Getting Real

10. After Party



When the stage went dead, the stadium house lights came on and Jake watched the last groups of rowdies make for the exits. They always sang badly, and this lot were no exception.

While the members of Ice Queen, Problem Children and assorted journalists, friends and hangers on—mostly guests of Problem Children’s lead singer, Jonathan Bennett—partied in the green room, the business of pulling down the stage and packing all the gear began. It would take all night and into the morning. They needed the trucks on the road in twelve hours’ time.

He sculled a bottle of water. He’d get a supper break later, but he needed to find Jonas to check on flight and hotel payment details first. He headed for the green room where the after party was in full swing. He skirted the edge of the room looking for Jonas. Saw Stu and Ceedee cuddled on a sofa, How and Problem Children’s drummer deep in conversation, a bored looking Jeremy swigging from a bottle of vodka, and Roley stretched out on another sofa asleep, or doing a good imitation of it. He couldn’t spot Jonas, Rand or Rielle and any one of them would have done for his purposes.

Someone shoved a beer in his hand, and he was about to quit the room and try again later, when he spotted Rielle. She was sitting on Jonathan Bennett’s knee. She looked flushed and drained, leaning into the lanky lead singer’s body and trailing her arm around his neck.

It could wait. Jake slipped out the nearest exit. He was half way back to the stage, when he heard Rielle call his name. He hesitated, allowing her to catch up, wondering what sort of mood she was in. Hellcat or p-ssycat?

“Are you happy with the gig?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about the gig,” she said, folding her arms defensively.

Okay, hellcat then. “What can I do for you?”

“I understand you aren’t flying with us tomorrow.”

“No. I’ll go with the road train.”

“That’s a bad decision, Jake.” She fixed him with bloodshot, tired eyes. “You should be with us.”

“Sharon’s in Perth already. Everything is set for your arrival. You don’t need me until the trucks arrive.”

“You can’t know that.”

Jake opened his mouth to give Rielle a stronger assurance, but she cut him off. “Jonas was drunk tonight. He’s passed out back there now.” She tossed her head to indicate the green room. “I don’t want you hours away if something goes wrong. I want you on the flight with us.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to fly with a band; and it wasn’t an outlandish request. It was perfectly reasonable under the circumstances. He sighed. “Right, I see your point. Of course. I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow.” He was mentally trying to remember where he’d packed the Zanect, so he could zone out and face air travel.

As he turned to go, Rielle said, “I need something else.” Her hand shot out and grabbed his forearm. “Can you get me out of here?”

Was that a note of panic he heard in her voice? She did look done-in. “Sure, I’ll call you a car and driver.”

“I don’t want a car. Will you take me for a ride?”

She might’ve asked him for more booze or food, to clear the green room, or any number of other things. This he didn’t expect. “Ah. Rielle, I have things to do, I…”

“I know you do, but I need to clear my head.”

Rielle held her breath. The show had been a struggle. She was tired and cranky with herself. She could’ve done better, needed to do better and right now she felt like hitting something or someone. Rand was settled in to party, and the only place she wanted to be was the back of Jake’s bike, speeding through the night, anonymous in his helmet, melded to the roar of the engine and swaying with the angle of the road as it met the Triumph’s rubber.

“I’ll call you a car, Rielle,” Jake said, turning to go. He was perfectly polite, reasonable and distant. Was that why she wanted to be with him? He was safe. He wasn’t going to make a move on her. He barely tolerated her.

She closed her eyes. What did she expect? She’d just insisted he fly with them. He must be pissed off about that, so it was hardly possible for her request to have been more poorly timed. She sighed, but when she opened her eyes he was still there, looking at her intently.

“You really want a ride?”

“Just half an hour and back to the hotel.” She had no right to insist and he had every reason to refuse. “Please.”

She could see him wrestling with it. He puffed out a breath and threw up a hand. “What the hell? I’m due a break anyway.”

When she followed Jake down the service corridor, she passed Rand heading to the green room. He had that look on his face that said he wanted to talk, but she didn’t need him to go all care and share on her. Not now. She was too annoyed with herself: fluffing cues, dropping lyrics, being late on stage in the second half—amateur stuff. Unforgiveable. She gave him her best ‘back off, not now’ look and he let her go without a word. There were still punters, mostly scantily clad, hopeful of a last minute miracle invitation to the after party, loitering around the backstage entrance when they got there. Jake brought the bike around so she didn’t have to run the gauntlet and they got away cleanly without being spotted. This time he didn’t have to ask her to hold on, and he didn’t bother asking her where she wanted to go. He took the road out to the beach again. It was a clear, warm night, and at this hour, there were few other vehicles around to share the road.

