It had gone pretty well, considering. Chip and his few tech crew had flown out on Wednesday to set up with the Parisian film people and to get specs for the locations they'd settled on. Bonnie had booked herself, Bob, Genie, and the guys on the Thursday flight. She'd considered a charter but the expenses on Bob's little genius episode were beginning to look like they'd outrun the benefits (if there were any), so instead they had First Class on a nonstop commercial flight, with the promise of early, private boarding to avoid any mob scenes. At present they were hanging out in the VIP lounge waiting for their flight to be called.
"Here's your passports and tickets guys, after you board just give back whatever's left over."
"We're not bloody children, Bonnie," Davy complained.
"No, David, you're not. I think children would show a little more respect? Anyway, better to have it all with one person, that way if anything gets lost it's all together and we can just sort the whole disaster with the Embassy."
Peter looked up from his book, and suggested brightly, "And that way Bob will know who to kill right away."
As she handed Micky his papers, he pulled her into his lap. "See, guys, she'll gladly sacrifice her life for us, the men of her dreams."
She stared at him for a second and responded in a monotone, "Of course I will. Now turn me loose before I smack your head."
He pushed her out of his lap and covered his head with both arms. "Why won't Bob make you stop that?" he whined.
"Because it's in her contract," the other three announced in unison, only momentarily distracted from what they were doing. Davy was reading a horse racing magazine, Peter was absorbed in a book of Zen philosophy, and Mike was restringing the newly customized Gretsch twelve-string that he refused to let out of his sight. They all waved off the lounge hostess who'd just brought out a fresh pot of coffee.
"Over here," Bonnie beckoned, "and keep it coming."
"Jesus, Morris, take it easy on that stuff or you'll be racing us to Paris," Mike warned, and reached up to pull her from her pacing onto the sofa beside him.
"Easy for you to say, I've slept maybe 4 hours since Monday night." She looked at her watch, then at the clock on the wall. "Where the hell is Bob, anyway?" So far their flight was on time for departure at eleven a.m., an hour away. It wasn't like Bob to be the last one in.
"Relax, he's in charge, he'll show up."
"Michael's right, Bonnie, "Genie stepped in to offer some support. "You'll never sleep on the flight if you don't stop the coffee."
"I'm fine. I'll sleep after the meeting."
"Huh? What meeting?" Mike asked Genie.
"Don't worry, Nesmith, it's just Genie and me, soon as we drop our gear at the hotel we're going to that agency Monde des Modes. Interview the models, sign the contracts, then I'm free until Saturday."
Not caring what Genie thought of it, Mike leaned closer to Bonnie and stilled her rapidly bouncing knee with a gentle hand.
"Baby, you gotta stop. I know you're not kiddin' when you say you haven't slept, I know you've been on a steady diet of work and coffee since the weekend."
She pushed his hand away. "Thanks mom, I'll be okay."
"Fine. Don't listen, you never do anyway." Mike got up and took his guitar-stringing to another cush armchair on the other side of the lounge.
When Bob came through the door Bonnie called to him, "Nice you could make it." The others grimaced in disappointment, their opening lines stolen.
"Had to pick somebody up," he explained, and stood aside to usher in a young woman.
A very young woman, obviously younger than twenty. Dressed in the mod-est of magazine mod attire: shiny black leather mini skirt, paisley blouse, and black knee-high boots. She had a cloud of curly dark hair more-or-less tamed with a wide scarf tied round it like a headband, its long ends draped over one shoulder. And love beads… lots of love beads. The sharply hip couture was contrasted by her cherubic face. The meticulously applied eye makeup (Biba, for sure) made the wide blue eyes look even bigger.
"This is Pam Saunders," Bob went on. Only a few eyes flickered in his direction until he added, "She's going to cover the shoot for Sixteen."
Bonnie shot a horrified look at Genie, who didn't look much more pleased. The guys were wearing "oh, shit" looks. Except for Davy, who looked as if he'd just been given a present.
"Nice piece o' crumpet, eh?" he said quietly, though not quietly enough for Genie and Bonnie to miss it. Genie turned on him.
"Oi, nice piece o' dead bloke, y'pervo, if you try to make her," she hissed. Davy raised his hands in surrender and returned to his magazine.
By this time Bonnie was up out of her chair and standing in front of Bob and the newcomer.
"I thought I had an in on all the contests," she asked Bob, all but ignoring the fresh-faced Pam. "No offense, honey," she directed at girl, "it's just that I juggle a lot of logistics and you weren't one of them, until now."
