April 5th 1976
“…and hoooo-ooold it there. Sorry, boys, I wasn’t full on.” Damon’s Telecaster made a sad, metallic gurgle as his fingers left the strings. “Can we try it again, only not so fast, right? And Leon, man, you’ve gotta— You know, you’re not feelin’ it, man? All right? So let’s try to concentrate. All right. Once more.”
He counted off into the grim, irritable disquiet, apparently oblivious to the face Leon pulled behind his back. Joss tossed off a big double roll and struck up the rhythm, his muttered comment about human metronomes almost lost under the drawl of Charlie sliding into the bass riff. Leon wrinkled his nose and concentrated on his Les Paul. He knew how to play the damn song. He’d written it. Or had Day forgotten about that? Seemed like he managed to forget a lot of shit when he tried. Leon frowned and made the awkward chord change Day had wanted to include. Maybe it didn’t matter, the forgetting. Y’know. ’Cos… if the past was only something you remembered—like how you remembered being that person at that time, even if you weren’t anymore—who could say whether it had really been real or not?
Yeah. So maybe nothin’ mattered. Maybe nothin’ was real.
He hit a duff note on the D string and stared down at his hands like they had nothing to do with him. Dream It Better ground to a crunching, uncomfortable halt for the eighth time in almost as many bars, and it took Leon a while to realise Damon had started yelling at him.
“…sake, y’know? I can’t always be, like, checking it, y’know, man? ’Cos, when I’m singing I can’t, like, telepathically… fuckin’…. Y’know?”
Leon shook his head, still gazing at the Les Paul’s neck. A variety of dings and scratches marked the mahogany, and the binding looked a little whacked these days. He loved this guitar.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “S’easy to blow it, I know. Sorry.”
“Well, that ain’t the point, man. I mean….”
Damon drew a breath, preparing to really let rip. Not fair, Leon thought vaguely. He heard Charlie scoff, set his bass down, and reach for the bottle of scotch that stood by his foot.
“Tin hats on, lads,” Charlie said cheerfully. “I think the lovebirds are gonna have a tiff.”
Leon glared at him. He turned to glare at Day as well, but he wasn’t paying attention, distracted into a general complaint—directed at the glass wall—that the tone didn’t sound punchy enough. They intended to do something about that, right? Cris took his cigarette out of his mouth and waved in wordless assurance, but Day had already hit his flow. The sound engineer rolled his eyes. Leon’s gaze fell to Joss instead, and softened a bit. Joss gave him a small, tucked-up smile.
“I thought it was all right, actually,” he volunteered.
Charlie’s snort of laughter wasn’t quite stifled by the scotch bottle. Leon curled his fingers back on the fretboard, back where everything made sense, and moved a shape further up the neck. Doors opened, on and off: Cris coming in to calm Day down, Joss pushing away from his kit and going out for a smoke… behind the glass, Inez got up and excused herself. Leon popped a couple of strings, and the partial chord echoed sweetly through the scuffle of voices.
“Inez?” Damon leaned past Cris and called after her even as the studio door swung shut. “Inez? Where you goin’, girl?”
Leon tried another partial version of the same shape; it sounded better. The melody, they’d had for years. Used to play it as an eight bar blues back when they were still gigging pubs down Jamaica Road. Everything was different now: the time signature, at least half the lyrics, the goddamn key… but the tune itself had stayed unchanged.
Day dumped his Telecaster off on Cris and left, abrupt and hot on Inez’s trail. Leon didn’t know why he kept dragging her down here. She didn’t care about the music. Cris put the guitar aside, clapped his hands, and looked around the room with a glassy and slightly desperate optimism.
“Let’s take a lunch break, huh? What do we say, boys? Who feels like Chinese?”
A half-hearted murmur of assent sounded from the remaining bits of the band, and the sound engineer cleared his throat, a crackle across the com.
“Uh… ’scuse me? I’m still on the clock, right? ’Cos, y’know, it’s an hourly rate, man, and—”
“Yes,” Cris snapped. “Fine. You can wear a party hat and order triple prawn balls for all I care. Just…. God. Play me back that last take, will ya?”
