Author Christine M Knight’s Blog
‘Song Bird’ excerpt – Chapter 1
The stretched limousine slowed as the chauffeur looked for the entrance into the designated parking area at Sydney International Airport Terminal — the QANTAS end.
“Wow!” Zoey Blake absorbed the long stretch of fans squeezed into a cordoned off area that extended beyond the taxi rank. Fans also lined the carpark side of the road. Many of them held placards with WELCOME BACK TO OZ painted on them. Bemused travellers filed in tolerant humour past the exuberant fans. Taxis came and went. “Did you ever think Nikki Mills would get this big?”
“I don’t want Mummy to be famous.” Dan Mills had not understood that Zoey’s reference had been to his mother’s group, The Nikki Mills Band. At ten years old, he was significantly taller than he had been when his mother had left seven months earlier for her band’s first European tour. Like many Australian children approaching puberty, his once blonde hair was darkening. Athletically fit, Dan sported a tan despite diligently repeated applications of sunscreen by family members over the years.
Eighteen year-old Zoey replied, “You want Nikki home more, don’t you? Being famous means the band does stadium gigs and travels less than when they were building their fan base.” She no longer favoured the Kogal fashion of her mid-teens. She now dressed street-savvy: a narrow brimmed trendy hat, a fitted white T-shirt with green trim on the hem bands, snug jeans with a studded belt, and the latest fashion heels. She accessorized with a number of thick wristbands, wristwatch, and beaded bracelets.
As the limousine passed through the raised boom at the entry to the car park, Marg Mills, Dan’s grandmother, added, “Zoey is right, Dan; the more famous your mother gets, the bigger the breaks between her tours and the more time at home. Life can only get better for you both.”
Her husband, Trevor, huffed in disagreement. He worried about his daughter, his grandson, and their future given the so-called golden road she followed in the rock ‘n roll industry, well-known for its indulgence in sex and drugs. Trevor believed everything he read and heard in the media. It was widely reported that the musician’s road was paved with addictions, broken relationships,
extravagance, and bad financial management. That truth was so fixed in his thoughts that he feared his daughter’s career would lead to her ruin.
Marg’s censure reflected in her face when she stared at her husband.
“What? I didn’t say nothin’.”
“Just as well, Trev’.” While Marg worried about the glitter and gloss associated with fame and the risks involved in her daughter’s pursuit of ever-greater success, this was not the place to say so. Their concerns had been raised, discussed, and the subject closed when Nikki had said, “Don’t worry about the risks in this business, Mum. Don’t worry about me.” Marg did though but accepted the subject had been closed.
After the limousine parked, a newly appointed publicist, Isra Haq — a fashionably dressed, slender Muslim woman of Indian ancestry — opened the car door. She wore a gold patterned, loosely worn headscarf, dark glasses with a dramatic frame, a tailored hip-length brown jacket over a cream shirt, and brown slacks. Her makeup was minimal and her lips a bold red.
“Mr and Mrs Mills? Such a pleasure to meet Nikki’s parents.”
A short distance from them, security guards held back fans who had grouped there in the hope of making contact with individual members of the band after they had left the terminal.
The publicist checked her leather compendium. “I presume this is Dan and, of course, you must be Zoey.”
Zoey smiled at her. “Deduction is obviously your strong suit.” She indicated the stretched Hummer parked next to their limousine. “Is that the other car hired to take the band home?”
“It is. The band with Mrs O’Brien and you will travel in the Hummer.”
“Can I transfer my suitcase before we go into the airport? I’ve been staying with the Mills since the holidays started.”
The drivers of the respective cars moved into action as Zoey finished.
The publicist said, “You’re at boarding school in the Southern Highlands, right?”
“Not for much longer; this is my final year.”
“You’re leaving before you complete Year 12?”
“No, I’m in Year 12.”
“Oh, you look younger.” The publicist then spoke to the group. “Shall we head off to Arrivals?”