He must’ve wondered what was going on in her head. He would’ve expected her to be happy about the performance; the punters certainly were. Jonas was, and Rand had been beaming when he’d come off stage before he’d had a chance to think about it. Behind Jake’s helmet and under cover of the vibration from the bike, Rielle had let her tears come. Her timing had been off; she’d sung a couple of wrong lyrics. People didn’t pay hard earned money to hear her do that. It wasn’t good enough for Ice Queen and it wasn’t good enough for a world tour. She’d let the band down and needed to lift her game. As the suburbs of Adelaide swept past her bleary eyes, she relaxed into Jake’s solid back and steeled herself to work harder tomorrow, and every day for the next two months of the Australian leg of the tour.

Rielle shouldn’t have blown Rand off last night. Last night he was reading her reactions and responding with compassion. After sleeping off the rush, he was less likely to be so patient.

“So it wasn’t perfect,” he said, dripping maple syrup and sarcasm over ricotta pancakes with fat strawberries. “Absolutely shocking!”

“Your performance was flat in spots, but no one would have noticed,” said Jonas. He’d forgone food in place of black coffee, and was wearing his sunglasses inside the hotel restaurant. Rielle itched to take them off his face and look into his eyes.

“I was lacklustre, I made mistakes and it was amateur.” She pushed her fruit plate aside. She’d thrown up twice yesterday, once before the show and then immediately afterwards, and again this morning. At this rate she’d have no enamel left on her teeth by the time they hit Sydney. She scowled at Rand and Jonas with as much ferocity as she could muster on an empty stomach.

“Rie, it’s hard to take you seriously, you know. Have you seen the papers? Adelaide loves you,” said Jonas.

“Adelaide is a hick country town. If I performed like that in Melbourne or Sydney, we’d get eaten alive by the critics.”

“And that’s why we started here,” Rand sighed, “like you wanted, so we can iron out the bugs and get comfortable with the format. Give yourself a break for God’s sake.”

Rielle exhaled an audible breath, but didn’t relax her posture or her scowl. She knew she was more anxious than she needed to be. Shit, she never got so nervous she threw up, not since she was a kid, but she couldn’t stop feeling like any minute now she’d be exposed for a no talent fraud and drag the band down with her. And that was new too. New and frightening and hateful.

Jonas poured another coffee and yawned, showing off expert dental work from the same dentist who’d made the prosthetic that hid Rielle’s gap teeth.

“What happened to you last night?” she snapped at him.

Jonas met her glare with his mirrored shades. Rielle saw her twin reflections. Yep, she looked as pissed off as she sounded.

“You know, Rielle, you’re a real pain in the ass,” he drawled, pushing back from the table.

“Take your glasses off, Jonas.”

“Jesus, we’ve been here before,” said Rand, clueing in. “What’re you doing, Jonas?”

Jonas stood. “Nothing that concerns either of you. If you’re not happy, you can f*ck me off home anytime you want.”

“Wait,” said Rand, putting his hand out to stop Jonas leaving. “You know how we work. We run a clean tour. I’m not saying we’re all angels, but we come to work clean and you need to do that too.”

“Or what, Rand? You and your little prima donna bitch sister will do what without me? You don’t have a show without a producer. Imagine the bad rap the tour would get if we parted company now, before it’s really begun.”

Rielle held her tongue. Rand was better at this stuff. She just wanted to leap across the table and hurt Jonas. Instead she tore at the hem of the starchy white tablecloth, pulling the stitches out and unravelling the raw edge.

“Jonas, how did we get here?” Rand sighed. “We’ve never had a problem working together before. Why are we having one now?”

Jonas snorted, and looked directly at Rielle.

Rand made a noise of contempt, not very musical, but very to the point. He wasn’t going to cop that. “I know baby sis is difficult, but no more so than she’s ever been.” Rielle watched Rand’s face. Did he really think that? He was the only one who knew why she was so uptight about coming home that it was affecting her performance and her attitude. It was possible he was managing her. Trying to cover for her. He’d never admit it. “So what’s changed, Jonas?”

Jonas, still standing, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t need this crap. I’ll see you at the airport.” He stalked across the restaurant making for the hotel foyer.

“That went well,” Rielle drawled.

“At least you didn’t throw something at him. You know, like a coffee pot,” said Rand, signalling their waitress.

“What’re we going to do?”

“You are going to take a chill pill and I’ll talk to Jonas when he’s calmed down.”

Rielle eyeballed the ceiling. “He’s using. He’s not going to calm down.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“What’s not that bad?” asked Stu joining them. He rearranged Jonas’s chair and sat. “Oh I know. This is the beat up session. This is where Rie beats herself stupid for not being perfect last night, am I right?”

“No, you just missed that,” said Rielle. “I’m chilled.” She was concentrated anger, curled up into herself in the richly upholstered dining room chair.

Stu noted her defensive posture and snorted. “Like hell you are!” He laughed, and glanced at Rand, who grinned and shook his head at the same time. “Saw Jonas on the way in. What’s he pissed off about?”

“Me,” said Rielle.

“Situation normal then,” Stu laughed.