Storms by Carol Ann Harris Page B

he’d just touched me.
    â€œCould you grab me a Myers’s and Coke?” he asked me, over his shoulder.
    With a shrug and a grin, I left the two guitarists to make sweet music.
    As I walked down the hallway J.C.’s voice boomed, “Ten
minutes, everybody. Ten minutes!”
    I’d soon learn that this was a ritual. Every show started the same way.
    â€œNine minutes!
Christine, are you OK, dear?” he asked her as I stepped into the dressing room. The room was buzzing. It was empty of all but Christine, Mick, Stevie, and, of course, me, fixing Lindsey’s rum and Coke.I swear that you could feel the electricity in the air as the band members did their final preparations before taking the stage. I tried to hold the glass steady as I poured.
    â€œSeven minutes!
Mick, you have a question?”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two apparitions. One was Stevie, the White Witch, Rhiannon. Over a black leotard top she’d layered black chiffon, falling into points around her feet, then wrapped herself in three shawls, each with a different firework display of sequins, spluttering into rainbow light under the bright glare of the makeup mirror.
    Then there was Christine, the Warrior Queen, in silk skirts and a velvet embroidered waistcoat. Neither was quite real. Both were as fictionalized as the fans demanded. But the fans would recognize the legends. And on this night, their stage personas were already beginning to wipe out their real life personalities. Christine’s hands shook. Was it only nerves? She grabbed a stray glass and downed the contents.
    â€œFive minutes!
Stevie, are you ready? You look pale!”
    â€œFine, J.C. You’ll make sure of that, won’t you?” Stevie croaked.
What did that mean?
    â€œI will indeed, Miss Nicks! Don’t you worry!
Four minutes!”
    John came into the room, drinking from an almost empty bottle of Scotch, with Lindsey following, his Les Paul guitar strapped around his neck.
    â€œYour drink!” I smiled, handing it to him.
    â€œPerfect!” he whispered. “Thanks, angel.”
    Mick was resplendent in a knickerbocker outfit of black velvet with a pair of wooden balls suspended from a cord and hanging between his thighs, just as he’d been photographed on the
Rumours
album cover. He leaped around the room with his drumsticks, hitting every solid surface. Then he held both sticks to his groin, standing proud from his crotch, and wiggled his hips, making the balls bounce and click. It was as crude a sexual gesture as I’d ever seen. Stevie Nicks giggled shrilly and I caught the glance he gave her, then the coy look she returned.
No, surely not?
I thought.
Mick’s married, and Stevie has her choice of every available man in the world! But if Lindsey looked at me that way, I’d be left in no doubt what it meant.
    â€œThree minutes!”
    Lindsey downed his drink, and glared out of the corner of his eye at Stevie, still giggling at Mick’s mimed suggestions. My heart stopped for a second. It really wasn’t over between them, was it?
    â€œLine up and let’s send you out in style!” J.C. ordered.
    They seemed to know what came next. Like obedient schoolchildren, the band formed their line, holding out their fists. J.C. poured a small pile of cocaine onto each wrist.
“Two minutes!
Let’s toot and get those roses in your cheeks, Stevie!” he commanded. Lindsey snorted, then looked at me. His blue, blue gaze held mine and for the first time in our relationship, I could see naked fear in his eyes.
    â€œOne
minute
and let’s go.”
    I fought my inner instinct to run to him, and I hung back. Even at this first show I knew they were crossing into territory I could not enter. Once they left the inner sanctum of their dressing room they’d abandon their separate identities and forge themselves into the power that was Fleetwood Mac. Lindsey was gone, his eyes not leaving mine