"No contest, babe," Bob told her, blithely unconcerned as usual. "We just thought it might be a good tie-in for the show. Pam's 'behind the scenes' piece will run before the show airs."
This cannot be happening. It's just sleep deprivation, it's damaged my perception of reality. Bonnie shut her eyes for a second and shook her head, hoping to clear it, and opened her eyes again. No dice. Bob and Little Mary Sunshine were still there.
"Excuse us for a minute, honey, will ya?" Bonnie grabbed Bob's sleeve and dragged him over to the alcove near the staff access door. "Have you lost your mind?" she demanded. "This isn't gonna be a couple hours on the set. It's the whole down and dirty, twenty four hours a day."
"Calm down, will you?" Bob patted her shoulder. "We have final edit power. Besides, you can keep her out of the way of the 'down and dirty' when shooting's done. A couple dinners with the guys and us, and the rest of her access will be very structured."
"You do know that they are already borderline pissed off over this trip, right? I promised them that whatever free time there is, is theirs. Only two press calls, with Paris offices of US media. This kid'll be an albatross around their… hey wait a minute." Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean 'you' can keep her out of the way? Does that mean me?"
"Part of the job, babe."
She thought her head would explode. "And where do you propose she stay?" His look made it plain. "Oh, no, she is not gonna be in my room! With everything that's gonna be happening I am not gonna be fit company for a… how old is she, anyway?"
"Nineteen. Out of high school, by the way, and racking up points to get into a journalism program at UCLA."
"By doing a bit for Sixteen… that's a hot one. Anyway, I absolutely refuse to share my room with Alice in Monkeeland. End of discussion."
Suddenly Bob leaned down close, lowered his voice, and advised, "It won't kill you and Nesmith to take a break, for christsake."
Bonnie could feel her eyes bug out in disbelief. "What the hell are you implying."
Now he was laughing, though it was something of an offended laugh. "You must really think I'm a prime moron. That morning a few weeks ago when I called and you were at his pad… 'guest room' my ass. As if that contrary hermit would even have a guest room."
"Why didn't you say anything? Why haven't you since then?" She really was confused, and the coffee wasn't helping.
"This may come as a surprise to you but I don't give a shit, okay? And, as long as you keep your hands off each other in front of the press and in public, and it seems you've been pretty good at that, I will continue not to give a shit. Though I imagine if you share that secret with Nesmith he will make it his personal mission to jump you every time a camera is around just to show me who he thinks is boss."
She had to admit, he was right about that one. "Well thanks, I guess."
"Oh, don't thank me. He's the king of melodrama with a tortured-artist complex. It's your funeral. But… if I even think it is affecting your work, if I even have a bad dream about it, it's gonna stop, or you're gonna be gone. Don't get me wrong, Bonnie, I can't think of anyone who could handle this circus and those clowns… okay, and work with me, too… better. But business is business, and I won't let hormones fuck it up. As for him… well he's actually been a little easier to deal with lately. So whatever you've been doing, keep it up."
She smirked. "Gee, thanks Yenta. And I guess we agree on some things, as in business is business. But I still don't like this kid coming along, she is not gonna get the story she expects even if everything goes perfectly. As if that's gonna happen. Most of the on-location stuff will be plain boring. And the rest… all bets are off."
"Well just in case you were wondering, I talked to the Sixteen features editor. Yeah, believe it or not, they have one of those at that teenybopper fantasy rag. I told her that if anything gets published, there or anywhere else, that isn't fit for market consumption, Raybert and Colgems will sue them dry. She passed that on to Alice in Monkeeland." After a moment of mutually unsatisfying stare-down, Bob stepped back and huffed an exaggerated sigh. "Can we get back to normal now? Or what passes for it around here?" He really was asking.
Her sigh matched his own. "Yeah. But I still don't want her in my room."
"You're the only one with two beds, I checked your reservations list. Luck of the draw. Besides, you'll know how to steer her. You're good at that kinda thing. Except don't smack her on the head like you do with Micky, okay?"
Their periodic dance of disturbance concluded, Bonnie went to where Pam was still standing where Bob had left her. Even Davy seemed to have forgotten her presence.
"Well come on and meet everyone. We won't bite unless we find out you taste good." She knew she didn't sound any more enthusiastic than she felt.
Pam giggled a little nervously at the joke, then inquired honestly, "You don't want me here, do you?"
