Free One Way or Another by Nikki McWatters Page B

seeking moisture like a parched leech.
    Quietly I skulked to the bathroom and washed. A change of clothes and a toothbrush livened me up a little. My bed sheets needed stripping and I went so far as to open the window and invite in fresh air and light. The yellowing of the sky confirmed it was early morning and I sat cross-legged on my bed, breathing deeply, eyes shut, listening to the rowdy birdlife outside. Two possibilities – either I was an idiot who couldn’t pull off a simple overdose, or divine provenance had stepped in to save my damn life.
    Perhaps it was not my time to go. Was there some grand purpose I was meant to fulfil? There was the Oscar. I still felt fame was my destiny. Why did I need this? Why did I feel so out of place and misunderstood? Why couldn’t I just want what every-one else wanted? Why couldn’t I be who my parents wanted me to be? Had collecting famous sexual partners been a form of vampirism? Was I trying to sap some of their fame DNA? I was a sexual kleptomaniac.
    There was no way around it: I wanted to be in film and I wanted to be famous. Maybe this shallow dream was driven by feelings of inadequacy – for all my swagger, I was often shy and had a pathological fear of confrontation – but it was my dream nonetheless. How to get there with my terrible teeth was the conundrum. Oscar had a penchant for flashy gnashers. I would need extensive cosmetic dental work if I were to compete with the Brooke Shields and Farrah Fawcetts of the world. My teeth, God bless them, were strong and healthy and without so much as a rumour of a cavity – but they looked like God had poked them higgledy-piggledy into my gums after a big night out. If ever I complained about them to my parents I was scolded for vanity and reminded how lucky I was to have such healthy choppers.
    Money, money, money. All the things I could do ... if I had a little money. I sat, that post-suicidal morning, trying to think how I could raise the funds to renovate my smile and follow my dream to New York. I realised I might have to accept a longer timeframe than instantly, but no amount of shifts at McDonald’s was ever going to do it. Anyway, I’d tried Maccas when I was fourteen. I’d been sacked at the beginning of 1981 for trying to kiss customers on New Year’s Eve.
    The answer came like a comet, jetting out of the newspaper classifieds. I sat at the breakfast table, my black-ringed eyes only inches from the tablecloth. My parents danced about tersely on silent tiptoes and I could tell Vesuvius was about to erupt. My close call had made me somewhat less interested in the small-time drama of the generation gap. Ignoring their discomfort, I let my finger touch a small advertisement.
    â€˜Guitar lessons. Former Skyhooks guitarist. Beginners welcome.’
    The Skyhooks were the biggest rock act of the seventies. That’s it! a voice screamed in my head. Eureka. Don’t be a groupie – be a rock star. The Go-Gos. The Bangles. Cyndi Lauper. Suzie Quatro. Blondie. I could play gigs. Make money. Get famous.
    But my strobe-lit fantasy dimmed as the recriminations began.
    â€˜We are so disappointed in you,’ began my father through tight lips. ‘Your mother and I enjoy a glass of wine at night but your bold … theft … and your … total inebriation …’
    â€˜Terrible,’ my mother added.
    â€˜A whole weekend wasted on a hangover.’ My father shook his head. ‘You are so immature. We’d thought with the new school ...’
    What were they talking about? Wine? Theft? It took a moment for me to realise that my folks assumed my unconsciousness was caused by a gallon of cask wine. As if I would try to kill myself with Riesling! I shook my head in amusement and snorted like an incredulous horse.
    â€˜Don’t you dare snort like that. What do you have to say for yourself?’ Mum growled.
    I wanted to say, ‘Not guilty of being over