Storms (33 page)

With a shrug and a dry laugh Lindsey added that he also pointed out to Mick that he was tired of using all of his best song ideas on Stevie's and Christine's music. He'd still contribute his talent to their songs, but this time he wanted to put
his
music first. And how could that be wrong?

Lindsey was as upset as I'd ever seen him. I sat on the floor next to him and held him in my arms as the sky outside the window darkened to a
murky black. The room turned cold as we sat there for what seemed like hours—no longer speaking, just giving and taking comfort from each other's presence. We both knew now that our darkest fears had been realized. It wasn't as though we weren't prepared for Mick's reaction, but now that it had become a reality it felt like somehow we'd just purposefully crushed his world.

But it couldn't be helped and only time would tell how the band was going to deal with Lindsey's plans for the new album. I sent up a silent prayer that everything would work itself out, and focused on taking care of the deeply shaken man beside me.

I jumped up, turned on all the lights, and ordered us both a light dinner. While we waited for room service, I ran a hot bath for Lindsey, turned down the bed, and gave him his Dilantin. His face was so pale, so full of sorrow, that it almost broke my heart to look at him.

In the days that followed, on the plane and at the shows, the atmosphere was one of ever-changing levels of unspoken indifference, iciness, and resentment, depending on the mood of the other band members. No one talked about what everyone knew. Lindsey's conversation with Mick had, for now, been left up in the air, to be resolved once they were off the road. We were relieved. Neither Lindsey nor I had been looking forward to the aftermath of his bombshell decision. And for now, at least, it seemed we'd been given a reprieve. Quiet hostility we could deal with; it beat a bloodbath any friggin' day.

And then, overnight, the focus of the band was no longer on the album or the tour. Mick's father was seriously ill and everyone's thoughts were with him as he flew the Concorde to England to be at his father's bedside. His beloved father had finally lost his long battle with cancer. All of us were devastated over the pain that Mick and his family were enduring. His family was well loved within the inner circle. Being a consummate professional, Mick flew back to the United States and rejoined the tour and we all did our best to comfort him.

As the demanding tour continued, the band finally got a much-needed diversion. Personally invited to Washington, D.C., by Hamilton Jordan and Jimmy Carter's sons, Fleetwood Mac was to have two honors bestowed upon them. First, the band members and the inner circle were to be given a private tour of the White House.

Driving through the gates of the White House, and walking down the corridors of power through which so many great men of American history had walked, almost felt like a dream. To see the Oval Office where John F. Kennedy spent his days listening to the counsel of his brother Bobby was overwhelming. The effect of being in those corridors reduced the everraucous Fleetwood Mac family to starstruck tongue-tied children. As our cars left the grounds of the White House we were a somber, introspective group—every one of us awed by the experience.

The second tribute was a gala reception thrown in the band's honor by President Carter's sons, Chip and Jack. It was held in a beautiful room in one of the buildings on Embassy Row. The room was decorated with white silk drapes, satin chairs, and crystal chandeliers. Black-tuxedoed waiters prowled the room carrying trays of champagne as
Rumours
played over invisible speakers. Secret Service agents, linked by walkie-talkies, hovered in the corners, keeping watch over Hamilton Jordan and the sons of the president. The bulge of a gun was obvious under each agent's evening clothes as their eyes ceaselessly roved over every single corner and every person in the room. I felt like we were in a James Bond movie.

In a room filled with almost two hundred of the young, hip movers and shakers of Washington, the members of Fleetwood Mac and their entourage were the center of attention. Within ten minutes of entering the room, Carter's sons, surrounded by Secret Service men, moved shyly up to shake Lindsey's hand, gushing about how much they liked the band's album. Young and soft-spoken, they actually blushed when he introduced me. And I, in turn, blushed, too. I felt like Cinderella at the ball with her Prince Charming.

