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As I waited at the airport for Daphne Lawrence, thoughts were strung up in my head. I found myself wishing that Jimmy were with me, that he wasn't famous and could take me places. Although he couldn't drive, it would have been nice to have him at least ride out with me. Guilt ebbed itself into my conscience as I imagined "Jimbert" a normal Londoner holding my hand as we walked through Hyde Park. No mobs, no paparazzi, no worries. Bianca's face flashed before me and I was reduced to studying my boots blankly.
In what seemed like a few minutes of no thinking but was really near an hour, an announcement over the loudspeaker informed me that Daphne's charter had landed and I was in the right wing to pick her up. My thoughts, once awakened again, returned to normal Jim and normal Jenni hand-in-hand in Hyde Park. I physically shook my head in the hopes that my dreams would be erased as a stewardess made her way to the booking podium. The Beatles' Twist and Shout began playing quietly in the back of my head and I fought the urge to dance and breathe "finally" as Jimmy was pushed out of my mind.
After about twenty minutes, the gate opened and a herd of nicely-dressed people with suitcases swarmed out of the hall into the wing. I strained to see where Daphne was but failed to spot her in the sea of people. I glanced down at my watch nervously, my toe beginning to tap to the rhythm of my speeding heart. Finally, at the very end of the herd, walking deliberately as she adjusted a coat on her arm, Daphne made her way into the wing. Through the throng of people, I followed her and tapped her on the shoulder.
Turning faster than expected, her face softened with recognition as soon as she saw me. "Jenni Carsons?"
"Daphne?" I asked in reply. She grinned and adjusted her coat again. "Do we just leave? Do you have to fill anything out? I don't quite understand airports."
"Yeah, yeah, we can just leave," Daphne responded cluelessly. I was automatically reminded of how absent-minded Daphne was compared to her brainy sister; there was no doubt as to where the brawn had gone. "Did you drive here?"
"I had to jump through some hoops, why?"
"America is so rad!" she exclaimed. "The ladies just drive themselves! The women are so independent and out-spoken."
"Rad?" I laughed. "American term?"
"Groovy, hip, whatever you want to call it. I forgot our English adjectives in the midst of my New York life. Oh, you'd love it there! You and Bianca! It's bigger than London, but Central Park is smaller than Hyde."
"Okay, you can tell me about it on the way home," I promised, plunging my hands into my coat pocket and digging around for the keys to Robert's Coupe Deville, the one Jimmy had gotten a ride in the first time I met him. Daphne followed me without another word.
Once in the car, Daphne's things thrown in the back, she continued her verbal tour of America. "AC/DC is by far the best band ever. Jim Morrison died I think last year-- can you believe that? And you know how concert tickets are around ten dollars here? They're six-fifty in the states! Oh! Dollars! Ha, look at me! I'm all Americanized..."
"Are you living with Bianca for now?" I asked.
"Yeah, why?" Great, I thought. More competition. Plus, this cunt's got a big mouth and she's constantly pissing around and-- Oh! I'm starting to sound like G, the boys' manager! But aren't older sisters supposed to be the un-annoying, smart, proud ones?
"Let me key you in. We're living with a band right now because Bianca is dating the guitarist. Do you remember James Page from Epsom? He was in your year when he dropped out."
"Yeah, he came over a bit. I told everyone in America that I knew Jimmy before he was famous with his fan-dangled crew of Adonises. Wasn't he in a group before Zeppelin?"
I paused as the car in front of me turned. I thought everyone knew who the Yardbirds were? I thought they were as popular as the Who? Maybe I'm mistaken and they're only as popular as Traffic and the Faces... With a great deal of self-discipline, I ignored her comment and continued with what I was saying. "We're living with Led Zeppelin and Bianca is going steady with Jimmy-- DON'T say anything. We made up a room for you, but you can only live with us on one agreement, and this is a moral agreement. We're not so asinine as the Stones to have you sign things before even speaking to us-- Look at me! I'm saying 'us!' Ha! I meant the boys. But the agreement is that you don't go out to the Evening Post, The Daily Mail, The London Post, any of those tabloids and exploit our charges for your own gain. Agreed?"
Daphne thought for a moment and I made a mental note to myself to dumb-down my vocabulary. "Why would I do that?" she asked in reply. "While I was in America, I noticed that the Americans are so much more ill-mannered than us English..."
I tuned her out for the rest of the way home. As long as she promised not to exploit the band, ha! As long as she promised to keep her grummy, cushy Americanized fingers off my Jimbert, my man. True, he wasn't mine (yet), but I knew deep down that he and Bianca weren't meant to be. It had become obvious to me the day I had had lunch with him and Bianca; I was even surprised then that they were friends. He was well-mannered, well-rounded, well-disciplined, talented, business-savvy, and curious where she was obnoxious and go-with-the-flow. And although I had to admit I was a go-with-the-flow, un-business-savvy person myself, I knew that there was a connection Jimmy and I shared that he and Bia lacked.
But Daphne was a whole n'other story. She was easy; too easy. I knew well enough, having been around these lads since August and it being November, that as soon as a fresh piece of easy meat walked through the door, the guys would jump it and dump it. It had been two days since a groupie-- whom I saw as more of an home-order prostitute since groupies didn't tend to be around a band when they weren't at a concert-- had been at the manor while Robert's wife was away and I new he was bubbling with withdrawal. Daphne was just the lighter to his joint for now, and I didn't mind. So long as she left Jimmy alone.
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