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December 23rd, 1968
It wasn’t the first time Robert and Bonzo had been on a plane – they’d flown to Scandinavia for a short tour a few months back – but it was certainly their first-ever long-haul flight. Barely out of their teens and fortified with a sizeable advance from Atlantic Records, they’d made the most of it – ordering champagne and beers by the crate load, flicking peanuts at their fellow travellers, and then - to add insult to injury - directing ‘innocent’ looks at everyone who turned to glare at them. Jimmy huddled himself against the window seat, sipping a beer and casting dark looks of his own at the duo. Acting as chaperone to a pair of unruly scamps from the sticks surely wasn’t part of the deal…
“Cut that out,” he hissed, as Bonzo deftly added another sticky nut to the glossy bald pate of the unsuspecting fellow in front of him. Mercifully, the pair quickly tired of their tomfoolery and - helped along by flagons of booze - fell asleep. Jimmy peered out the tiny window at a blanket of blue embroidered by frosty piles of clouds – finally, a bit of peace. The weather at Heathrow was abysmal – bitingly cold, the sky white and threatening snow. Naturally, Jimmy took the change as a positive sign, but it still didn’t help soothe his nerves. America would be the real test.
A deep snore to his left pulled him back to reality. It was Robert, fluffy curls lolling against the headrest, lips parted slightly, half-empty bottle dangling from his hand. Gently, Jimmy leaned over and plucked the object from Robert's fingers so it wouldn’t fall. Robert shifted in his sleep, emitting a faint odour of unwashed t-shirt, patchouli and armpit. In profile, he looked like a languid Greek shepherd boy, curled up and napping against a mound of grass and wildflowers.
Beautiful.
… No, Jimmy thought. I have to stop thinking of him that way.
*********
December 25th, 1968
The Chateau Marmont was unlike anything Robert had ever seen; not so much a hotel, but more of a posh boarding house for aspiring celebrities. Starlets in crocheted bikinis, songwriters and screenwriters on the make, and up-and-coming British rock bands who could scarcely believe their luck lounged day and night around the steamy underlit pool. There was a bar that never seemed to close, and a series of small, low-ceilinged bungalows surrounding the main property.
Jimmy had a bungalow all to himself, while Robert and Bonzo had to share. It was a bit of a pain, with the two chums forced to top-and-tail in a double bed (and neither was on the petite side). Bonzo complained about Robert’s stinky feet getting all up in his face, while Robert bemoaned Bonzo's belching and farting in the night – in any case, he could have sworn he saw the sheets lift off the bed a couple of times. And that was before the “bird problem” reared its tantalizingly comely head. Granted, they were both married men, and had sworn to “look but not touch” (Bonzo was marginally more successful at sticking to his guns in this regard), but it was hardly a simple affair, with the attractive half of Los Angeles' female population suddenly deciding to set up camp at the Chateau. And they hadn’t even played a bloody note yet!
Anyway, less than a day went by before they decided that handjobs were “okay” (“I mean, it’s alright, innit, as long we don’t kiss ‘em – that’s proper cheating, this is just like having a piss,”) and Robert got the distinct feeling blowjobs were next on the ‘not cheating’ list (not that he was complaining – they couldn’t exactly snog him with his dick shoved in their gobs, could they?)
But the main difficulty was in finding the room - one would take the bedroom with his girl of the hour while the other was banished to the sofa. Didn’t help that the sofa was a mere two seater, miniscule and deeply uncomfortable. Dark suspicion fell upon Jimmy, who - Robert was convinced - had forced them to share on purpose; not only was he a notorious cheapskate, he was clearly a sadist, too. Jimmy did seem to get the prime pickings – made sense, he was the most well-known – but there’d been more than one occasion where his chosen bird had flicked a curious glance in Robert’s direction as well.
**********
December 25th, 1968
“That’s my girl,” Robert smiled, a pang in his heart, as baby Carmen’s adorable gurgles floated down the crackly transatlantic line. “Did Santa bring you some lovely pressies?” More gurgles, more guilt – “Daddy has to be in America to sing so he can make loads of nice pennies for you, but he’ll be home quick as a flash, don’t you worry.” Which wasn’t entirely true – he wouldn’t touch grass until mid-February – but he’d promised to phone every day. It wasn’t the same of course, but Maureen was a good sport, and there was a chance she might even be able to fly out with Carmen to join him on tour at some point.
“She loves her new cot and her mobile,” Maureen gushed. Robert felt her smile drift across the ocean, embracing him, and his heart eased. “I play that tape of you singing when I put her to bed and she gets all cosy and wriggly. Out like a light in seconds, she is. It’s like you’re still here.”