And just like in a fairy tale, it was on this night that Lindsey proposed to me. As we stood in a corner of the ornate room he grabbed my hand and whispered into my ear that he thought we should get married. Taken by surprise, all I could do was stare at him. With a shrug of his shoulders he told me that he hadn't had time to buy a ring, but thought we needed to be engaged. Thunderstruck, I haltingly told him that I absolutely agreed. Feeling a bit dazed but deliriously happy, we spent the rest of night ignoring the party. Sitting in a corner on satin chairs kissing and murmuring to each other, we were immune to the curious stares of passersby in designer
clothes and the ever-present dark looks directed our way by the lavishly dressed members of Fleetwood Mac.

For the past few weeks, I'd been feeling a bit like Yoko Ono; loved by her man, but disliked by the members of his band. For they were well aware that I had been completely supportive of Lindsey's new direction in music—which was the focus of their angst. I was absolutely convinced, however, that Lindsey was doing the right thing and although it was uncomfortable at times, I was more than happy to weather their cold shoulders.

It was best for now, we decided, to keep our engagement quiet. Not that we were trying to hide it, but we were both tired of feeling at the center of a storm. Keenly aware that the members of Fleetwood Mac couldn't care less about our happiness at this point, I was not about to throw more fuel on the emotional fire that was already burning between the band members.

But, fortunately for us, two other band members also had their attention directed not on the upcoming album but on matters of the heart. And it was this relationship that was the focus of the Fleetwood Mac family's attention. The affair between Mick and Stevie was blatantly obvious to anyone who even looked in their direction. Secret smiles, loving soft touches, and long sessions of feverish whispering before and after shows left no one in doubt that they were an item. The fact that they were still apparently trying to keep it under wraps only added to the gossip, and I had to wonder if Mick would ever have his promised talk with Lindsey and finally get it out in the open. I think everyone was wondering.

Right before we left to go on the road, Mick had flown his wife and two daughters back to Los Angeles and had bought them a home on Little Rameriz Canyon in Malibu. He and Jenny supposedly were going to give their marriage another try. I'd been so busy before we left on the road that I hadn't had a chance to talk to Jenny, but I'd nonetheless been thrilled to hear that she was back in town. I knew that Mick loved his wife and daughters. But he was, apparently, also in love with Stevie Nicks.

I was still very determined to stay out of it. Besides, I knew that Mick, Jenny, and Stevie would—in typical Fleetwood Mac fashion—work out the love triangle. That meant, of course, that it would be worked out with as much drama as possible.

From the moment I first heard the news at our summer barbecue, I'd been waiting for Mick to tell Lindsey about his affair with Stevie. So as not to become involved, I hadn't broken the news myself. He seemed to be oblivious to their starry-eyed behavior, or maybe he really didn't care. It was hard for me to tell, since we never spoke of it.

Either way, it made no difference to me, because as far as I was concerned, the happier that Stevie was, the better it was for all of us—especially me. Her happiness was translating itself into overtures of friendship toward me and I was more than willing to reciprocate. To not be the target of her animosity was as welcome as a summer's breeze and for the first time since Lindsey and I had been together, Stevie and I had started to build a cordial relationship. I wouldn't go so far as to say that we were friends, but it appeared that we were no longer enemies, and that was good enough.

Lindsey and I made it to the end of the tour relatively unscathed and, with relief, headed back to the sanctuary of our home on June Street. Within days he was back in his studio, writing and recording feverishly before it was time to head into Village Recorder. He'd had another meeting with Mick at his Bel-Air house and, despite Mick's pleading, had not given an inch on his position. Finally, Mick had grudgingly said that the band would agree to giving Lindsey room to do things the way he wanted. But even though the pressure of breaking the news to the band was over, he was now under pressure to bring songs to the studio that would hold up under a seemingly hostile reception by the other band members. He'd put a lot on the line, and as the days passed by, this pressure would build and finally explode.

The first obvious sign of trouble appeared on a night that started out with the promise of being a fun-filled evening with J.C. and his girlfriend Fifi. Elvis Costello was playing the Palomino in the San Fernando Valley and both Lindsey and I were dying to see him. Huge fans of his songs “Watching the Detectives” and “Alison”, we waited with eager anticipation in front of the club's small stage. We were all sober—after the road, everyone was tired of doing blow and drinking hard liquor. As I ordered a Diet Coke, J.C., Lindsey, and Fifi decided to share a pitcher of beer. While we waited for our drinks, Fifi and I giggled and gossiped.

