Chapter 17

 

July 29, 1966. The date of the first-ever Cream gig. But that wasn’t the only big event that happened that day. Charlotte was woken up by the phone ringing. Brian, sleeping soundly beside her, given it was 6am and being musicians, they didn’t bother to open their eyes until at least noon, was not even stirred.

 

            “Hello?” Charlotte rubbed her eyes.

 

            “Fuck! I’m fucked Charlotte! I’m Fucked!” Screamed a liverpudlian.

 

            “God, John? Is that you?”

 

            “Go to your postbox.”

 

            “What?”

 

            “Just do it” Charlotte reluctantly got up, and did what he asked. He knew she received Datebook every month, as she was a teenager, and besides, she loved to see Brian and the boys written about in it.

 

            “So? What am I looking for?”

 

            “Datebook. Pg 32 the fuckin cover story.” Charlotte flipped to the page. And gasped.

 

            “Where are you?”

 

            “Home.”

 

            “I’m on my way.” Charlotte ran back to the flat, threw on jeans and one of Brian’s tee shirts, clogs, and wrote him a quick note, leaving it in the bathroom. She jumped in Brian’s brand new Aston Martin, as she didn’t quite have the funds for a car, and sped to the Lennon’s.

 

A very worried looking Cyn, with Julian in her arms opened the door.

 

            “I’m so glad you’re here. He won’t leave the bedroom. I know you can help him.”

 

            “Oh god Cyn, I’ll do my best.” She hugged her and headed up the large bridal staircase.

 

John was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair a mess, still in his pajamas. Charlotte had never, ever seen him this vulnerable before. She walked in very slowly, not wanting to set him off any further.

 

            “How did you find out?” She sat next to him.

 

            “Brian’s up at fookin’ 5am every mornin’. He called me. He’s avin’ a stroke.”

 

            “Did you really say that?”

 

            “Well, yea, but its taken out of context, honest. You believe me, right Char?” His eyes pleaded with her.

 

            “Of course. Maybe this whole thing will blow over, and no one will notice.”

 

            “They all ready ave’ Brian said.”

 

            “Oh god John.”

 

            “It’s all on me, the band’s demise, you’ll see.”

 

            “Don’t talk like that. You’ll all be fine.”

 

            “They’ll ate’ me.”

 

            “No! Their your brothers, they wouldn’t do that to you.” With that, his head down, facing forward, he moved his eyes toward Charlotte and just stared. He got up and went into the other room, and returned with some pot. They smoked for a while, Charlotte going easy knowing she’d have to drive home, and eventually convinced him to call Paul. She left him while he was on the phone, Cyn thanked her, and she drove back to Brian, still sleeping due to the fact that he had just returned for a tour, and got ready for her big night.

 

 

Brian wanted to drive her to the gig in Manchester, but she refused, stating she wanted to ride in the band’s van from Eric’s flat, like a true musician. The Twisted Wheel was jammed packed with kids wanting to catch Eric Clapton’s new band. She wore drain pipe legged burgundy velvet trousers, looking fab on her long, thin legs, and a white peasant tank top, that had an empire waist, and billowed out to her hips.

 

It was a steamy July night, but the bodies jammed packed in the club like sardines made it even more humid. The atmosphere was of sheer anticipation, with a crowd of young British blues purists, such as Brian, and the start of hippies, cheering for Eric. The speakers played a hard rocking tune from B.B. King, the guitar echoing throughout the club, filled with 300 some odd people. Charlotte sat in the dingy dressing room, in front of the vanity mirror. She studied her face, pale, almost gray from nerves, light freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Eyes large, emerald green, and intense. She knew she had the capacity to pull this off, they had been rehearsing all day and all night, for weeks. But she had to face the fact that she, a mere baby at 18, would be playing with twenty something blues prodigies infront of even more blues prodigies. She promptly threw up all over the dressing table, much to the band’s dismay.

 

Jack’s friend who was backstage went and got Brian, who kicked everyone out of the dressing room. He sat her down in a chair, and then got another and sat directly in front of her, his face mere inches from hers.

           

“Charlotte, listen to me. His gray-blue eyes stared right into hers. His sculpture-worthy face stoic.

           

“Yes I am.”

           

            “You can do this. I know you can.” By now, Charlotte was ghostly pale, even her lips were white. The sounds of B.B. King echoed through her brain.

 

            “This is your one and only chance to prove yourself as a serious musician. Do you want to be the model/Rolling Stone girlfriend for the rest of your life?”

 

            “N…no” she could barely speak.

 

            “Didn’t think so. So get off your ass and get out there. Don’t fuck this up.” He knew tough love was the only way to get through to the girl who grew up in a strict but loving Irish Catholic household.

 

            “I’m going to fuckin do this.” She got up, and went for the door. Just as she went through, Brian called her name. She turned around.

 

            “Do you prefer a Spring wedding? Or Fall?” He smirked. He knew she was going to do it.