Storms (56 page)

To add to the rather ominous, supernatural feel of Le Château there were the very real, sinister fights that echoed from the recording studio into our rooms every night. The screams and curses of the band members fighting with one another sounded demonic within the walls of the dormitory. And I cringed at night as I listened to them. This time around I had no desire to even walk into their recording sessions. Being with the band during the daylight hours was bad enough already.

For the five members of Fleetwood Mac there was no such thing as “forgive and forget.” As they had proved since the recording of
Rumours
, the album that documented the disintegration of their intimate relationships, they were quite capable of not only carrying ugly grudges but also savoring bloody retaliation. They were experts at pushing one another's buttons, experts at opening old wounds, and experts at carving new ones. And in France there was a lot of material for them to use against one another.

Mick had insisted on releasing
Fleetwood Mac Live
, a live double album that no one else in the band ever wanted to have on the market. Its poor sales figures were infuriating to a band that took great pride in protecting every aspect of Fleetwood Mac's artistic reputation. Since I'd been with Lindsey, I'd seen them turn down lucrative endorsing deals and veto crass advertising campaigns dreamed up by Warner Bros. for the sales of their records. And they had never, ever sold out for money. The live album was, in everyone's eyes but Mick's, a sellout. And they were very pissed about it.

From the moment we arrived, Lindsey's resentful anger, which began with the work on his songs for the band's new album, had turned into simmering rage. During band meetings he was being told that, unlike the
Tusk
album, each of his songs would have the entire band playing on them. In an effort to duplicate the success of
Rumours
, it had become a major issue. Mick apparently blamed Lindsey's “work methods” for the “unsuccessful”
Tusk.
Lindsey's songs on
Tusk
were, for the most part, entirely
solo
tracks that he recorded at home alone.

At Village Recorder his total control over every harmony and instrument riff on his songs that
did
include the band enraged the other four members of Fleetwood Mac. The fact that
Tusk
sold five million records notwithstanding, Mick believed that if the band had been allowed to participate as a
unit
on Lindsey's tracks,
Tusk
would have had much higher sales. But Lindsey hated being told what to do when it came to his music. And he was not shy about expressing himself.

The fact that Christine, Stevie, and Lindsey had to interrupt their solo projects to come all the way to Hérouville to record was another source of resentment. And, of course, it didn't help matters at all that Jimmy Iovine had shown up on the doorstep to “visit” Stevie.

He was a well-respected producer who was spending a lot of time whispering advice into Stevie's ear—advice that may or may not be greeted warmly by her fellow band members. And that was not the only thing he'd been whispering into her ear. Stevie and Jimmy were now lovers. And as I watched them together he seemed both Svengali and boyfriend to her.

Lindsey was not thrilled. It was certainly not the first time that Stevie had had a boyfriend by her side in the recording studio or on the road. During the
Tusk
recording sessions she was involved with Mick, and later, with the about-to-be-married second engineer—an affair that not only broke his heart but his abandoned fiancée's as well. On the road a series of handsome men were involved with her off and on. And understandably so—Stevie was beyond beautiful and her charisma was off the charts. But this was the first time that one of her boyfriends was also a well-respected record producer—a producer who was also in charge of her first solo record,
Bella Donna.
And it was causing professional tension within the band.

So mix all that together with “normal” band rivalries and the simmering old rage between them and it was a grim picture. The communal lunch and dinners were eaten in almost total silence by the band and their inner circle, who had accompanied them to France. Julie and I tried to keep up a light banter of safe subjects during our meals, but it was exhausting and after a while we gave it up. The wall of silent fury that surrounded and separated the band members was now so impenetrable that there was nothing any of us could do to break it down.

It was misting outside on a late afternoon as I stood and looked out at the grounds surrounding Le Château. And in the distance I saw Christine, Stevie, and Lindsey walk out of the recording studio into the light rainfall. I watched through cold glass as all of them started walking in different directions, aimless yet purposeful in their strides, walking as far away from one another as they could get.

There was a feeling of a battleground in this place. And the figures outside the window seemed weary combatants who were still very much in the war, but who were now sick to death of the battle-scarred landscape around them; sick of the pain; sick of the wounds that never healed; sick of the things that were once so important and were now only dusty memories. As they walked with their heads bowed, they looked bone-weary from years of carrying the horrific weight of ancient hurts, vengeance, and vendettas.

As they turned and headed to the building in which I stood, I seemed to see a yearning in their downcast faces. A yearning to be set free from the ties that bound them together—their own brilliance and collective creative force. A force that had created Fleetwood Mac—a band that had now become a prison for the five souls who created it.

I felt a sense of overwhelming frustration and sadness as they disappeared from view. For me, it had been five years of watching people who once loved each other—and still did—suffer and endure while seemingly refusing to at least try to be healed of the pain and fury they felt in one another's presence. But at the same time I knew it wasn't their fault. This band had been caught in a vicious trap. The pain and rage of
Rumours
that catapulted them to superstardom was made from their personal heartbreak. And each heart could never heal as long as it was forced to live side by side with the person who made it bleed. There seemed to be nothing anyone could do to help the members of Fleetwood Mac. With a sigh I turned away from the window and smiled at Lindsey as he walked up behind me. My senseless chatter made him laugh—and in the atmosphere of Le Château that was indeed a victory.

