Rocking the Pink (28 page)

Back in Jane's hotel room, I met her blast-from-the-past boyfriend, David. Jane and David had known, and loved, each other as young children in Sheffield. When David's family had moved away, he and Jane had lost touch and their love story had ended.

Or so they'd thought. Thirty years later, just a few months before my visit, David had rediscovered the sassy girl from his childhood on Facebook. And, unaware that Jane had been married and recently separated from her husband, or that she had a two-year-old daughter,
or that she was in the middle of chemotherapy for triple negative breast cancer, he had invited her to dinner.

Of course, David had found out soon enough about Jane's industrial-size baggage when she'd shown up for dinner in a head scarf and vanishing eyebrows. But guess what? None of that mattered. David could see
Jane—
not just her stupid container. From that very first dinner, they had become inseparable, baggage and all.

For the first three days of my trip, Jane, David, and I painted London Town red. We went to see famed palaces, feeding our mutual love of Henry VIII and his six wives (do you think I'm weird?); we toured museums; we went to parks and pubs (where Jane and I finally sat down to drink that pint together); we ate gluttonous meals, including a full-blown Mexican feast in honor of my beloved San Diego, so many thousands of miles away (oddly enough, my tacos were pretty good).

And, best of all, we went to a karaoke piano bar.

The small bar was crammed with young people from wall to wall, singing along with abandon as the piano man played songs from Kings of Leon to Elton John. After a few Peroni beers, I enthusiastically joined the sing-along, arm in arm with Jane: “You know that I could use somebody . . . someone like youuuuu!”

Occasionally, a bar patron sang into the piano man's mic, leading the raucous crowd in song. After several songs, Jane nudged my shoulder gently toward the piano, saying, “Go on, Laura, go on. Sing.” But no one had to twist my arm.

I asked the piano man, “Do you know ‘Waterfalls,' by TLC?”

“Sure,” he said. “What key?”

I told him and then addressed the crowd in full Cool Band Luke mode: “Hey, everyone! I bring you greetings all the way from San Diego, Californiaaaa!” The bar erupted. When I launched into the song—“a lonely mother gazin' out of her window, starin' at a son that she just can't touch . . . ”—the crowd went “mad” (as they say in Britain). The energy in the bar from the start of the song was off the charts, but when I got to the hardcore rap in the middle, the roof blew off the place. People started jumping up and down and hugging each other, as if England had just won the World Cup. At the end of the song, the entire bar started chanting, “USA! USA!” Strangers kissed my cheeks and lifted me up off the floor.

Blame it on the free-flowing beer, or maybe on my “exotic” American accent, but something magical happened in that bar that night. Maybe they could feel my sheer joy at being alive. Or at being able to sing again. Or maybe, just maybe, they really, really liked “Waterfalls.” (It's a great groove, after all.) All I know is, on that particular evening, a horde of Brits crowded around a piano in a cramped bar and sent unadulterated love to the happy American girl with the very short hair. And she sent it right back to each and every one of them.

The next morning, it was time to say goodbye to Jane. I was emotional. We had held each other's hands through cyberspace for months and months, through the darkest time in both of our lives. Being able to finally touch Jane, and hug her, and hear the sound of her voice, had been an unforgettable gift. And now, after so short a time, we had to say goodbye.

“Don't worry,” Jane comforted me, “this won't be the last you see of me.”

Just as Jane and David left London to go back home, my violinist, Jennifer, arrived. From our first chance meeting online, just over a year before, through band rehearsals, performances, and recording on my album, to endless conversations, emails, and visits during my cancer treatments, Jennifer had become one of my dearest friends. Since she had played violin on “Float Away,” it was only fitting that she be featured in the music video, too. And now here she was, her hair braided like Laura Ingalls Wilder and her violin strapped to her back. Adorable.

Moments later, John from London arrived at the hotel with the music video director and some key members of the video crew. (Oh, yes, I said “crew.”) The two-day shoot was scheduled to start the next day; today would be all about planning and scheduling.

