Page 45 of I Would Die for You

“I’m just laying down my vocals for ‘Friends Like These’,” Ben lies.

“What, without the rest of the band?” snarls Michael, knowing, even in his stoned haze, that it’s unlikely.

“Thought we’d try something new.”

“So, who’sshe?” growls Michael, giving Nicole a cursory glance up and down to size up whether she’s someone he might be interested in. As if he has a choice to make.

Ben bristles beside her as his brain no doubt fast-tracks to find the most acceptable answer. Just watching him is exhausting.

“She’s the new studio assistant,” he says, making Nicole feel even smaller than she already does. He turns to her to continue the charade. “We’ve got band-time booked in for when we get back from America, right?”

Nicole nods numbly.

“Well, you’d better make sure your sweet ass is here when we come back,” says Michael, coming toward her and running a hand up her bare leg, the tips of his fingers feeling their way under the frayed hem of her denim shorts.

“Hey, cut it out,” snaps Ben, reaching forward and swiping his arm away.

“Or what?” says Michael, his nostrils flaring.

“You’re pathetic,” says Ben, turning to walk away.

“Hey, don’t you turn your back on me!” roars Michael, pulling on Ben’s shoulder.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” says Ben, attempting to shrug him off. But Michael’s not having it and steps up to him, puffing his chest out like he has something to prove.

“Come on then!” he bellows, poking Ben in the chest with a provoking finger. “Let’s have it.”

Ben looks at him, his expression a mixture of pity and sadness as to how they’ve got to this point.

“Go home,” he says. “Get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll see you at the awards tonight.”

Michael looks like he’s been shot with a tranquilizer dart, as the realization sinks in that he’s not going to get the fight he was looking for.

“Yeah, right,” he says, suddenly sheepish, though Nicole doesn’t imagine his subservience will last very long.

“I’m so sorry,” Ben says, once Michael has left. “Are you OK?”

Nicole nods, though she can still feel Michael’s clammy hand on her thigh.

Ben lets out a heavy sigh. “That’s the kind of shit I’m having to deal with on a daily basis.”

“He can’t go around treating people like that,” says Nicole.

“I know, but he’s not in a good place right now, and it’s a constant fight to keep him on the straight and narrow.”

Nicole bites her tongue to stop herself from saying that he’s a grown adult who’s living a life that millions of others would kill for, so perhaps he needs to stop being treated with kid gloves and be given some tough love.

“I’ll find a way to get through to him,” says Ben, as if reading her mind.

She smiles, wishing him all the luck in the world, because she fears he’s going to need it.

21

It’s a military operation as one stretch limousine after another pulls up beside the red carpet that runs all the way from the roadside and up the steps to the Royal Albert Hall. The nation’s press waits with bated breath as each foot appears from beneath the car door, second-guessing which legend from the music world is about to grace them with their presence.

Tina Turner steps out in a red leather minidress, her shaggy, supersized golden mullet instantly recognizable. Next comes Michael Jackson in his signature shades, waving to the screaming crowds with a crystal-gloved hand. But it’s the bare foot that follows him out of the car that sends the flashbulbs into a frenzy.

The splayed toes of a hairy primate jump down onto the carpet, dressed as if he’s going to a baseball game.

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