"Nope, I don't. Don't take it personally… I just don't think extended location shoots and fan magazines are a good mix. It's not going to be the usual lighthearted behind the scenes thing. This just isn't all fun and games, and I think you might be disappointed and maybe disillusioned, and that's not a good thing for anyone."
"I guess you just think it's silly teenybopper stuff."
"No, that's not it… I mean, we all see the Sixteen and Tiger Beat articles, the 'what kind of girl Davy likes' and 'ten things Micky wants for Christmas', the 'Monkees look' fashion stuff, and it's fine, it's great, even, it supports the guys and the concerts and records and the show and all that. But just once I'd like to see somebody, anybody, make a passing swipe at how hard these guys work to look like they're always having fun, you know? Not a deep dark bummer, but maybe just in with the 'cute and zany' throw in some of what happens before the cute and zany that you see on the tube. Instead of asking them 'what's it feel like to be a Monkee', maybe once ask them, I dunno, 'what's it feel like when you're not being a Monkee.' The answers might actually be more interesting than somebody's favorite color." She stopped, and misunderstood Pam's expression as either confusion or offense. "I'm sorry, I haven't slept in like days, and I think my brain is fried."
The cloud of dark curls danced as Pam shook her head. "No, I think maybe I get it. I think it'll be good for fans to see how hard the Monkees work, it will make them appreciate them more. And I think they'll be interested in seeing some of what really makes the show happen, too. How they pick the locations, what has to happen before and after. Hey, I'm paid to be here for ten days, it can't all be interviews, right?"
"Oh my god, I am glad to hear that. Because I'm only really gonna demand one thing rule-wise, that when you approach anyone with an interview-type question, if they even look like they're not in the mood, believe it and walk away. Because at the end of some of these long days, and even at the beginning, sometimes there is not enough left inside to make nice with. So if you push it, you'll end up with something you didn't want and something they really didn't want to leave you with. Nobody here wants to be a pain in the ass, but there are times when we just can't do any better."
"Okay. When in doubt, I'll back off." Pam smiled at Bonnie. "I really do want to write something different. I don't want to be one of those contest winners."
"Shit, I'm sorry about that… oh great, listen to me… that reminds me, one last thing, I hope you aren't offended by, er, rustic language?"
The younger girl laughed. "I have three older brothers. And for the article, I can paraphrase with the best of them. Oh, and another thing, I'm sorry about the room thing, I really don't want to get in your way, you know…" She looked pointedly toward where Mike was sullenly reading.
Bonnie gaped at the kid. "So tell me, is there anyone that doesn't know?"
"Well I overheard you and Mr. Rafelson talking… you weren't really all that quiet. Don't worry, my boss had that talk with me, so that kind of 'scoop' isn't worth it. And my idea of 'behind the scenes', well, it's not that far behind the scenes, you know what I mean? Anyway, I don't need a babysitter."
"I guess you don't, do you?" Bonnie almost fell to her knees with relief. "Okay, c'mon and I'll introduce you. They really are nice guys. We all started the job on the same day pretty much, so they're kinda like weirdo family that I get paid to put up with."
When they got to where everyone was draped across the furniture in pools of impatience, Bonnie announced, "Like Bob said, but I know you never listen to him, this here is Pam Saunders. She's gonna be writing about the shoot."
"For a fan magazine?" Micky asked.
"No, genius, for the Wall Street Journal," Mike muttered, very much not under his breath, not bothering to look up as he locked his restrung Gretsch away in its case.
Ignoring the Rude Mr. Nesmith, Pam turned to Bonnie. "I guess this is the beginning of one of those long days you told me about, huh?"
"You know it. Act accordingly."
"You're giving away our secrets?" Micky jumped up and did his terrible Cagney impression. "Hmmm… looks like she knows too much already."
Just then, their early boarding was called, and a stewardess appeared to take them on their private route to the plane.
"Don't forget, gimme your passports and documents back after we board. I know where to find you. That goes for you too, hand it over after we board," she told Pam, who had been fishing in her purse for her passport.
"You don't have to, I can handle it."
To Bonnie's surprise, Mike spoke to Pam as he passed on the way to the gate. "Better not to argue, saves time because you'll lose anyway. Rest of us had to learn the hard way."
Bonnie and Pam were the last ones into the spacious first class cabin; one of their two personal stewardesses securely closed the heavy curtain that separated them from the rest of the passengers. Genie was perched on the arm of Bob's seat. The group broke up quickly as the two latecomers joined them. Everyone set about staking out areas to settle in for the long, nonstop flight.
