As she leaned against the railing, looking out at that seemingly endless view, Roxy wondered whether Jed was around and how soon she could get started.
As if reading her thoughts, Annika said, “He’s in the studio. Could be there for hours, even days, so you might as well settle in.”
“Days?”
She stared into her glass. “He comes up for air eventually. It’ll give us time to have a chat first.” Then she pointed her glass at the chair beside her.
Roxy took a fortifying gulp of her cocktail and sat down. She knew how these things went. This would be no idle “chat”. This was Annika’s chance to interrogate the writer before her husband showed up. Annika was not just Jed’s wife, she was also the band’s manager and she called the shots. At least, that’s what Roxy was led to believe from the press clippings she had devoured on the flight up, and nothing Annika had done thus far gave her cause to dispute this. The woman was clearly bold and outspoken, but that wasn’t unusual in Roxy’s line of work. While she’d never written a book on a musician before, she’d done plenty of magazine interviews and she knew how these things worked. No manager worth her weight in gold would let a journalist loose on their client without a few road rules first. That must go doubly so for a manager/wife.
This time, however, Roxy was in for a surprise.
“Tell me about yourself,” Annika said, one hand now softly stroking Coco’s head.
“You mean, my credentials as a writer?”
She stopped stroking. “Oh, I don’t give a crap about that. That’s Houghton’s business. I want to know where you were you born and bred, where you live now, that kind of thing.”
It was a strange request. Roxy wasn’t used to discussing her personal life in interviews; that was considered a no-no amongst good journalists. It was also the reason she had become a journo in the first place. She didn’t like talking about herself; was not interested in being in the spotlight. It was other people’s lives she wanted to illuminate, not her own.
Annika had other ideas. “Are you married? Any kids?” she persisted.
Okay, thought Roxy. I can play along. “I’m Sydney born and bred, have a little pad in Elizabeth Bay that’s about the size of your bar fridge.” She paused, but Annika did not laugh. “Um, I’m not married and don’t intend to be any time soon, much to my mother’s disappointment, and there are no kids to speak of.”
“Not even a dog?” It sounded as though she was equating the two, and Roxy shook her head.
“As I said, my place is tiny, wouldn’t really be fair to a dog.” She glanced at Coco who only had eyes for her mistress. It’d be nice though, all that unequivocal love. “Still, I do have some very loyal friends and a pretty sweet life.” If you didn’t count the stream of dead bodies that had been showing up lately. She decided not to mention that. “Anyway, it’s my work that really drives me. I’ve had the chance to interview some amazing people in my time.”
“Ever written a book about a musician before?” Roxy shook her head again. “They’re a unique breed, let me tell you that.” Annika placed her glass down on a wrought iron table to the side of the lounge and leaned towards Roxy, her voice dropping to almost a whisper. “When I first met Jeddie, I was a photographer-slash-model. He had a lot of women in his life back then, too many women.” She stopped, choked out a half laugh that didn’t reach the eyes. “You could say he had a different girl in every port. It took me a while but I eventually got their little claws out of him and brushed them out of our life. He’s with me now.”
“Yes, I realise—”
Annika held a long finger up to quieten her, clearly unaccustomed to being interrupted. “You need to hear this, Roxy, and I don’t want to have to say it again, so please listen up. Jed Moody is a very friendly guy, he’ll flirt with you, make you feel very, very special. It’s what he does, it’s why his music just ... works. You’re going to come away feeling like the centre of the universe, one very desirable woman, but it won’t last and it’s not real, so try not to take it personally or flatter yourself. He does it to all the girls.”
Roxy’s cheeks were now burning and her knuckles were white around her glass. “Annika, I’m not—”
She held her finger up again. “Of course you’re not, darling! They never are.” Her eyes glazed over briefly as she looked past Roxy towards the horizon and her anguish was now obvious in the deep groove between her eyes and the hardened downward turn of her mouth. When she looked back, though, her tone was acidic. “Jed Moody is my husband and he won’t be leaving me for anyone. Not now, not ever. He knows that, I know that, so I think it’s helpful that you know that, too. It’ll just save us all a lot of time and grief in the long run.” She had been stroking her crystal necklace and now sighed heavily, wearily, before picking up her martini glass again. “Just do the dreaded book and leave us in peace. Okay?” Then she closed her eyes and polished off her drink.
