Chapter Text
1997
Daisy still isn’t sure she did the right thing in sitting down with Julia Dunne and raking over shit that should have been shovelled onto a dumper truck and backed up off a bayside cliff. Twenty years still didn’t feel like a valid amount of distance or time when you sit yourself down on a comfortable chair and wear your best vacant expression while the daughter of the man you desperately wanted so much it doomed the biggest band on the planet asks you about how much you wanted to fuck her Dad. She knew that the songs from that album were never that far out of the public consciousness, like some divining rod that pointed to the light in people’s own weird as fuck lives. That’s what music was and had been to Daisy, so it figured that it would be the same for the world. Twenty years of hard work, messy divorces, grief, success, and thirteen of them with a beautiful kid. Life hurtles at you down the tracks at speed, carrying a loaded weapon, and you either get on it or get out of the fucking way.
It was a sober and quiet 1980 when Daisy realised how extremely famous she was when the first threatening letter scrawled in red ink dropped through the door. It was biblical in its implied violence and how God was going to strike her down on stage. It was bad enough to read that shit, but her manager took it to the police, and they said it was written in actual blood. That freaked her out. From then everything went through her management company; there was nothing left to chance with gates and security systems and cameras that cost a fortune but were so shit you had no idea who the person was on the other end. So when a letter housed in a plain manila envelope dropped on her doormat with a soft thud on a September morning in 1996, and she butter-knifed it open, she had to sit down. Camila Dunne writing her a letter hoping she was well was odd enough, but the fact that the woman was dying and wanted Daisy to take part in some documentary was just fucking morbidly bizarre. She had held onto it for a couple of days thinking there was some sort of mistake before the phone calls came from Karen, Warren, and Simone, all asking the same thing - ‘Are you going to do it?’
Karen was a yes straight away, which surprised Daisy into two solid minutes of befuddled silence. Warren, who was equally baffled and distressed at it all, didn’t seem bothered either way. Her management team was ambiguous, seeing the benefit of sales for the next album but worried about what would come out that they couldn’t control. It was Simone of all people who told her to do it, telling her to get ahead of the narrative, and Karen backed that up during a late-night champagne-fuelled rampage on the phone.
“I’m fucked if the fucking Dunne brothers are on fucking film talking about us, and we don’t fucking get to respond.”
Daisy agreed with Karen but started to feel trapped again. It wasn’t just herself to worry about anymore. How much could her kid at school put up with watching something like that, potentially portraying her Mom as some drug-fueled, ex-groupie sex-maniac musical superstar? Because no matter what secrets emerged from it all, that’s how the press would portray her. Eddie and Graham she hadn’t seen or heard from since they walked off stage at Soldier Field, they were the old negatives left in the back flap of a packet of old photographs. Teddy was gone; a dismal little point in the early '80s that had thrown her back on the bottle for a month until she found herself pregnant and took it as a sign.
Billy Dunne she had placed somewhere it was difficult to find. That had its easy parts; he was an industry ghost. He didn’t show up at events, didn’t promote anything unless it was some niche trade magazine, and unless you got a magnifying glass out and scoured CD and cassette inserts, you couldn’t find his name on anything. So little by little, she had kept the same evaporating shape in her head; his face on that stage. It was hard to handle that kind of desire, so she rarely went back. She wondered how he was dealing with it all. Very badly, she presumed, given the lack of control he would have, and he was a complete control freak. There were times when he popped back into her head. When she was writing new songs, onstage singing certain melodies that pined for his low harmony. Whenever Pittsburgh was mentioned on television or film. He didn’t stay around for long, though. She was good at ushering that away. She had perfected the ‘Go’ after a few years.
