Asturias (12 page)

23

ABOUT PENNY …

ALEX'S STORY

Somehow, we made it as far as the Sonja Vegas tour without self-destructing.

Max sat us down — “us” being Chrissie and me — and gave us the sanitised version of his session with Symonds. The full story didn't come out until much later, of course; not that it would have made any difference. All the balls were on the table already, and knowing just how big a shit Symonds was wouldn't have altered things all that much.

The bottom line was still the same. Either we kept the individual members of the band “in line”, or there might be no band to worry about. At least not in the form that we knew it.

So we did our best to shelter Marco, while we got tough with Tim, and tried to stop him shooting himself in the foot.

The only plus in the whole deal was the way Tasha was maturing. The whole image thing was centred around her, and she was thriving on it — in public. But it wasn't going to her head at all. Not the way it was with Tim.

Maybe it was her tight family, or just something in her personality. I don't know. All I know is that up on stage she could be the complete performer, but she had the ability to switch it off as soon as the show was over. Unless it was something for publicity, and then the whole “star personality” was there in full force.

I envied her. What had been her weakness at the start had become her strength. She was basically a “nice” kid. She had no ego problems, and she had the ability to see past the bullshit, to separate the truth from the hype.

In fact, the only problem she had while things were hitting the fan all around her was the break-down of her friendship with Penny.

After her success at the beginning with building our image, Penny had become a part of the Asturias entourage. She designed the outfits and the stage settings, continually fine-tuned the image, and did all the running repairs. And to top it off, almost by accident she became a handy assistant sound engineer when Terry needed an extra pair of hands, especially on the bigger live gigs. She was a godsend.

She was also gay.

And Tash was probably about the only one who didn't realise it.

TASHA'S STORY

I felt like such an idiot.

I'd known Penny since I was four or five. We were like sisters. Except, of course, that I didn't really know her at all.

She never told me — not even when I tried, all those times, to set her up with dates.

I tell myself that's the real reason I reacted the way I did. I'm pretty straight in most things. When you have parents as old as mine, you either rebel and see how far you can push the envelope, or you end up like me. Straight and totally naive.

But I'm not prejudiced. At least I didn't think I was. Just naive.

Even when I found out, it took a while for the significance of what I was seeing to sink in.

I'd slipped into town, in disguise, just to do a bit of shopping.

I know, that sounds really pretentious.
In disguise
… But it wasn't an ego-trip. Sometimes it just got so hard to do the ordinary everyday things. With your face splashed across magazines and posters, someone was likely to recognise you and make a scene, so I took to wearing RayBans and baseball caps, and dressing down.

I guess that's why Penny didn't recognise me, even when they walked right past.

They.

She was holding hands with a girl I'd never met. I mean,
really
holding hands. I didn't say anything. I was still trying to sort it out in my mind, when they turned into an arcade and disappeared.

Like I said. I don't think I'm any more prejudiced than the next person. Probably less than most. It wasn't so much the fact of what I'd seen, as … well, as the sense of betrayal I felt.

She was my friend, for God's sake! I'd shared everything with her. All the intimate details of my life, as well as all the everyday things. We'd watched who knows how many hours of tv together, copied each other's homework, practiced our dance-steps and gymnastics, slept in the same room a hundred times …

And all the time, I never knew. She didn't trust me enough to tell me.

I thought about the girl she was with.

Blonde, tall … She looked a lot like me.

I stood there in the middle of the lunchtime crowds, and I understood. The reason why it was impossible for her to tell me. And the thought of it sickened me …

CHRISSIE'S STORY

I didn't know what had happened between the two of them. I asked Tasha, but she told me to mind my own business —
for once!

It was so unlike her to talk that way, that I backed off. And I didn't have a chance to ask Penny. She just phoned Max and told him that she couldn't work with us any more, and that was it.

Tasha was more upset than I'd ever seen her. Even when things were at their worst in the early days, and she was feeling out of her depth, she could at least raise a smile.

For the best part of a fortnight she was in a state of depression, then she gradually recovered. At least, her public image did. That was the thing about her — the way she could separate the different parts of her life. Apart from that first couple of weeks, whatever was eating her up never showed at rehearsals or on stage, or at any of the hundreds of personal appearances that Max and the publicity people had dreamed up for us in the lead-up to the big tour.

It was only in the short periods of “down-time”, when she thought no one was looking, that she let her guard down a bit. There was something there tearing her apart, but she wasn't about to talk about it to me.

Or anyone in the band.

But maybe someone
outside
the band …

CLAIRE'S STORY

She just sat there and stared at me.

“Look,” I tried again. “I don't want to pry, but —”

“But you're going to anyway. Who put you up to it? Chrissie?” She was looking straight into my eyes, and there was no way I could tell her anything but the truth.

