Storms by Carol Ann Harris Page B

to an end, Lindsey and I found it harder and harder to say goodbye.
    The tour was going great. The album was selling out in stores, breaking sales records, and getting so much airplay that it seemed that every station across the country had only one artist on their playlist: Fleetwood Mac. Rumours had sold one million copies in the first eleven days of its release, going platinum. Within a month it reached number one on
Billboard’s
album chart and was on its way to making history, for it would stay at the top for an unprecedented thirty-one weeks. Interviews, magazinecover shoots, and sold-out shows were now an everyday occurrence for the band.
    Fleetwood Mac returned to Los Angeles and Lindsey once again appeared in the doorway of Producer’s Workshop to sweep me off my feet and take me home with him. The band had a three-week break before leaving for Europe and the next leg of the tour. I refused to think any further ahead than the next few precious days.
    As the first week passed by we resumed our routine of being together every night at either his house or mine. We didn’t speak of the upcoming European tour. I couldn’t bear to think of being separated from Lindsey, and like most people faced with painful dilemmas, I put it out of my mind, hoping that if I ignored it the horrible problem would go away.
    During the second week of Lindsey’s break he called and asked me to drive over to his house after work. “I can’t pick you up today, angel. I forgot to tell you, we’re shooting the cover of
Rolling Stone
with Annie Leibowitz here at my house. Come on over right after work, OK? The band’s driving me insane.”
    Although I couldn’t wait to see Lindsey, I looked at my clothes in horror. I was dressed in a short pleated black skirt and a man’s white shirt, with black ankle-strap low heels on my feet. Very Mary Quant and English, but not exactly drop-dead sexy. I looked like a schoolgirl rather than the rock ‘n’ roll femme fatale that I tried to be at all Fleetwood Mac gatherings. The fact that I rarely succeeded in achieving the sophistication I struggled so valiantly for was beside the point.
There’s nothing for it
, I told myself.
If I take the time to go home to change, I’ll be an hour late getting to Lindsey’s and, by the sound of his voice, he wants me there ASAP. The drive itself takes at least thirty minutes!
I sighed as I fixed my makeup, adding Brigitte Bardot-style eyeliner.
Better than nothing, I guess.
I giggled as I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Sheesh, I look as though I’m twelve years old … with attitude. In Lindsey’s eyes, that might not be such a bad thing!
    When I pulled up in front of his house it was obvious that something big was happening in this modest little neighborhood in West L.A. The street was lined with limousines and Mercedes, and Lindsey’s front yard was littered with photography lights shining in through the windows. Fluffing up my hair, I checked my face in my rearview mirror, jumped out of my little VW Bug, and, walked carefully through the confusion of cables strewn over his lawn.
    Taking a deep breath—always wise before an encounter with Fleetwood Mac—I knocked softly. Lindsey threw the door open and yelled, “Thank God you’re here! They’re driving me crazy!” He stopped talking and looked me over slowly. “Hey, little girl, looks like you’re looking for your daddy. I like it, Carol. You should wear this stuff more often.”
    I could tell by the gleam in his eye that he meant every word and I felt confidence flood through me as he pulled me into the house. Mick got up from the couch, leered, and began making a few suggestive “schoolgirl” remarks of his own. John and Christine started laughing as Mick and Lindsey each took one of my arms and played a tug of war with me caught in the center. Stevie sat silently, apparently not