Glory Days

The limousine pulls up and Brick holds the door for Reka to get in. His wife’s flame-red hair is done up in an elaborate braid and she’s tucked herself into a stunning red ballgown. He follows her, closing the door and slumping into the plush leather seats, loosening his bow tie and popping open the buttons on his tuxedo jacket.

“That was drawn out,” he mutters.

“You complaining, Jimmy?” his wife replies.

“I bloody hate these things.”

“Then you shouldn’t have been so good at it.”

The car pulls away from the venue, merging into a steady stream of sleek chauffeur-driven vehicles.

“Gambun’s invited us to his after-party,” Reka says.

“What did you say?”

“I said we’d love to.”

Brick rubs his eyes, grumbling, “Ah shit, Reka. Really?”

“We don’t have to, if you feel really strongly about it. I can just send him a message, say you saw your arse and we’re going back to the hotel.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“Okay, we’ll go. We’ll do an hour there, mixing with his guests, talking shit. It’s fine.”

“It’s the price we pay.”

“For what?”

Reka grins, reaching out to squeeze his hand, replying, “For being rock royalty. You love it too, you know you do.”

Brick shakes his head, muttering, “Just an hour. Just enough for you to get your worship fix.”

“Fine.”

They lapse into silence, holding hands in the back of the car. Reka is watching the scenery pass by.

She’s dressed up for the occasion, her dark red gown from one of the designers she likes, a man Brick recalls meeting a few times over the years. Back when they’d first started out, Reka had been thrilled to be offered a designer dress for an awards night, looking wide-eyed at it when the courier dropped it off. All this time later, the designer is now counted as a friend, still dressing Reka for the big occasions, understanding how to adjust the cut and the line to flatter a fuller figure.

Reka’s been on a merciless diet for a month, slimming down for the dress and for their moment on stage. Tonight, they were awarding Best New Artist, with Reka launching into a brief spiel about still remembering when she’d stood in exactly the same position twenty years ago as The Pilots were presented with the same award.

Brick thinks back to how it had capped off a frenetic year, gig after gig, interview after interview, feeding the record label’s hype machine until it seemed that wherever Brick turned, whichever radio station he listened to, there they were, smashing it out of the park. He had struggled with it at the time, but Reka had stepped to the front of the stage like a burning star. The four of them, all together, with the entire world laid at their feet, rolling with free drinks from guys they didn’t know, stopped in the street, the bright eyes and smiling faces of the fans.

Now, there were nights like these, and then free drinks in bars still. The people buying the drinks were older now, often with kids of their own. Bruce and Jamie had gone their own ways, putting aside the drumkit and the bass guitar to take up book publishing and owning a holiday resort. Brick and Reka haven’t seen them in years. There had been chatter about a reunion gig, but that had been mostly Reka. Bruce is a serious man in publishing these days, pointing out that those glory days were behind them.

Brick had agreed with him, quietly. The songs had stopped coming and the one time he’d got back up on stage recently, he’d felt like an imposter, a caricature of himself: the ageing rocker harking back to his youth.

He looks back at his wife as they ride towards an after-party he doesn’t want to be at, because he doesn’t need some twenty-something talking at him about fame. Reka slips her hand out of his and brings her compact out of her handbag. He watches her touch up her makeup, applying lipstick, tousling her hair. She’s getting ready for the encore.

Brick puts his hand on her knee, feeling the warmth of her bare skin. She glances at him.

“We could do something else,” he tells his wife.

“What did you have in mind?”

“You know what I have in mind.”

“Jimmy, you have a one-track mind.” Reka gives him a little smile and then pats his hand, saying, “Maybe later.”

“You’ll be too tired later.”

“Let’s see.”

His fingers drift fractionally up her leg, but her hand presses down on his, stopping him.

“We’re nearly there,” Reka says.

He wants to say it, but he doesn’t, because it won’t do any good. They’ve been in the back of cars before, his hands on her body, bare skin pressed into leather, the urgency. Younger, yes, but not that much younger. Anything he says at this point is going to sound like a reproach.

