One Way or Another Read Free Page A

pink and grey sloppy joe. My feet were interred in unimpressive Kmart sandshoes. My mother still supervised my wardrobe and I couldn’t see her going for the brazenly slutty look of the groupie uniform. The diehard rock lobsters lined up at the backstage door looked more the part, tottering on white high heels and squeezed into impossibly tiny white miniskirts. Their fringed leather mini-jackets framed leathery brown cleavages and each sun-bleached face wore an entire make-up department. In truth, I had never given much thought to what a real groupie looked like. My confidence took a nosedive as I lined up with the others, all of us hoping for a chance to rub shoulders or more with the band.
    At the front of the queue I spotted Lyn Barron, a Playboy centrefold and local celebrity. I recognised her from her frequent appearances as a page-three girl in the Gold Coast Sun. Sensing that my chance to find true love with a sweaty musical god was slipping away, I figured I might as well get at least a brush with celebrity and force a B-grade Playboy Bunny to say hello to me. Shuffling my way forward, I boldly introduced myself.
    Lyn blinked and looked confused, but she was gracious and asked who I was going backstage to see. Just then the door burst open and a stocky roadie scanned the perfumed selection before him. He nodded to Lyn and licked his lips. Lyn smiled her beautiful smile, put her arm around my shoulder and said, ‘She’s with me.’ In a flash we were ushered into the hallowed hallway leading to the Holy Grail – the Green Room.
    My stomach was in knots and I needed to pee badly. The stark fluorescent walls and concrete echo seemed surreal. Lyn asked my name and in a blur of faces introduced me to the band, as well as a few vaguely familiar beautiful people. I stood gulping like a goldfish, feeling suddenly ridiculous. Dressed more like a teenage boy than a glamorous bird of paradise, I accepted a glass of champagne and knocked it back fast. I had walked into one of my own fantasies.
    Soon I was attempting to make small talk with James Reyne. He was so good-looking and smelled so unmistakeably male , I was tongue-tied. Brad Robinson, lead guitarist, introduced himself. No-one seemed to notice that I didn’t belong. In fact my strangely casual attire was so different from the norm that it seemed to attract more attention than the standard groupie cleavage.
    Surprise at how easily I had invaded the party threatened to overwhelm me, but I pushed it aside and embraced the evening. More champagne. More flirtations. A few canapés. My plan had been to stay at my friend Fiona’s house after the gig, but I had warned her that if I disappeared backstage she should leave without me and tell her parents I had decided to go home. My God, I couldn’t wait to gloat to the other Vultures.
    Suddenly it was announced that the party was travelling back to the Golden Gate, a luxury high-rise two blocks north where the band was staying. I ended up in a car driven by Guy McDonough, guitarist and songwriter, a little ferrety fellow with a nice voice. Within minutes he had lightly rear-ended another car in the convoy, to everyone’s amusement. As we sped through the glittery dazzle of Surfers Paradise, the gaudy neon signs blinking seductively, I shut my eyes and opened them again in disbelief.
    Back at the band’s apartment, the atmosphere was charged with a tense eroticism. James Reyne lay on a bed and held court while people lazed about on the floor. It became clear that Lyn was his prize for the evening. They were mischievously familiar and it seemed she was his Gold Coast girl of the moment. The girl-in-every-port cliché appeared to be the rule for these young rock stars. James was cocky but in a self-deprecating way and I warmed to him. He seemed somehow detached from his fame, perhaps even a little embarrassed by it – although the perks obviously entertained him.
    All of the guys in the