J.C. broke in with his own tales of life on the road and I suddenly realized that Lindsey was looking increasingly irritated. Apparently not amused by the stories or the fact that Elvis Costello was now running forty-five minutes
behind schedule, he didn't appear to be enjoying himself in the least. Finally the lights darkened and the show began as Costello took his place behind the microphone on the sawdust-covered floor. Even though he was wearing cuffed Levi's, cowboy boots, and a western bolo tie along with his trademark black-framed eyeglasses, it didn't occur to us that we were in for a musical shock.

Instead of launching into the rock ‘n' roll hits that everyone in the club was eagerly awaiting, Costello began to sing country and western songs—one right after the other—very, very badly. There is nothing quite as
wrong
as an Englishman trying to pull off a country and western tune. It just doesn't work. After song number three I collapsed into helpless laughter as I watched the expressions on the faces of just about every patron of the small club turn gradually from disbelief to disgust. Lindsey's expression was sullen and rebellious as he began to curse under his breath. And he wasn't amused that J.C., Fifi, and I found the whole thing hilarious. He, it seemed, did not.

After six songs Lindsey stood up and stalked out of the club. Without a glance to see if any of us were following him, he got into his BMW and slammed the door. With a hurried goodbye to a confused J.C. and Fifi, I climbed into the car beside him and held on to the dashboard as he punched the gas and peeled out of the parking lot.

Trying to engage him in conversation, I was met with complete silence—until we got within six blocks of our house. In the middle of the street, Lindsey slammed on the brakes and sat still for three heartbeats. Without a word he lunged toward me and wrapped his hands around my neck and started to squeeze. Too shocked to scream, I grabbed his hands and tried to pry them away, but his grip tightened painfully around my throat. His eyes looked lifeless as he stared into mine and his teeth were pulled back in a grimace. Panic surged through me as I fought for breath and my struggles became stronger as the burning pain in my throat increased. Suddenly Lindsey let go, leaned back, and hit the gas. The tires screeched as we took off at a high speed down the dark street.

Tears were pouring down my face as I cried, “Oh God, Lindsey, what's wrong? What did I do? What did I do?”

In answer, he hit the brakes and lunged toward me, once again wrapping his hands around my throat. My head snapped back and forth as
he silently shook me. All I could hear was the sound of my own ragged gasps for breath. Just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. He let go of me and put the car into gear. And as I sobbed, he slowly, carefully drove us home. As we pulled into the driveway, I jumped out of the car before it was even stopped and ran to the front door. Fumbling with my keys, I finally opened the door and took off at a dead run up the shadowy staircase into our bedroom.

I stumbled across the warmly lit room and collapsed into a large armchair, pulling my legs up under me, trying to make myself as small as possible. I wasn't crying now—I felt strangely calm as I watched Lindsey walk into the room and cross to where I was sitting.

“Why, Lindsey?” I whispered as I looked up into his face. His expression was cold and distant as he stared at me for long seconds. Then his lip curled and he snarled, “You're all alike … you're all fucking alike”, as he once again lunged for me. Frantic, I pushed him away as I struggled to my feet and I started to run down stairs lit only by streetlamps filtering through the stained-glass windows of the foyer and into the even darker kitchen. I sank down onto the cold tiled floor, wrapping my arms around my shaking body.

Why, why, why, why?
The word kept echoing in my head as I sat frozen in despair. Never in my life had I felt so shattered, so lost, and so utterly bewildered. I had no idea what I had done to cause such rage to be directed at me. Other than his harsh words on the night of my magazine shoot, Lindsey had rarely raised his voice to me. What had happened this night was beyond my understanding.

I sat with tears streaming down my face as I listened to the sound of his footsteps coming down the stairs. I just wanted to disappear and be somewhere far, far away, in a place where everything made sense again.