Storms (27 page)

So I tried to make up for it in other ways. I read every book I could get my hands on—I loved to read and this, at least, came naturally to me. Every year, I would pull down the lone A on my report card in English class—which kind of offset the perpetual C- I'd get in math. In the second grade, I fell in love with rock ‘n' roll. I begged for Beatles albums and, later, Doors records, and I'd carry them over to my girlfriends' houses where we'd play them nonstop. In the sixth grade, I took a picture of John Lennon to a hair salon and had my hair cut into the classic “Beatle cut”—which, of course, looked ridiculous—and I spent all of junior high school trying to grow it out.

Carol Ann, second-grade class photo.

I would fall asleep each night with a transistor radio tuned to the one and only underground station in Tulsa. Every night, I would hear Creedence Clearwater Revival, Cream, the Kinks, Led Zeppelin, Ten Years After, and every other amazing band from the 1960s. I wasn't that interested in the band members themselves—with the exception of the Beatles in the sixth grade—I just wanted to hear the music. And by high school graduation, rock ‘n' roll had become one of the most important things in my life.

Along with my best friend Lori, I was at every single concert ever given in Tulsa. I saw Jefferson Airplane, Three Dog Night, Gene Pitney, Joe Cocker with the Mad Dogs & Englishmen, and Grand Funk Railroad four times. Tulsa wasn't exactly a highlight stop for any band on tour back then, but if
a band came to our hometown, Lori and I were there. My group of friends in high school were the kids who, like myself, grew their hair long, wore ripped-up jeans, and did everything to mimic the hippies that we so longed to be, but weren't because of our young age. And that's what led me to leave Tulsa three days after graduation. Lori and I wanted to be in the one place that seemed to be the mecca for all things rock ‘n' roll—Los Angeles.

And now, in my photo shoots with Charles Bush, I'd found the one thing that I never thought I ever would—the chance to feel beautiful and special—and it meant everything to me. Holding those photographs in my hand fulfilled a childhood fantasy that I'd never, ever imagined would be filled—I looked like the girls in the fashion magazines. And after growing up as a middle child in a family of eight women, being the center of attention in the photography studio was a really big deal.

Within a few years Charles Bush would have an exhibition at the Los Angeles County Art Museum of one thousand of his favorite photographs. It was a prestigious honor befitting his status in the world of art and fashion. And hanging right next to pictures of Rene Russo and Cheryl Tiegs, one of the world's first supermodels, was a large photograph of me taken at one of his shoots. The title of the exhibition was
Girls of Our Dreams
and to this day I'm still amazed that I was a small part of it.

Lindsey seemed pleased with my decision to pursue modeling, and even though he called me constantly while I was in the photography studio, he seemed to accept my friendship with Bjorn. The fact that Bjorn was gay was a huge contributing factor to Lindsey's acceptance of him. To me, modeling seemed like the perfect career choice: I could be creative
and
I could have something of my own outside the world of Fleetwood Mac.

From the beginning I decided that no matter how many doors the name “Fleetwood Mac” could open for me, I wanted to try to make it in modeling on my own. Either I would have what it took or I wouldn't, but I knew that if I didn't do it the hard way—that is, without relying on Fleetwood Mac's power and status in the entertainment industry—then it wouldn't mean anything. And if didn't mean anything, then what was the point?

Sure enough, Bjorn had already decided to turn me into a “glamour girl” at the Grammys. We spent two days shopping for the perfect dress and shoes. Bjorn borrowed a silver fox stole from Alice Cooper's ex-girlfriend Cindy, one of his other protégées, and I was all set.

On the morning of the show he arrived three hours before departure time to do my hair and makeup and even applied black eyeliner on Lindsey. It looked amazing on him, making his blue eyes seem a little demonic. That night it proved to be a perfect touch for the wicked behavior that he displayed at the show.

Four hours later, our limousine pulled up in front of the red carpet at the Grammys. Dressed in his rock ‘n' roll finery, Lindsey looked amazing as he got ready to step out of the car. His fervent wish to live down the AMAs should be easily accomplished tonight—unless, of course, he got wasted behind my back.

