Getting Real

2. Home



Sydney, Australia. Two months ago.


Mum gestured with the gravy boat. “Are you having seconds?”

It was more an instruction than an invitation. One glance when Jake arrived and she’d decided he wasn’t eating properly, so dutiful son that he was, Jake held out his plate for more roast beef and a slosh of brown salty gravy. “Not knocking it back. Thanks, Mum.”

“I can hear beeping.” Dad screwed up his face and peered around the dining room.

Jake jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “My mobile, it’s in the other room.”

“Good place for it,” said Mum. “Can’t a man have his dinner in peace any more without someone wanting to talk to him?”

Dad made a face, thinned lips and a squiggled brow. “She’s a laugh a minute your mum. How’d you think we paid off this house if it wasn’t for people’s dinner time electrical emergencies?”

Jake laughed. “Yeah, didn’t you pay my school fees with the money from after-hours electric hot water repairs?”

“And Issy’s ballet lessons,” said Dad, with an air of great seriousness. “She’s a real comedian, making you miss calls during dinner, especially if it might be about work.”

Mum shook her head, pretending to be offended. She said, “Mick,” and when the phone in the kitchen rang, “Ooh, that’ll be Sophie.” She leapt to her feet, a chorus of howls chasing her out of the room.

Her absence gave Dad the opportunity to pinch a fat golden baked potato from her plate and for Jake to steal into the lounge room and check his phone. A call from Ron; it would be about work. He dialled his voicemail. Yep, a new tour. Excellent. He needed to call Ron back, but it would wait.

“Work?” asked Dad, as Jake took his seat again.

“Yep.”

“Bugger,” he said, with a mouthful of peas. “I was hoping you’d be around to help me out with a job next week.”

“Let’s see. Might only be a couple of dates. It’s still possible I can help out. I’ve paid my licence fee again, might as well get some use out of it.”

“Is that new work?” said Mum, rejoining them. “Are you eating properly?”

Jake grinned. “What’s the relationship between those two things, Mum?”

“There isn’t one. I don’t see you much anymore, and you’re so busy. I just want to know if you’re looking after yourself.”

“He’s not wasting away, Trish,” said Dad. “His days of being weedy are long gone.”

Mum ignored Dad and zeroed in. “Are you eating lots of fast food? You look thinner. Is there anyone significant in your life?”

Jake laughed. This was the usual third degree. Everything his mother knew about the touring music industry was based on the movie Almost Famous. She probably thought he had his own groupies. That’d be the day.

She didn’t wait for a response. “Did you bring washing, love?”

“Yeah, Mum, but I’ll do it.”

“No. I’ve got a load of your father’s work gear to do. I can put yours through with that lot.”

Jake nodded; it was useless arguing with her, not that he wanted to. Visiting home always meant a good hot meal and laundry service—two things that were random and uncertain on the road and nothing beat Mum’s baked dinner. Not that he was going to admit it, but despite catered ‘crew chew’ there was too much fast food in his life. Too much fast food, and too few opportunities to feel at home.

His flat had been shut up for the last two months. He knew the fridge was empty and the cupboards unlikely to yield much in the way of nutrition. He should go home, but the thought of crashing in his old room tonight and having a Mum-cooked breakfast in the morning had a strong pull.

“Why don’t you stay the night and your stuff will be ready in the morning?”

“I should go home.” Home meant facing eight weeks’ worth of bills and junk mail, and unwashed sheets. He could scarcely remember what state he’d left the flat in before the Jay Jays’ tour kicked off.

“Oh, stay tonight, darling. You can take off after breakfast.”

He knew Mum would’ve already put fresh linen on the bed in his old room. “If it’s not too much trouble?” She’d be in a huff if he seriously tried to leave, but it was expected he’d put up at least the hint of a protest.

“That’s settled then.”

Jake lay his virtual protest placards down and grinned at his dad.

Mum picked up plates and headed towards the kitchen. “I’ve got homemade cheesecake for dessert.”

“I’ll whip the cream,” he said, taking a serving plate and the gravy boat into the kitchen, leaving Dad to clear the remains of the meal.

After dessert and a cup of tea, Jake took his mobile into the backyard where Monty was slobbering over a dried pig’s ear, his big Lab tail thumping the grass, and called Ron.

As usual Ron Teller, Australia’s biggest entertainment promoter was straight to the point. “Mate, I’ve got a new job for you. I want you on a stadium tour, a month’s prep and two on the road. Shows scheduled for Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane and Perth. Oh and Adelaide. You in?”

A stadium tour—that meant it was a big name artist. The only big name Jake knew about to tour was the rock band, Ice Queen. And that was big. That was awesome. That was the pig’s ear in his world. “I’m in.”

“It’s ‘Re-elle’, mate,” said Ron, drawing out the pronunciation of the lead singer’s name for effect. “This Side of Purgatory. It’s a sell out, capacity crowds. Their first time touring here. The media are wetting themselves over it.”

Monty made a little whine of contentment, the sound perfectly capturing how Jake felt. A sell out stadium tour with one of the biggest bands in the world—tasty. It more than compensated for spending the last two months touring regional centres like Newcastle, Ballarat and Bundaberg with the Jays.

“Who’s opening?” he asked.

“Problem Children.” Ron named another chart-topping local band just breaking into the US scene.

“You want me as tour manager?”

“Yeah mate, the band’s bringing their own exec producer and I’ll leave you to put together the rest of the crew.”

Mentally he assembled the rest of the people he’d need to provide staging set up, catering, security, transport, and logistics. “What do you know about Rielle?” Jake knew she was a talented performer and a media darling because of her explosive temper and outrageous stage presence, but that was little more than what was public about her and the band. He wanted the inside story. The more he knew, the easier it would be to run the tour.

“She and her brother have managed themselves since they were teenagers, they’re tight. He’s the business brain; she’s the star. I hear she’s one hundred percent pure bitch, mate,” said Ron. “Talented yeah, but from what I know, relentless about quality, rides everyone hard to get what she wants and not nice about it.”

In the dark backyard, with the whir of the washing machine and the slobber of the dog, Jake nodded. The expression ‘pure bitch’ covered a lot of ground and was usually applied to female talent if they were in any way strong-willed. He was well aware of the double standard that applied in the industry. No one thought a male entertainer was a bastard if he was focussed on a quality performance, but a demanding woman—bitch.

“Seriously a bitch or just, you know…?”

“Reedy, mate, from what the US promoter tells me, she doesn’t pull any punches and she’s the boss on stage,” warned Ron. “Anyway, she’ll be your problem now, whether she’s a bitch or a p-ssycat. We’re leg one of their global tour, they want to get it right here, where the fans are more laid back, before they take it to the US and Europe. So we’re the guinea pigs, and when I say we, mate, that’d be you, playing the part of the rodent.”