She was still hesitant right up until the camera started rolling. When Julia knocked on her door and nervously entered the house like a mini Camila, Daisy felt a wild sense of nostalgia, unease, and sadness kick at her simultaneously. This was Billy and Camila Dunne’s daughter for Christ’s sake. What was she thinking agreeing to this? But Julia was calm, focused, and well-prepared. It was like talking to her father again, infuriating and funny at the same time. Daisy answered questions, responded to memories, and dealt with the moments she would rather not be remembered. She felt quite emotional by the end of the second day. Then Julia had shown her the message, and she had fucking stupidly said Billy could call her. Without thinking. Without being prepared for what could happen. So when he didn’t call, it was almost a relief. Almost. Because a tiny part of her still wanted to see him. They shared something when they were young. It wasn’t a bond; that was a trite word that didn’t explain it. When you share whatever intangible thing which drove them on and changed lives, and when you share it young, the rest of your life is either a chase to get it back or a chase to put it to rest. Daisy was still, twenty years later, unsure which chase she was on.
Every time the phone had trilled, she felt her stomach twist. It was fucking ridiculous. After a month she settled. Three months she relaxed. Four months later she was calling him an asshole under her breath again, then realised she was berating a guy who had lost his wife. She sent Julia flowers and a note asking if there was anything she could do and got a nice card back. Julia left a hesitant message on the answer machine one night asking to meet up to talk about the film, she felt guilty again when her first reaction was suspicion. It was a young girl who had lost her mother. Daisy could at least give her company.
Daisy gets to the restaurant early and is seated at her usual table. It wasn’t her first, favourite table; that was the one in the corner where her second husband proposed to her, and she was fucked if that bad luck would carry on so she decamped straight after the divorce. She had always returned to the place after she was involved in an incident in ‘88 involving a stray hand, a jug of water, and a hard slap across a foul-mouthed record executive’s jowls, and it miraculously didn’t get reported in any magazines or papers. Trustworthy people always found Daisy’s eternal gratitude, so she would go every couple of months and get snapped going in, all the photographers shouting ‘Over here!’ and she would smile and give them the finger, and every month the owners would send her flowers to express their gratitude at the free publicity.
Julia is punctual, another remnant of her father's DNA. Daisy gives her a long hug and can feel bones.
“How are you, honey?”
“Good. Thanks for meeting. Wow, this is… fancy.”
Daisy smiles at that and wonders what constituted fancy for the Dunnes. Did it matter to them? She spent money like it was going out of fashion and she’s acutely aware that she is, in the grand scheme of things, rich. She notices Julia’s nails, dark pink polish bitten deep to the quick.
“Only the best. I took the liberty of ordering. Trust me?”
“Oh, wow, yeah. I’ll eat anything.”
The girl is more nervous than Daisy remembers during the interviews. She also has the start of some dark bags under her eyes. Daisy remembers her own after Teddy, the howling marks of grief.
“So, how is it going?”
“Oh great.” She doesn’t sound convinced, but she breaks out a big smile. “We’ve got something to send around the networks. Here’s the thing, we got contacted last week by some guy who claims he filmed the Diamond Head festival for a TV company and still has it. He says it’s the full set, filmed professionally.”
“Jesus.” Daisy isn’t sure she wants to see that. She can only remember being very fucking nervous, very fucking high, and very fucking annoyed at Billy Dunne. She laughs at a memory. “One of the high moments in my career of pissing off your dad. Gold medal level.”
Julia laughs a real belly laugh, imagining her Dad fuming at a stoned Daisy.
“Honestly, I’m kinda shocked how much film there is of you. Did you know a film crew followed you for the day in New Orleans?”
That’s an elongated shiver down the spine. A few stops on the tour before Miami. She has no memory of the crew; she has no memory of anything other than the fact there was a drug pick-up on the way, Nicky gloating about the good stuff while rounding up most of the per diem and a couple of gold rings into a swag bag for an exchange.
“Well, I hope they got my good side.”
“You weren’t well that day, so you aren’t in it. It’s mainly Dad, Warren and Karen. It’s… funny.”
Daisy cocks her head. “What is?”
“To see them so young. I don’t really think of Dad and Uncle Graham as young and silly.”
“Well, they were young. And fucking silly. Well, not your Dad, I think he was born with a frown on his face and an iron rod up his ass, but Graham was.”
A waitress brings across several small dishes and arranges them neatly on the table. Daisy doesn’t like the look of a prawn and casually dumps the plate on another table nearby.
