Storms (36 page)

The smell of weed also permeated the air and Lindsey automatically walked to Richard to grab the joint out of his hand. Lindsey's wish to have a somewhat sober Richard and Ken in an empty studio to work seriously with him on Christine's mix was obviously completely out the window. It went totally up in smoke when Stevie walked through the door in a shockingly unexpected early appearance in the studio. She was dressed in an outfit that put even her most lavish stage costumes to shame—a long blue velvet skirt covered with crystal beads and a matching jacket. Her clothes sparkled as she walked into the room. To finish it off, she had about four silk and gauze antique scarves wrapped around her neck. She looked as though she were on her way to an after-party at the Academy Awards.

I looked down at my blue jeans, cowboy boots, and black sweater and once again sighed in resignation. Next to her, I looked completely underdressed. Of course, next to her,
everyone
looked completely underdressed.

When I saw the coquettish look she gave to Mick under her eyelashes, I mentally slapped my forehead with the heel of my hand.
No friggin' wonder she's dressed like a friggin' fairy princess. It's for Mick! Damn! She didn't even dress up this much for the gala parties on the road—this should be interesting tonight!
I thought, delighted with the prospect of witnessing the two of them in action.

Lindsey still hadn't said a word to me about Mick and Stevie's affair. He didn't miss much of anything that went on around him, so I knew for a fact that he
had
to be aware of it. I mean, you'd have to be completely in a coma to miss the interaction and chemistry that was flowing between Stevie and the new love of her life. But, aware or not, Lindsey didn't seem concerned. If he were, then I think I would have known. After all, I was with the man twenty-four hours a day.

Upon seeing Stevie, Mick segued from inebriated slob into a suave, debonair Englishman who looked like the cat who'd just caught the canary—with Stevie playing the part of the canary. Richard raised an eyebrow at me and we both smiled wickedly as Stevie sashayed across the room and struck a pose for the benefit of Mr. Fleetwood. After ten minutes, apparently happy with the sensational entrance she'd made, she contentedly came over to the couch and sat down next to me.

Smiling sweetly, she asked how I'd been and, before I knew what was happening, Stevie and I were talking like long-lost girlfriends. And it felt totally natural—it was like all the weirdness, all the competitiveness that existed almost as a matter of course between two women who had shared their lives with the same man was swept away in one minute flat.

Ignoring the guys in the room, we went on and on about clothes, makeup, and the latest gossip about the Fleetwood Mac family—of which there was a lot. Christine's three-year relationship with Curry Grant had ended and Curry had been busy trying to distract himself with just about every available female in the band family. Since it was apparently Chris's decision to end the affair, I felt more than comfortable exchanging stories with Stevie about what
I
had heard of Curry Grant's extracurricular activities. Because obviously, in Christine's opinion, what he did was no longer her problem.

As we compared notes we both realized that (present company excepted, of course) Curry was rapidly making his way through each and every woman in the band's inner circle. With his dashing good looks and enough playboy charm to make George Clooney jealous, he was drowning his sorrows with yet another typical cure for an inner-circle crisis: sex with women who were close enough to be your sisters.

We giggled and gossiped about Curry, but then a familiar voice started up inside my head.
What the hell is the deal with these people? Can't any of them go outside the small circle of people who make up the family and actually sleep with someone who isn't a person their best friends have already slept with?
I didn't say it out loud, of course, since Stevie herself had fallen for Mick Fleetwood, a close friend who once belonged to another family member.
But then again
, I told myself,
Stevie wasn't just sleeping around—she was in love. That did make a difference, didn't it?
As I looked at her happy face I shrugged mentally and assured myself that it did. And anyway, it definitely fit the
Fleetwood Mac code of conduct to
never
go looking outside that charmed circle if you could find what you wanted
inside
of it.

As Stevie and I passed the packet of blow between us I looked up to see Lindsey watching us intently. He smiled and nodded at me, as though telling me that he was glad to see Stevie and me finally having a
real
conversation. And I suddenly realized how nice it was to feel like I wasn't her adversary. For I never had been—not in my eyes anyway.

I wanted us to be friends. Now that she and I were actually speaking to each other, I knew that under any other circumstances we would have been girlfriends the moment we met. We were a lot alike—and yet not. And that was the essence of any great friendship. But as much as I hoped that our new camaraderie would last, I knew better than to count on it. With the history that Stevie and Lindsey shared, it was only a matter of time before I was once again caught in the crossfire.

But until that day came I planned to enjoy my newfound status as “girlfriend” to Stevie. With my sarcastic humor and her equally wicked quick mind, we were indeed, at that moment, a formidable pair of blondes. As though sensing my thoughts, Stevie reached over and gave me a long, heartfelt hug. A stunned silence fell over the room as every man stood frozen, mouth hanging open, as though witnessing a shocking hallucination brought on by their own overuse of the huge amounts of drugs in the studio. As Stevie and I sat and smirked at them, they hastily turned away, as if the sight of us being friends was going to make them spontaneously combust. Or, even worse, sober up.