Roxy was stunned, mortified, too, and she wanted to rail against what Annika was saying. She’d never slept with a client, let alone a married one, and she didn’t intend to start now, but then she remembered how long she had dithered in front of the mirror that morning, how keen she had been to get her look “just right”. And she recalled the way her friends had all joked about “Juicy Jed” over breakfast, as though any rock star, married or otherwise, was fair game.
“You giving this journo a hard time, Annie?” A squeaky voice cut through the tension and both women looked up to find a man standing just inside the French doors, a plump smile on his lips. The strain on Annika’s face dissolved instantly and Roxy, too, felt a sense of relief.
This man was clearly not Jed, and she was glad of that. Thanks to Annika’s warning words, Roxy’s nerves were fluttering like bunting in the wind; it was not how she wanted to present herself to her client. She smiled at the man who was stepping out towards them. He was the antithesis of Jed: short and plump with baggy clothes and thick, fuzzy orange hair—half Ronald McDonald, half Sideshow Bob.
To Annika he was more like Santa Claus and she jumped up to greet him, squealing with delight, causing Coco to leap off the lounge and start yapping again.
“Of course I am, darling!” she said throwing herself into his arms. “That’s what I’m here for, you know that!” She remained coiled around him as she turned back to look at Roxy. “You had to send him a pretty one, didn’t you?”
“Hey, I did you a service, at least she’s not blonde.”
“Ouch,” she said, throwing her head back and laughing for the first time, unleashing what sounded like rapid machine-gun fire.
Roxy watched all this in a state of perplexity. Annika’s animosity had completely thrown her, and she struggled to regain her equilibrium, to channel her cocky sense of self, the one that usually helped her slap down the antagonists in her life. She realised now as she sat blinking up at them like a deer caught in the headlights, that her self-confidence must have gone AWOL somewhere between angry Beard Man’s outburst and Annika’s condescending lecture.
“Awww, don’t mind us,” said the short, fat man as he extricated himself from Annika’s embrace and shuffled towards her, his arm reaching out to shake her hand. “We’re just mucking about. Don’t mean anything by it! I’m Harry Houghton, the band’s publicist. Welcome to the sticks.”
“Thanks,” Roxy managed.
“You found the place okay?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and steadied her nerves. “It’s very beautiful out here.”
“Yeah, but who’d wanna live here, right?” He laughed loudly, his fuzzy hair wobbling as he did so. Then he wedged a fat forefinger to his lips and whispered, “Just don’t tell Annie. She thinks it’s paradise.”
“Oh, you love it here!” Annika hissed, flinging herself back onto the lounge.
“Only when you’re around.” The look they gave each other then almost smouldered. The man was half Annika’s height and twice her size, but there was definite chemistry between them. “Speaking of which, where’s the grump?”
Annika nudged her head towards the tall timber building to the left of the veranda.
“Where else? Been at it for days. I’m bored beyond belief. Get yourself a drink, darling, and replenish ours while you’re there.”
Houghton turned to Roxy. “Annie will be a very generous host, Roxy, but you’ll notice there’s always an ulterior motive.”
“I’m just asking for a vodka cocktail, darling, not your life blood.”
“You’ve already sucked that dry, hey?”
She barked with laughter again. “In your dreams, Mr. Naughty Houghty.”
Once again they seemed to forget that Roxy was there and simply stared at each other as though under some spell. Eventually Houghton coughed and she smiled and shook her head. “You are such a wicked man.”
There was some sort of private joke between them, that much was obvious, and Roxy watched them closely, wondering about it and feeling suddenly peeved. If anyone was doing the flirting around here, it was Annika and the publicist.
“Another cocktail, Roxy?” Houghton asked and she nodded.
She had a feeling she was going to need it.