“Has Dad been in touch?” Julia blurts out. So that was it. A checkup to see which one of them had decided to deny a dying wish. “It was just… he was supposed to.”
Daisy can see the hurt in the girl; it practically wraps her up in its arms and gives her a cold bed at night.
“Sweetheart, maybe he doesn’t want to, or he doesn’t feel ready right now. It’s OK.”
“It’s not. It’s really not. I’m… I got an offer for a job.”
“Well, that’s good news.”
“In New York.”
“Okaaay. And what does your Dad think about that?” Julia shrugs and looks intimidated by the terracotta bowl of artichokes. “You haven’t told him? Honey, you’re going to have to talk to him.”
“I just thought… if he could meet up with you and other friends, he could maybe get his life back on track again. I don’t like the idea of him on his own if I was to go.”
Daisy sighs and puts her fork down. “You’ll have to speak to him. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” That’s among the most brazen lies she has ever spoken. She thinks of her daughter growing up and moving away and feels the hurt carrying big fuck off branches to a nest somewhere in her chest. She’s not best placed to advise on how to deal with a man she hasn’t seen in twenty years though so she changes the subject. “Tell me about the job.”
“It’s kind of why I wanted to speak to you. It’s an assistant job to Sophie Lipton.”
“Oh wow, Sophie.” Sophie had been a PA to Teddy and had transferred across to join Daisy for a year before Sophie got married to some snake oil salesman who made a fortune starting up a TV shopping and evangelist channel and moved across the country to start her own management company. She now runs a monster-independent film company. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”
1983
“Interview in ten!” Sophie hammers on the door.
Daisy extricates herself from Steve. Boyfriend is way too strong a word to describe him; an acquaintance with multiple benefits is what Karen called him. The guy had been there when she needed him but she certainly didn’t need him and emotionally he was as shallow as a goldfish bowl.
“You heard the woman,” she breathes into his ear and heads to the bathroom.
“When will I see you again?” he mumbles, pushing his legs through a pair of briefs.
“Who knows?”
“Oh Daisy, don’t be like that baby,” he moans.
“Let’s not get crazy here Steve. I’m going on the road, remember?” The possibility of taking him with her had crossed her mind one post-coital early morning. By the time he started snoring like a freight train she had considered it her worst idea since the failed perm incident of ‘82. “Anyway, you have a lot on.” Blatant lies, he was in the early years of a degree in hammock testing. He tuts, gives her a peck on the cheek while she moves his hand off her ass before he leaves through the emergency exit, setting off an alarm somewhere in the building.
Daisy reapplies her lipstick and shakes her hair into some semblance of shape before heading into the bathroom to pee. Her private little area at the rehearsal facility was a lava-lamp oasis, decamped from the rest of the band, the techs and the moustachioed sound guys in denim cutoffs who smelled of cheap rolling tobacco and Old Spice. Best of all it had a lock on the front door and a way in and out.
Sophie is waiting for her with a cup of something to soothe her throat.
“Do you need me to phone Steven?” Sophie has a way of giving everybody their Sunday name that screams professionalism.
“Nope. Let’s lose the page with his number on it. ” Daisy’s New Year resolution for ‘83 was to not do needy, and that last exchange was needy in extremis . “Who is it I’m talking to here?”
Sophie flips through her little book with all the coloured dividers. “Pauline Travers, Star Magazine. You met her in ‘81 at a launch party for The Williams Brother’s album.” Daisy can’t remember who the fuck the Williams Brothers were or why she would be their launch party. “Teddy produced it,” Sophie says, filling in the blanks. Daisy still shakes her head. “You nearly went home with the bass player until his girlfriend poured a glass of wine over him.”
“Nope.”
“You wore that green sparkling dress with the high thigh cut.”
“Right! I loved that dress.”
“Anyway, she’s friendly enough.” Her voice drops conspiratorially. “Just don’t ask her about her family.”
Daisy wishes she hadn’t said that. “Why would I not ask about her family?”
“Her husband and three kids came back from a little league game early to find her bent over the couch with a neighbour while the neighbour’s dog attacked the husband.”