Cameras were already flashing as I put one stiletto heel of my new Charles Jourdan shoes out on to the sidewalk and emerged from the interior of the limo. As Lindsey proudly put his arm around me, I started the long walk with him down the red carpet. I was wearing a long, black lace dress with an underlining that stopped about three inches below my underwear. After that it was completely see-through. Complementing my perfect 1930s-glamour makeup, my hair cascaded over my shoulders in tiny, crimped-looking “angel waves” that were crowned with a small ponytail on the top of my head. Bjorn had wrapped my ponytail in black velvet ribbon that was, I had to admit, a lot like Suzanne Somers's trademark ponytail. Yet this variation looked, I hoped, completely rock ‘n' roll on me.

Paparazzi cameras flashed like lightning as we walked down the red carpet, and for the first time in my life I discovered what it must feel like to be a celebrity. Amid shouts for me to turn this way and that, I smiled and waved as Lindsey took an amused step backward so that the photographers could have an unblocked view of me. Breathless with excitement, we finally made it through the doors and left the crowd behind. Lindsey burst out laughing as he wrapped his arms tightly around me.

“Oh my God, Lindsey!” I said. “I can't believe that just happened! Of course, the poor things are in for a shock when they take their pictures back to their editors and realize that I'm not a big deal after all.”

“Oh, but you are, angel. You're my lady and the most important woman in my life. The best part of the night is yet to come—you're about to give the entire band a heart attack. Are you ready to go in?” Lindsey whispered into my ear.

With a smile, a nod, and a deep breath, I walked through the heavy doors of the auditorium, clinging to his arm. Everyone stared as we passed by. After all, Lindsey was instantly recognizable as the megastar that he was, and I felt like a fairy-tale princess as we walked down the aisle to our seats. When we reached the front rows, the entire band was staring at us with their mouths open.

John McVie was the first to speak. “Carol, you look like a star … Well done, m'dear!”

Mick let out a low wolf whistle, Richard Dashut beamed, and Stevie—well, Stevie was not so thrilled. She stared at me with shock and a dangerous glint in her eyes as she rose to her feet. She had chosen a somewhat 1950s look for her makeup, her hair was loose and very, very curly, and she was wearing one of her short stage jackets and skirts. It was an unusual moment for her and me. At every single Fleetwood Mac show, Stevie was always dressed in her fabulous stage clothes with perfect makeup and hair. I, on the other hand, usually looked nice, but there was no way I could compete with her. What woman could? She was a beautiful rock goddess and I was a mere mortal. She was also the ex-girlfriend of the man I loved and I wanted to, just once, look as glamorous as she. And with Bjorn's help I thought I'd managed it.

“Hi, Stevie. You look really nice”, I said softly as I swept by her.

Through gritted teeth she muttered, “Thanks—you, too”, and sat down abruptly, coldly staring daggers at Lindsey and me.

Christine leaned over and whispered, “Man, the two of you look amazing … but, um, Lindsey, is that eyeliner you're wearing?”

Lindsey smirked and answered, “Oh, no, Christine. Absolutely not.”

Because Fleetwood Mac had taken home two of the top honors at the AMAs and had the number-one album in the country, as well as a hugely successful concert tour under its belt, the gigantic television cameras at the Grammys seemed to be constantly panning our row of seats. But I knew that it wasn't only in deference to the band's status. After the AMAs it was a sure bet that they were hoping to catch Lindsey in another social faux pas to liven up the broadcast. The band was on its best behavior, obviously hoping that this time around, no scandalous scenes would have to be edited out before millions of people watched the telecast. And, just as
importantly, that no scandalous scenes would be played out before the eyes of the music business's elite.

Almost everyone had kept their drug and alcohol intake to a minimum before the show—after all, there would be plenty of time for that at the celebration parties later that night. But drugs or no drugs, Lindsey would find a way to make a scene. And he would prove within minutes that he didn't give a shit that we were surrounded by the living legends of the music world.