“Yes, she did. She's worried about you.” I could see her face harden just a touch, and I knew that whatever I said next was the beginning or the end of our discussion.

I opted for the shock-tactic approach.

“You found out about Penny, didn't you?”

It wasn't what I'd planned to say. I'm not sure that Chrissie or the others were even aware of that aspect of the situation. They knew about Penny, of course, but I don't think they realised that Tasha didn't.

Being slightly outside the inner circle has its advantages. It means you're not caught up in all the everyday hassles of the game, so you get to stand back and get the wider view.

It was too much of a coincidence that Penny disappeared and Tash went into her depression at the same time, and it didn't take too much of a mental leap to work out what might have caused the rift.

“Did you tell her how you felt about it?”

I saw her go red, and I thought she was going to bail out, but instead she slumped. I think she needed to talk it out with someone, but she didn't know how to bring it up.

“She should have trusted me.”

There was a break in her voice as she spoke, and I put my hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away violently. Then she controlled herself, a little.

“I'm sorry. I just don't like to be touched at the moment.”

I looked at her for a long time, trying to find the right words.

“What makes you think she didn't trust you?”

The anger flared again, briefly.

“Helloo? Are we paying attention here? This is not something you just neglect to mention. ‘Oh, by the way, I'm gay, but I forgot to tell you. I've had such a
lot
on my mind for the last few years.' Come on, Claire! She didn't trust me. She didn't tell me, and I can't forgi —”

“Or she
couldn't
tell you.” There was no way around it except to say it.

“Why not?”

I was sure she knew what I was driving at, but she wasn't going to make it easy for me. I also think that she'd considered it herself, and the whole thing had scared her. Maybe trust wasn't the real issue. Maybe it ran deeper.

“I think you know why. And I think it scares the hell out of you. Probably as much as it scared the hell out of her. Because you're
not
gay, and she knew it. But it didn't stop her loving you.”

It was out. And I could tell by the look she tried to hide that I was right. On both counts.

“As long as you didn't know, you could still be friends. She would never have told you how she felt, because it would have threatened the relationship you did have.”

“A lot of good it did.” There was a cold edge to her voice, but whether it was directed at Penny, or at herself, I couldn't be sure. “Did she really think I'd never find out? She should have trusted me.”

She brought her hands together in front of her mouth, like she was praying, and I saw the tears in her eyes.

“That girl,” she said, so quietly I had to strain to make out the words. “The one she was with. She looked so much like me …”

24

VISITING

ALEX'S STORY

It was a mild stroke.

Doctors throw words like “mild” and “minor” around like confetti. But when you're seventy-nine, nothing is “mild”. What they meant was that it wouldn't affect his use of his limbs or any of his vital functions.

But there was a slackness down the left side of his face, and his speech was a little slurred, when he chose to speak. Which wasn't often. He was very quiet most of the time, and when I could find an hour to sit with him, that was mainly what I did. Sit.

I don't know what was going on behind those eyes, but the spark was missing. It was like he'd retreated into that world that he'd always brought to life for me. Only now, he wasn't telling the stories.

Sometimes I kept up a one-sided conversation, telling him about the preparations for the tour, and how the new album was selling, or bits of goss about the kids in the band, and sometimes he'd smile, or ask a question, but I think he was embarrassed by the sounds he made, or the fact that he couldn't control the way the spit escaped from the side of his mouth. He kept a towel by his pillow, and dabbed at it from time to time, but I knew it was hurting his pride.

“We leave for Perth next week.” I was trying to sound enthusiastic about the beginning of the tour. I knew he would want us to be a raging success, and I didn't want him to know how uncomfortable I felt, leaving him for the best part of three weeks.

He smiled lopsidedly.

“Alejandro,” he whispered.

I leaned forward. “Yes,
viejo?”

“You do something for an old man?”

I just nodded.

“Next time you come in … Play
me
something?”

CHRISSIE'S STORY

So we had two band-members spending most of their free time visiting hospitals. Alex's grandfather was in no real danger, and would probably be out by the time the tour was over, barring any complications.

Melina, Marco's mother, would never leave.

Marco was a strong kid. He'd lived with his mother's illness for three or four years, and somehow he'd learned to cope. To channel off the pain into a kind of isolation room inside his mind. When things got too much, or when he needed to concentrate, he could shut the door on it, and get on with the necessities.

But I knew he spent a lot of time alone in that room, and at those times there was no one who could help ease the pain.

His mother had made him promise to give the tour everything he had, and not worry about her. The doctors were controlling the pain, and it was important that he built something for his future.

I visited her quite a lot myself.