That was an image that would take some burning off. Daisy didn’t mind interviews, they just covered most of the same fairly bland stuff, all fluffy questions and ‘tell me about the record’. Daisy plants herself down on the long couch that was brought in through the first-floor window while Sophie leads a fairly mousy-looking woman with Tootsie glasses and tan flared slacks across to her. Hardly the suburban chaotic sex fiend Sophie portrayed her as but who could tell these days? Daisy waves a fake, excited ‘hi’ and shakes a sweaty palm.
“Wow, this place is great,” Pauline says as she props her little tape machine on the table. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No. Most of the band smoke.” It was true. Between the band and the techs, it was like a cross between a fucking sauna without the benefit and downtown LA at rush hour. It was also true that the rehearsal facility is a glorious excuse for extravagance and bizarre interior decorating decisions.
Pauline clicks on the machine and starts with the small talk immediately. “So this is what, your second big tour?”
“Yeah. Well, third if you include the Six tour.”
“What’s the difference between them?”
Daisy doesn’t like the way the woman holds a cigarette. “Well, they all seem to get more confusing. When you move into the big venues the technology goes over my head. I just move around and sing.” She gives a fake ‘poor me’ laugh. Pauline doesn’t laugh.
“Just for my notes, on your first tour, you were married?”
Daisy can feel Sophie tense from fifteen feet away. She’s over before Daisy can open her mouth.
“Can I get you anything, Pauline? Coffee?”
Pauline smiles but shakes her head. “Erm, yes, where was I? Oh right, you were married? In ‘77?
Daisy offers the smile that typically silences obnoxious jerks. The serial killer smile Karen called it. “I’m not sure what that has to do with anything?”
“Well,” the reporter gives a little harrumphing laugh, “Your ex is selling his story to Star and we just…..want to go over a few things before we publish.”
That fucker. Daisy takes the moral high ground but it doesn’t feel any better, it still feels like a ditch. “Really? You must be hard up to ask him anything.”
“Oh, it’s quite something. He’s a pastor now by the way in some new church in Oregon. He found God. The section he's penned on you and Billy Dunne is something in itself.” She whistles at that as if to emphasise the potential juiciness of the anecdotes.
Daisy senses the blood surging to her face so rapidly that she nearly faints. She’s about to take this woman’s head clean off with some choice language when Sophie holds a phone out to Pauline, who unclips an earring, puts it to her ear and says, “Hello?”
Daisy observes the woman growing progressively paler and Sophie mouths, ‘Walter’, at her. Walter, her saviour, her lawyer who had got her out of bad contracts and taken charlatans and thieves to the cleaners. He was fifty, smoked cigars he claimed were rolled between Cuban thighs and took five minutes to get out of his chair so he rarely did.
“I see,” Pauline smiles weakly. She hands the phone back and says, “Apparently we have boundaries.”
“Ooh,” Daisy grimaces with an intake of breath that sounds like a hiss. “Those things can be bastards.”
The interview takes another ten tense minutes. Daisy starts to throw dog references into each reply before they finish, before Pauline struts away wishing her all the best in a tone of voice that implies she wouldn’t shed many tears if her jet went down in a tropical storm.
Daisy wonders what Billy Dunne would say to the news that fake royalty ex-Mr. Daisy Jones is trying to wash every piece of dirty laundry from 1977. She can imagine him snapping a toothbrush when the magazine hit the doormat.
Fucking Nicky. A mistake that just keeps giving.
1977
New Orleans was a furnace but Daisy was ice cold and shivering in the freshly made hotel bed. Nicky had disappeared in a rental car, determined to fetch bags of something white to sustain them through the upcoming weeks of the tour. She had an ache in her stomach and realised with a modicum of shock that she might actually be ill. She flopped around onto her back and tried to count the cracks in the ceiling. She had nibbled at a few slices of toast and peeled an orange at a late breakfast and just wanted to sleep. She was fucking exhausted but every time she shut her eyes her eyeballs hurt. She did indeed, feel like shit.
