House of Sticks (12 page)

Mel turned her glass in its saucer. ‘Does she want kids, do you know?'

‘No idea. She's never shown much interest in mine. And she did stuff like ask me to play a show only about three weeks after the twins were born.' She shook her head. ‘She doesn't have a 
clue
what it's like, to have kids.'

‘Yeah, let alone newborn twins. But, in a way, that's kind of great, don't you think — that she didn't just give up on you.'

‘Yeah, of course. It is, it's actually really cool. And she's — she always has been — so encouraging of me, just in the most practical way, by, well, offering me work.'

There was a pause. Bonnie shrugged. ‘I think she's just — probably because she is so talented and beautiful — she's just got really good at keeping her distance. As a way of protecting herself, because so many people want a bit of her. And maybe there are special people she chooses to let in. But I'm not one of them.'

‘Oh well.' Mel raised her glass. ‘Here's to being ordinary.'

Bonnie stood in front of the bathroom mirror and turned from side to side. It was no good. She could get into her old jeans but she looked ridiculous. Her thighs like sausages in their casings. She went back to the bedroom and found tights and a skirt. Her old boots with the heels that she never wore any more. Returned to the mirror. Searched through the cabinet for earrings and a necklace, eyeliner, mascara.

‘What're you doing, Mum?' It was Louie.

‘Getting ready.'

‘What for?'

She used her fingertips to remove a clump of mascara and stepped back. She had a last look in the mirror. She squatted down next to Louie and put her arms around him. ‘I'm going to work today.'

‘With Dad?'

‘No. With Mickey. Remember Mickey? Who I used to play music with?'

Louie nodded but seemed uncomprehending.

‘Well, anyway, a long time ago — before Jess was born, and even before you were born too — I used to play my guitar with Mickey in her band. And now she's asked me to play with her again. So today I'm going to a recording studio.'

‘Who's going to look after us?'

‘Dad. He's taken the day off.' She kissed Louie's cheek and stood up. ‘So you've got the whole day with Dad — what a treat.'

Still he stood uncertainly. ‘But what about Jess?'

‘Dad's going to look after her too.'

Louie frowned. ‘Does he know how to look after babies?'

She turned back to the mirror. ‘Yes, he does know how to look after babies. He looked after you when you were a baby. Lots of times.'

‘But how will he feed her?'

‘He's got some milk in a bottle for her. You know how I've been using that special pump to get the milk out of my boobs?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well, I've been saving the milk up so Jess can have it from a bottle while I'm not here.' She smoothed Louie's hair. ‘We used to do the same thing for you and Edie when you were babies, sometimes.'

‘Can I have some of that milk?'

Bonnie laughed. ‘If there's some left you can. Ask Dad. But it doesn't taste very nice.'

‘Oh.' Louie took her hand. Then, in a happy voice he said, ‘I've got an idea. I'll just taste a little bit. And if it's not nice I can spit it out.'

Bonnie parked around the corner from the studio. She sat for a moment and ran her fingers through her hair. Straightened her tights and fixed her top. She got out of the car and opened the boot. Slid out the guitar case and her gear bag. Reached in and gripped the handles of the amp, eased it down over the lip of the boot, one thigh up to take some of the weight. Then she braced her arms and, guiltily, what was left of her stomach muscles, swung it out and set it on its wheels on the ground. Stacked the guitar and gear bag on top.

It was almost a relief to have something heavy to push. Without the amp she imagined she'd feel light, weird, unburdened. Like she'd forgotten something.
Don't think about it
, said a voice in her head, but it was too late, the telltale shooting sensation went through her nipples and she felt in the cold air the milk soaking through her bra and top. She stopped and looked down. Two dark circular wet patches. She'd forgotten breast pads. She did her jacket up and kept pushing.

A man came to the door of the office.

‘I'm here for Mickey?' She felt her face flush in the heated building, sweat break out under her arms.

‘Studio Two,' said the man, pointing down the hall.

‘Thanks.' Bonnie set off, trundling her load. Her heart was thumping. This was ridiculous. How many times had she done this before? She passed all the posters of various glammed-up singers posturing with microphones or guitars and the framed platinum and gold records with scribbled autographs, the shelves of gleaming trophies. Everything looked so hard and shiny. Her feet and the wheels of her amp made no noise on the plush carpet.

The door was ajar. She pushed it open. The bright control room, the engineer's back, the spread of the desk with its rows and rows of faders and knobs and buttons. The expensive leather couch.

‘Hi!' Mickey jumped up and hugged her.

‘Hi.' She accepted the hug awkwardly, trying to wipe the sweat from her upper lip.

‘How you doing?' Mickey let go of her and stood back.

‘Good, thanks. Yeah, good.'

‘Well.' Mickey plopped back onto the couch. ‘Let's get down to business.'

Bonnie sat in the half-dark. The room was small. Her amp took up most of the space. There was one overhead light that shone in a pool on the microphone and her feet on the rung of the chair. She shrugged off her jacket at last and threw it into the corner. Settled the guitar in her lap.

‘And loud again, please,' came the engineer's voice through the headphones. She reached down with her foot, clicked on the overdrive pedal and hit a few chords. She looked through the window at the engineer bent over the desk. Behind him she could see the top of Mickey's head, the back of the low-slung couch. ‘And now just some picking,' came the voice.

She moved her fingers over the strings, flicked the plectrum up and down. She fumbled some notes. She hated hearing just the guitar with no other instruments — imagining it blaring out into the control room, loud and bare through the big speakers.

‘Okay,' said the engineer. ‘I think we're ready. You've got a volume control there but if you want to change the mix you'll need to tell me, okay?'

‘Okay.' She heard her own voice, choking, too clear, coming back through the headphones.

