Frankie shrugged. “Why do some men think they can win my affection with huge, ugly floral arrangements? Don’t they know they have to have much more to offer?” she asked to whoever was listening.
The stage manager shrugged. “I just deliver them; I don’t send them,” he said.
Opening the card, Frankie laughed out loud as she read to herself, “From your biggest fan. Love, Alex.” Immediately she changed her attitude with regard to the flowers.
“So who’s the guy?” asked a fellow actress.
“Just some crazy fan,” said Frankie, waving the card.
After the show Frankie returned home that evening and decided to write Alex a fan letter. Pressing the pen top to her cheek, she paused, trying to figure what to write. She had never written a fan letter, or in this case, a love letter. She wanted to write something sexy, but then worried someone else would read it besides Alex.
A big smile crossed her face as she began to write, “Dear Alex, I think you are very swell.” She crumbled up the paper and threw it in the trash can. Looking at her vanity table, she had an idea.
A week later, Alex received a piece of paper that contained only a lipstick smudged kiss and Frankie’s autograph that read, “Thinking of you. Love, Igor.”
He stared at the lipstick smudge, fondly remembering her lips
and wishing he could feel them against his right then. Instead he folded the letter neatly and inserted it into his wallet.
Alex called Frankie at their planned time and she picked up the phone before it rang. He greeted her with the sound of a smooch.
“I take it you got my
fan
letter,” she said.
“I did. I’m not usually a fan of fan letters, but I liked yours,” he said. “The only problem is, it made me miss your lips.”
“They are still here waiting.”
“I think I’m going to need to see you soon,” said Alex. “It’s getting harder being away.”
“Come back. Come back to America. There are plenty of opportunities for great musicians. You get can a job here and we can be together.”
Alex kicked back in his seat. “And leave the band? Give up all the screaming fans, days of touring without a break, having vegetables thrown at me, mid-air punches, and flying around the world never knowing when the plane’s going to burst into flames? I don’t know, Frankie, that’s a lot to give up,” he said. “But then, there is the money.”
“I have money, Alex. You can spend your days tooling around on the guitar while I’m making a movie or performing on Broadway,” said Frankie.
“What’s the hitch?”
“Oooh,” Frankie said with a sigh, “You have to be my stay-at-home private sex slave.”
Alex laughed and exclaimed, “Sold!”
“Seriously, there are plenty of opportunities for you here, and you don’t have to be a prisoner to someone else’s agenda and creativity. You can actually have control of your own life.”
Alex reflected on her comment as he smoked his cigarette. Her offer was extremely enticing
—
freedom and Frankie.
“I mean, what’s actually keeping you there, Alex?”
As he pondered the question he thought of the other fellows in the band; they were like brothers. But brothers will always be brothers no matter where their lives took them. And his attachment to Sarah was clinging to a very thin string that was ready to break. The only thing holding him back was his contract.
Now he was seriously contemplating giving up his career to move to America. Living in America wasn’t too far out of the question for him. He could find work, maybe start a band of his own, and have more creative control than he had now. The more he thought about it, the more he seriously considered the idea.
The day after returning from tour, Alex pursued Darren into his office. Darren sat behind his neat desk and reviewed some of the messages waiting for him. He glanced up at Alex, who was looming above. “What can I do for you, Alex?”
“I wanted to talk to you about my contract.”
“You want more money, talk to the other lads,” said Darren, thumbing through a stack of messages.”
“No, I want to know when it’s up.”
Darren looked up at Alex. “1966.”
“Huh. So how could I get out of it?” questioned Alex.
Darren sat forward in his seat and looked curiously at Alex. “You can’t. Not without a lot of money and years of dealing with lawyers. Why would you want out? You guys are on the top of the world right now.”
“Yeah,” Alex sighed, shrugged, and then rested his hands on his knees. “And it’s not all that great.”
Darren reclined back in his leather seat and stared at Alex. “What is this really about? What’s got ahold of you now?”
“It’s personal,” replied Alex.
“It’s personal with everyone. Everyone has personal issues to deal with, but everyone doesn’t go kicking and screaming when the world doesn’t suit them. You’re one of the hardest to manage because I just don’t know what’s going on inside you.”
Alex huffed and reached for a carton of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into an astray on Darren’s desk. “This is all just fucking bullshit.”
Darren leaned forward and asked, “Is this about Frankie Robinson?”
Raising his eyebrows, Alex tapped ashes into Darren’s astray. “I want out, that’s all. I want my freedom.”
“A beautiful, vivacious girl
—
she really got to you, didn’t she?”
Alex looked at the floor, not saying anything, and played with the cigarette in his fingers.
“You have to find a way to let go or you are going to self-destruct,” said Darren. “And that would be a terrible waste of talent.”
Alex rose from the chair and replied dryly, “Thanks.” He turned and started to leave.
“Alex, come back!” called Darren. “Talk to me.”
Walking out of the office, Alex repeated the words “let go” in his mind. He wondered if that meant he would have to let go of Frankie. Was it just an obsession? He never considered himself a guy who’d be obsessed with a girl. One thing he knew, it wasn’t just physical. There was something about her he needed, and it drove him absolutely nuts trying to figure it out.
After Alex left, Darren dialed the phone and waiting patiently for an answer. “It’s Darren. I want you to talk to Alex. He needs someone to talk to and he looks up to you. He’s beginning to lose it.”
It was after a taping of a television appearance that Nick approached Alex as he was packing up his guitars. “Hey, you wanna get a drink?” he asked.
“Are you asking me for a date?” Alex questioned. “I’ll have you know, I don’t date married men.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” said Nick, patting him on the back. “Come on, let’s go.”