The Six had been on tour before, they were aware of the grind. For Daisy, this was all new and this last period was goddamn hard. How the fuck did people do this every year? She had a vision of herself at seventy snorting something on some new futuristic hoverbus while Billy Dunne threw her another judgemental fuming look while shaking a walking frame at her. He was just a jealous prick, annoyed that somebody else was in the spotlight with her. She had made it a personal quest to ignore the living fuck out of him and going by how hangdog he looked it was working. Even Graham had told him to cheer up. As the venues got bigger, the budget spread to hotel rooms and there was talk of a plane. Daisy had considered running away to become a stewardess in ‘70 when she thought it would get her around the world but quickly gave that idea up when she found out there was a test at the end of the training and you had to serve people food and drink in the air. It had been bad enough in a diner, you could throw the bums out, but on a plane? She had popped that ten-second idea like a balloon. She must have been dozing as the three knocks at the door kept going and getting louder. It would be Rod, no doubt, trying to get her to eat a stupid club sandwich.
“Fuck off Rod” she croaks.
The knocking stops, the door flies open and Billy Dunne strides into the room, clad in sunglasses, flared denim pants, a crushed black velvet shirt, and that absurd skip cap. All worn indoors. It was infuriating how he managed to get away with it.
“Get up,” he says like he’s talking to a disobedient pet.
“How about you get out of my fucking room you maniac? You can’t just wander into people’s private…”
“There’s a fucking film crew waiting to film us. They’ve been set up for the last two hours. We put it off yesterday because you and Prince fuckwit said the i-ching told you not to.”
Fuck, she had forgotten about that. No wonder Nicky had been so keen to go and pick up drugs.
“I’m ill.”
“Bullshit. You're hungover and coming down. Get up.” He’s standing at the bottom of the bed now and Daisy wonders if he pulled the covers away what she would do. She kind of hopes he’ll pull the covers away but puts it down to the wild delusions of a fever.
“You can’t come charging into a woman’s bedroom and demand things. It’s the actions of a cad.”
He looks like he’s working out if it’s an insult. His confused face is delightful.
“It’s someone who disregards others' feelings. Someone without honour.”
“I know what a fucking cad is Daisy, I’ve read a book.” She can tell he didn’t know. “Just get out of bed.”
“I know this is difficult for you to grasp but I am ill.” She does feel dreadful but that’s the norm these days.
“We’ve got a show tonight,” he warns.
“I’ll take my medicine.” She stares directly at him and he takes a step back. He looks at her as if formulating a dare or a comeback. Instead, he turns and stomps out, slamming the door so hard it nearly comes off its hinges.
“Thank you!” She calls. ”Have a nice day. DON’T FALL DOWN A LIFT SHAFT OR ANYTHING HORRIFIC LIKE THAT. PRICK!”
She falls back onto the bed and pulls the covers up around her. He was a truly annoying man, it was almost admirable. She wonders not for the first time what he was like when the drugs had loosened him up. When he wasn’t so ancient and miserable. And how was it possible that he could make ancient and miserable that….brooding? She drifts off to sleep once more, her eyes dimming with the promise of dreams, as the door swings open once again.
“Ohhhh, what the FUCK now?”
He’s carrying a tray, like an angry waiter but he puts it on the table next to her gently. Soup, orange juice, painkillers and coffee. He doesn’t say anything but pulls a thermometer out.
“Easy, you aren’t putting that anywhere near me.”
“Open your mouth and shut up.”
“That’s just plain confusing, you should…” the thermometer goes into her mouth. She secretly kind of likes this. Billy, pretending to look after her. He takes the thermometer away and waves it around. He’s not doing it right but she doesn’t have the heart to tell him.
“Hmm”
“OK doc, tell it to me straight.”
“Maybe you aren’t lying.” He sits back and rubs his eyes underneath the glasses. There are bags there, she can see that.
“Wow. Such empathy.”
He scans the room and sees the clothes scattered over chairs and the empty bottles on the desk. “Where’s the f,...”
“My husband .”
“....anyway.”
