I slow to a crawl and wait as my gate opens. They crowd around my car, on both sides and in front of me. I can't even drive forward without hitting them, which I admit I do fantasize about briefly.
But instead, I extend one middle finger against the window and don't look at any of the cameras, inching my car forward. They can't come onto the property, because then I can sue, so all I've got to do is get through the gate and I'm home free.
I swear it takes several minutes, but I get in without causing anyone grievous bodily harm, and hit the button to close the gate behind me. The shouts of the photographers get a little quieter, but the they don't fade, and when I get out of the car I can still hear them.
This is why famous people move to mountaintops, I think. All I ever wanted to do was write songs and play music.
"Gavin!" a particularly loud one shouts over my fence. "Do you have a comment on the contract?"
I've got no clue what he's talking about. Presumably Crumble City, the record company, has made some comment on our contract now that the rumors are out about Marisol and me. But if they've not contacted me, it can't be that big of a deal.
"Is it true it's a forgery?" someone else shouts.
Why the fuck would a record contract be a forgery?
I frown, shut my car door, and pull out my mobile. Several missed calls and texts from Valerie, some from Nigel, the top two reasons I keep the damn thing on silent.
"What does this mean for the band?" another voice calls out.
Valerie's texts are all-caps and make no damn sense, so I google "Gavin Lockwood Contract" as I walk for the house, stomach slowly sinking because whenever those two want to talk, it isn't ever good news.
Result one: TMZ.
Gavin Lockwood's Sham Shag
Leaked documents PROVE girlfriend was a setup!
I stop dead on my front walk, click the link. There's a slightly blurry photo, badly lit photo on the post and I enlarge it, heart thumping.
It's the final page of the contract we both signed, that day in Larry's office. I'd nearly forgotten we ever signed a contract. I barely looked at the thing, to be honest; the entire time I was mostly listening to Marisol talk, trying not to think about the way her lips looked when she said binding clause.
They can't have, I think, over and over again. Someone's faked this just to set me up, but they can't have gotten this.
But they did. And now, standing here, listening to asshole so-called reporters shout at me over my front gate, I'm looking at the signature page of it on a gossip blog, on my mobile screen. My big, looping scrawl, Marisol's smaller, neater signature, the thick bumpy line that's Larry's.
This is it. This is definitely it, and I've not got a clue how they got a hold of it.
I walk inside, and on the other side of the door, pause for a moment, listening. No noise, so Liam's either out or asleep. It's still only two in the afternoon, so the latter's a likely possibility.
Then I sit on the remaining couch - I got rid of the blood-soaked one, obviously - and call Valerie back.
"Was this you?" she snaps.
I was already quite annoyed and irritated, but in less than a second she's managed to make me angry with her.
"Fucking of course not," I say. "I've been following every single suggestion you've made for me to the letter and they all seem to be getting cocked up anyway."
"You punched Eddie!" she shouts.
I think it's the first time Valerie's ever shouted at me. For all her panicked and insane emails, in person or on the phone she's usually fairly calm.
"He deserved it," I snap back. "He drugged Marisol because he's a careless wanker and he left pot-laced candy about."
And he called her my fake girlfriend, I think. Even though she was at the time.
"I don't care if he took a machine gun to a puppy sanctuary, you can't punch your bandmates!" she says, her voice rising in pitch. "And you can't punch your bandmates and then act like you're astonished that someone thinks you might pull other bullshit!"
"Why the fuck would I do this, Valerie?" I ask. "To finish proving that we're trying to fool everyone? So I could make certain to fuck myself over good and properly?"
"For the press," she says, as if it's so obvious a child could see it. "You've been out of the news cycle for a couple days, so maybe you went off-book and decided to get yourself back out there."
Now I'm standing, pacing back and forth around the living room. The blood and glass from Monday night is cleaned, but there's still a large sheet of plywood over the empty window that Liam broke, and seeing that just makes me angrier.