After two weeks I decided that I needed to get away from the gloom of the place and I overnighted my headshots to seven modeling agencies in Paris. Even though I'd only be in France for a few more weeks, I was eager to see if my pictures were good enough to elicit a response from the world
famous agencies I'd chosen. They did. I got called for five interviews and I jumped up and down in excitement as the heavily accented voices on the phone asked me to visit their agencies.

As I made my announcement over lunch there was laughter and conversation around the table. Lindsey looked proud as everyone—even Stevie—congratulated me and before I knew it, it was all arranged. Wayne Cody, one of the band's most loved and trusted bodyguards, would be accompanying me on my trips, and he looked almost as excited as I was. He too wanted to spend a little time away from the Gothic Château.

We had a blast for the three days we ran in and out of agencies. But it was the next-to-last interview on my list that sent us both hurrying back to the safety of Le Château.

The first three agencies accepted my pictures for “consideration” for beauty ads and sent me away with business cards and phone numbers. As we entered a beautiful agency I felt a sense of pride that they'd responded to my photos. That wouldn't last long. Within ten minutes of my “interview” I was asked to go into the next room and take off my clothes—to get shots for a “pictorial section” of a magazine. In other words: a centerfold.

“What?”
I screamed. “I'm not taking my clothes off! What are you talking about? You want me to do a
centerfold?
What kind of agency is this?” I squeaked as I lost the battle to keep my composure.

“We're a French subsidiary of
Playboy
magazine—we publish French Oui. It's a younger, hipper version of
Playboy.
We like your pictures. You really should let us do a few shots”, the agent continued in his now smarmy-sounding French accent.

“Oh my God. Thanks, but no thanks! Gotta go!” Blushing, I grabbed my portfolio off his desk and, taking Wayne by the hand, ran out of the office. Jumping into our limo, I started to laugh as I told him about my “job offer.”

“Lindsey would fire my ass if he knew I'd let you go in there! Don't tell him you went there, OK, Carol? Oh my God! Don't tell him anything!” Wayne moaned. As I burst out laughing I told him that I'd try, but I knew that I had to tell Lindsey. It was just too embarrassingly funny to keep to myself. And in France opportunities to make him laugh were few and far between.

Fleetwood Mac's new album now had a name:
Mirage.
When Lindsey played me the tapes in Le Château's studio I knew it was going to sell. Although to me it didn't have the sparkle that made
Rumours
and
Tusk
creative
jewels, it was a good album. And considering that they spent literally one month recording it, it was mind-blowing. All it needed were the final mixes, and those would be done in L.A. To celebrate, the band had invited two special guests to a small listening party at Le Château: John McEnroe and Vitas Gerulaitis, world-famous tennis pros competing for the 1981 Wimbledon Cup in London.

Christine and John McVie in Hérouville, France.

Everyone was excited to have them as guests for a day. And a typical Fleetwood Mac “transcending” party took place during their daylong visit. The band took turns playing table tennis with the two tennis greats and then kept them up all night in the studio playing the new (almost) finished album. Finally it was time to leave France and return to L.A. Time to go home to our new house and leave Le Château and the ugly coldness that was now the world of Fleetwood Mac. I was ready to go back to the warmth and happiness of my life before the pressures of creating
Mirage
took it away.

Mick and Dennis Dunstun in Hérouville, France.

But as the summer months passed, things didn't go back to the happy, carefree atmosphere in which we'd lived before the strain of working on the new album interrupted Lindsey's creative progress on his solo debut. The tension and grimness of France had followed us to L.A. and seemed to color all of our days in shades of gray.

Lindsey now had the added weight of trying to do the final mixes on the tracks from
Mirage
while spending every free hour on his own songs for
Law and Order.
While both projects were progressing well, the burden of work seemed almost too much
for him to bear. New faint lines appeared around eyes that had a constant faraway stare. And his movements were stiff and angry, betraying emotions so complex that I felt helpless. I was chilled by the knowledge that there was little I could do to help ease his burden.

I tried to be cheerful and supportive while doing my best to once again resume the role of muse that served both of us so well during the making of
Tusk
, when his talent was taking him into unknown waters. But it was harder this time, because now there was a wall of anger that wasn't there before—and by now, I knew better than to take his angry outbursts lightly.

Stevie's
Bella Donna
had been released to rave reviews and this had added another dimension to Lindsey's internal battles. The creative rivalry between them was stronger than ever, and the success of her first solo album made him feel that he had even more to prove. And his angst made me feel as though I were constantly walking on eggshells, for a wrong word or comment would set off an explosion of anger against which I had no means of defense. Once again it was all about the music—and how could I fight something so abstract? How could I defend myself against the invisible force of creative frustration?