Robert chuckled. “I should do a lullaby album,” he quipped. “Anyway, love, how are you bearing up?”
“Alright. Me and Shirl did the dinner, all the family came round. I’m still getting used to that massive kitchen ... oh yeah, there’s a bit of damp under the sink that needs sorting out. Which gave Dad the perfect cue to start rabbiting on about how we should have bought a new build instead of an old farmhouse, but you know what he’s like. I miss you, love.”
“Miss you too.” Warmth sparkled between them, tinged with mild regret. “Sorry I couldn’t be at home for our girl’s first Christmas.”
“No … don’t say that, love. You’ve got to follow your dreams. She’s an infant, she doesn’t understand ... and there’s always next year, she’ll be more aware then.”
“For sure. Listen, darlin’, gotta dash … only got a minute left, but enjoy the rest of the day, give my love to Carmen and the family and I’ll phone tomorrow … a bit later as we’re flying first thing, if that’s alright.”
“I will. Merry Christmas babe, love you.”
“Love you too.”
Robert hung up and stood for a moment, biting his lip. He peered through the window. It was early-ish – 9am or thereabouts. Jimmy and Richard languished by the side of the pool, occupying prime birdwatching real estate and sipping cocktails that called exotic butterflies to mind. Both wore large-lens sunglasses that made them look severe, like FBI agents on the razz. They’d donned swimming trunks, but Richard, being far more robust, had no problem with going shirtless, whereas Jimmy had shrouded his wiry, fragile frame in a white t-shirt. With his legs primly crossed and his lips pursed as he leafed through a copy of Rolling Stone, he looked less like a dandy supreme and more like a tetchy Victorian dowager at a lido. An affectionate grin pulled at the corners of Robert’s mouth. Then he heard Bonzo bellowing at him from the tiny kitchen unit, requesting assistance, and dutifully went to help.
*************
“There you go,” Bonzo announced, bearing a gigantic turkey on a silver platter and placing it in the centre of the table with a flourish. “Get that lot down yer necks.” The others – two band members, a road manager, and two roadies – regarded the monstrous roasted bird with stunned fascination. It was big enough to feed approximately ten – no, scratch that, twenty – million people. Bonzo had spent all day sweating over the roast; Jimmy, who’d foregone his self-proclaimed ‘strict’ vegetarianism for the day (sounding like he was making the ultimate sacrifice for the team, naturally), gaped at the bird with open-mouthed horror. “I’m not carving that thing,” he announced, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.
“Nah, but you’re eating it.” Bonzo winked at Robert and tore off a turkey leg, flinging it down onto Jimmy’s plate with a clatter. “There. Have some proper food. Miles better than bloody lentils.”
“What’s wrong with lentils?” Jimmy said, mildly affronted. “They’re a good source of protein …”
“They make you fart, that’s what’s wrong with ‘em. You’d be parping through the speakers like a bloody foghorn tomorrow if it wasn’t for me.” He smiled broadly, holding aloft a carving knife and fork. “‘Ere, Percy – leg, breast or thigh?”
“Oh, you’re making this much too hard for me, Bonzo,” Robert shot back with a lascivious grin as Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Just give me… whatever. Some slices off the top. And loads of that stuffing, please.”
Soon everybody had been served. They shared platters piled high with roast potatoes, parsnips, brussels sprouts with chestnuts and mashed carrots with swede, and washed everything down with assorted beers, wines and liquors. Jimmy picked at the garnishes and tried not to look too obvious as he watched Robert chow down on a wing bone. Even with his mouth slathered with grease, prattling through mounds of food, Robert looked nothing less than perfect.
No.
“Hey, Pagey,” Robert exclaimed suddenly, slapping a hand against Jimmy’s thigh, making Jimmy wince and shiver at the same time. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m just thinking about tomorrow night,” he muttered, gazing down at the greasy fingerprints Robert had left on his red velvet pants and wondering whether he should tell him off for it. They had to be up early the next day to catch a flight to Denver, where they’d be meeting up with Jonesy for their very first gig – at which point their luxury sojourn would grind to a halt. No more air travel or feted hotels; instead, they’d be sharing a grotty old van and staying in broken-down motels.
“You’re worried?”
“Nah, not really,” he replied crisply, looking away abruptly and holding up his glass. “Got any more of that wine, Richard?”
************
He was reluctant to show it, of course, but Robert was having one or two worries of his own.
