Free Playing Along by Rory Samantha Green Page A

“You really believe in me, don’t you, Lexi? I don’t think anyone has ever said those things to me before, ever. If I were to be entirely honest it would seem the majority of people I meet regard me as a bit,” he pauses, obviously trying to come up with the most suitable word, “freakish.”
    Lexi stops pacing, feeling terrible for having thought exactly that about Russell less than two weeks ago. But since getting to know him a bit, she
has
changed her mind. If she’s been practicing leaps of faith, then believing in Russell might well be the biggest leap yet. She looks Russell square in the eye.
    “Aren’t we all, Russell? A bit freakish? This planet would be very tedious without people like you to add a bit of… of…” it’s her turn now to find the perfect word. But she quickly remembers that perfect is banned. “Pizazz.”
    “Pizazz?” he says, letting the word buzz on his tongue. “Pizazz, I like that.”
    “I thought you might.”
    “I guess it’s down to work then! Boris and I will begin typing my inaugural speech and you can make your calls and drink your juice. But one last question.”
    “Yes?” says Lexi, hoping he’s not going to suggest they smoke weed again.
    “Can Boris be in the video?”
    “Of course Boris can be in the video, Russell,” says Lexi, relieved. “It wouldn’t be the same without him, would it?”
    “No,” says Russell, thoughtfully, “I guess it wouldn’t.”

GEORGE
13 th November, 2009
Las Vegas, Nevada
    Pedro Myerson is followed around by three PAs at all times. One holds an arsenal of medicines in a Perspex container (George thought they were an assorted array of Tic Tacs before Simon set him straight). One holds his paper-thin laptop. And the third one doesn’t hold anything, but apparently is necessary in case the other two unexpectedly drop dead. They have obviously been programmed to keep an appropriate distance from their revered boss, and yet appear to anticipate his every need, stepping forward at intervals, as if summoned by a silent dog whistle. Initially amused by the spectacle, the band are rapidly losing patience with the eccentric genius.
    “This guy’s got his head up his butthole,” declares Duncan, as the four band mates lie in the hot sand shoulder to shoulder, while Myerson and his DP prepare lighting for the next take.
    “Talking of, George, how was your midnight feast? Fanny was salivating looking for you. I was tempted to give her my room number instead.”
    George might have guessed it was Duncan who put Fanny back on his trail. He is certainly not in the mood to indulge in his banter now. The video shoot is even worse than he might have imagined. Myerson is incredibly patronizing and earlier in the day communicated painstakingly slowly his thoughts about the shoot.
    “I see you all in white. Bright white. Asleep in the sand—okay? The hot desert sand. Do you understand? It’s like it’s searing through your skin. Skin. Okay?”
    “It
was
searing through my skin, just now,” Simon had said glibly. “It’s bloody hot out here, mate.” Pedro had ignored the comment and continued, directing the remaining portion of his vision to George.
    “This song, ‘I Knew It’. This song you wrote is powerful. It juxtaposes elements of light and dark. The pure and evil forces residing within us all. The images need to reflect these themes. Suffocation. Purification. Do you understand me? Mortification. I knew it, right? I knew it. Okay?” George had hesitated, somewhat at a loss for words. Was Myerson hoping to enlighten him about the meaning of his own lyrics? He had in fact written the song about something far less lofty, but far more familiar to him. The certainty of uncertainty. How the only thing you could ever rely on in life is just how unpredictable things are.
    Case in hand. He now finds himself and the boys half buried in scorching sand, decked out in hideous white suits, with a scattering of decapitated palm trees hovering