Storms (32 page)

I held up my hand to cut off Bjorn's words. I didn't want to hear them—and I didn't want to talk about it. I
couldn't
talk about it. All I wanted to do was finish the shoot as quickly as possible and be alone. In spite of Lindsey's anger toward me, I felt a fierce protectiveness toward him and I couldn't bear to hear anyone criticize him—not even Bjorn, my closest friend.

“I'm fine. Really. Let's just finish this, all right? I'm sorry I ruined your makeup, Bjorn. Lindsey's just tired, that's all. I just want to finish the shoot, OK? Please?”

With a sigh and a shrug Bjorn forced a smile onto his face and nodded at me. As he went about touching up my makeup, he chattered and laughed, trying to distract me from the reality of what had just happened upstairs. Grateful for his understanding, I was soon standing in front of the camera again, ready to shoot the last roll of film. But the excitement and happiness that I'd felt only hours before was now gone—replaced with a feeling that I was posing for a senseless photograph of a blonde holding a record to her chest. And now that perfect heart-shaped red record seemed to taunt me as I picked it up to pose once again for the cameras. Staring at it, I wanted to throw it on the floor and watch it shatter.

I moved automatically to follow the directions from Bjorn and Andy, my mind wandering as the camera clicked away. The echo of Lindsey's words seemed to dim all the thrill of my first real booking as a model. Instead I felt ridiculous about being excited over an ad in a magazine.

And as the light strobes flashed from Andy's camera, my thoughts made a mockery of what was happening that very minute.
I don't know what's
wrong. If Lindsey isn't proud of me, if Lindsey hates what I'm doing so much that he could scream at me the way he just did, then it really isn't worth it, is it? I've probably been kidding myself all along—my modeling career isn't going to go anywhere. I probably don't have what it takes. And that's what Lindsey meant with his horrible words. He must have been trying to tell me something—that kind of anger doesn't just come from out of nowhere. I mean, if he isn't proud of me, if he thinks so little of what I'm doing that he can throw my pictures on the ground, then he obviously doesn't believe in me. Maybe I'm just not beautiful enough … not skilled enough … or special enough to be one of the few who actually make it as a model.

After Bjorn and Andy left I turned off the lights in the living room and climbed the shadowy staircase to the master bedroom, exhausted by the intense emotions that still screamed through my mind. A career in modeling seemed somehow more meaningless with every step that I took toward Lindsey, who was waiting behind the closed doors of our bedroom. Hesitating in front of the solid oak door, I took a deep breath, straightened my tense shoulders, and tried to get my thoughts under control.

I need to think long and hard about it while we're on the road, and make a decision about what to do. After all, I have a lot more important things to think of than my so-called modeling career. Fleetwood Mac is going on the road and Lindsey's going to need me—and starting tomorrow, I'm going to devote every minute of every day to him and only him. Because that's gotta come first. And who cares anyway? Is posing for a picture important? No.

As I turned the handle, opened the door, and saw Lindsey's sleeping body lying on top of the covers of our bed, a tiny, stubborn voice continued to whisper:
But believing in yourself is … believing in yourself is the most important thing in the world.
Shaking the voice out of my head, I quickly stripped, slipped into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

It was wonderful being back on the road for the last leg of the
Rumours
tour. Neither Lindsey nor I had spoken of what happened the night of the magazine shoot only a week before. Instead, we concentrated on the here and now—and that here and now was being on tour again with the band. Anyway, the past months at home had been wonderful in so many different ways: having heart-to-heart talks with Lindsey about his new music and then sharing in the excitement and thrill as he created new songs—and, of course, working with Bjorn on my portfolio. But I was more than ready to leave the intensity of that time behind me.

It was a relief to be back in familiar territory, back to where Lindsey and I focused all of our attention completely on the band and the shows. And I realized that I'd missed sharing that
outwardly
directed intensity with him. It was an intensity that had, from my very first days on the road with him, created a special bond between us, a bond that had made us an inseparable team.

John McVie at soundcheck.

After two weeks on the road the novelty of touring was beginning to wear off. It was all becoming routine again. But, unlike the marathon tour jags in the months before, the band now had something to look forward to that wasn't just routine: planning the next Fleetwood Mac album.

In the concert venues and on the plane, the band members began to speak of matters that never failed to electrify all of them: the new recording studio and the upcoming album. Everyone was excited. Everyone seemed pleased and content with what they foresaw as just one big party in the band's new Disneyland: Studio D at Village Recorder.