After dinner, the group gathered around the pool to continue the celebrations. Some girls joined them, sitting cross-legged on towels and gazing in adoration. Somebody found a tiny set of Moroccan drums; Bonzo beat out a steady rhythm while Robert lit a blunt and passed it around. At some point, Robert started to feel unusually agitated, his instincts telling him it wasn’t just the hash or the pre-gig nerves, though that was surely part of it. No – it was tapping against the window of his self-esteem, a distant echo distorted by interference. He wanted to be good enough. He wanted to show Jimmy that he was good enough. Only he wasn’t all that convinced Jimmy actually liked him as a person – professionally, yeah, it was great in the studio, and usually onstage, too, but …
… Jimmy had barely spoken to him tonight. Instead, he’d turned his signal to some bird – a drippy strawberry blonde who’d been loitering around the Chateau Marmont for days – made small talk with her, then shepherded her off to his royal bedchamber. He’d been drinking heavily, a lot more than usual - swigging neat Scotch from the bottle before carping at Robert (with unnecessary harshness, Robert felt) for not having any antacid tablets. Jimmy leaned towards brittle sarcasm whenever he drank too much, which admittedly wasn’t often – but lately, on those rare occasions he did overindulge, it was Robert who always seemed to catch the brunt of it.
If it had been anyone else, Robert would have shut him down easily. He knew his mouth was smarter than Jimmy’s – he’d had to acquire the gift of the gab fast, hadn’t he, given all the heckling he’d been subjected to in his days fronting Listen and the Band of Joy. He was even a dab hand at shutting up Bonzo, who had a real temper when provoked – they were forever getting into scuffles, which were usually forgotten about within seconds of drawing blood. That was how guys sorted things out when they had issues, wasn’t it? They’d fight like men, and then they’d put it to bed.
But he couldn’t do that with Jimmy – for one, he was his boss who held the purse strings, and two, Jimmy couldn’t throw a decent punch if his life depended upon it, not with those twiglet arms of his. It wouldn’t be a fair fight at all, Robert pondered, stifling a sardonic giggle. He wondered if Jimmy was a lot more insecure than he let on. He had his thoughts about that. There was that odd incident with the bird during his first visit to Pangbourne – he suspected she wasn’t actually Jimmy’s girlfriend; at any rate, he’d never seen her again after that. Not that he minded, of course. It was cute, actually, not to mention weirdly flattering – like Jimmy, on some level, had desperately wanted to impress him too.
He wished Jimmy could be his friend, his real friend, instead of behaving like he had a stick up his arse most of the time. It was weird, and likely an inaccurate perception, but the only thing he could compare it to in living memory was when he’d yearned for the head girl at King Edward’s to pay attention to him. It was different with her, of course – she was a bird with a stupendous rack, for one. But his smart mouth would always wither away around her, too.
Jimmy would make a pretty bird, actually, he mused, taking a rueful swig of his beer, then wondered why the thought had even crossed his mind. He put his bottle onto the bedside table and drifted off.
**********
The party had broken up by the time Robert finally roused himself. He felt a Bonzo-shaped lump beside him, snoring away. Slipping from the bed, ostensibly to go for a piss, he glanced out the window and saw Jimmy sitting by the pool, alone, his arms wrapped tight around his legs and rocking slowly back and forth, almost like he was hugging himself. The dark blue waters of the pool were steady now, glinting with melancholy light.
The scent of eucalyptus prickled Robert’s nostrils as he stepped outside. Strange insects droned in his ear. Jimmy glanced up and immediately did a double-take. “Thought you’d gone to bed,” he observed, raising his eyebrows.
“Just got a second wind. I need to pee, actually.”
“Best not do it in the pool, then.” Jimmy tapped the space beside him. “Here, come sit for a minute.”
“Where’s the bird?” queried Robert, crouching down beside him.
“Went home.”
“So what’s a pretty bloke like you doing all alone in a place like this, then?” He elbowed Jimmy and wiggled his eyebrows, making Jimmy chuckle.
“Ha ha, very funny. Look, Robert … I’m sorry I was a bit sharp with you earlier. I’m just shitting myself about tomorrow, that’s all.”
“Same,” Robert replied in a low voice. The pair of them gazed out across the water for an awkward moment.
“It’ll be alright, you know,” Robert said, after a pause.
“Yeah.” Jimmy got to his feet, offering Robert a hand up. “We’ll be fine. Just getting worked up about nothing, really.” He began walking to his bungalow. “Goodnight, Perce.”
“Night, Jimmy.”
***********
Jimmy closed the patio doors to his bungalow behind him and leaned against the cooling glass, running fingers through tangled black hair, and exhaled long and low.
It would be fine. He’d put together the best unit in the world, for fuck’s sake. And if Robert believed it too, then … that was almost everything he could possibly hope for.
Almost everything.