Playing Along (18 page)

“I’ve explained to George, Russell, that we’re already doing quite a lot but—”

Russell interrupts Gabe, “Do you go on tour?”

“Uh, yes,” says Gabe, “I mean Thesis are up there, Russell, maybe not with Neil Diamond, but with the likes of Coldplay and Green Day. Our tours are big productions. We travel all over the world.”

“How many people on the tour?” asks Russell, producing a notepad and pen from his hemp bag.

“Maybe a hundred.”

“And what would you say, Gabe, that you are currently doing to support your green commitment?”

“Uh, well… we endorse Fair Trade chocolate. Some of the tour buses run on diesel. We uh, recycle…”

“What?”

“Paper… plastic bottles. That sort of thing…”

George and Lexi look at each other for a moment. He smiles. This time she manages to smile back. Does he remember her from the concert? Of course not! This is all just some huge inexplicable coincidence. Meg is going to pee in her pants when she hears about this. Lexi is just relieved that she hasn’t done the same.

George is imagining the release of “Third Row.” Maybe it will go straight to number one? Doesn’t every woman want a song written about her? Hopefully he and Lexi will be going out by then. If she’ll have him, that is. She might have a boyfriend. For God’s sake, she might not even like him. Plus going out with a musician is a nightmare. Always on tour. Mostly moody buggers. Why would she subject herself to that?

Russell is coming alive with enthusiasm. Lexi can see he’s gearing up into action.
Here we go
, she thinks,
does this mean what I think it could mean?

“Gabe, now please don’t take offense, but ‘that sort of thing’ for a band in your position is just not good enough. You need to be reducing your carbon footprint, or in the least offsetting it. You need to be examining every aspect of the tour for energy efficiency. There are alternatives to diesel now—vegetable-based bio fuels. You need to ban all disposables at your concert venues and encourage fans to bring their own cups and drinks. Why not design a Thesis concert cup made from salvaged car tires, which you can sell on your website, while donating a percentage of the proceeds to Saving the Rainforest?” Gabe is beginning to look like he’s being swiftly converted. There is a knock at the door. He stands up.

“Hold that thought, Russ, while I get your tea.” Gabe sprints to the door and lets the waiter in with a tray of drinks.

George turns to Russell and Lexi, “You’re full of ideas, Russell. I really respect what you two are up to,” that came out a bit wrong. He didn’t mean to imply that the two of them were up to anything together. But what if they were? Was Russell Lexi’s boyfriend? No. No, he couldn’t be.

“Thank you, George,” says Russell.

“I hope you consider letting us advise you,” says Lexi, experiencing a sudden burst of bravery. Surely this has happened for a reason? The concert. The gooseberry.

“I would love to let you,” replies George, thinking that sounded a bit clumsy as well. Clumsy but true. He
would
love to let her.

Lexi is looking directly at George, trying her hardest not to concentrate on the few stray hairs curling irresistibly out of the top of his T-shirt. In person there is something more timid about him, very different than how he is on stage. She wonders where his ego is hiding.

“Here’s your tea, Russell. South African, huh? Who knew?” Gabe sits back down at the table. “Where were we?”

“Recycled cups,” says Russell, “but that’s just an ice chip from the tip of a glacier. There’s so much more you could do. Each and every one of us is responsible for climate change, fellas.” Is Russell starting to get a bit of a British twang? Lexi wonders if he’s going to leave here sounding like Noel Gallagher. Her courage is building by the second.

“Remember, being in the position you are,” she says with authority, “you have a massive influence over a large demographic, many of them younger. Your music speaks to the hearts and souls of your fans, so why not let your decisive actions do the same?”

Gabe and George are both nodding their heads. Lexi takes a sip of her water. There is an expectant pause in the proceedings. Can Russell pull this off? Thesis are big time. Forget about running before walking, it would be more like climbing Mount Everest when he’s only ever hiked a short trail.

George is nodding like a fool. He wants her to keep talking. He’s watching her lips as they meet the edge of the glass and imagining the faint imprint they will leave behind. It doesn’t really matter anymore what she is saying, he is way past needing to be convinced.

LEXI
November 26
^th
, 2009
Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles

“Honey, just ignore St. Tropez.”

“How am I supposed to ignore this, Mom?” asks Lexi, who is urgently trying to pry the puppy’s teeth off the hem of her dress, while precariously balancing a pecan pie in the other hand.

