Page 12 of The Cocktail Bar
Chapter Five
RIVER
River peeped through the spyhole, an unnecessary action given that Heather’s description of ‘man in a black cap with an N and a Y on it, bulbous nose, searching emerald eyes and naff gold medallion, accompanied by an aura… or on second thoughts, perhaps it’s just a huddle of bodies behind him’ painted the picture of band manager and entire line-up.
“You’re wasting your time, guys,” he shouted at the door and its peeling claret paint, heart thudding so loudly he was sure they could all hear its drum beat outside. “There’s nothing you can say to make me change my mind. It’s over. You’ll easily find a replacement for me. Just switch onThe Voiceand pilfer one of the rejects. They’re all pretty good these days.”
“River: Open up and stop being childish, you owe me an explanation,” Lennie echoed back. “You can’t play hide and seek for ever. If you don’t talk to me soon, it’ll only be the paps that end up cornering you… your choice, but I know what I’d prefer in your shoes.”
“Yeah,” chimed in a band member whose voice he couldn’t put a face to through the wood, though it definitely wasn’t Alice.
“Let them in, love,” said Heather, placing a heavily bejewelled hand on her son’s shoulder. “You were going to have to face the music… oops, ‘scuse the pun,” she paused and closed her eyes at her careless remark, “at some point. I’ll brew up some catnip tea. It’ll help calm you all down so you can come to some sort of arrangement and move on.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Mum.” River uncurled her fingers and shook himself free. “My mind was made up a long time ago, you know that. There’s more to life than getting out of our heads on the road, no idea of where we are, who we’ve slept with or what day of the week it is.”
“Look, son,” Lennie said in that manner of his that River was more than accustomed to. He imagined him squaring his jaw against the door, just like he had all those times when Bear and Alex had refused to open their hotel door for a rehearsal, and River and Lennie had paced the corridor, facepalming foreheads as to how the evening’s gig could even happen.
“Look, son,” he said it again as River let out a deep breath and scratched at the shoddy paintwork. “You’re under contract and all.”
“I think you’re forgetting the slightly important fact that we didn’t actually renew the contract last—”
“Horses for courses…yada yada yada… you can’t just walk away mid tour, or mid anything. This is business. Have you any idea how much money, not to mention credibility, you’re costing me… I meanus?”
“Wanker.”
That was definitely Alex. A fitting reply too. Well, too bad, rules were there to be broken.
“I told all of you to pipe down, leave this to me,” Lennie’s words trailed behind him. “This is delicate business,” he added in a stern whisper, oblivious to the fact that River and Heather could hear everything.
“Would you like me to pass you a tray of catnip through the kitchen window?” Heather said to the door. “I’ve got some freshly baked root ginger biscuits too, perfect for grounding the body.”
“You what?” said Lennie.
“Catnip tea,” said Heather. “It’s a soother, and if I can get River to drink a little too, well, who knows, maybe you can come to some sort of agreement.”
“Mother,Heather, just stay out of this please.”
“Sounds delectable,” said Lennie, and even through the shield of the front door, River knew he was embarking on his Condescending Charade.
“Tell you what, you bring it round to the kitchen window, sweetheart, and I’ll meet you there for a sip or two. Don’t fret, these hangers-on will be firmlyroot gingered here, to the spot,” he could be heard to shout the latter behind himself.
“You’re a fool if you trust a word that comes out of his mouth,” said River. “Once the window’s up, he can easily force his way in.”
Lennie’s hot and recent, but frankly quite pointless (owing to the size of his paunch) pursuit popped into his head. River saw himself sliding down the banister once again, all the way to the ground floor of their Mexican hotel and the haven of the busy streets, in a bid to beat his manager who’d no doubt have opted for the lift, which at that time of night would have stopped at just about every floor, carrying diners to the first floor restaurant for all things à la carte.
The guy was an avarice stopping at nothing if he thought he was in danger of losing money.
“And here was me thinking I’d brought you up to see the positives in people.” Heather shook her head in her hallmark what-are-we-going-to-do-with-you way.
River shrugged as if he didn’t know the answer himself, and retreated to his old bedroom, not that Heather had ever really done anything with it since his exodus from the West Country anyway. It was clear she’d always expected the rock bubble to burst; for him to come running back to his roots. You can take the boy out of Somerset but you can’t take Somerset out of the boy.
Jim Morrison was the first to challenge his loyalty as he flopped onto his bed. Their eyes met above the headboard in a moment which seemed to scream now or never. Funny, River had never noticed The Doors’ lead singer look at him like that before. He sat up, crawled over to his pillow and smiled pitifully at him.
“Yeah? Look what all of this did to you, mate.”
Jim was ripped briskly from the wall and River proceeded to do the same to Bowie, Gary Stringer from the local band Reef, (who the media loved to portray as their pedestal rival), The White Stripes, and finally the members of Muse, whose curious Mona Lisa-esque gazes all seemed to follow him wherever he placed himself in the tiny room. The bare walls strangely soothed; a cathartic symbol of a fresh beginning. River drew in his breath through his nose, enlarging his navel, bringing his shoulders up high as he’d seen Heather do before meditation and yoga, and exhaled slowly through his mouth, letting out the burden and baggage of twelve years of musical institution.
He dimmed the light and crept to the window, peeling back the mock velvet curtains and their mouldy linings which Heather never seemed to get round to washing, to reveal two shifty looking former band mates – and the angelic Alice – crunching gravel on the front path below. They reminded him of the trick-or-treaters who used to gather in their garden for pranks. Although Heather never opened the door at Halloween given her Pagan roots, she and River would snoop on the hullaballoo below from his bedroom window, praying there wouldn’t be a re-enactment this year of the gate being wrenched from its brackets and flung into the hedge – or too many eggs and bags of flour pelted at the kitchen window.