She puts her hand to her forehead. “He’ll be back in a couple of hours.” She can tell he’s disappointed at that. She’s under no illusions that nobody likes him. She’s also under no illusions that he’s costing her friends and she doesn’t have many of them to spare. Billy stands and goes to the window, pulls the curtains back and the sunshine streams in. It burns her eyes.
“I’ll deal with the film crew. I’ll get Karen and Warren to annoy each other. Just…..get better.” he says the last bit helplessly as if he’s trying to say something else but can’t force the words out. His arms rise and then fall to his sides again. “It’s a long tour.” With that, he turns and leaves.
After some orange juice and a couple of pep pills, she stands at the window and watches as a howling Karen pushes Warren into the pool while an attractive blonde flirts and shoves a microphone under Billy’s nose. She’s not sure who she's jealous of or who she wants to be anymore.
1997
It takes her a while to realise that it is him standing there.
“Hi,” he says.
“You couldn't pick up the phone but you can stalk your way to someone's front door?” She says it with a pretty uncontrollable smile though. “Impressive.”
“I never really liked phones.”
“That's not what I remember. I remember us talking about certain words we had banned from songs at two in the morning. I recall you called me. Often.”
“It was clichés that we banned. And it wasn't two in the morning. That's an exaggeration. And as for the stalking, there are only two LaCavas in the phone book Daisy.”
“Still so stubborn.” Her heart is an open book when he says her name the same way he did back in the seventies. She opens the door wide for him and as he walks past slowly she says, “And yet still so wrong.” He stiffens for a moment, caught by her again before walking on through her Greek-style hallway. She catches a new scent from him, something like lemon or vetiver. It smells like the past, all fresh LA Summers and the hint of a different life for Margaret. His Adidas squeak as he walks along her floorboards and she can see him taking it all in.
“I’m in the garden,” she leads on until they arrive at a patio and a slightly overgrown lawn. The ornate table holds an upturned paperback, some freshly squeezed orange juice and some crackers. She can see him looking slightly confused.
“Sit down,” she offers and hooks a leg under the other when she sits herself on a large cushioned chair. He sits down on the opposite one and looks slightly sheepish.
“This is odd,” he grins nervously.
Daisy leans her head on her hand and smiles in agreement.
“I, uh, Julia said she had met you for lunch?”
Daisy nods. He’s gone for the safe option; discussing his daughter.
“Thanks for the word you put in for her. She got the job.”
Daisy wonders how Julia broke it to him that not only was she moving across the country but that Daisy herself had put such a strong reference in that she could have got on the next presidential ticket.
“She’ll be fine Billy. Sophie knows how to treat people. And she knows she’d have to answer to me if she started any shit. Besides, it was just a character reference. I didn’t blackmail her.” That was tiptoeing on the edge of downright bullshit but there was no point in owning up to that.
“Still, New York,” he says with some distaste.
“Oh for fucks sake. There are aeroplanes. It’s not the North Pole. I go five or six times a year.”
He’s irritated but is trying to hold it in as best he can. She stifles a giggle. “And how is Simone?” he asks.
“She’s good, yeah. Doing well. Still hates your guts.” They both laugh at that and it starts to disconcert her that he still has that smile. “How have you been,” she says with as much sympathy as she can muster without sounding like an early afternoon made specially for TV movie.
“Coping,” he says and leaves it at that. She doesn’t pry. “How about you? The superstar! You did well.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean, even though I didn’t care so much for the third album, I had….”
She raises an eyebrow and can feel her nostrils flare. “Good to know. Anything else? Is the artwork not good enough? Too many high notes? Live setlists too pedestrian?” He’s turned up in her life for the first time in twenty years and he’s in her house at her favourite spot, drinking her juice and calling her work shit. The absolute nerve. “I liked that one you wrote for the dinosaur,” she says and makes a couple of fake horns with her fingers.
He laughs at that. A full-blown laugh she can’t remember seeing before and she can’t help but follow. “Jesus, Daisy the album, it was great. I just meant I wasn’t in a good place at that point so it didn’t sit right for me. And of course, Julia saved up her money and bought it on tape and my machine chewed it up on the first pass.” He raises his eyes as if to emphasise the drama that ensued after that. Daisy smirks at the image. “And that dinosaur and the songs I wrote for it got Julia through school you know, although I dunno how you found out about that.” He can't help the little grin that follows. He knows she was checking out what he was doing back then.