Lexi’s Mother grabs a can of Coke and shakes it violently around the puppy’s face. It must be filled with coins or nails because it makes a horrifying racket. The dog ignores her, teeth stubbornly clamped, she continues to shake her head with glee.

“Mom, get her off—she’s going to rip it!” says Lexi, also concerned that the pie might fall and crush the dog, who is not much larger than a rat.

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” screeches Jeanette, while lunging at the manic ball of fluff.

“What the hell is going on in there?” shouts Lexi’s dad, Al, from the other room.

“Mom’s training the puppy,” says Lexi sarcastically, managing finally to escape the dog and deliver the pie safely to the kitchen counter.

“Jeanie, why didn’t you tell me our baby doll was home?” asks Al, appearing in the kitchen and engulfing Lexi in a big hug. The kind of hugs best given by dads on Thanksgiving.

“Looks like St. Tropez is her baby doll now. She’s moved on from me, Dad,” says Lexi, letting herself sink into her father’s barrel chest. She inhales his familiar soapy smell and kisses him lovingly on the cheek.

“I told your mother, that dog’s a lunatic. She pissed on the remote control right in the middle of
Project Runway
. I couldn’t even get a season pass.”

“Oh Puh-leaze Alfred! Lexi, you’d have thought the world was ending! You should have heard him rant. Poor St. Tropez almost died of shame. I’ve never seen such a sad little face…” she coos, scooping the puppy into her arms and nuzzling her wet nose.

“Gross, Mom—I’m not kissing you now.”

“What do you wanna bet, Lex, that the dog gets the turkey today and we get Domino’s delivered?”

They all laugh and Lexi feels a familiar warm sense of affinity. Despite having longed for a sibling when she was younger, to dilute the concentrated quality of her parents’ attention, she wouldn’t trade her family in for any other. Even as a child, when Jeanette and Al argued, they made certain to reassure Lexi afterwards that they were committed to working out the kinks.

“We’re in this for the long haul…” her dad had repeatedly said.

Lexi had watched her friends’ parents’ marriages sliced in two through high school and even college, but Al and Jeanette had somehow managed to stay true to their word. It was a lot to live up to.

“So where’s your crew? Your mom tells me we’re feeding the masses today.”

It occurs to her that her dad is right; she has invited everyone to spend Thanksgiving with them. Meg and Tim and the kids. Andrew and his new man, Carl. Even Russell, who it turns out has no immediate family and usually spends Thanksgiving with his vet. The vet and his wife have recently bought a time-share in Puerto Vallarta, and so Russell and Boris were planning on being alone.

“You must come over to my parents’,” Lexi had offered yesterday, caught up in the moment. “We can celebrate our first client!”

“And give thanks for the blessings mother earth is sending our way,” Russell had added.

“That too!” Lexi had agreed, finding it an effort to slow her accelerated pulse. She still couldn’t believe that she had touched George Bryce’s hand, not once, but twice in the space of an hour.

The meeting had ended with a verbal agreement that Russell and Lexi would come back to Thesis with a proposal on how they could slash the carbon output of the band, complete with ideas on how to promote and educate their fan base to do the same. They would charge a preliminary fee for this document, and if all were in agreement, a consultation contract would then be drawn up.

George and Gabe had both been incredibly enthusiastic. George had even gone as far as to say, “Look, it’s likely that you’ll both need to come to London at some stage to check out at our studio and meet the rest of the team. We can’t really go forward with something like this without the consent of all the band. We’re very egalitarian.”

“Yes, of course,” Lexi had agreed, holding one hand firmly on the edge of her chair, to prevent herself from jumping in the air like a ten-year-old.

“Let’s not forget the carbon emissions generated by one transatlantic flight,” Russell had been far too quick to point out. “We
could
do a video conference.”

Lexi had restrained herself from punching him.

“Oh, right,” George had replied, looking stumped.

“Or you
could
walk,” said Gabe, “but I forgot—you don’t do that in LA, do you?!” Russell had chuckled and with the impasse temporarily deflected, the meeting drew to a natural conclusion in a flurry of handshakes and thank yous. When George shook Lexi’s hand again he had looked squarely into her eyes. “Really, really good to meet you, Lexi.”

She had paused before saying, “Likewise,” wondering if she should read anything into the two reallys?

But back in her parents’ kitchen, today, the two reallys hover in her mind as if she had never heard them. As if the whole incident was just some warped fabrication concocted in her overactive imagination.

