.letthegreentimesroll.com. He’s written, “Pretty darn impressive—if I do say so myself :)”

“Russell—go to your computer and type in your new website address.”

“Really?” says Russell, full of pride.

“Really,” says Lexi, moving in to lean over his shoulder.

The site appears in a flash of recycling symbols spinning in a kaleidoscopic formation with various objects colliding inside the image. The words—
Round and Round it goes, Let The Green Times Roll!
—circle the screen and a menu jumps out from the middle. The backdrop looks like recycled paper and the fonts are all in varying shades of green.

“It’s fantastic!” says Lexi, feeling as if she’s watching her toddler take his first steps.

“I’m just… just… flabbergasted, Lexi. It’s so professional. So right.”

“So
you
!” says Lexi. “I told you Billy would pull through. Go on—click on mission statement—it should be your video.”

Russell clicks and the screen fills up with his face, in front of his house, Boris asleep in the background.

“Let me introduce myself, I’m Russell Hazelton and I’m going to show you how to let the green times roll… not only into next week… but far into our future. My future, your future, the future all humankind depends upon…”

Lexi laughs remembering how stressful that day was. It feels like forever ago, but it was all worth it. And as for Russell—she can see he’s a natural. His quirkiness works wonders for him on camera. He’ll nail it tomorrow. She has no doubt about that.

GEORGE
23
^rd
November, 2009
Hollywood, Los Angeles

The band are in the waiting area at KROQ, one of LA’s long running radio stations, about to be interviewed by Kevin and Bean. George had managed to slip out of Fanny’s hotel room in the early hours of Sunday morning, while she was still sleeping. Now he really
was
behaving like a rock star. He had five text messages from Gabe on his phone, each one increasingly frantic,
where the hell are you, George? ARE YOU OKAY????

Was he okay? It was an alarmingly simple question and yet one that he felt unable to answer. Simon leans over to him now, “Mate—you look a little rough. What happened to you on Saturday night anyway?” Simon had been holed up with Stacey all of Sunday and George had barely seen him.

“Fanny showed up,” says George, wondering if he should confide in Simon.

“The famous Fanny. So what’s the story, George, are you into her? She’s a nutter but you never know, that might do you some good. Like we said at the airport—time to explore. I’m certainly enjoying it. Stacey is wicked in the sack, mate. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I mean the rush from the show and then two nights of… well it’s like we were saying at the airport. It’s time to live a little—yeah?”

George hesitates before answering. He decides not to confess to Simon how he really feels. “Absolutely. Fanny’s a wild thing. An acrobat, mate. You’ve never seen a girl get into the positions she does. Crazy stuff…”

“Now that’s more like it. Nice one, mate.”

What’s wrong with me?
thinks George, feeling like a pretty sad excuse for a front man. Surely he
should
be bragging about sleeping with Fanny, not just pretending to? Maybe he was destined to be like Kurt Cobain, tortured and introspective forever more.

“Thesis, you’re up next. Through here please.”

The band are ushered into the main studio where they are shown to four stools. George is usually required to do most of the talking in these instances, although Simon and Duncan like to join in. Mark rarely says anything unless pushed.

Kevin and Bean have been doing this show for almost twenty years and are legends on breakfast radio. They’ve interviewed the band before.

“Okay—firstly just want to say how cool it is to have you guys here again. The show on Saturday was truly awesome.”

“Always a pleasure to see you both and thank you, that’s kind of you to say,” says George, turning on his trademark humility.

“We figured you guys have been partying ever since, except we’ve heard you’re like the most sedate rockers around—so what’s the deal? Did you go straight to bed with a cup of hot tea?”

“Straight to bed with something hot—but it wasn’t tea!” says Duncan, jumping in before George can respond.

“So it’s not all true then? You guys don’t just sit around playing Scrabble after your gigs?”