Nick drove through the dark, rainy streets of London to an elite men’s club. When the valet opened the door for Nick, Alex turned to him and asked, “This place? Really?”
Inside the two working-class lads in their early twenties were escorted past many men of old money to the best table in the club
—
a wooden table with red leather chairs next to a roaring fire. A waiter in a tuxedo came to their table and opened a box. “Cigars?” he asked.
“Why, of course,” said Nick in a proper British accent. “And make it two glasses of your best scotch.”
As Nick lit his cigar, Alex watched him curiously, “Darren called you?”
“Yup,” said Nick, handing Alex a lit cigar. “He said you want out.”
“Ha,” Alex said, puffing on the cigar. “So did you.”
“And I’m still here,” said Nick. He waited while the waiter set their scotch on the table and then leaned against the table. “You want to give up all this—waiters in tuxedos crapping in their pants to serve scotch and cigars to us working-class mugs?”
Alex eyed the light reflecting in his amber-colored scotch. “There’s more to life than this, Nick,” he said. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m in a cage, like a monkey for people to stare at and throw food at. Sure, there’s money, but Darren and our accountants and lawyers have that tied up. I can’t even read the newspaper without seeing my name. I can’t leave the house without being chased down the street. This is no life, Nick.”
Nick took a swig of his scotch. “Now I want to quit,” he said with a laugh. “Look, it’s a crap life, but it can only get better. One of these days, the commotion will settle and no one will ever remember our names. We can go back to being poor blokes from Manchester.”
Alex puffed on his cigar. He glanced around the posh men’s club, knowing they weren’t accepted there. Just then an older gent had the nerve to approach the table.
“Hello, chaps,” the older gent said. “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to sign your autograph for my daughter. She’s a big fan.”
“I think you have us mistaken for someone else,” said Nick.
Alex took the pen and paper from the elderly gent and signed. “Love always, Keith Richards,” he said and then handed the paper to Nick. “Don’t be rude,
Mick;
give the man your autograph.”
Staring at Alex with a grin, Nick replied, “Whatever you say,
Keith
.” He scribbled Mick Jagger’s autograph and gave the paper back to the unsuspecting older chap.
The older man looked at Alex and Nick, confused. “I thought you chaps were the Dark Knights,” said the elderly man.
Alex smirked and took a puff of his cigar. “We could only wish.”
Nick laughed and said with the batting of his eyelashes. “We look much different in person.”
The older man looked at Nick and Alex, politely thanked them, and left.
“And you want to give up being hit on by old men,” said Nick. “Alex, talk to me.”
Alex twisted his glass on the table and then sighed. “I miss Frankie like crazy. I can’t get her out of my mind. I want to be with her.”
Nick settled in his seat, staring intently at Alex. “Six months ago you were hot on Sarah. Everything was going so well. Now, within a couple months, you’re willing to give it all up for Frankie. Don’t you think you need to slow down and give the relationship time to truly develop? Why are you always in such a rush to declare love?”
“Are you saying I should give up Frankie for Sarah?” Alex asked in a growing hostile tone.
“No. I like Frankie; I like her for you, but you two just starting dating and you’re talking about giving up your whole life for her,” said Nick. “I just think you need to let the relationship breathe.”
Alex tapped his hands nervously on the table, not liking Nick’s advice.
“What is it?” asked Nick. “Why do you need to rush?”
Sighing deeply, Alex said, “’Cause if I don’t act soon, someone else will.”
Nick reclined in his seat; he got it now. “You don’t think you’re worth it, do you? You need to stake your claim on love, because you’re afraid if you don’t, you’ll lose it,” he said with a grin, having figured out Alex’s issue. “Now you have yourself in a dilemma. You staked a claim in Sarah before you were ready to commit and now you’ve found a girl you want to commit to but have no claim on her. Ah . . . brilliant.”
Alex took a drink of his scotch. “Stop being such an
arse
.”
“Here is my advice, pal
—
follow your heart,” said Nick. “If you don’t, you will not only betray others, you will betray yourself and you’ll run the risk of making a grand old mess of things.”
Alex slouched in his seat. It sounded easy, but for Alex it was the hardest thing. He had spent most of his youth calculating and manipulating to survive; now he had to let go and allow his heart to lead the way.
It was terrifying.
On My Way Home
Frankie’s head was spinning and her palms were sweating. Looking in the mirror, she realized no amount of blush would cover the pastiness of her complexion. She headed downstairs, where Geraldine was cooking a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. The sight and smell of the food suddenly caused a stir in Frankie’s stomach. An intense queasiness overcame her, and she rushed to the powder room. Kneeling on the floor, she placed her face over the porcelain bowl and spewed out what little bit of food was still in her stomach from the night before. Sitting back on her heels, she wiped the sweat from her brow.
She returned to the kitchen but did not sit at the table. “I don’t think I can eat anything this morning,” she told her mother. “I’m not feeling so good.”
“Maybe you should go to the doctor,” said Geraldine.
“It’s just the flu or something. I’ll just take the day off and rest.”
Frankie headed upstairs, changed back into her pajamas, and crawled into bed. It wouldn’t be so bad taking a day off, she figured. She could spend the whole day dreaming of Alex, and that wouldn’t be hard with the number of pictures and posters of him she had hanging on her wall.
Her favorite picture was not the typical handsome, dapper image, but one of him with spiked hair, wearing a heavy sweater, and giving the camera a quizzical stare. It was the picture she thought best showed his personality. The rest were just posed pictures that didn’t even look like him. In some of them he
looked barely interested to be there
.