Storms (14 page)

For the American contingent of the Fleetwood Mac family, meeting Clapton was on a par with meeting John Lennon. We weren't groupies, but who in their right mind wouldn't want to spend time with a musician who was a living legend? And thanks to Mick and Jenny, we were about to do just that.

I threw on my favorite velvet top, put on lipstick, and laughed at Lindsey hopping around the room with one boot on and one off as he desperately hunted for a matching sock. Swearing, he grabbed a dirty sock that was at least the same color as the one on his shod foot and collapsed onto the bed. Boots on, he shrugged into his black velvet jacket, wrapped his maroon wool scarf around his neck, and threw me my long, black, antique coat from the closet. “This looks great on you, baby. You have to wear it!”

Sighing, I took the coat from him, knowing that I was going to absolutely freeze in it. With a last longing look at my heavier coat thrown over the bed, I grabbed my purse and ducked under Lindsey's arm as he impatiently held the door open for me. He slammed it behind us and we raced downstairs to the waiting limousines. I could see that the two limos were crammed full with the entire band, along with J.C., Robin Snyder, Judy Wong, Jenny, Richard, and Ken. I sat on Lindsey's lap for the entire hourlong ride to Eric Clapton's home in the Surrey countryside.

When we finally drove slowly through the gates of Clapton's estate, we saw a huge stone house that did, indeed, resemble a castle. The weather had turned bitterly cold and even the short walk to Pattie and Eric's massive front door left me shivering in my thin coat. The door suddenly opened, spilling light and incense smoke and revealing the face of a rock ‘n' roll legend haloed in candlelight.

Mick and Eric pounded each other on the back and we followed them into Clapton's large entry hall, where Jenny's famous sister, Pattie Boyd, stood waiting, wrapped in a cashmere shawl. Slender, with dark blonde hair and wearing pale pink lipstick and Brigitte Bardot-style eyeliner, she oozed sexuality. Pattie, of course, had had two of the most famous men in the world madly in love with her. She was married to George Harrison when she met and fell in love with Eric. No matter what else she might do in her life, she would forever be a part of rock ‘n' roll history just because of that, as well as for the classic songs “Something” and “Layla” that she inspired.

After Mick and Jenny made hasty introductions, we were shown into a shabby-chic Gothic sitting room that was decorated with faded velvet couches, floor-to-ceiling brocade drapes, and wonderful little tables full of knickknacks and pictures of Pattie and Eric with just about every wellknown musician in the world. Incense sticks trailed smoke while candles burned on every available surface, and velvet pillows were tossed haphazardly around the floor over an ancient Oriental carpet.

Lindsey grinned at me as we looked at each other. It was exactly how one would expect a rock star's “castle” to be. We were beyond thrilled. We were soon to find out that two-thirds of the twenty or so rooms had no furnishings whatsoever, but we didn't care. What counted was the ambience, and Clapton's home had that in spades.

We made ourselves comfortable on couches and pillows and Mick and Eric disappeared into the hall, returning within minutes with gleeful expressions and a silver platter. In the middle of the beautifully etched tarnished plate was a mound of white powder. Mick's shadow loomed on the wall as he slowly, ceremoniously showed the platter to one and all, reciting, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and we have miles to go before we sleep.” It was the ritual call for the Fleetwood Mac family to gather around for a line of blow and a cheer went up as thirteen pairs of eyes glittered with anticipation. No one had had cocaine since we left America and there was a sense of bloodlust in the air as we impatiently waited our turn to sniff up a line. I was surprised to realize that I craved a line as much as everyone else in the room, who had all been doing blow far longer than I had.

Unlike the other members of the Fleetwood Mac family, I disliked alcohol, hated weed, and didn't take pills. Before meeting Lindsey, my only vice had been cigarettes, so I was pretty much a babe in the woods in the company
of my new family. Christine told me during rehearsals that my almost total sobriety made everyone a little uncomfortable.
Not to worry
, I thought to myself,
I have found something that I can do right along with everyone else—and I like it! Nice to fit in!
I smothered a giggle, trying my best to maintain a cool composure. As though reading my thoughts, Chris winked as she held the plate in front of me, handing me a rolled-up pound note. I smiled back at her, feeling the familiar rush hit me as the blow went up my nose.

