Getting Real

When Rielle Mainline walked on stage wearing tiny, frayed, cut-off denim shorts and a skin-tight white singlet over a red lace bra, all the sounds of labour stopped as every man hammering, taping, climbing, fixing, or just hanging around breathing, paused to check her out. She was bookended by thick rubber soled, lace-up boots and a tumbled, messy bun that showed off the ink behind her ear.

She was well aware of the effect she had, but ignored it. She sat on the front edge of the stage, dangling her legs and looked out at the stadium where in three nights’ time she’d be performing.

Other than trips to the gym, her first official meeting with Jake, and the problem with Jonas, Australia had so far consisted of a long flight, fractured sleep in a darkened hotel room and an afternoon staring out the window at nothing much. Maybe things would be okay.

She hadn’t seen Jonas since the disastrous meeting, but she’d heard him and Rand arguing in the hotel corridor, and she hadn’t seen Rand either. He’d taken off somewhere yesterday and didn’t come back last night. What had he found in Adelaide, of all places, to interest him?

Three things had to happen in the next half hour. Rand had to appear, and she knew he would. No matter what he’d been up to, he always showed up. Jonas had to demonstrate he was seeing straight and she had to prove to the crew she was worth all the fuss.

She assumed Australian crews were much like American ones, loyal to each other before anything else, but ready to break their backs for anyone they thought deserving. A good crew could make poor talent look good and sound better, but an inspired crew would make the Ice Queen concert unforgettable. And that’s what she wanted—for her audience to have the experience of a lifetime. And for that she had to work it.

She got to her feet and grabbed a passing roadie. “Would you get me a live mic please?”

The roadie yelled, “Bodge, live mic on stage,” disappearing to be replaced by a big, silver-haired guy, holding a microphone and sound pack.

“I’m Bodge. I’m your guy on stage. Whatever you need, me and my boys will look after you.”

“Where’d you get that name from?” Rielle studied the heavy-set roadie as openly as he’d assessed her, arms lifted, to let him wire her up.

He grinned at her. “I was always good at, you know, bodging things together.”

When she was all set, she said, “Thanks Bodge,” and went to the front of the stage again. She paused, listened to the sounds of construction and two lighting roadies arguing about gel filters. She took a deep breath, and sang the opening verse to one of their hit songs, Ignorance.

“Step around the trouble, step around the hate, don’t go laying that on me, treating me like bait.”

By the time she hit the end note, there was silence, not a single hammer fall, not a footstep. She sang, “Step around your prejudice, step around your fate, don’t be blaming me for your bad psychological state.”

At the end of that line, the silence was replaced by murmuring and scattered applause. She had them—with two lines of unaccompanied song, she’d opened a door. Now she had to blow the house down.

She belted out the chorus, letting her voice fill the stadium, bounce against chair backs and shear off railings, set a bunch of pigeons into flight, and cancel any doubts the crew had that Rielle Mainline could sing live.

When she got to the second verse, Rand was there with an acoustic guitar and joined her, providing a sound track and a second voice. The crew gathered, holding hammers and bits of scaffold, gaffer tape and paint brushes. There was no pretence of work now, just open admiration. Despite Sydney, this was going to be a good tour.

“That’ll do us,” said Bodge in approval when the song ended and a round of applause and whistles rang out.

“She must have hollow legs,” said Teflon. “Where does that big voice come from?”

“She’s got good legs,” said Lizard. “I wouldn’t mind them wrapped around me.”

“You might want to shower first, you don’t want to give her a disease,” said Teflon.

“Okay, break it up,” said Glen with a grunt, waving the group back to work.

“Where did you go?” Rielle said to Rand. She watched the crew scatter, copping the broad grin on Bodge’s face.

“Nowhere special, just out.”

“All night?”

He shrugged. “It’s not that small a town.”

“Where’s Jonas?” she asked, almost dreading the response.

“He’s here. He’s with the sound and vision guys. He’ll be fine.”

Rielle shook her head. “He’s using, and he’s no good to us messed up.”

Rand sighed. “I know, but what can we do?”