The group moved forward as Marg spoke to Dan. “Hold Zoey’s hand, Dan.”
“Gran, do I have to? I’m too big to hold hands!”
“You’re right, Dan, but today you will. It’s too crowded. I don’t want you gettin’ lost.”
“Can’t I just promise to stay next to her?”
Marg hesitated.
“Please!”
Zoey said, “Dan’s pretty responsible, Aunty Marg. If he says he’ll stick close, then he will.”
Reluctantly, Marg agreed. “I’m relyin’ on you, Zoey, to keep him close.”
With affable efficiency, the publicist led the way into the terminal. “So many more fans than I’d hoped. Mr Doyle will be thrilled! We have great media coverage: Nine, Eight, Seven, Ten, and the ABC as well as the newspapers! You can’t buy press like that, and I’ve organised the perfect spot for a touching reunion.”
“Hang on,” Trevor Mills said, stopping. His group came to a halt. “You can put a cork in that idea. You’re not goin’ to exploit a private family moment.”
Surprised, the publicist turned to Trevor. “But I thought you wanted to greet Nikki in the reception area as soon as she left the Customs Hall? Surely, you expected this to be a media event when we supplied the chauffeur and organised the rendezvous. Mrs O’Brien has been most obliging and already done an interview for Channel Eight’s Daybreak team.” Sarah O’Brien was the wife of the guitarist in The Nikki Mills Band.
Trevor looked at his wife who reflected his confounded expression.
Zoey spoke for them. “Unless Nikki has cleared these arrangements, it’s not on.”
The publicist looked at her watch. “We need to get there now, or you’ll miss Nikki’s arrival completely.”
The group did not move.
“Okay, I’ll work something out.” The publicist hurried forward, aware that her time-critical plan now worked against her. Why hasn’t anyone explained the importance of the publicity show to them? It’s too late to organise the VIP room. How can I make this work? Looking back over her shoulder, she was relieved to see this particular train was back on track.
The Mills’ party followed.
Passing through the terminal’s automatic double doors, the Mills and Zoey came to a standstill. Not only could they not move forward, they were gobsmacked.
A squeeze of select fans positioned behind waist-high barricades raised the hubbub significantly in the Arrivals area. Exiting travellers, after clearing the Customs Hall, flowed down a narrow path into Arrivals, met their welcome parties, added baggage trolleys to the congestion, and converged into a single lane that moved like Sydney traffic in a peak-hour jam.
The automatic doors opened and closed behind the Mills; traffic backed up. Zoey reached for Dan’s hand.
“Zoey!”
“Okay.” Zoey let go of his hand.
Hired security guards on the lookout for the publicist cleared a path for her party. The publicity machine took over.
* * * *
The Nikki Mills Band exited the Customs Hall midstream in the flow of people. In the time they had been away, the look of the band had changed. It was not so much what they wore but the ultra-cool attitude they projected. The men wore sneakers, jeans, solid colour Tees, and carried jackets. Usually clean-shaven, they all wore a patina of stubble that day. As the men exited Customs and took in the glare, Jack Carter and Steve Mason donned sunglasses.
With her hair styled à la Cleopatra, Susie Blake wore black high heels, piano striped jeans, a black T-shirt, and carried a black military style jacket slung over her shoulder. She favoured a collection of bracelets.
Nikki Mills was the standout in a structured Armani red leather jacket, a vintage white top paired with a black polka dot cream mini skirt, and red high heels. A naturally beautiful woman with a magnetic personality, she had let her long black hair down that morning. Her body was shapely though not overweight. Like her band, she was fit.
Fans roared at the sight of the band members.
Nikki looked back to see who was behind her. The only people she recognised were her entourage.
Jack absorbed the banners and understood the scene first. “Nikki, this is for us.” He crossed to a bevy of teenagers clamouring for his attention and autograph. Ahead of him, the other two men in the band did likewise.
“No!” was all Nikki could say, her thoughts of family temporarily vanished.