After everyone had finished off all the powder on the platter, Eric and Pattie told us to follow them upstairs to their “pub” room. As one, we all got up from our various corners and followed them up a sweeping staircase to the third floor. As I trailed behind Lindsey, I lingered to glance into darkened rooms within sight of the staircase. Eric's home looked very, very old and the empty bedrooms and sitting rooms that we passed seemed ghostly, filled with shadows and faint echoes of past occupants. Grabbing Lindsey's hand, I clung to him until we reached Eric's warm, bright den.

John, J.C., and Mick immediately challenged Eric to a game of darts. Christine, Stevie, Robin, Jenny, and Pattie headed off to Pattie's bedroom for “girl talk”, leaving Judy and me behind with the guys. I mentally shrugged, glad to stay with my man and where the action was. Soon Lindsey joined in the game, and for the next hour the noise was incredible. More cocaine was brought out and snorted up immediately by one and all, and by 3
A.M.
everyone was so wasted that I worried that one of the boys would throw a dart in someone's eye.

Every man in the room was falling-down drunk and, sure enough, they started throwing darts at one another—trying their best to make my prediction come true. Pattie and Jenny swept into the room just in time, grabbing the darts out of their hands and ordering everyone to behave. Like chastened children, we meekly followed them downstairs to the sitting room, stumbling a bit on the now too-steep staircase.

It was close to four in the morning and the room was painfully cold. The fire had gone out in the stone fireplace and the candles were rapidly melting into shapeless forms. Lindsey sat down in a chair and I pulled a pillow over by his feet, leaning against his legs as I shivered in the icy chill, still wearing my light coat. Outside the wind was howling and the air felt damp. Suddenly the front door echoed with the pounding of a heavy fist and Eric ran into the entry hall, to return with yet another legend on his arm.

It was Ronnie Lane, guitarist of the Small Faces and the Faces. With his black T-shirt and jeans and tousled dark hair, he looked more like a rebellious teenager than the respected, world-renowned artist that he was. He smiled shyly at all of us, saying, “Welcome to England, mates!” then walked quickly toward an acoustic guitar in a corner of the room, lifting it off its stand. There was a childlike quality to him, like a kid holding a piece of treasure, as he cradled the instrument in his arms. Looking straight at Lindsey, he smiled and said, “Wanna jam?” I felt Lindsey jump nervously and I placed my hand on his knee, looking up to see excitement shining from his eyes.

Eric grabbed Pattie by the hand, pulling her with him as he shouted over his shoulder, “I'm going up to my studio for some guitars … We'll be right back!” A murmur of excitement went around the room when Clapton returned with three acoustic guitars and handed one to Lindsey and one to John McVie. He settled down on a stool with the other well-worn, scarred guitar lying across his knees.

Pattie and Jenny raced around the room, lighting new candles, throwing more wood onto the fire, and pulling open the heavy brocade drapes to reveal a flurry of snowflakes outside. Jumping up, I ran to the window. I hadn't seen snow for at least three years and I was now looking at not just snow, but the beginning of a major winter storm.
No wonder the wind sounds like it's going to tear the house apart
, I thought as I stared through the smudged window. Hearing each of the guitars being tuned behind me, and excited whispers coming from everyone, I tore myself away from the window and walked quickly back to my place on the floor beside Lindsey.

Silence descended upon us all as Ronnie began to play, the snowflakes falling behind him creating a Christmas card backdrop. The opening chords of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” filled the room and, as one, we all held our breath as Lindsey and Eric joined in on their guitars. Eric began to sing and Stevie and Christine joined in with perfect harmony, singing one of the most beautiful songs ever written by George Harrison—or anyone, for that matter.

Looking at Lindsey's face, I saw bliss shining in his eyes: he was living a dream that any musician in the world would give their weight in gold to experience. And the dream continued when Eric launched into “Layla”, making everyone smile as Pattie stood up and took a little bow during the song. “The Sounds of Silence” followed, Simon and Garfunkel's words
coloring the room in shades of dark blue and silver as Stevie's beautiful, husky voice gave them a plaintive longing that touched us all to the depth of our souls.

I sat on my velvet pillow, leaning my head on my hand, listening to the music in wonder while studying the faces of Lindsey, Eric, John, and Ronnie. Each one was filled with the special look of joy that master musicians have when they are lost in the music, playing with their peers and aware of one another as only musicians can be. Yet each man, for that short moment in time, was also lost in his own individual ecstasy as he played his heart out just for the sake of the music. And I knew with certainty that I was experiencing a moment so perfect that it would stay with me for the rest of my life.

