Storms (61 page)

Even though incestuous relationships were a way of life within Fleetwood Mac's world, this morbid marriage was beyond the pale. But when I thought of the inconsolable grief Stevie had shared with me in my car on the night of the
Mirage
listening party, I could only speculate that it was this grief that was responsible for a type of temporary insanity where the only end result would be disaster. That speculation came true when, just three months later, she filed for divorce. From that point on, not only would she not talk about baby Matthew or Kim, she barely even acknowledged that the marriage happened.

The shock of Stevie's marriage and quickie divorce faded quickly, as all things seemed to do in Fleetwood Mac land. In a world where bizarreness, backstabbing, bad relationships, stupid behavior, and insanity were the
rule instead of the exception, a tasteless marriage only held our attention for so long. Soon it was business as usual for everyone.

Stevie went right back to work on her second solo record,
Wild Heart.
Mick set out on an embarrassing fiasco of a tour with his new band, Mick Fleetwood's Zoo, to support an unsuccessful follow-up solo album to his first effort,
The Visitor.
Traveling by bus and playing to audiences in almost empty clubs, they met with dismal failure. Afterward Mick fell deeper into a lifestyle of all-night drug binges at his home, which was becoming a refuge for anyone and everyone who wanted a place to party or crash. Christine escaped to England to finish her solo record, and John once again disappeared into the Pacific Ocean in his boat.

In Bel-Air, Lindsey was busy at work on a project that was, for him, just an amusing distraction before he began work on his second solo album. Harold Ramis, the famous director of Bill Murray's
Caddyshack
, had asked Lindsey to write two songs for his new movie,
National Lampoon's Vacation
, starring Chevy Chase. Arriving on our doorstep with his wife and very young daughter, he convinced Lindsey to venture into movie soundtracks.

Carol Ann in Lindsey's Bel-Air studio.

The visit from Harold Ramis had given me an idea. I hadn't forgotten my longing and desire on the night of the
Mirage
listening party to find an outlet for myself that would, hopefully, lead to a career. If anything, it now seemed more important than ever. Since my miscarriage it felt as though something had emotionally shifted inside of me. Before I lost the baby I'd completely devoted myself to Lindsey and his career, believing that my role in our relationship was ultimately as his future wife and the mother of his children. And before my miscarriage, even my longings for a career came second to that. Looking back over the years I'd been by his
side, I did this willingly. Nothing was more important than the future we would have together—despite all the bad and frightening incidents of irrational anger.

Things had changed for me now, however. It was like I'd woken up from a dream. A dream that I would love to hold on to, but after his reaction to the loss of our child, a dream that I now knew was one I might not want. And yes, it scared me to even think of my relationship with Lindsey in such a cold, brutally honest way. Even if a part of me still wanted to go back to playing the part of his fiancée who never questioned and only obeyed, I knew that I couldn't go back. And I knew that I didn't want to.

Without discussing it with Lindsey, I called Bjorn and asked him to recommend an acting teacher for me. I'd always been curious about acting and it seemed the next logical step to take after modeling. I had no idea if I had any acting talent—or if I even wanted to be an actor. I only knew that I wanted to find out. More importantly, I knew that I wanted to do something just for myself. I spent long hours talking to Desi about it, and with her encouragement, I went for it.

Within a week I was taking private lessons from a wonderful old gentleman with an impeccable resume—and I loved it. It felt wonderful to have something completely different to be excited about. Even if, in the scheme of things, an acting class might not mean a lot to most people, to me it did. Unlike modeling, learning the basics of acting was a challenge, and that was why I was enjoying it so much. Talent or no talent, it felt great to try my hand at something that took both skill and creativity. For three weeks I'd been enjoying every second of it. And for the first time in years my every waking moment wasn't focused on Lindsey's career and the world of Fleetwood Mac.

Lindsey had become silent and withdrawn as my enthusiasm for my classes spilled over into our dinner conversations and the breaks he took from the studio. But I was so caught up in my newfound passion that I failed to read these warning signs. Warning signs that I'd seen before during the years I'd spent with him. Warning signs that always, always predicted an explosion of unfocused anger; anger that was just as devastating whether he was sober or not; anger that seemed to need no reason or incident to set it off. All I had were the warning signs, which were like the quiet
before a storm. And even though I'd learned there was nothing I could do to prevent it from happening, I always tried to do whatever I could to lessen the impact when his rage exploded.

Entering the house after my afternoon class, I saw Lindsey's silhouette in the doorway of our living room. I walked toward his shadowy form, my words of greeting fading as I looked into his eyes, which flashed with intense emotion as he stared at my happy face. With a sneer he said, “Welcome home”, as he walked purposefully toward me.

No, no, no! It's not going to happen again. It can't. It won't. This is just a bad dream. It's not really happening!
a voice screamed inside my head. But it was happening. He lunged for me and wrapped his hands around my throat, and I began to fight back. I somehow twisted myself out of his grip and stumbled backward, almost falling as my back hit the doorframe of the open front door. Turning quickly, I ran for my car. Throwing myself inside, I hit the locks as I started to sob. With harsh, unintelligible words screaming behind me, my hands shook as I fumbled the keys into the ignition and floored the gas, almost hitting a tree by our driveway.