It's as if it doesn't matter whether I try follow the right path or not, everything around me still turns to shit.
"Valerie, what the fuck in our working relationship would give you the slightest idea that I've enjoyed being the object of gossip?" I ask, striding from the plywood window to the remaining couch. "All I want to do is play music, and the only reason I give a single solitary fuck about having good publicity is because the record label is so interested in it."
"Please," she says, her voice nearly dripping with scorn. "Everyone gets a taste, then another taste, and they're hooked and they keep going back. It's like a drug. It's addictive."
I burst out laughing, alone in the house and on the phone. I probably sound unhinged, but Valerie's fucking mad if she thinks that's true.
"It's nothing like a drug," I tell her. "Drugs are at least enjoyable while you're on them."
She clears her throat. I'm still laughing.
There's a long, awkward silence.
"I apologize for the comparison," she says stiffly. "But I don't believe I'm out of line thinking that you may have-"
"I've already told you it fucking wasn't me," I say, though I'm hardly even angry any more. "I don't know who it was or what they want, but it wasn't me, and that's all I've got to say on it."
I hang up the phone, toss it onto the couch, and walk into the kitchen because I need a drink. Of water, even though right now I'd fucking love just a sip of something stronger.
As I'm filling a glass from the sink, I notice a piece of notebook paper on the counter. It's ripped in half and looks like it may have been crumpled at some point. But it's a note from Liam, written in sharpie in his bloody awful handwriting.
Gav-
You were right. Back in rehab. See you on the other side, brother.
Liam
I stare at it until the glass overflows onto my hand, then turn the water off and grab the note. I turn it over. There's nothing else. That's it, just you were right, back in rehab.
For a moment, I wonder if someone's winding me up. Maybe he's been kidnapped and this is some attempt at a ransom note, but it's definitely his handwriting. There's nothing wrong in the house. If anything, it seems a bit neater than usual - no socks and shoes strewn about.
Actually, I think the dishes that I left out yesterday have been washed and put away.
Now that's strange.
I read the note again and again, drinking my water. I glance around at the cleaner-than-normal kitchen. Liam's been acting all right the past few days. He's been drinking, but not getting plastered every night; I'm fairly certain he's been smoking pot in the back yard but it's now been a while since he came home wild-eyed and told me about how the Queen, the Prime Minister and the American President are all lizard people simply wearing human skins.
Liam's been subdued. Calm. Almost normal.
Maybe the note's true. Maybe he really did go back.
Despite myself, and despite everything I know about Liam, I let myself believe it for a moment. Maybe this time it'll work, he'll get clean, and things can go back to the way they used to be between us, before all this.
I know better than to get my hopes up, but I can't help it. I close my eyes, cross my fingers, and offer up a quick prayer to whatever deity looks after fuckups like Liam.
Please, let it work this time, I think.
38
Marisol
"I could hide in the trunk," I offer as Gavin comes to a stop sign.
He just snorts.
"I'm hoping they've given up by now," he says, his car purring around a tight curve, tall gated houses on either side of the narrow street. "There were only two when I left to pick you up and they both looked quite bored."
Another car comes toward us on the street, and we slow, squeezing past each other with inches to spare. I try to peer ahead in the dark, seeing if there are paparazzi outside any of the gates ahead.
"And if they haven't, I don't give a fuck," he says. "Let them puzzle over why I'm bringing my contracted girlfriend home with me."
We snake around another curve, and a tall wooden gate comes into view, a single man standing outside, holding a camera and looking at his phone.
"Maybe we should invite him in and explain over a cup of tea," I say.
"There are things I'd rather do," Gavin says, and raises one eyebrow in my direction.
I press my knees together, my insides fluttering just a little as the gate slides open. The photographer looks up, pockets his phone, and starts snapping away. Gavin shades his eyes and I turn my head, though it's more because the flash is blinding in the dark than because we don't want to be found together.