I had already met John one year earlier, when he'd flown to San Diego to watch my band open for Little Feat, a rock band with
a diehard following, mere days before the start of my chemo. The show had been scheduled for months, and despite my intervening diagnosis and then-imminent treatment, I had remained hell-bent on having one last musical hurrah.

It was also the night before I cut off my long hair at the salon. As I sat in the green room before the show with my bandmates, everyone else chatted and laughed, excited about opening for such a popular band. I tried to seem lighthearted and ready to rock, but in reality, my mind was focused on the overwhelming battle that yawned before me.

Onstage, my band performed like the pros they were, but I forgot lyrics to my own songs—my worst nightmare—and wound up repeating the same verses two and three times. And, as Brad told me later, I also swung my long hair around the stage all night like a headbanger—just like the object of my then-recent scorn, Rico Suave—perhaps subconsciously giving it one last ride at the rodeo.

After the show, John came backstage, full of praise. “Well done,” he said, in typical British fashion. “Well done. ‘Float Away' is what won them over,” he observed. “Everyone loves a ballad.”

That did seem to be the consensus. Despite what I had considered a poor performance on my part, we had gotten a standing ovation from the crowd, including from Little Feat fans who'd initially had zero interest in seeing us perform. After the show, several of them had approached me to say, “You're my new favorite band—next to Little Feat, of course!”

At least I'm going out with a bang,
I thought. And then, for just a moment, this thought flitted across my mind:
Please don't let this be my last performance.

And now here I was, not even a full year later, giving John from London a big hug in his hometown, as if the prior year had never happened.

“Laura, this is Steve Graham,” John said now, motioning to the man next to him. “Our fearless music video director.”

But I knew exactly who Steve was. His credits included music videos for the Eurythmics, Lenny Kravitz, Oasis, and Paul McCartney. When John had first told me Steve would be directing my video, I had pinched myself.

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” I said calmly, shaking his hand. But on the inside, I was flipping out in typical Laura fashion.

Immediately, Steve opened his laptop and began detailing the locations and logistics of the shoot. He was all business.

I tried to “act like I'd been there before,” nodding and smiling—but not too energetically—at everything he was telling me. But when he mentioned that his “crew” had acquired the “permits” for such-and-such “location,” I felt like one of my crazy beads had shaken loose and was rolling around inside my head.

The next day, John drove Jenny and me down to Brighton, on England's south coast, for our first day of shooting. Immediately after a brief introduction to my music video family—professional actors hired to play my beleaguered husband and cute-as-a-button daughter—we began filming. It had been many years since my UCLA theater days, and I was nervous.

In my first scene, I cuddled on the beach with my “husband” (an actor named Mark), watching our little “daughter” (a beautiful six-year-old named Billie) as she frolicked on the beach. Cuddling with
Mark before I'd had a chance to get to know him was, admittedly, a bit awkward. But I just tried to imagine he was Brad.

There wasn't any awkwardness with my “daughter,” Billie, though. Right away, she crawled into my lap and snuggled close. Her Mary Poppins accent (on a child!) enchanted me, and my American movie-star accent seemed mesmerizing to her. We were like two peas in a pod. It was easy to project my love for Sophie and Chloe onto Billie.

When it was time for Jennifer to play her violin, Billie and I held hands on the sidelines, watching Jenn play under a gazebo overlooking the sea, as the cameras rolled. After the scene, Billie and I and the rest of the cast and crew—as well as a few Brightonites who'd stopped to watch—applauded.

Later in the day, our group moved to a flat that had been rented as a stand-in for my fake family's home. After filming a mock birthday party for Billie—during which the candles on her cake melted away more quickly than anyone had anticipated—Steve suggested we shoot a scene in which Mark and I had a “row.”

“Sounds fun,” I answered, enjoying every moment.

“What are we fighting about?” Mark asked me.

“I'm neglecting Billie, the housework, you,” I suggested. “You want to know what the hell's wrong with me. I've exhausted your patience.”

“Brilliant.”