‘So let me know if you want to stop and change anything, but I might as well roll from the beginning, okay?'

‘Okay.'

There was a moment of silence, and she heard her own indrawn breath, through her nose, a slight whistle.
Come on
. Another breath, another whistle, and then there it was. Just the tiniest whisper of white noise at first — amp hiss, cables, connections, microphones, the sound of everything ready to make sound — and then a stray voice, Mickey's, faint, spill from a guitar amp maybe — ‘We rolling?' — and a count-in, and Mickey's rhythm guitar strumming, rolling through the chords, warm and open and regular. It was a bit slower than the demo version. Bonnie listened for a few seconds, nodding to get the feel of it. Then she hit a couple of notes to test the two guitars together, picked a little chain of melody that snaked itself across the spaces between three of Mickey's strums. She fiddled with the volume knob on the console next to her chair, pulled one side of the headphones half off so she could have some of the real sound of her amp in the room. The drums kicked in, and the bass, and Bonnie looked down at the worn neck of her guitar, the shine on the frets from where her fingers had touched so many times, and she dropped her shoulders and slid into the song and away.

She did two takes of the first song: one with more picking during the verses and one with less. She didn't make any mistakes. Then they moved on to the second song. She swooped through it, note perfect. The third song she had an idea to use a different sound: ultra-distorted with lots of reverb, but not too loud, so it washed through the other instruments at times and at others hovered in the background. She tried to explain it through the mic, hesitatingly, cringing again at her amplified voice. ‘What do you reckon?' she said, squinting up at the window.

Mickey's face popped up behind the engineer's shoulder. ‘Do it,' she said, and waved. ‘Sounding like a million bucks in here.' Making a big thumbs-up.

Bonnie smiled and reached to her amp. ‘I'll just get this sound.'

‘She's good,' she heard the engineer say to Mickey, before he took his finger off the talk button.

They did the third song and stopped for lunch. Someone had ordered sandwiches. They sat at a big table in the room adjoining the kitchen. There was a feeling of space after the boxy studio rooms. A long window opened onto a courtyard full of clumps of plants with big, fleshy leaves that swayed in the wind.

Bonnie felt like she was floating, disconnected. Like this was a dream, another world, her sitting in this uncluttered room, eating food prepared by someone else. The gently hissing coffee machine. The rows of cups somebody was paid to wash up.

‘It's sounding so good,' said Mickey. She squeezed Bonnie's arm. ‘I'm so glad you could do it.'

‘Yeah, it's great,' said the engineer. ‘The sound you got for that last track was amazing.'

She smiled back at both of them. She couldn't remember his name, but it didn't matter. There was a pleasant tiredness in her body, and she was incredibly hungry. She took a bite of sandwich.

‘So,' said Mickey, leaning on her elbows and pushing her row of clunky bangles up and down one forearm. ‘Want to play some shows? I've got an east-coast tour coming up in a couple of weeks. Haven't decided yet about a lead guitarist.'

Bonnie looked out at the slow bending and dipping of the plants. Inside her head she put herself on those planes and in those hotels and vans and backstage rooms. And on those stages, under the hot lights. Feeling the bass and the kick drum beneath her, cymbals cutting through bright and high, the crack of the snare. Her amp at her back, Mickey's over on the other side of the drum kit, the swell of the two guitars like a tide they all rode on. Keyboards rippling.

‘Bon?' Mickey was watching her. ‘Or is it too soon?'

She kept her eyes on the window. Right then she wanted to do it so badly it was like an urge, like wanting to have sex when she was ovulating, or needing to push the baby out in labour. She bit her lip. Wrenched her eyes away from the plants and glanced at her chest. The milk had dried, leaving two very faint marks. She folded her arms. ‘Yeah,' she said. ‘It is too soon. God, I really want to. But. I just can't — Jess is still so little. I mean, I have to feed her all the time. And Pete's got lots of work on.' She met Mickey's eyes. ‘But it's not just that. Even if I could go I don't think I — I'm just not ready to leave Jess.'

Mickey smiled. She picked up her pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. ‘That's fine. Just let me know when you are ready.'

‘Okay.'

Mickey went to the courtyard door. She stopped, flicking her lighter. ‘You know,' she said. ‘You could just do a couple of shows. You could bring Jess — couldn't you get a babysitter? At the hotel?'

‘I don't know.' She pressed her arms close to her breasts. The mention of Jess had set them off again.

‘Think about it.' Mickey winked, stuck the cigarette between her lips and slipped out into the wind.

She opened the front door. ‘Mummy!' she heard the twins call, and then their thudding footsteps. She set down her guitar and bags and knelt, put her arms out.

‘Hi, you guys.' She kissed their faces, their hair, breathed their wild, sweet smell. ‘How's it going?'

‘Good.' Edie started playing with the latches on the guitar case. ‘Dad took us to the park. And he gave us chocolates.'

‘Did he?' Bonnie could hear Jess in the kitchen, whingeing. She had to get to her. ‘Come on,' she said, taking the twins' hands. ‘Let's go and see what Dad and Jess are doing.'

Pete was washing vegetables at the sink. Jess was in her baby chair, kicking and grizzling. Bonnie picked her up. ‘You're hungry,' she said, and sat down. ‘And I really need to feed you.' She pulled up her top, unclipped her bra and latched Jess on to one of her hard, over-full breasts. ‘That's better.' Bonnie leaned back. She watched Edie and Louie, who were putting stickers onto the blank pages of a scrapbook and drawing around them with crayons.

‘How'd you go?' Pete came over and kissed her, touched her neck with his damp hand.

‘So good. I was so nervous, but then it just … came back.' She stroked Jess's head. ‘I forgot how much I love it.'

‘That's great.' Pete returned to the sink. ‘See? I told you.'