Mick Fleetwood at soundcheck.

Everyone, that is, except Lindsey. Like the others, Lindsey was also looking forward to starting the new album in the studio. But only he and I knew that the sessions were not going to be quite the “party” that the band was expecting.

The heavy weight of the secret that Lindsey was carrying was beginning to show. His smiles were fewer and further between and there was a constant troubled, far-away look in his eyes, as though he were glimpsing an apocalyptic event on the horizon. And I guess he was. Because it was time to tell Mick about the new direction that he'd taken in his songs and the new rules that he wanted to lay down for how they were to be recorded. These were rules that would send the rest of the band into shock and could, in a worst-case scenario, destroy Fleetwood Mac.

Lindsey.

On an overcast afternoon in yet another nameless city somewhere on the East coast, Lindsey was pacing frantically in the living room of our Hilton hotel suite. We had a two-day break between shows and the time had come for Lindsey to speak with Mick about his new songs and his creative decisions about recording them.

It wasn't that he was
afraid
to tell Mick or even that he was having doubts. He completely believed in what he was doing and the new direction
of his music. He was, however, absolutely dreading the scene that he knew was sure to come when he delivered his either/or ultimatum for the new record. I spoke to him in soothing tones, doing my best to reassure him that no matter how Mick reacted, he would, once he'd heard the songs, understand how Lindsey felt, and why.

We both knew, of course, that my assurances were just words to bolster both of us. There was no way that Mick was going to calmly take the news he was about to hear. Throwing himself down on an overstuffed armchair, Lindsey let out a scream of frustration. With a few profound curses he told me (and himself) that he hated feeling bad over telling Mick what he needed to do for his music. Then, without another word, he picked up his jacket and stalked out the door. It was time to face Mick.

Mick Fleetwood.

The air of tension that had been hanging in the room like a black cloud barely dissipated with his departure, since I was every bit as nervous as he was. A part of me wished that I could be by his side when he sat down with Mick, while the other, saner part was grateful that I didn't have to be. I looked at the clock and started counting the minutes until his return. Smoking cigarette after cigarette, I curled up in a corner of an ugly plaid couch and stared out at the dismal gray sky.

I didn't try to imagine what was going on in Mick's room a few floors beneath me. I didn't want to. The mental image of Lindsey sitting on the floor, playing the tapes of his new songs and explaining why he
needed
to do what he
wanted
to do was too painful for me to even think about. We both had known that this day would come, but now that it was happening, the reality of it was harsher than we'd anticipated. And if it was that brutal for me to endure, I didn't even want to imagine what Lindsey was going through downstairs.

After two hours he came quietly into the room. Looking drained and exhausted, he sat down on the floor at my feet and stared up at me with the eyes of a man who'd just fought a hellish battle. Sliding off the couch, I put my arms around him and held him tightly.

“What happened, baby? Can you talk about it? Do you
want
to talk about it?” I whispered.

He nodded and in a halting voice began. He told me that he'd told Mick everything, told him about the new direction that he'd taken in his music, a direction inspired by the radical new bands that we'd been listening to. After playing a few of his songs for Mick, Lindsey had explained to him that he wanted to play every instrument on them
himself
, in the studio—with no help from the band, no “jamming”, and no “constructive criticism” from his four bandmates. He wanted to follow his own creative voice and let it take him down whatever road it would.

The bottom line: he won't do another
Rumours.
And, to put it mildly, Mick was not happy. He was very upset. He pleaded with Lindsey to reconsider, afraid that the decisions that Lindsey had made would ultimately destroy the band. But after two hours of conversation Lindsey hadn't changed his mind.

But that didn't mean that Lindsey himself was not shaken by his talk with Mick. He felt horrible about upsetting Mick, and that was never his intention. He wasn't doing any of this to attack the band: it was all about the music. We both hoped that when Mick had a chance to calm down, he, along with the others, would understand this and work it out with Lindsey.

As I stroked his hair I said, “Lindsey, you did what you had to do. I'm sorry it was so hard, baby. I know that you love the band, and Mick knows it, too. I'm sure he's burning up the phone lines right now to Chris, Stevie, and John. Hopefully, they'll be able to all come to terms with it together. They'll come around. They're not going to risk losing you. And damn, when they hear your songs, they'll see how great the music is.”