Ruby Tuesday

Twenty five

My ears rang when I got off the telephone with my mother. She talked for the worst part of an hour without drawing breath. I finally managed to interrupt with something on the lines of "wow, is that the time, I'll be late for my uh-my meal. Nice talk, see you." And hung up as she stuttered over a goodbye.

When I'd returned the previous night from Brian's, Jack wasn't home. I phoned Keith and in the background heard a massive party going on with lots of screams of laughter and crazy guitar solos. He denied fervently that Jack was there and that may have been even the slightest bit believable if I hadn't heard Anita yell, "Jack, Jack, come meet my friend Sophia." So I spent the night alone, wallowing.

Perhaps this wasn't the life for me. Maybe dating a rock star wasn't all it was cut out to be, you never really got a whole person only the bits and pieces they made available to you. I'd got tipsy on sherry, rang my best friend and we sat together the whole night reminiscing of our life prior to nineteen sixty-eight. I told her I wouldn't be going to America or become her P.A. I was going to become my own boss, create something entirely of my own. I didn't need to survive off Jack or Angie. He was right about one thing, I did need to stop living my life trying to please everyone else.

"So, if you're going to be your own boss, what are you going to be the boss of?" Angie had asked, spilling sherry onto her hand and thigh as she poured her seventh glass.

"No idea," I scowled, rubbing my chest trying to rid myself of heartburn. "Maybe I could open a little shop dedicated to Janis."

"Janis who?" 

"Janis Joplin!" Who else? I cut off a chunk of stilton and squashed it onto the cracker. "I'm not serious anyway. I'm good at typing and writing, maybe I can write a book-"

"Oh girl!" Angie waggled her finger, the movement almost spilling more sherry all over the place. "If you're going to write your memoirs at least wait another twenty years when half the scene's dead or has been's and then you'll make your millions." She was nodding at herself knowingly as if she was imparting some great wisdom.

The following morning, Angie had been practically crawling around the flat groaning of a massive hangover. She refused to let me open the curtains and insisted I made her lots of strong coffee. She was there when Jack returned sometime mid-morning. He looked just as rough. His hair stuck out and he had massive bags under his eyes. He made to shuffle straight passed us, beelining to the bedroom but Angie curled her fingers around his forearm bringing him to a halt.

"Wow, not even a hello?" She purred, perching a sickly sweet smile on her pretty face.

"Hi Angie," he croaked. "Can you get off of me now?" She released her grip slowly, raising her eyebrows at me questioningly. Jack continued but stopped again and finally turned to face me, his hand resting on the doorknob. "Where did you go yesterday?"

I blinked, trying to work out the best way to tell him without condemning myself. The hesitation became a bar of silence which Angie awkwardly filled. "We went and got drunk and gossiped about you. I heard what you said about me, Jack." 

He rolled his eyes and pushed into the bedroom, the door slamming shut after him. I exhaled, shoulders slumping and hurried about lighting my fag. Angie sauntered toward me but I shook my head. I didn't want to talk about it. Things just seemed to be going from worse to worse with Jack at the moment, it was starting to scare me how distant we were.

When he was out rehearsing that night, I got out an old, beaten up cookbook and followed the recipe to create what was described as a French masterpiece. I wasn't so hopeful. My timings were all over the place, I cursed myself. I wasn't as domesticated as originally thought. The food at home had always been simple recipes like pie and casseroles.