The car stops and they get out in front of Gambun’s place, walking through the gates and up the drive. There is music in the air and the buzz of conversation coming from around the back. They cut through the house, but there’s nobody there that Brick recognises, just a bunch of Gambun’s record label cronies, twenty years younger than him. Reka shrieks, holding her hands up in the air excitedly, pushing through the crowd to a swarthy man in a crisp white shirt and carefully-quaffed hair. Reluctantly, Brick follows along.

Gambun grins at him, opening with, “Jimmy, mate, good to see ya,” before coming in for the hug.

“Thanks for the invite,” Brick murmurs, putting on a smile.

Reka is buzzing, her head on the swivel for other people she knows. Brick can tell that it isn’t going to be a quick visit.

They do the rounds, catching up with the same people they’d seen at the awards night earlier, getting introduced to people that Brick instantly forgets. Pierre is there, sipping a cocktail, and Brick makes his way over, leaving his wife to it.

“Jimmy Road, my God,” Pierre says as Brick approaches, “It’s been ages.”

“Padre, how’s the ministry?”

“Bless you, my son. It’s a pain in the bloody arse.”

“Shoulda stuck to music.”

“But, it’s the Arts. I’m funding all this shit now,” Pierre replies, gesturing at the crowd with his drink.

“I remember when you couldn’t fund a bloody piss up.”

Pierre grins at him, slightly unevenly. He’s on the gear: Brick has seen that look many times before.

“You’re game,” Brick mutters, conspiratorially. “There are a bunch of little fuckers here who would love to post a pic of you off your face.”

“Yeah, shit. It’s not like the old days. I’ve lost my flock.”

“You have.”

“They all grew up Jimmy. They all got bloody proper jobs and left the Padre to it.”

Pierre takes a sip of his cocktail.

“No-one wants to hang around with a queer in his sixties, watching him get fat,” Pierre mutters into his drink. “I barely have the opportunity to take it up the arse at all, anymore. I’m invisible.”

Pierre regards him over the rim of his glass, and then his attention shifts over Brick’s shoulder.

“Unlike your wife.”

Brick follows his friend’s gaze. Reka is in the thick of it, gesticulating and laughing with three people Brick doesn’t recognise. He finds himself watching her, unable to hear what she’s saying, just watching the play of expressions across her face. Pierre comes up behind him.

“I remember her in the Roly Poly, the first time I ever saw you play. It was a pristine moment in time, like an insect in amber. I knew you were going all the way in that first ten seconds. I still can’t believe she let you bed her.”

“She’s something,” Brick replies.

“She’s out of your bloody league, Jimmy. Still out of your league.”

Brick takes a swallow of his beer, watching his wife. He doesn’t reply.

“You had the songs though, didn’t you? That was bloody fortunate. In the end, doesn’t matter how good you look, how big your dick is. You gave her something that no-one else could.”

Brick turns away from his wife. Pierre’s face is close, his eyes puffy from the drugs and the booze and the lateness of the hour.

“Yeah,” Brick says. “Love.”

To his surprise, Pierre bursts into laughter.

“What’s so bloody funny?” Brick shoots back, but he’s laughing too, amused by his friend’s joviality.

“Oh, dear me, no, James.”

“Then what?”

Pierre pats him on the shoulder, turns him back around so that he’s facing his wife again, leaning on him.

“You gave her a position on the front of the stage and put words in her mouth for twenty thousand people to sing back to her. No-one else could have done that.”

He feels Pierre pat him on the back as he murmurs, “Cocktail?”

Brick shrugs, then follows Pierre to the bar, leaving his wife to it. She doesn’t notice him leave, she’s far too engrossed in all the attention.

Pierre knows it all. Beyond the bluster and the preening, he’s astute and keen-eyed. He hasn’t missed a thing. Brick stands patiently as his friend mixes two cocktails, looking back through the crowd while he waits.

Reka’s head is just about visible through the mass of people between them. The music changes and suddenly she’s in motion, following Gambun to a microphone stand in the corner of the room. Pierre hands him a cocktail.

“And there she goes,” he observes.

Across the floor, Brick watches his wife as she clears her throat and counts the song in. The backing singers and the instrument tracks are all pre-recorded, waiting for Reka to lay her vocals on top. There’s a little screen with the words scrolling up. She doesn’t need Brick to write the lyrics or play the guitar for her.

No, she’s doing perfectly fine on her own.