Susie Blake, the drummer, stood briefly next to her. “You didn’t expect this? How could you not given the mobs of fans we drew overseas? I certainly did.” Laughing, she crossed to a group of young men going to outrageous lengths to attract her to them. Her dream had become her reality.
“Nikki! Nikki! Nikki!” Fans competed with one another for her attention.
Looking for her family as she moved forward, Nikki brushed a line of outreached hands in her progress. Amidst the flash of amateur and professional cameras, Nikki saw her parents, son, and Zoey.
Dan rushed to his mother, hugging her around the waist. Aware of the media interest, Nikki returned Dan’s embrace while trying to shield him from reporters’ eyes. Her hair fell forward and masked her face from public view. Her words to Dan centred on matters of the heart.
Close on Dan’s heels, Sarah O’Brien, dressed in soft appealing green hues, rushed to her husband.
Tony locked her in a very public display of passion, apparently indifferent to the press and bystanders. Nikki watched Sarah with Tony and, for a moment, envied her.
Nikki was a passionate woman. For years, she had focused her desire on achieving a better life for herself and her son. Although she had succeeded, she remained unsatisfied. Nikki longed for love of the adult kind, at the very least a meaningful relationship. Was there an easy path to that destination, one that did not take time away from Dan, or compromise her career and independence?
The Mills and Zoey joined Nikki and Dan, as did Susie Blake. With Dan attached to her, Nikki hugged each parent, her father first.
Susie embraced Zoey as much as her daughter would let her in such a public venue. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Zoey. Can you afford the time off from study? When are your exams?”
“Mum! It’s the October school holidays. Besides, I know my stuff backwards. It’s just low-key revision from now on. I’ve missed you!”
“Oh, I thought … never mind, I’ve missed you too.”
The publicist, eager to harvest the fruit from this carefully planned event, enjoyed the press’ interest in what was an unusual story of a single mother triumphing against the odds in the music industry. “Nikki, I’ve booked a media room because of demand. We’ll head there next. The press are very interested in The Babes-in-the-Bath tour and why the British and European press dubbed it so.”
Nikki laughed. “You heard about that over here?”
“The Sotheby’s auction and the story behind the tour tag has the media intrigued.”
“Really?”
“I’d be a poor publicist indeed if I didn’t make the most of such a golden opportunity.”
“Then we’ll be happy to tell the whole story.”
“Now if you, Dan, and the group will follow my assistant, I’ll round up Jack and Steve. We thought some shots of you reunited with Dan—”
“No, I’m not exploiting my child.”
“But, Mummy, I want to stay with you.”
Peeved, the publicist said, “But—”
“There are no buts about it.” Nikki flicked a grateful smile at Zoey who soothed Dan with an undertone explanation. Nikki looked apologetically at her parents before speaking to the publicist. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Isra Haq. I’m the senior publicist for The Harbourside Agency.”
“Good to meet you, Ms Haq. I assume there is a private anteroom where our families can wait during the interview. Perhaps you could organise some food and drink for them as well? I know Mum and Dad won’t have had breakfast yet, and I doubt Dan has; it’s too early for them.” Nikki focused on her father. “Dad, later when the crowd has left, could you collect my baggage and get it to your car? I am sorry about this delay. Here’s the—”
The publicist intervened. “I’ve got the baggage collection covered, Nikki. The chauffeur will oversee its collection.”
“Chauffeur?”
“Mr Doyle saw the wisdom in my suggestion to provide one given your parents are country people unused to city traffic or the airport circus. It will make visiting his office after the media interview easier as well. No parking hassles.”
Aware of her travel-dishevelled state, Nikki said, “I hadn’t planned on meeting anyone today let alone being in a media interview. I intended going straight home. Have a good look at me; I’m not dressed for it. Can’t you reschedule both?”
“I can’t do that.”
Nikki frowned.