"You ever get the feeling someone's been talking about you?" Bonnie asked nobody in particular, but got no response. "Make yourself comfortable, Pam." Genie took her in hand as Bonnie set about collecting passports and ticket folders from everyone, even Bob, and put them in her briefcase. When she got to the last row where Nesmith had set up his corner, she said the same thing as she had to the others, "Passport."
He looked up from his "Car and Driver" magazine and asked, "What's it worth to you?"
"C'mon, just gimme, okay?" She ran a hand over her face, too blind with fatigue to banter.
He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the passport, pulling it back when she leaned in to take it.
"Hey, hey, what do I get?"
"How about I let you live to see Paris. Nesmith, c'mon," she pleaded, "Now is not the time." She nodded to indicate the obvious… they were not alone.
"Uh-uh baby, this little invitation to world travel is gonna cost you some sugar." He slipped his shades up so she could see he meant business.
"Jesus H. Christ, Nesmith, are you crazy?"
This time when she reached for the passport he deftly took her briefcase and dumped it on the floor, then grabbed her wrist to pull her into the seat next to him, and from there into his arms.
"Yes ma'am, crazier than a loon. Must be the company I keep." Before she could slip his grasp, he wrapped one hand around the back of her head and kissed her. "And one more, 'cause you argued about the price," he drawled in that honey-rich voice that drove her crazy, and this time she didn't fight it even a little. When he broke the kiss at last, he pressed his lips to her ear. "Relax, Morris, everybody knows."
She sat back in shock. "Everybody?"
"Well everybody here," he indicated their six companions scattered around the cabin and minding their own affairs. "Bob figured he'd head off loose talk... hate to admit it, but a smart move. Sheeyit, we're too old to sneak around like dirty little kids and anyway, seems most everyone but your little Lois Lane figured it out already, and she has been sworn to silence."
She was finding it harder and harder to process even simple stuff, so she just asked.
"Is it me, or is this day getting more and more strange? Bob thinks there's a magic force field around First Class, and nothing is gonna get out to make the press drive me crazy?" She glanced back at all the others. "I don't know if I believe that."
"Well for question one, I can't say, since your day started three days go." He brushed back her hair, and looked closely into her bloodshot eyes. "But since you can't shoot 'em all to shut 'em up, why don't you just settle down and get some z's before you drive all of us crazy?" He pulled her sideways to tuck her under his arm and stuck a pillow under her head, then grabbed one for himself to lean against the window.
"I'll just put this in a safe place," he told her and reached into the neck of her shirt to slip his passport inside her bra. Giving her breast an affectionate squeeze, he headed off her weary protest with, "To my knowledge I am the only one who goes there."
"Not for another ten days you won't," she mumbled unhappily. She was wound up by everything she needed to pay attention to, including whether or not their connection (she still couldn't define it well enough to call it a "relationship") would bring on too much public reaction. But she was burnt out, and he was so easy to be with... surrounded by his warmth and the smell of Ivory soap, she snuggled closer and fell asleep.
Bob paused on his way back from the rest room and took a look at the nearest row where Bonnie lay curled up sleeping in Mike's arms.
"How's she doing?"
"How do ya think she's doing, Bob?" Mike returned in a harsh whisper, his tone rising and falling sarcastically. "Ain't slept in three days playing ringmaster to your circus."
"I didn't tell her to do that."
The dark head nodded sharply and the sunglasses came down, the universally recognized gesture of Mike Nesmith's disdain for... whatever was pissing him off at the moment.
"Well you didn't tell her not to either."
Bob laid a hand on the back of Mike's seat and leaned closer. "She's a grown woman, Mike, I don't tell her how to run her life. Which is why everyone got that little lecture on her private life. I did that for her, and yeah for me too, and not to make it easier for you to get laid. Just so we're clear."
"Crystal." Mike could feel his temper heating. If he hadn't had an armful of Bonnie there'd be hell to pay and he knew that Bob knew it. "Man..." he caught himself before his voice could rise. "What you don't know could fill the Grand Canyon. But thanks anyway." He almost choked on the words, but knew that Bob really had done him a favor too, without knowing it.
"My pleasure. Don't make me regret it."
As Bob returned to his seat Mike looked down at Bonnie, who had stirred a little and murmured wordlessly.
"Wouldn't give you the satisfaction, asshole," he grumbled over his shoulder. Then he rearranged his pillow and slouched sideways against the window to try to sleep. He had plans of his own to take care of when they arrived in Paris.