Without looking back I swung the car around and drove recklessly back out through our gates. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I saw Lindsey standing in the middle of the street, unrelieved anger making his face almost unrecognizable. I drove as fast as I dared, and only let myself slow down when I hit Sunset Boulevard, knowing that for now, at least, I'd managed to escape from Lindsey's fury.

With tears streaming down my face I drove straight to the Century Plaza Hotel in Century City. At the front desk, the smile from the friendly desk manager faded as he saw my face. He knew me well. I'd come here at least five times over the past few years when a fight with Lindsey had turned from bad to horrific. With a look of concern he asked me if I was all right and if he could do anything to help. Shaking my head, I stammered that I just needed a room. He gently patted my hand as he gave me a room key and I managed to make it all the way up to my suite before I collapsed in tears.

I knew that Lindsey would eventually come for me. He knew where I went for refuge after a fight. It might be tomorrow, or the day after that. And when he did, he'd no longer be angry. And we wouldn't speak of why I was at the hotel—only that it was time for me to come home. And for a few months everything would once again be calm.

In the beginning, after the first few horrific rages, I'd told myself that it would never happen again. And I would blame myself for what happened while vowing to do everything within my power to be the perfect girlfriend. Months passed in which Lindsey and I were completely happy—months when I felt so loved that it was easy for me to believe that the ugliness was behind us.

But that belief had finally been shattered that day. I now knew that nothing I seemed to do—or not do—made a difference. And facing up to that was not only painful, it was absolutely devastating. A day that began so full of light and happiness had turned black. And my heart was breaking.

Two days later Lindsey knocked on the door and calmly, lovingly escorted me home. This time, however, it was harder for me to smile. It was harder for me to go about the pretence that my home life was fine. I returned to days spent in a house that felt deserted. The only evidence that I wasn't alone was the constant muffled sound of music coming from Lindsey's garage studio. As I drifted through rooms filled with tapestries and porcelain vases the only proof that I was actually there was my transparent reflection in the glass walls of our home.

On the surface, I was living the fantasy life of most young women. I was in the company of a musical genius. I had material wealth beyond my wildest dreams. My consort was a member of rock ‘n' roll's royalty: a poetic, exquisitely tortured romantic. But behind the iron gates, where photographers and reporters never ventured, I felt desperate, alone, and empty. And I needed to do something—anything—to keep from falling apart.

I'd found out the truth about fame. I'd learned that for Fleetwood Mac and their inner circle, it came with a heavy price. And to me, the biggest cost of all was the suffocating isolation that it imposed. The only people we could trust were those within our own small circle of friends. In seven years, I could count only two people outside of the inner circle as my friends—Bjorn and Desi. And they both had such busy lives that I was lucky to have contact with either of them on a weekly basis. I'd made friends easily my entire life, but those days were long gone.

Now any new “friend” was suspect, because how could you ever know if they cared about you or just wanted a door into the life that you were leading? You couldn't. Every single member of the inner circle had found out the hard way that 99 percent of the people who tried to befriend us were
only there because of who we were with, not who we were ourselves. And it hurt—a lot. For the five band members of Fleetwood Mac, the price they paid for that fame was well worth it. For their wives, fiancées, and boyfriends, it became a quarantine. No one from the outside world could be let in. And you couldn't get out.

So as Lindsey worked in the studio fourteen hours a day, I turned to the only person who I felt could help me escape my isolation at home: Sara. I began to spend a few days a week in Malibu, where I escaped the loneliness of Bel-Air. It was a stark contrast to the lonely, quiet days that I'd been accustomed to at my home.

Being at the Blue Whale was no different from being on the road. There was a nonstop party atmosphere twenty-four hours a day. We all had our drugs of choice. Mine was cocaine; Sara, Stevie, and Christine did blow and drank alcohol; and the men snorted, smoked weed, and drank. We didn't see it as debauchery, it was just our reality. It had been since the day I entered the world of Fleetwood Mac and nothing had changed except that it had become a thousand times more intense.

Sara and I spent hours by the pool watching the crazed antics of Richard Dashut, Dave Mason, and Billy Burnette, son of Rocky Burnette, a famous musician and friend of Elvis Presley in the 1950s. As we tossed a vial of blow back and forth between us, we talked, laughed, and sometimes cried. I'd finally told Sara everything about my relationship with Lindsey. She knew the dark secrets about the fights that I'd tried to keep hidden from the rest of the inner circle. And I, in turn, heard about her troubles: mainly that Mick was quickly sinking into financial quicksand.

On this day Sara was recounting horror stories of bounced checks and declined credit cards all over Malibu. Embarrassing moments at supermarkets and restaurants were so numerous that she was now on a cash-only basis with all of them. She was worried, but hopeful that everything would turn out fine. I murmured reassuring words as I watched Mick stumbling by the pool, a tray of cocaine in hand. As he sat down on a chair opposite us and offered us the tray, I was struck again by how much I adored Mick. He was a naughty child in a man's body and it was impossible to imagine that anything bad could ever happen to him.

But it did. In less than a year's time Mick would be forced to declare bankruptcy. He'd managed to blow through an estimated $8 million and would
lose his house, cars, recording equipment, and, temporarily, Sara. She didn't leave because of the bankruptcy—she left because she'd finally reached a point where she had to get away from the madness and chaos that surrounded her. But she'd return and eventually marry Mick in 1988—with me by her side—and remain his wife until Mick's playboy ways forced her to file for divorce. And through it all she and I would remain best friends.