“God bless dinosaurs,” Daisy raises her glass.
“You never stopped,” he says softly. “Writing. Playing.”
“No,” she says. “I didn’t. I couldn’t.” It was true, she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. She had a drive that she just couldn't hold back, always trying to be better, always trying to outdo everyone else. Her daughter had taken that on like some took on darning a family blanket. “I understand why you didn’t though. Maybe at the time, I couldn't see why you would.”
He tilts his head sadly. “I missed it,” he says a little haltingly. “I lied about that to everyone. Camila, Julia, Graham. Teddy. Me. I talked myself out of it but then again I was never going to go back to that.”
“It was pretty insane.”
He barely lets her finish. “Can I ask you a question?”
Here we go, she thinks. Billy ‘enough with the pleasantries’ Dunne. She wonders if his idea of foreplay is a quick nod and a wink. She nods anyway.
“Why did you agree to the documentary Daisy? What’s in it for you? I mean, we could all come out of this pretty badly.”
She frowns because she’s asked herself the same question many times. “Hmmmm. Everybody else was doing it and I was quite a big part of it all, you know? Simone thought I should preempt things. I’m not sure Billy. I make decisions and stick to them. Some people used to call them rash. I’m proud of what we did. Why not embrace it now? Lots of people have tried to make money out of stories about me.” She thinks back to the legal fees for the Nicky thing. She had to add ten dates onto a tour when heavily pregnant to pay it off.
He doesn’t nod or shake his head. “When Julia asked me I said no,” he says.
“Are you not proud of what we did?” The thought of Billy refusing his daughter and dying wife was just….wild.
He considers the truth or a lie, she can see that tussle. “I am now. I locked it away and blamed it for things. I’ll be honest Daisy, I haven’t listened to it in twenty years.”
“Bullshit!”
“It’s not!” he protests.
“Bull. Shit. I don’t believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” he shrugs and there’s that infuriating Dunne again.
“You must have heard it on the radio?” He shakes his head. “You were talking about it in the documentary though?”
“Just my memories. Of writing it with you, and playing it.”
She stands up and gestures for him to follow her which he does until they are in a room with a sixties-style low-backed leather couch and high pile carpet.
“Sit,” she orders and he does, nervously parked on the edge of the seat in preparation for an alarm going off. Daisy heads behind the couch, switches on the amp and speakers and after a few minutes locates Aurora, slips it onto the cork mat and gently puts the stylus down. She had the CD version but it didn’t sound the same to her and she was no audiophile. So she had her beloved copy of her first album from the batch they sent to the band. When it starts she can see his shoulders raise so she sits opposite him. Within a minute the shoulders have dropped and she can see him picking out little flourishes. They argue about who wrote what, how they recorded it and what it was all about and he even starts singing along at one point. By the time she flips to the second side, he’s still adamant he played the glockenspiel despite the credits saying otherwise. An hour later they’re laughing about fashion and hair and how everything seems so fast nowadays. Daisy brings through some snacks and they flip through her record collection, putting on tracks. She plays him new artists and is thrilled that he picks up on what makes it work. They don’t talk about anything other than music for the best part of three hours. He’s intrigued by her touring stories and other musicians she worked with and keeps asking questions. It’s getting dark by the time she puts on Time Out Of Mind . Billy looks up at the giant helios clock on the wall, all gold sunrays stretching along the wall.
“Um, don't you have a kid Daisy? Should you not have, um, collected her by now?”
“OH MY GOD,” Daisy shrieks and throws her hands on top of her head. “How could I have forgotten my kid? She’ll never forgive me.” She straightens up, tilts her head and looks at him before saying evenly, “She’s at her friend's house. Of course, I didn't forget my kid. Jesus!”
He shakes his head and bites a smirk. “Still so fucking….irritating.”
“Yeah,” she laughs. “Bet you missed me.”
“Fuck, yes.”