Dawn broke as the music continued, fingers of weak light penetrating the dark sitting room, replacing the muted candlelight. The spell was broken by the crash of a large branch falling from a tree outside, making everyone jump up in fright, so lost were we in our world of music. Outside, the snow was now forming an opaque blanket of white, while the howling winds of a blizzard accompanied the guitars. The room was icy cold and I felt as though I'd been woken from a dream as I looked in surprise at Lindsey's face, blue with cold, and realized that I was absolutely freezing.

Nervous laughter replaced the singing, and Ronnie abruptly got up and placed Eric's guitar lovingly back on its stand. He looked so happy, so healthy standing there. A few years later, he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and had to fight a long, losing battle with that horrific disease. But this morning he seemed at peace with himself and with his friends both old and new. Looking back today, I believe that Ronnie treasured those few hours of music shared during Fleetwood Mac's first
Rumours
tour as much as we did.

Dazed and tired, we began to get up from our various pillows and sofas and walk in groups to the windows, staring in shock at the ferocity of the blizzard raging outside. As we watched, another branch was ripped from a tree and flung across the road in front of the house. “There's no way you're going to make it back to London in this”, Eric declared.

“No shit, Sherlock”, Mick sniggered, hitting him on the arm.

Ignoring him, Eric continued, “We've got plenty of bedrooms … everyone just wander around until you find one. See you in a few hours. If you need anything, don't bother me. I'm going to bed with m'lady here and I'm locking my door!”

Lindsey looked at me, shrugged, and took my hand. We trudged upstairs, looking into room after room, trying hopelessly to find a room with a bed. At last we found one that had a narrow mattress on the floor and, surmising that we were lucky to have that, we went in and closed the door. Exhausted and cold to the bone, we laid down in the little room with our clothes on and pulled up the thin sheet—the only cover that was anywhere in sight and huddled together for warmth.

Our sleep was fitful. With the blizzard still howling outside, the twentydegree temperature in our room, and the stone floor under our thin mattress, we were both pretty miserable as we lay there. I tried to focus on the hours that I'd just spent in Eric Clapton's sitting room, desperate to keep my mind off how brutally cold I was. Eventually Mick knocked on the door, looking as haggard as we felt, and told us that it was time to go. With no sign of Pattie or Eric, we trudged through the knee-deep snow, wet clothes adding to our morning misery, and climbed into the limo for the ride back to London.

The next day we flew to Paris, arriving only to find that the blizzard had followed us. I loved Paris and, having been there twice before, I happily pointed out my favorite shops along the Champs-Elysées and chattered about the impressionist museum that sat in a beautiful park across from the Louvre as Lindsey and I rode through the snow-shrouded streets.

We were booked for four days into a beautiful hotel overlooking a park with a black wrought-iron fence and gaslights mounted on lampposts. It was completely nineteenth-century and I adored it. I blithely made plans for shopping and sightseeing around the band's concert, which would be in three days.

By that evening I had a sore throat, a headache, and a cough. Lindsey gave me one of his Percodan and I took half of it, hoping against hope that I'd be miraculously cured. It knocked me out and the next morning, feeling light-headed and a bit shaky, I knew that my plans for shopping that day were gone. I couldn't seem to get warm even after turning up the radiator full blast and wrapping myself in the hotel's heavy chenille robe. It was obvious that my hours spent in Eric's freezing house had taken their toll. I spent the rest of the day under a mound of blankets, drinking hot tea and holding onto Lindsey's hand.

By morning I couldn't stop coughing. I could see by Lindsey's eyes that he was scared as he called the front desk and asked for a doctor. His pale
face turned even paler as he listened to the clerk on the other end of the line. Hanging up, he rushed over to the window and pulled the drapes. It was a total whiteout outside. Another blizzard had hit Paris and even though our room overlooked the park, the shapes of the trees and the iron fence that I'd so admired the day before were lost in the haze of snow. “Carol, darlin', I know you're really sick. I've asked the hotel to call a doctor, but he can't make it here through the storm. He's calling in some prescriptions for you. Don't worry, I'm going to take care of you.”