Leon sighed and slipped out, glad to leave the clunking drumbeat and the mistimed riffs behind him, discordant reminders of failure and stubborn pride. Charlie started to hold forth about how much better it would be if they did it his way, or even better dropped the song altogether, because it just didn’t have the character the new album deserved and, incidentally, had anyone heard what he’d been working on at the weekend? Leon grabbed an abandoned soda on his way out into the corridor and rummaged in his pocket. He’d been necking Tueys on and off since before the session started and he thought twice about swallowing the last one. It nestled comfortably in his palm, its little blue and red jacket cheerful, like a child’s sweet. He knocked it back with the dregs of flat soda and tried not to listen to Damon’s voice, faintly strained and out of tune on the tape.
Sometimes I dream about it baby
I dream dream dream it better
Better better better than it ever was with you….
The door closed on the sound.
Voices. Funny things, when you thought about it. He could hear two of them now, echoing along the corridor. Day and Inez. Leon realised, with slight concern, that he was about to walk into one of those marital… thingies. He loitered at the corner, stuck somewhere between forward and back.
“I don’t know why you even bothered to ask me!”
Inez sounded angry, her voice rising in pitch. From Damon’s tone, Leon guessed he’d have his hands up in that semi-innocent, soothe-the-beast pose.
“Baby, I’m doing what you wanted, ain’t I? I’m working. All the new material, the… commercial stuff. We done Supersonic, Pops—we’re doing this German crap next month. I thought you cared about that. You said—”
“I said you should be pushing yourself more, not pimping yourself! Have you even seen what you look like?”
Leon winced. This didn’t sound like it would end well. Also, the Tueys were kicking in harder. He took a last swig from the soda can.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How much of my eyeshadow are you wearing?”
“What?”
“You heard. Anyway, I was there when you were putting it on this morning. You look like a complete—”
“Hey, hey… all this shit is an allusion, baby. I—”
Inez loosed an exasperated sigh.
“It’s an il-lusion, you prat! Christ, Damon…. You look like an idiot, you sound like an idiot, and I don’t want to waste one more minute of my day listening to the four of you having a pissing contest over some stupid song that’s still going to sound bloody awful when you’re done!”
Leon closed his eyes at the sound of a slap on flesh.
You stupid bastard….
He ventured a peep around the corner. Inez stood on the opposite side of the corridor from Day, tight-lipped but wide-eyed, her hand clasped to her jaw. Close-fitting green cord flares accentuated the length of her legs and the slimness of her hips. The top half of her body quivered with righteous indignation, emphasized by the sheer fabric and fripperous bow of her high-necked secretary blouse. Her dark hair had started to escape from its elegant chignon. Damon reached out to her, but she backed away.
“I didn’t mean that, babe. I’m sorry, I—”
“You do that again, I’ll kill you. I mean it.”
Leon held his breath. Stars seeped around the edge of his vision for a moment. Inez looked furious. She took the hand away from her face; no red mark, though she glanced at her fingertips like she expected somehow to see blood. Damon shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes.”
“Inez….”
She sighed deeply. Leon wasn’t close enough to see her eyes, but from the texture of that breath, he guessed her mascara had probably started to run.
“Look, baby, it’s just all this… y’know? It’s gonna be over soon. I promise.”
Leon frowned. What did that mean? They’d barely started the new album. He knew that. Piles of work to do. Then they had meetings coming up in the summer for the contract renewal. Cris said it was gonna be great—cool terms, bumps in all their perks—but… Inez was smart enough to know that, wasn’t she? Did Day really think he could bullshit her?
Inez sniffled. Damon drew her into a hug, stroked the lost wisps of hair, bound his arms tight around her.
“I just miss you.” Inez’s words sounded choked and hoarse. She put her hands on his shoulders and levered herself backwards. “You, not… this.”
Day nodded. Leon wished he could see his face.
“You shouldn’t have to put up with all the shit that goes into it, love. You don’t…. Look, d’you want me to take you back to the flat?”
“I’ll manage. You’re busy.”
“All right. I won’t be long. Promise.”
He kissed her; soft at first, but not chaste for long. Leon rocked back around the corner and took a couple of steps away from the… stuff… before he swayed into the wall. Ow. The soda can fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor.
“All right, mate?”
He jumped at the sound of Joss’ voice, coming as it did through cotton wool and the comforting Tuinal blindfold.
“Wh— Yeah. Yeah, I’m just… um. Yeah.”