Mark and I then proceeded to scream at each other, blaming each other for everything from the laundry on the floor to the demise of our marriage, while the cameras rolled.
Easy peasy!

But then Steve said it was time to film a scene depicting my spiral
into despair. I had been dreading this—not because I couldn't tap into dark emotions, but because I
could.
All too well.

“Do you think you can cry in this scene?” Steve wondered.

“Without a doubt.”

When Steve yelled, “Action,” I let horrible thoughts creep into my mind:
What if the cancer comes back? What if I have to leave my babies? What if the chemo didn't work?
My tears flowed. I didn't want to give those thoughts entry into my mind, not even for a music video. But, damn, I didn't know how else to cry on demand. Luckily, Steve was thrilled with the scene on the first take and I was free to banish those dark thoughts to the abyss forevermore.

The next day, we left Brighton for Beachy Head in Eastbourne, East Sussex, a site of towering, stunning white cliffs overlooking the magnificent blue ocean. I was told that this was a favorite suicide spot, and I could see why: Despite vertigo-inducing heights, there were no guard rails or warning signs keeping people away from the staggering cliff edges. It was mind boggling, really, to see those plunging cliffs, fully accessible to anyone—so unlike in America, where any accident provokes a lawsuit.

On this day, we were slated to shoot the “performance” scenes in the video—that is, the scenes of me singing along to my song. There would be no other actors or props; the scenes' success would depend on my ability to convey the emotions of my song authentically.

The crew set up canned lighting and guide tracks for the cameras to glide along smoothly, the makeup artist painted my face, and Steve bobbed around, searching for the best angles for his shots. As
we waited, John, Jenny, and I sat in the foldable directors' chairs typically seen on movie sets. It was a full-scale production.

A crowd had started to gather to watch the impending filming.
Who is she? I don't recognize her, do you?

How exciting for them if I had been someone famous!

Sorry, folks,
I thought.
It's just me.

Shooting began. As the camera filmed from a variety of angles, I stood in a fluttery white nightgown at the edge of the steep cliff (but not dangerously close, believe me) and sang along to a recording of “Float Away.” After the first run-through of the song, a crew member named Grahame—a muscle-clad bald guy in dark sunglasses, whose job it was to hold a reflector board that bounced light directly onto my face—set down his board and bear-hugged me.

“I'm honored to be here to witness this,” Grahame said (although, since he is British, I am sure he was “honoured”).

Perhaps due to his manly physique, or maybe his Monty Python accent, I wasn't sure if he was serious. So I asked him, “Are you serious?”

Without a word, Grahame tilted up his sunglasses to reveal big, soggy tears streaming out of his eyes. And then he hugged me again. I couldn't speak.
Really?
I was deeply moved.

 

 

Now that we'd wrapped the music video shoot, it was time for a two-week, whirlwind radio tour at BBC radio stations all over the country—London! Manchester! Liverpool! Sheffield! Wales!

One day, John's promotions manager, Harriet, brought me to the BBC radio station in London for a round of interviews. Just as we headed into the station, Harriet whispered, “Oh, there's Wogan's producer.” And sure enough, there was Alan Boyd, producer of the
Wake Up to Wogan
radio programme (British spelling, I can't help it), the most listened-to radio show in the entire country. With a draw of eight million loyal listeners every day, airplay on
Wake Up to Wogan
was the holy grail for an artist striving to break into the UK radio market. And the man who decided which songs would air on the Holy Grail—Alan Boyd—was standing a mere ten feet away from me.

As we approached, Mr. Boyd stood outside the front doors of the station, smoking a cigarette (or “smoking a fag.”)

Harriet greeted Mr. Boyd and introduced me.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Boyd said. “I've heard your song. I've been intending to play that one. We'll get you on straight away.”

I was so elated, I lunged at him, hugged him, and kissed him hard on the cheek, exuberantly invading his personal space. It was a remarkably un-British, and quite American, thing to do. Thankfully, though, Mr. Boyd didn't seem the least bit upset.