“We have to take advantage of this media opportunity now. I can’t reschedule Mr Doyle either; he pays the bills and calls the shots. I do have a make-up artist ready though.”
“Not a stylist and a change of clothes for us?”
“No, our line is that this was a spontaneous fan-based response, and we just took advantage of it on the day. The crumpled look is the look we want.”
Nikki responded, “If I’d known about the meeting with Doyle, we could’ve showered in the QANTAS lounge facilities before we came through Customs.”
“But that would’ve worked against the spin of this morning being a spontaneous happening, wouldn’t it? The fans drew the media and the need for a media interview grew out of that and that led to me being here.”
“How spontaneous was it really?”
“As spontaneous as any such gathering can be. Look, I know you’re unhappy about the way today is playing out, but doesn’t the fact that you flew back Business Class compensate?”
“So that’s the reason? We thought it was because the tour was such a success.”
“I’m not privy to Mr Doyle’s reasons.”
“Yet, you linked our mode of travel to the media circus unfolding here.”
“I’m just trying to see the glass as half full, that’s all. … The media room is this way.”
* * * *
The Harbourside Agency occupied a premier location in Darling Harbour southwest of the Harbour Bridge. The agency occupied floors in one of the greenest buildings in Sydney. The building was an innovative and ecologically sustainable facility, a reflection of growing national concern about climate warming. Natural light filtered into the building through a panelled automated roof that tracked the sun and shade. Huge expanses of double glazed windows provided views of Cockle Bay to the west and the harbour to the north while maintaining energy efficiency. Solar chimneys expelled
hot air and drew in cooler sea air. The interior walls transitioned subtly from blue to green. Furnishings were elegant yet functional.
Nikki always felt the tranquillity of the building whenever she entered it. That day was no different. After her entourage entered Doyle’s agency offices, a polished receptionist ushered them into a spacious lounge where a sumptuous morning tea was set out stylishly.
The publicist excused herself.
“Will you look at that view!” Trevor Mills said. “This place must cost a bundle!”
Nikki crossed to her father and spoke softly to him. “Dad, try not to look so impressed. It puts me at a business disadvantage.”
“Oh, right. I need to act like this is run-of-the-mill stuff, eh, Mavis?” He chuckled, pleased with his subtle witticism.
Nikki smiled at her father’s attempted pun. “Dad, have you forgotten you agreed to call me Nikki in business situations?”
“We both had, love,” Marg said. “Trev’, doesn’t this look a gastronomic delight? So much more appetisin’ than that airport food. I wonder if we should wait for Mr Doyle.”
Trevor answered, “Wait would be the right thing. It looks more like a gastronomic nightmare given all that gluten and dairy.”
Doyle’s elegant personal assistant glided into the lounge area followed by the publicist. The assistant spoke to Nikki. “Miss Mills, Isra Haq has explained your desire to freshen up before the meeting. I’ve discussed your request with Mr Doyle. He’s happy to wait.”
“That’s very kind, but I don’t want to waste his time. He must have a busy day.”
“He does, very busy, but he’s more than happy to give you time to freshen up. Besides, his sister has popped in without an appointment. London to Sydney is such a long flight. Staff here appreciate how terrible travel grunge feels. Our shower facilities have a full complement of hair and make-up products. I can organise a fresh change of clothes from the Harbourside shopping centre if
you can’t access your luggage.”
“Thank you.” Nikki consulted with Susie before adding, “If someone could buy us jeans and a T-shirt each, sizes 10 and 12 respectively, we’d appreciate it. Fellas?”
Jack answered for them, “Yeah, we’ll have a shower and change as well. We’re a one-size-fits-all group, regular, thirty-four waists, large Tees. We haven’t had time to get local currency yet so—”
The personal assistant replied, “No worries. The agency usually takes care of this sort of thing.” She left.
Nikki spoke to the publicist, “Thank you.”
“I hope it compensates in part for not giving you a heads up before you returned to Oz.”