“Feelin’ no pain?” Joss smirked.
“Uh.” Leon curled his lip. “Hey, c’n I bum a smoke?”
“Sure.”
Joss flipped him pack and lighter and smiled, a look of slight enquiry on his face. Leon lit up and took a long, thoughtful pull.
It’s gonna be over soon.
Damon wouldn’t do that. Would he?
* * *
He took longer than he said he would, obviously. He always did.
By the time Damon rolled in, Inez had not only gone back to the flat, she’d made some phone calls, done a spot of shopping, and cooked dinner. Played the good little wifey. The thought made her feel slightly queasy as she slopped pasta with mushrooms, scampi, and a cheese sauce onto two plates. She left his to desiccate in the oven and took hers over to the orange chenille sofa.
The flat wasn’t much more than a comfortably appointed crash pad. Avocado walls, chocolate paintwork… thick shag pile carpet, and a purple rug in front of the fire. He kept two black-and-white photos from their wedding on the mantel; perfect couple in silver frames, accusatory stares boring into the dim room. She turned them to the wall when… well, it was silly. Not as if they could really watch.
Inez ate her dinner and washed up the plate. She could have gone out to eat, she supposed. She just didn’t like going alone. More eyes, probing and questioning. More… awkwardness. She flopped back down on the sofa and found an episode of Thriller to stare mindlessly at. Her cheek still stung when she remembered to think about it.
His key scraped in the lock. On the TV, footsteps echoed against dark streets, and a woman screamed in the gloom.
“All right, darlin’?”
Inez lifted a hand above the back of the sofa and wriggled her fingers in greeting. “I’m over here. Dinner in the oven.”
Damon crossed to her, hands descending to her shoulders for a conciliatory backrub, and planted a kiss in her hair.
“You all right, though?” he asked again.
She smelled the liquor on him, beneath the heavy scent of his aftershave.
“Mm.”
“You wanna go out anywhere? Wanna—”
“No.”
“’K.”
He sloped off, leaving the air cold behind him. Inez burrowed down into the itchy, musty fabric of the cushions. Day clattered about in the kitchenette, then came to sit beside her with the plate balanced on one knee. She pretended the TV held more of her attention that it really did. He ate quickly, like he’d not seen solid food all day. He probably hadn’t. She recalled grilled grapefruit served to her in bed this morning, and toast, with lashings of the hot, sweet tea he made, almost strong enough to hold the spoon vertical. After that… who knew? She’d seen him go for days on nothing but cigarettes, tea, and digestive biscuits before. He said he couldn’t afford to get fat.
She cleared her throat as he went to rinse the plate.
“When are you seeing Vince again?”
“Monday. D’you want a brew?”
“Mm.”
He put the kettle on. More tea. Inez bit her thumbnail thoughtfully.
“What are you going to tell them? The others.”
Day set the cups on the Ercol coffee table and sat down once more beside her, arm along the back of the sofa. He’d shed his velvet jacket, clad now in just his jeans and a dark blue skinny rib crewneck, the fabric worn to softness and impregnated with the overlapping scents of his day. His hair had turned frizzy and bedraggled… he looked tired, she realised.
“Nothin’, not yet. Not ’til I know for certain. You know how these blokes are, yeah? Won’t know for sure. Not yet. Could all go south still. You won’t mention it, will ya?”
“No. ’Course not.”
He raised his hand, played idly with her hair. “Good girl.”
“They won’t take it well.”
He stifled a yawn. “Mmn.”
“Leon won’t, especially.”
“They’ll unnerstan’,” Day mumbled after a while. Even he didn’t sound convinced. “For the best, yeah?”
Inez stared at the TV. His fingers stilled in her hair.
“Day?”
There was no reply. Inez looked over at her husband. His head had lolled back, turned a little towards her; his eyes drooped closed, and his breathing grew soft. He looked peaceful like that, as if the constant churning drive that kept him going had dropped down a gear, some internal motor room slackened off for the weekend. His chest rose and fell with a deepening, regular rhythm. Inez watched it—watched him—for longer than she meant to.
After a while, she shunted along the sofa and, quietly and gently, so as not to wake him, she laid her head next to his, close enough for his breath to warm her face. Inez rested her arm across his chest and stayed there, in this strange parody of an embrace, until cramp screamed in her neck.