Storms (13 page)

I don't believe in omens anyway
, I told myself fiercely. Yet I knew that I did, and with Ed's warning words repeating in my head, it was with an uneasy mind that I pulled into Lindsey's driveway. I was leaving in six days and I had no time for doubts or omens.
I'll take it one day at a time and it's going to be great
, I said firmly to myself. Ignoring the thunder and lightning, I opened the car door and ran toward Lindsey and the warm, safe haven by his side.

The past few days had been a whirlwind for us, packing, picking up prescriptions, keeping our heads down whenever we were out and about. I was glad for Lindsey's sake that he'd be leaving the country. People were
starting to stare at us whenever we ventured out and it was a bit disconcerting, especially because he was still feeling so bad after his surgery. He'd lost at least ten pounds over the past week and was in constant pain. It was a relief to climb on board the 747 and take off for the start of the European
Rumours
tour.

During the long flight I got to know Judy Wong, Fleetwood Mac's secretary. I'd seen her countless times at rehearsals, but really didn't know her history with the band. She was only too happy to fill me in. Judy had long been a member of the Fleetwood Mac family. The ex-wife of Jethro Tull's bass player, Glenn Cornick, she'd arranged the introduction of Bob Welch to Fleetwood Mac and was instrumental in bringing about his four-year stint with the band. Immortalized in the
Kiln House
album by the song “Jewel Eyed Judy”, she'd been indispensable to Fleetwood Mac. She was bright, funny, and had the energy of a thousand people. You'd swear she was a speed freak, but she never did drugs. Always moving, always talking, and always happy—it was like having an Asian Mary Poppins in our midst. I felt drained as she flitted away to visit with Mick, and I laid my head on Lindsey's shoulder for the rest of the flight.

As the 747 landed in Birmingham, England, every member of the band's entourage groaned with relief. All of us felt like death. Lindsey was sick and in pain from his mouth infection and I felt ill from exhaustion. And everyone else looked as bad as we felt. Luckily, we cleared customs quickly and climbed into our separate limousines to drive in a convoy through the gray, fog-shrouded industrial city.

Our cars pulled up in front of a drab square building that was, to our dismay, our “luxury” hotel for the next two days. We gathered in the tiny lobby, huddled like refugees in the cold, plain entry hall and waited for J.C. to give us our keys to our suites.

Lindsey let out a loud
“Fuck! I hate this!”
and kicked the wall with his cowboy boot. Like cross, bedraggled children, we wearily trooped into the dark, cold elevators and proceeded to our rooms. The “suite” was a large bedroom furnished with threadbare carpet and a single lamp on the bedside table next to a sagging bed. It was freezing cold, with the radiator against the wall giving off only tepid heat. Among the shadows in the corners, I saw a spider making its way across the floor. As Lindsey and I looked at each other in dismay, there were no words to express how much we abso
lutely hated the hotel, even though, for fifteen minutes, Lindsey gave it the old “college try”—using his entire vocabulary of swear words. If the hotel was any indication, the tour was not off to an auspicious start.

The mood was not lightened the next evening when we arrived at the venue. Fleetwood Mac was booked into an old, decrepit theater that looked at least a hundred years old. The chandeliered interior resembled a Gothic stage set from
Phantom of the Opera.
Heavy, red velvet curtains covered with dust were pulled back over balcony boxes that circled the second tier. The seats in front of the stage were narrow and wooden, so small that they seemed as if they wouldn't hold anyone over the age of ten. The theater had a seating capacity of roughly four thousand. While it was true that
Rumours
only opened at number thirty-four in the British charts, the band had been playing for sellout crowds of twenty thousand back in the States. It seemed strange to be in such a small hall for the first European show. And the band was not pleased.

Lindsey and Carol Ann backstage during the European Rumours tour.

Backstage in the tiny, cramped dressing rooms, each member of Fleetwood Mac was letting J.C. know their displeasure in their own special way. Christine was bitching about the “nasty” theater; Lindsey was pissed off about the audience size; John was cold and couldn't get the radiator to work in the tuning room; and Stevie, whose wardrobe changes during the show were too numerous to count, was almost in tears over the one stingy hanging rack she had been given. Last, but not least, Mick was in a churlish mood over the lack of cocaine.

I felt sorry for J.C. as he ran around in circles trying to soothe, solve, and explain his way before the show started. “Stevie, I'll get you another rack … Chris, Lindsey, sorry, but this is the biggest hall in Birmingham … Mick, you know how hard it is to get blow over here. Even if I can eventually get my hands on some, it's going to take days, not hours. This isn't the U.S., mate. I feel your pain. I'd kill for a line right now, believe me. Don't you think I could use one, having to deal with you lot?”

Mick stared at him belligerently. “That's crap. Totally unacceptable, I'm afraid. You know I play better with it. Don't blame
me
if the show sucks tonight.” As he finished he pointed his finger directly in J.C.'s face.

“What about weed, J.C.?” Lindsey asked in a surly tone matching Mick's. “You don't expect me just to drink my way through the show, do you?
Jesus!”