“The crew. Yes, Dad, everyone should be here in a minute. Mom, you better lock the mutt away if you don’t want Jack trying to squeeze her in his pocket or Annabelle attempting to put lipstick on her.”

“First the dog!” exclaims Al, “Now Meg’s crazy kids. Then your ex-boyfriend and his lover. Let the wild rumpus start!” Al grabs hold of Lexi’s hands and begins to dance her around the kitchen. She slips off her shoes and climbs onto the tops of his loafers, balancing on his feet while he sidesteps around the island, avoiding St. Tropez, who has begun to bark furiously again.

“Will you two never grow up?” says Jeanette, stirring the cranberry sauce, pretending to sound irritated.

“Working on it, Mom,” says Lexi, aware that she feels truly hopeful for the first time in a long while. Could it be to do with George Bryce? She
has
been floating in some kind of weird and wonderful netherworld since walking out of his hotel suite. Or could it be her realization that finally becoming a grown-up means embracing the child she once was, rather than leaving her behind? Either way. She feels full of smiles and that’s all that matters. The doorbell rings.

“Brace yourself,” says Lexi, sliding off her dad’s feet and heading for the hallway. “They have arrived!”

GEORGE
26
^th
November, 2009
Virgin flight VS024, Heathrow Airport, London

On the move again. As the plane shudders to a halt on the slick runway, George watches the raindrops drive against the dirty windows. He exhales. It’s been less than two weeks since they left London but he feels altered. His crash course collision into Fanny’s bed. The sudden rip of the band turning on him. Or could it be that they were turning
to
him? He’s still trying to work that one out. The acoustic show and finding Lexi.

Finding Lexi.

Every hour of the plane journey he had committed a different detail of their meeting to memory, until he had a collage of fragments—her tanned ankle bone; the melting tone of her voice; the arch of her left eyebrow; the way she spoke with her hands as if shaping an invisible sculpture. George wants to see her again. He wants to put the pieces together and decipher the whole picture. She must have shown up in that third row for a reason. Now he just needs to find out why?

LEXI
November 26
^th
, 2009
Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles

Three hours into Thanksgiving festivities and Jack and Annabelle are under the dining table with three American dolls, two Transformers, a can of Miracle Whip and Jeanette’s half deflated core ball. St. Tropez is passed out in the corner having managed to devour a hefty portion of pecan pie and countless greasy roast potatoes, surreptitiously dropped by the children. Andrew, Carl, and Russell are ensconced in conversation about the merits of varying brands of aluminum-free deodorant, while Tim and Jeanette are in the kitchen embarking on loading the dishwasher. Al is asleep—sprawled on the couch with his reading glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose and his hands resting comfortably on his expanding belly.

Lexi is sitting next to him, stuffed to the eyeballs. Stuffed on top of stuffed. The sun is still shining and shafts of late afternoon light decorate the carpet with luminous stripes. She is contemplating helping Tim and her mother with the dishes.

Meg appears from under the table where she has managed to extract the can of Miracle Whip from her delinquent children, a curl of white foam still hanging from the nozzle.

“I’m not on a short list for the good parenting award,” she says, wiping the remaining cream away with her fingertip and licking it clean.

“Well, you should be,” says Lexi, “you allow your kids to be kids, not robots. That’s got to be worth something.”

“Your mom’s a saint letting us create chaos every year,” says Meg, flopping down on the couch next to Lexi.

“She loves it. She’s not getting one of these from me anytime soon, so your two are most welcome.”

“Do you think that’s why she got the dog, as a replacement grandchild?”

“Don’t start, Meg!” says Lexi, feeling rather immune to Meg’s judgements today. Who cares what she thinks. She hasn’t told her yet about what happened yesterday. Part of her wants to protect it forever. Keep it close so it can’t get contaminated by Meg’s envy or hysteria. Meg would completely flip out and try and own George or something, as if he had belonged to her first. Isn’t that what most fans feel? A sense of possession over the object of their desire? Isn’t that what she felt only forty-eight hours ago? Except that now that she’s met him, George isn’t just George Bryce anymore—lead singer of Thesis—super cute English boy. He’s become dimensional. More real. She knows how he sits with his feet slightly fidgety, crossed at the ankle. She’s seen the paisley shaped chocolate-colored birthmark that appeared unexpectedly underneath his watch strap when it slid ever so slightly down his wrist.