But I, less than six years out of Tulsa, Oklahoma, was not quite as blasé. Sitting in the fifth row, we were seated among the most famous people in the entertainment industry, and I couldn't help but be awed. Bette Midler, Tony Bennett, David Bowie—they were all sitting in sartorial splendor in the seats around us. As I glanced over my shoulder I saw Barbra Streisand settling into her aisle seat two rows behind and not more than ten feet away from us. Her famous nose seemed to accentuate her beauty rather than detract from it and I couldn't help but stare and marvel that I was sitting so friggin' close to her.

I nudged Lindsey with my elbow and he followed my gaze and winked at me as he whispered into my ear, “Pretty cool, huh? This audience makes the AMAs look like a poor man's barbecue. Hey! Check it out! Here comes Kenny Rogers!”

Suddenly Lindsey's sedate whisper rose in volume to a level that must have reverberated throughout the entire area in which we were sitting. “Oh my God! Look at the fuckin' pancake makeup he's wearing! It's gotta be four inches thick! Oh, man! Richard, take a look at Kenny Rogers!”

As Richard followed Lindsey's pointing finger with his eyes, he burst into hysterical laughter, which, of course, only egged Lindsey on. Kenny Rogers, now standing in the aisle before the second-row seats in front of us, turned and glared at Lindsey. It was a glare that reminded me of the one that Dick Clark leveled at him in the puke-filled interior of his office.

Uh-oh. Here we go again … shit!
I thought miserably. I watched a devilish gleam shining from Lindsey's eyes—a gleam that always heralded a sarcastic tirade of the highest order, for Lindsey was a master of sarcasm. It was a trait that he and I shared, but nevertheless, I really, really didn't want to have my fairy-tale night spoiled by a fistfight between Kenny Rogers and my man. I placed a restraining hand on Lindsey's arm,
but it was no use: he was enjoying himself far too much to give a rat's ass about decorum.

“Kenny, hey, Kennnnny! Man, love your makeup! Really, you look great, cowboy!”

Lindsey was standing up now, arms crossed in front of him as he nodded and smiled, waiting for an answer from Rogers. I glared down the aisle as Richard giggled hysterically, Christine let out a loud guffaw, and John sardonically nodded in approval at Lindsey. Every one of them was enjoying Lindsey's impious performance. I, too, was having a hard time keeping a straight face—but I knew that if I didn't, then God only knew what Lindsey might say next. Not even someone like Streisand would be safe if Lindsey got on a roll. And somehow, I was more afraid of tiny Barbra's retaliation than that of Kenny Rogers any day. She was a lady, I'd heard, that
nobody
fucked with.

“Lindsey, for God's sake! Please sit down! Jeez, Lindsey, I'm begging you—
please
, please, please sit down!” I whispered desperately as I stood up and pulled his head close to mine as though I could will him back down into his chair by my desperate grip on his hair. Smiling crookedly at me, he shrugged and allowed himself to be none too gently shoved back into his seat by my now sweaty hands.

“Jesus, Lindsey! Behave yourself!” Trying hard not to laugh, I gave him a schoolmarm's stare of disapproval as he continued to eye the back of Kenny Rogers's head after the country singer had sat down.

“Kenny! Hey, Kenny! Dig the makeup!” Lindsey barked out suddenly, sounding just like a disembodied voice from the heavens. Richard was laughing so hard by now that I worried he might choke. I leaned my head back against my seat and wearily closed my eyes. My plan for a starry night was rapidly going up in smoke as I listened to the sniggers and laughter moving up and down our row of family members.

Suddenly I felt Lindsey's fingertips under my chin, gently holding my face. Opening my eyes, I saw a chastened look on his features as he clearly realized that I was suffering at the thought of saying goodbye to my dream night at the Grammys. “Sorry, baby. I'll behave, I promise. I promise I won't do anything to spoil this night for you, OK? But, hey, you gotta admit that Kenny Rogers must have a pretty damn awesome supply of pancake makeup, huh? Bjorn would die if he could see him! I don't know
a lot about makeup, but Jesus, if I ever wear makeup like that, just kill me. Promise? Just shoot me and put me out of my misery.”