“Look, lads”, J.C. thundered through the tiny dressing room,
“there are no drugs here!
I'll do the best I can, but don't count on it for at least a few more days. Drink vodka! Drink champagne! Drink whatever the hell you need to get you through it … I mean, what are you thinking, boys? That I can fucking call a Colombian cartel? By the way, as for this theater, how the fuck could I know that
Rumours
would be a fucking monster record? Mick and I booked this tour five months ago, based on the results of your friggin'
last
album, not this one!
Shit!”
Muttering to himself, J.C. stomped out of the main dressing room and slammed the door behind him.

John Courage, a.k.a. J.C.

As soon as he was gone the whole room exploded in laughter. It was almost impossible to get J.C. rattled, but Fleetwood Mac's bitching and moaning had managed to break him down, destroying his cool demeanor, at the very first British show. Sadistically, the band felt better as a result. Now that
someone had paid for their discomfort, they could get over it and go on with the show.

Despite the lack of drugs and the Vampire Lestat-style theater, the show was one of their best. The acoustics of the old hall were brilliant and the band sounded tight and energized. Gratified by the show and the reaction of the audience, albeit small in numbers, the band was in much better spirits when we all met up again backstage. Having recovered from his earlier lapse of decorum, a cool and calm J.C. ushered them to their limos and, with relief, left the theater with his ruffled feathers back in place and his silver Halliburton briefcase clutched firmly under his arm. It was time to move on.

After a show in Manchester, the band finally arrived in London. We were thrilled. Our hotel was large and, by English standards, very modern. We still had radiators and old wallpaper, but the beds didn't sag and the furniture was halfway decent. On our third night, everyone in the Fleetwood Mac entourage gathered in the bar, desperate for entertainment.

Decorated in traditional English pub style, the place was dark, smoky, and loud. Lindsey and I sat down on bar stools and as he ordered a pint of beer I looked around at the scene. John and Christine were laughing uproariously with their heads bent like conspirators over their mugs of beer. The band roadies were trying to pick up the few Englishwomen who mistakenly wandered into their paths, scaring them off with loud, off-color remarks that would make even the most jaded girl blush. Mick and his wife Jenny were nowhere in sight and J.C. was holed up in a corner with a couple of drunken English promoters. Stevie was holding court at a table with Robin Snyder. As though sensing my gaze, Stevie looked up and stared at me with no trace of emotion on her face, yet that one look said it all:
I don't like you and I don't want you here, Carol.
She then turned her back on me and rejoined the conversation around her table.

Tell me that there's a stare more intimidating than that of a woman who has transferred her feelings of rage from her past lover onto you and I'll tell you that obviously you're not a woman caught between Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham. To Stevie at that time, it obviously made no difference that I had no part in the breakup of their relationship. I was the new woman in his life and although her feelings about me personally were
to remain unspoken—on
that
tour—it was obvious to me that they hovered somewhere below the sub-zero freezing point.

Whether I deserved it or not, her dark look made me feel as though I'd just had a black hole burned through me. And it made me sad, for I admired Stevie a great deal. Who wouldn't? She was beautiful, talented, and mysterious. With a sigh, I shrank back against the bar, thinking maybe it was not going to work out between her and me, and maybe I'd better watch my step. I looked over at Lindsey and saw that he too had seen the look that Stevie had thrown at me. As he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek in a show of support, Richard and Ken appeared from out of nowhere, almost jumping up and down in their excitement. They'd managed to score some weed! Lindsey told me to sit tight and leaped off his bar stool, disappearing like smoke.

So I sat by myself, feeling conspicuous, lonely, and completely out of place. The thought of beer made me want to gag, and with no one to talk to I had absolutely no reason to stay. I knew that Lindsey could be anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours, depending on exactly what was waiting for him to smoke in the boys' den of iniquity. Picking up my purse, I dug out my room key and went back upstairs.

Opening the door, I was hit with the overwhelming odor of unwashed laundry. The hotels in Birmingham, Manchester, and Liverpool had been so substandard that the idea of turning over our clothes to them to wash was ludicrous. I sighed as I looked at the jumble of garments spilling out of our suitcases.
Might as well do something useful
, I thought forlornly. I sank down onto my knees and started pulling out clothes and sorting them into piles, feeling exactly like a much put-upon Cinderella. An internal dialogue kept me company as I worked.
This is not exactly how I pictured being on the road with Fleetwood Mac. Actually, so far, none of the past week has been what I imagined it would be: crappy food, crappy hotels, Lindsey still sick … I miss L.A.—even if it is raining there constantly this year, it's better than the thirtytwo degree winter weather over here!
Surrounded by towering piles of clothes, I felt myself gearing up for a real pout.

Suddenly the door burst open and Lindsey came running into the room. “Oh my God! Get dressed in something sexy! Put on some makeup!
Get ready!”
Startled, I dropped the handful of dirty socks I'd been sorting and looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

“What are you talking about? It's almost midnight! What's going on?”

Lindsey grabbed me and pulled me up from the floor.
“We're going to Eric Clapton's castle!
Mick and Jenny already have two cars waiting for all of us downstairs! Where are my good jeans? My black cowboy boots?
Jesus!
I can't believe I'm going to
meet Eric Clapton tonight!”

“Lindsey, you're kidding, right? We're meeting
Eric Clapton?”
I had loved Derek and the Dominoes since high school. Not to mention Cream and Blind Faith. I knew, of course, that Jenny's sister Pattie was married to Eric, but if anything, I thought he might come to one of the shows. I never in a million years expected that we would be going to his castle.