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Ace
It was worse than his dad or Gus had expected. It was more than a flash-in-the-pan publicity drive designed to sell a book. It was serious.
Four women had come forward and accused Denny of historic rape and more were lining up to tell their stories about how he’d behaved inappropriately towards them, and this was solely during his time in the States. The story was breaking in the UK so it would only be hours before they tracked down Wendy’s family – and then there was a strong likelihood more young women would find the courage to share their memories of Denny and ultimately, NorthStar.
Edie was seated by Ace’s side on one of the sofas, gripping his hand tightly, her eyes locked on the screen and the images of his dad through the ages, but mostly well-chosen moments in history, the band’s heydays when they were young and wild. Of course, all the shots were of his dad and the others drunk, staggering out of clubs, arms wrapped around a beautiful woman, and of Chaz smashing up his guitar on stage, Steve in his underpants on the balcony of a hotel drinking from a vodka bottle, Joe bare-chested and glistening with sweat as he reached into the audience to touch fingertips with adoring fans. And yes, they’d homed in on the faces of women.
From a professional viewpoint Ace applauded the editor who had done a fine job of collating the worst possible photographs to tell a disjointed and inaccurate story of what NorthStar was about; focusing on the salacious in order to capture the viewers’ imagination and fuel their disgust. And then, when they hit them with how successful NorthStar had become, listing their awards – Grammys, and Brits to name just a few – plus images of mansions, fancy cars, and them boarding private jets to exclusive holiday islands, it was like feeding a monster named resentment.
Sick of the sight of it all, Ace looked around the room. His dad was catatonic, just sitting staring at the television and nobody had dared speak to him and Ace wasn’t sure if the white-grey pallor of his skin was anger, or he was about to keel over from the trauma of it all. By Joe’s side on the sofa was Gus who wore a matching expression and to his dad’s right, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was his mum, tears rolling down her face.
Lance was opposite, face like thunder, his piercing blue eyes like slits, hands clasped as he endured a visual white-knuckle ride. Nanou was seated beside Edie, clutching a tea towel like her life depended on it. Edie had her arm around Nanou’s shoulder and every now and then Ace saw her give it a gentle pat, when yet another correspondent added their two cents’ worth. But it was when the studio cut to a street in London, he heard Jenny gasp, at the same time as he realised where the bank of photographers and news teams had set up camp. The apartment in Notting Hill.
A hush fell on the room as they listened to the media and culture correspondent spread the mud. ‘There’s no sign of life here at Joe Jarrett’s swish London apartment in a leafy suburb of Notting Hill and neighbours confirm he’s not been seen here for months so the hunt is on. Where is Joe and is he going to confirm or deny the accusations of drug-fuelled orgies and the culture of grooming underage girls, not just within the band but amongst the wider music industry?’
When Joe stood, Jenny reached out and placed a hand on his leg, as though hoping to soothe him. ‘What is this shit…? Seriously, how the fuck can they get away with saying stuff like that? I’ve never been to an orgy in my life and if they can prove I have then I must have slept through it all!’
Jenny scrambled to her feet and stood by his side. ‘Joe, it’s not you they’re really after; it’s Denny. You’re just caught in the crossfire. Look, they’ve crossed over to another location…’
All eyes returned to the screen where the walls and iron gates surrounding a country home were similarly surrounded by press and guarded by two police officers, a lone patrol car blocking the entrance. They’d tracked Denny down.
‘Denny Sullivan. The bass guitarist with the band NorthStar has been holed up inside his Buckinghamshire mansion where he awaits his fate after being accused of raping and sexually abusing underage girls when he lived in America during the eighties. Both he and his management company have declined to comment and we’re waiting to hear from the Metropolitan Police. Sixty-one-year-old Sullivan reportedly resides here with his new wife, glamour model Bambi who is thirty-five years his junior.’ The correspondent left his pertinent comment hanging in the air, then passed back to the studio.
Eyes glazed, staring not at the screen but at the wall, Joe dragged both hands down his face, contorting his image to one of horror and it killed Ace inside, seeing his dad like this.
‘I’ve got to get some air. I can’t watch any more of this bollocks. It’s making me sick.’ And with that Joe stormed from the room, Jenny’s hand flopping to her side as he pulled away and she let him go.
