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Rielle watched her brother and her closest friends stumble about on shifting sands and felt a sense of mourning. Not the shocked, lashing distress of a child, but the confused, unearthed sorrow of an adult. Things were changed, changing, and she couldn’t stop them. Things were dying and being reborn differently, and she didn’t know how to react to that. It made her feel panicky, insecure. She was the Ice Queen; without the band what did she have left?
Rand cut his hair short and stopped dying it, looking younger as a blond. He got recognised less often but hit on more, much to Harry’s amusement.
What he wanted most was for Harry to agree to a wedding. He didn’t care what form it took: an Elvis chapel, a registry office or even a drive-thru McDonald’s if that’s what she wanted—as long as it was legal. But Harry iced him. She wasn’t ready to settle down. She wanted time to re-establish her career. She was working hard on freelance assignments all over the country to build her name and a portfolio of local experience.
The irony of that made Rand grind his teeth. He whined that it was supposed to be men who were scared of commitment. Supposed to be rock stars who played hard to get. It made him love Harry all the more. She wasn’t dependent on him and she didn’t need him. She chose him. It was their one source of tension.
Rielle would’ve given up the contents of her bank balance and every royalty yet unearned to have that problem with Jake.
She knew Rand found Harry’s holdout thoroughly frustrating but cruelly inspirational.
He was writing prolifically. New songs, songs that didn’t fit Ice Queen; songs for some other band to record. He was thinking about producing for other artists. Jonas, now clear-headed and trying to mediate their way through the ‘break’ they were having without it morphing into a ‘break up’, said Rand should start his own record label.
Stu said Rand had gone soft, suburban, lost his edge. Stu got angry when Ceedee left and stayed that way. No one knew what he was doing, but every so often he’d show up at the house, sometimes wasted, sometimes sober, to abuse Rand. No one talked about replacing Ceedee and everyone waited.
Rielle watched Rand build a new part to his life and felt envious. She watched him with Harry and felt empty. She looked at herself and saw her life for what it had become, hollow and without meaning. She was a tabloid sensation, a chart topping star. She had the world at her feet. She could do anything she wanted. She was young and rich and healthy, and terrified about how to live. She looked at herself and saw nothing but a cardboard cut-out and knew if she didn’t change, she might as well lie down and die. Might as well have done it a long time ago.
Without the rigours of touring to hide behind, she shut herself off; she spent time alone. She thought about the things that defined her life—that wet night and that dangerous road and that stupid argument, and what she’d done to bury the guilt. She knew forgiving herself was out of the question, but learning to let it go and move past it, like Rand had done, to stop being defined by it, was the lesson she needed to master if she had any chance of living a real life.
For the first time in a long time, she let herself think about Maggie and Ben freely—remembering without being crushed by the pain of loss. She had long conversations with Rand, and they both laughed as much as they cried, and this was new—this ability to face the past rather than to duck it, haul darkness over it and cloak it in fear.
Rand worried about her, kept her close, made her eat and gently fathered her like he’d done for most of their lives. He put her back to work with Jonas to finalise a new album of songs, leftovers from years gone by and some new stuff recorded pre-tour. The three of them knew it might be their last Ice Queen album.
And then amidst the fumbling and stuttering to rebuild herself, Rielle started hearing music again—her own music. It started with a curl around the back of her brain. Tickling, teasing, not quite heard, not quite present—more irritating than productive—then it would disappear. But it would come back when she was least ready for it. Waking her from the depths of sleep, interrupting the mechanical nature of exercise, when she was stirring a sauce, chopping vegetables, watching a zombie apocalypse on TV, there it would be—vaguely twisting, forming, forcing its way out.
She started writing again and could lose whole days without thinking once about anything but the words and sounds in her head. She stopped using makeup, forgot about the contacts, and packed the prosthetic tooth piece in its box. She gave up on wearing her hairpieces, letting her own hair grow out longer. She quit dressing up and stopped being a rock star on a daily basis.
At first she had trouble looking in the mirror. She’d avoid it as usual, but after a while she realised she needed to face that too. This person in the mirror was who she was. Different to who she’d been, but the same as well.
She dug down; she learned. She faced her fears.
She changed.
And it was both a trial and a relief. She told herself she was happy.
Rand said her pants were on fire.
It wasn’t long before she had a collection of entirely new songs. Once she’d found the voice and music in her head again, fresh sounds and words poured out as though they’d been there all the time, stored up, waiting for her to be ready to receive them. They were different; lighter and freer. Songs for Arielle, not for an ice queen; simple songs for a singer with a guitar and not much else. Songs that weren’t anthems or chart toppers, but shone unaccompanied with little pieces of pain and truth and daring. They were songs about fear and having courage. Songs about unflinching honesty and unconditional love. Songs inspired by her time with Jake that proved she didn’t have to be the Ice Queen anymore unless she wanted to.
Going back seemed like the right thing to do. She couldn’t do it in LA, or New York or anywhere else in the US, too much risk she’d be caught out and the media frenzy would be intense, especially on the back of the continuous break-up rumours. But in Sydney it would be easier to hide and there were people she trusted, so Sydney made sense. It would give her cover in every respect but one, but then, it was a long time now and she wasn’t going to search him out anyway. She’d made her peace with that, as much as it was possible to and still be listening to his wretched voicemails.
It was Bodge who set it up for her. He got a little blonde folk singer called Arielle a gig at a mate’s pub. She could barely remember being so excited, but the dread was there too. Fear of failing, fear of falling—which is what she’d have called the album if it ever got recorded, if it survived being played live.
47. Jake
Sydney, Australia.
The call from Glen was a pleasant surprise. The building site was noisy, and Jake almost missed the phone ring under the squeal of an angle grinder. From his perch
on top of the scaffold, four storeys up, where he was threading electrical cable, Jake told Glen how his dad was doing. Thankfully much better, with movement restored to his right leg and arm and cheekier every day now that he was getting his speech back after the stroke.
That’s what the shouting the night Rielle came to dinner had been about. Dad working too hard and not taking care of himself. They were lucky he’d survived. His recovery was going to be slow and frustrating, but he’d get there. He was a tough old bugger. They’d had to make changes of course, maybe take on a partner for the business or sell it, because much as Jake was happy to carry things, it wasn’t what he wanted to do forever.
He had no idea what he wanted to do next week, let alone forever. He was distracted, unanchored; bouncing between the business and helping Mum and Issy take care of Dad.
It was good to be busy. Too much thinking time was bad for his soul, because in his quiet moments he thought of Rielle.
He had an endless loop of mental images to call on. Rielle in every mood and manner: the mystery Gym Girl, the fiery hellcat, the tempting seductress, the electric powerhouse performer. The girl he’d loved. The girl he hated. Rie on the back of Bonne. Rie in lycra and leather, and Issy’s flowery dress. Rie in his arms, in the cage, in her bed. Rie as the moth goddess. Rie as a bitch and a sweetheart, an idol and a lover and a nightmare.