At first, I'd just gone along to be a kind of support for the kid, as part of “the roster”. But then I started going alone, at times. Just to talk.

Sometimes there was no way to get through to her. When the pain was acute, they had her dosed up on morphine, and she was on another planet.

But at other times she was perfectly dear and I developed a respect for her that I'd never expected to feel.

The first few times that I'd listened to the whine in her voice, I'd thought of Marco putting up with it all those years, alone. But then I started to listen beyond the edge of her pain, to the things she said. And I realised.

The cancer was slow-growing, but inoperable, and Melina had known it from the beginning. Even through the hopeless radiation therapy and the baldness and the sickening desperation of the chemo.

Cancer is a word
—
not a sentence.

Wasn't that the slogan? And it was true — in many cases. But for some — for Melina — there was never any hope. The sentence had been delivered, and all that remained was the long, slow wait for its execution.

But she hadn't given up without a fight.

If she couldn't defeat the disease that was growing inside her, she could at least prepare her boy for the world he would soon have to face alone.

When Alex first described how he'd met Marco, I was ready to dismiss his mother as a no-hoper, for allowing him to put himself into that kind of danger. But when I thought about it, the danger was pretty limited. He travelled in by train, busked during the rush, and then headed home. He didn't live on the streets, and he didn't do drugs.

It wasn't just the money, though at times they had struggled. She was toughening him. Making him self-reliant.

And she was proud of the result. No matter how tired he had been at times, she had nagged him to finish his schoolwork, and had been satisfied with nothing but his absolute best. And he had given it. At first reluctantly, to stop the nagging, then as a matter of habit — and finally, as an inseparable part of himself.

Beneath the practical joker, and the natural talent, Marco was … I guess you might call him a “realistic perfectionist”. He wasn't obsessed with doing things that he wasn't capable of doing. He just did everything as well as he possibly could, and was satisfied.

At fifteen years old there was no other way he could have coped with the pressure of the band, and study, and having to leave on the tour, all the while knowing that his mother was there alone, waiting to die.

And if he gave in at times to the pain of it all, well, he was human, after all.

Which is more than you could say about Symonds or the bastard who called himself Marco's father …

“Can he do it?” Symonds has the phone switched to speaker, and he paces the floor in front of his desk.

“Quite possibly, Mr Symonds.” The voice on the speaker is measured and resonant. A voice honed by years of litigation. “He's got a good lawyer, and it
is
a bit of a grey area
—”

“I'm not interested in ‘grey areas', MacAllister. I don't pay you and your stuffed shirts six figures a year to double-talk me. Bottom line.”

There is a slight pause on the other end of the line.

“There was no official separation, and she didn't ever claim maintenance, so the courts never actually ruled on custody of the kid. He's still a minor, so when the mother dies, it's likely the father could assume guardianship, and the contract she signed might have to be renegotiated
—
with him.”

“Can we buy him off?”

Another pause.

“Not cheaply. He thinks he's onto the golden goose. He's done his homework. Two hot albums, the possibility of a US deal
…
He knows what the kid could be worth in the next few years. And he has maybe two-and-a-half years total control.”

Symonds moves around and sits at the desk, picks up a brass letter-opener and uses it to move one of the mobiles on his desk.

“But he can't touch the kid's money. It goes into trust.”

“No, he can't …” The lawyer is aware of the effect of what he is about to say. Symonds stops playing with the toy and stares at the speaker.
“But he knows what the US deal could mean to us. He has us over a barrel. If he chooses to tie us up in the courts over the kid's contract, the US deal is dead in the water.”

“What about the kid? Doesn't he care what effect it'll have on —?”

“We've checked his record. As far as anyone knows, he hasn't even contacted the kid in ten years.”

“Couldn't we use that in court?”

“Maybe. But everything takes time. The fact is, he doesn't give a rat's about the kid. This is his big break, and he's going to try and milk it for all it's worth.”

A cold look crosses the fat man's face. He leans back into his chair, swivels and stares out of the window.

“
Suggestions? And forget anything that's going to delay us more than a month or six weeks.”

“He can't risk doing anything until the mother dies. And neither can we. After that, I'd suggest you look for a new drummer. It's the cheapest option all round.”

“We can't wait that long. We don't know how long she's likely to hang on.”

Symonds has reached a decision. He stands and leans on the desk, looking at one of the gold records on the wall in front of him.

“We say nothing until the tour is finished. Then we cut him loose. Find some way that won't cost us too much in breach of contract. And MacAllister
…
Not a word to Max. He's beginning to lose his … objectivity.”

A stab of the finger severs the contact, and he sits down again, a cold smile playing around the comers of his mouth as he plans
…