And then everyone began talking at once. Nanou asking Ace questions that he answered as best he could, rapidly repeating in French what had just happened on the screen. And then Lance, cursing the reporter, his vitriol mingling with Jenny’s husky Midwestern verbal assault on the guy who needed his mike sticking up his asshole. Then Edie, trying to placate Nanou who was dabbing her eyes with the tea towel and Gus, who’d taken a call and was leaving the room, his face creased with anxiety.
It was all too much, the noise, the horrible words on the TV, his dad’s anguish, and his mum’s anger, and he hated that Nanou was crying. Then Lance began pacing, and Edie was asking if anyone needed anything. Yes, for you all to stop, be quiet, just stop talking. You are too loud.
But they didn’t and the wires in his head were crackling and sparking, and he couldn’t think straight, and he was hot, and his heart was beating too fast which made his legs want to run, so they did, as fast as he could out of the lounge and up the stairs, climbing higher and higher until he reached his dad’s loft where he raced towards the French doors and almost punched them open.
Once outside Ace gulped in lungfuls of Atlantic air, the wind battering his body and tangling his hair while the doors slammed against the wall and the curtains blew and billowed.
Breathe, breathe, wait till it passes then you can straighten it all out, breathe, breathe, in for three out for six. Good, that’s better. Now you know what to do. Find a box. Okay, what colour is it? Blue, great choice. Now lift the lid, open it wide and put it all inside.
What they said is a lie. Put the lies in the box. The look on Dad’s weary face, put it in the box. Nanou’s tears, and Maman’s, yes those too. Lance’s angry words, straight inside. I think Gus is going to die, quick, lock that away and close the lid, do it now. It’s all done, nice and tidy. Now put the box on the shelf and push it right to the back and out of sight.
Breathing is better now, chest not so tight. Two more, just in case. In for three out for six, good, good, nice and easy. There, you did it.
It was a coping strategy his mum had taught him, for when things got tangled up in his head and a panic attack was building. She would kneel on the floor and hold his hand and tell him to close his eyes and imagine a box, any colour, and together they put all the things that were bothering him inside and shut them away. The box with all the very bad stuff, things he’d seen on the news or what a nasty kid at school said, she’d put right on the highest shelf for him, out of sight so he couldn’t see. Then, when he was calm and ready to talk it through, she would get it down and they would open the lid, then take everything out one by one, put them all in a straight line, nice and orderly so Ace could see them clearly. It had always worked and as he got older rather than say them out loud he’d go through the process in his head.
Sometimes he hated himself for feeling this way, then other times he accepted that it was part of him, his personality, and at least he had a way of dealing with it. He just wished that it hadn’t happened at a really inconvenient time when everyone needed to stay calm and be supportive. His dad was the one who was falling apart, not him. He had to get a grip.
Resting his forearms on the balcony rail, Ace detected movement below. It was one of the guards, talking on his phone while his huge German Shepherd sat patiently, and just inside the barn where Silvestre stored all his equipment was his dad, sitting on a bale of hay, head in hands, the dogs sniffing around and amusing themselves. God only knew what was going through his dad’s mind. Someone should be with him, that was Ace’s thought. But his resolution to head downstairs was thwarted by the appearance of his mother on the balcony, so he turned and kept an eye on his dad.
‘I thought I’d give you time to sort through those boxes before I came and interfered. You know it’s my favourite occupation.’ Jenny came and stood by his side, linking Ace’s arm, and following his gaze. ‘Poor Joe.’
‘I think one of us should be with him. I hate seeing him out there alone.’
‘Or maybe he’s sick of talking and listening and a few minutes to get it together is all he needs. Your father is a proud man, proud of what he’s achieved and to see someone take a hammer and smash it all down is going to be rough. All we can do is be here when he’s worked some of it out, and the rest, we’ll help him rebuild and renew. That’s what it’ll come down to in the end, starting over.’ Jenny laid her head against Ace’s arm.
‘I hate Denny so much. This is all his fault.’ He meant it.
‘Son, there’s one thing I want you to remember in the next few days and it’s going to be hard to hear but it’s the truth.’
Ace pulled away slightly, his body tensing.