* * * *
Avril Doyle, sartorially elegant and beautiful, perched on the edge of her brother’s office desk. “Why not, Shaun? What good is it having a brother in the music industry with so many connections if he won’t do you a teeny favour, especially when it’s for his only sister’s wedding?”
From the comfort of his leather chair, Doyle looked up at her, an unusual experience for him given he was significantly taller. His face was symmetrical, lean with a well-defined bone structure, expressive brown eyes, and dark hair. His sister was a classic beauty. They shared a strong family resemblance although he opted for a quiet, understated casual look that nonetheless spoke money and success.
“You’re confusing my clients with wedding singers. It’d be an insult to ask any of them to perform at your wedding, a wedding the old man hasn’t consented to as yet, or are you prepared to forgo inheritance and go for love alone instead?”
“I’ll bring Daddy around. I’m not sure how yet, but I will. His preoccupation with bloodlines and breeding is absurd!”
“I agree, but it’s a consequence of his passion for race horses and his decades old dream of winning the Melbourne Cup. It might help if you enlisted Gran.”
“Do you think she’ll like Gavin?”
“No, he’s not her cut of man. For that matter, I don’t understand what you see in him either.”
“The heart wants what it wants.” Avril stood. “What I want is essentially the same as we did when we were kids — a close-knit, demonstrative family. Have you forgotten?”
The question triggered a memory from his childhood. He remembered the sleeting cold rain of that winter’s day and the bleak chill of indifference. That day had been a milestone in his young life.
Other nine-year-old kids on his soccer team streamed off the field to their supportive parents who came in different sizes and doses of affection. His grandmother’s chauffeur, having returned from a warm café in Bowral, waited at the Range Rover.
Shaun walked from the field, noticing the small differences among families and seeing how they belonged to a larger pattern. His family did not fit into that pattern. That day marked his growth from reaction to introspection and action, and the start of his campaign to initiate the change he wanted within his own family.
“Shaun?”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Well, with Gavin, I can have that family. He grew up in that family.”
“And if you’re made to choose?”
“I’ll call Daddy’s bluff, but if push comes to shove, I’ll go with my man if it comes to that. It won’t though. Gran wouldn’t stand for it.”
Doyle’s phone rang. He rerouted the call to his personal assistant.
“I’d best be off, Shaun. On my way in your PA stressed you had a ‘very busy day’. You coming down to Moss Vale for the family weekend?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“I’m officially introducing Gavin as my fiancé so I’ll need your support.” Avril glanced at Doyle’s photographic collection symmetrically aligned on the wall as Doyle walked her to his office door. “That’s new.” She crossed to examine the framed photographs. “Oh my God! Shaun, you’re the anonymous buyer from that Sotheby’s Art Auction that made the headlines!” She considered each of the four photographs carefully. “You paid an outrageous amount for them!”
Doyle recalled the heat of the bidding and his unexpected determination that he had to possess those photographs.
“Both women look hot! Are they?” Avril turned on her heel and looked critically at her brother. “Are you interested in one or both of them? I would not be surprised if it were both. You have such a harem!”
“Tsk, tsk. Where are your morals? I’m not interested in either woman. My agency manages them though, and it seemed like a prudent marketing strategy at the time. I expect you to maintain my anonymity.” A private man, Doyle sought publicity for others, not himself. He did not buy the favour of others.
“I’m no blabber-mouth, well … not since I grew up. Your secret is safe; I promise not to use it as leverage to get my way. Well, I’ve places to be and money to spend.” On impulse, Avril hugged him. “You are the best brother a girl could ever wish for. You’ve two weeks to rearrange any conflicting plans for that weekend. I know you won’t disappoint me.”
As the lift descended, it occurred to Avril that her brother’s explanation did not quite ring true. Maybe it was the reason for him bidding at the auction, but it did not explain him engaging in a bidding war that was the talk of Fleet Street and the Australian media. Which of the women was he interested in?
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