Suddenly Christine entered the room with the force of a tornado. Talking a mile a minute and throwing her purse on the ground, she surveyed the scene and in two seconds flat saw that every single person in the studio was already whacked. And she was not too happy about it. “Think we can get some work done tonight, boys?” she asked in a tone that left no doubt in the minds of the band's sound engineers that they better get their act together—fast. With guilty looks on their faces, Richard and Ken rushed to thread a huge twenty-four-track tape onto one of the machines sitting in a corner. It was her new song, “Over and Over”, and the plan tonight was to do a pre-mix of it and start on the vocals. A hush fell over the room as the basic track and Christine's lush voice reverberated around us, filling the air.

Lindsey rolled a chair over to the center of the mixing board between the lads and with eyes closed listened to the song, lost to the world and the people around him. As soon as the last note faded, he opened his eyes and briskly rubbed his hand together, then flexed his long fingers. Holding his hands suspended like a concert pianist over the controls of the board, he took one last hit of a joint and got to work. With head down, he made adjustments to a dizzying array of levers as Christine headed out to the large recording studio and sat on a stool behind a mike. The tape was rolled, Chris started singing, and Lindsey's hands moved constantly on the board as the song was rewound and played—again and again.

After an hour of listening I decided to go outside and get a 7UP, my drink of choice whenever I was with the band. Since I was the only person in the Fleetwood Mac family who didn't drink, having a glass of something that
looked
like a cocktail in my hand made me feel a little less conspicuous, for I still felt oddly embarrassed that I couldn't quite get the taste for hard liquor. It was one of my “schoolgirl” issues that I was trying hard to hide. When I was surrounded by the worldly, sophisticated members of the band, my alcohol sobriety made me stand out like an alien in their midst.

As I pulled open the heavy inner door I jumped in surprise as the outer door crashed open at the same time. And in the tiny space that existed between the two doors, I met Dennis Wilson—drummer and heartthrob of the Beach Boys—for the first time. With Mick looming behind him, Dennis stood with a grin on his spectacularly handsome bearded face and looked me up and down like he was taking my body measurements.

Once I got to know Dennis I'd realize that my first impression of what he was doing was exactly right. Dennis Wilson was not only the consummate (Bad) Boy of Summer, he was the West Coast's biggest playboy and a true connoisseur of women. I could say without a shadow of a doubt that, in the months and years that followed this first meeting, Dennis would never meet a woman he didn't like. He would soon become one of my best friends and to this day I miss him with all my heart.

As Mick introduced us, I stammered out a hello, and to my chagrin I knew that I was blushing—cheeks turning hot under the force of Dennis's gaze. Obviously used to having this effect on women, he grinned even wider as he lifted my pale fingers and kissed the top of my hand like a courtier.
As the two drummers giggled at my discomfort they kept me imprisoned for a few seconds longer before they finally released me from the claustrophobic space between the huge heavy doors. Trying to hold my head high, I breathed a sigh of utter relief as I stepped into the safety of the reception room. My knees felt weak and my fingers seemed to tingle from their brief contact with Dennis Wilson.

Damn! That guy is something else!
I thought as I walked a bit unsteadily over to the drinks table and grabbed a cup as my mind raced.
Jesus! We have an actual Beach Boy in the studio tonight! It's going to seem like a dream come true for Lindsey—he's one of their biggest fans. How awesome is this? And how awesome is Dennis Wilson? Talk about charisma—the guy friggin' oozes it!

Dennis Wilson.

As it turned out, Lindsey
was
thrilled. But it was Christine McVie who was swept off her feet. When I returned to the studio I could see Mick, Chris, and Dennis laughing and talking in the outer recording room and even through the soundproofed glass it was possible to see that sparks were flying between Christine and Dennis. Stevie and I looked at each other and started giggling. We both knew that we were undoubtedly witnessing the beginnings of a love affair. There was no mistaking the looks and smiles that were passing between the now single Christine and the playboy of the West Coast.

When Dennis finally left two hours later—after snorting up an outrageous amount of his own stash of blow—Christine walked around the studio with a glow and a smile on her face that confirmed what Stevie and I already knew. She was entranced and in the first stages of infatuation with
the drummer who would become the new man in her life. And the rest, as they say, was history.

While Lindsey was busy in the studio, I stayed home planning our first big party. For Fleetwood Mac, Halloween was the most important party night of the year. Actually it was the most important holiday of the year to us—a holiday that seemed tailor-made for the band and its court. After all, the five band members spent half their lives in costume, assuming their respective intense roles on stage as they toured the world relentlessly. Fleetwood Mac was all about costumes, hidden identities, and Gothic scenarios both on stage and off. So Halloween was kind of a no-brainer.

It was also a tradition for one of the band members to throw a huge bash. And this year the party was going to be at our house on June Street. Lindsey and I were both excited. With a guest list of the royalty of the entertainment industry, personal friends, and the entire Dodger baseball team, our home was overflowing with two hundred costumed and crazed partygoers on Halloween night.

It went down in band history as one of the best Halloween parties
ever.
Everyone was in full costume and the catered food went ignored as almost all of our guests helped themselves to the full bar and partook of their own personal stashes of illegal substances. Most of the executives left by eleven, and the party went into high gear: music blasting, people jumping into our pool, and others roller-skating across the polished wood floor of our huge living room.