TRACK FOUR:
CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'

❝ i've been for a walk (i've been for a walk)
on a winter's day (on a winter's day)
i'd be safe and warm (i'd be safe and warm)
if i was in L.A. (if i was in L.A.) ❞
— the mamas & the papas

.•° ✿ °•.

     When Francesca steps out of the airport in Los Angeles, she thinks she has walked into a postcard.

     The bewildered idea only festers after she hails a cab to her hotel. None of the bone-gripping chill or grey overcast skies found in Waterbury, New York or even Pittsburgh can be found here — to Francesca, California looks and feels a saturated paradise, where the pavement is washed in the palette of sunshine. Her heart beats nervously like a drumroll, hands fidgeting in her lap. Everything is so different, so new. She barely knows whether to be terrified or thrilled anymore. Right now it's an enthralling mix of both. By some hilarious irony, through the crackle of the radio, 'California Dreamin'' by The Mamas & The Papas is playing to welcome her in:

     "California dreamin'
      On such a winter's day..."

     Sat in the back of the cab, Francesca rolls her window down and feels the breeze hit her. And the sea... she can not only hear it crashing onto the shore, but smell it so sweetly. Her beach-going experiences so far consist of a rare summer vacation to Rhode Island (she recalls her teeth chattering after Elia dunked her underwater, which was much colder than the pleasant summer air). When she sticks her head further out of the window, her hair whipping against her face, Francesca bears witness to bent palm trees lining the street and ushering her into the city. Aside from the instant sweat and dry July heat beating down, she thinks she could get used to this.

     There is just... one thing missing.

     She wishes she could show Graham this. It seems surreal that not even twenty four hours ago, she was back under the grey skies of Pittsburgh, looking into his eyes. Now he feels like a distant memory, whether she likes it or not. Francesca shakes off the remorseful chill that threatens her sunny disposition, and gets back to admiring the view from the cab.

     The yellow cab slows down in some gridlocked traffic, allowing Francesca to observe some of the passers-by. Even they look so different — she recognises faces and figures like the ones she's always seen at home, but in amongst them are completely free spirits. Her gaze fall on two teenage girls, maybe a couple years younger than she is. Long hair flowing over their halter tops and denim shorts, they walk in carefree unison to the beat of their own drums.

FRANCESCA: I mean... as an East Coaster, it was kind of a culture shock [Laughs] I've always considered myself one of the more laid-back people in my family, but it turns out even I needed loosening up. L.A. was great for that, I'll admit. It unlocked a part of me I really needed to get in touch with... anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Camila had helped me book a hotel for the first few nights — 'cause I wasn't planning on bunking up with two guys I barely knew — so once I'd dropped off my things, I went looking for their place.

     The magic, however, may not extend to the address Francesca has been given for Hank and Richie. She finds herself straying further and further from the stars that were in her eyes, instead met with foggy reality as the sun slowly sets on the street. Maybe it is just the whiplash of finding her bearings again, after becoming comfortably nestled elsewhere — Graham had been right about that — or this damn heat, but Francesca finds herself walking up and down the same street with not a clue where she's going.

     After a while, she gives up, taking a break and sitting on a painted bench next to a trash can. Francesca rests the neck of her guitar case on her lap with a sigh. The unsettling reality creeps in, as it always does... that she is somewhere completely new again. Only this time, she doesn't have Tony, Graham or Camila to fall back on, not even a family friend.

Francesca is well and truly on her own.

For a few minutes, she sits alone on the bench and watches L.A. locals breeze around her. It's like a melding pot of all walks of life — a similar feeling she got arriving in New York, except the entire atmosphere is different here. She people-watches for a while, watching them come and go. Not much deep thought goes into it until she realises the same boy has passed her three times... what the hell is he doing? He looks as though he could be a few years younger than Francesca, a white t-shirt tucked scruffily into his jeans. The boy keeps re-entering her periphery, glancing down at something in his hands. Eventually he wanders over in her direction looking sheepish. Closer up, his eyes are almost the same colour as his inky black hair, but warm nonetheless.

     "Excuse me, uh, do you know where this address is?" he asks, handing her the scrawled note written on the back of a diner receipt. It flutters in the air during the exchange.

     "Sorry, I'm not from around here, I don't—" Francesca begins to answer, but then stops herself as she glances down at the paper again; she does recognise that address. Mainly because it happens to match the one Hank gave her himself back in Pittsburgh. Even the barely legible scrawl is clearly belonging to him. "... Are you looking for a Hank Bowen and Richie Donovan, by any chance?"

     "Yeah, that's exactly who I'm looking for! You know them?"

     "Barely. But this is where I'm meant to be going too."

     The boy nods to her guitar case and asks, "Is that why you have the...?"

     "Yeah, it is," Francesca pats it fondly. This is such a bizarre meeting. "Then I guess that means we're both here for the same thing. I'm Francesca."

     "Carlo," he says, holding his hand out to shake. Only then does she notice the drumsticks tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.

HANK: I'd found this kid who could play the drums like crazy. He was still in High School at the time, but he had exactly what we were looking for... Carlo was fuckin' nuts on that kit. Even then.

CARLO NUNEZ (drummer, Solstice): My family moved from our hometown in Mexico to the States when I was five. And it was around then that I first heard Buddy Rich on the radio. I heard 'Nuttville' for the first time, and my head exploded... [Laughs] It's true! After that I was begging my parents to get me a drum set, and when they finally did, it was headaches for the rest of the days I lived in that house. I started playing whenever and whatever I could. Jazz, rock 'n' roll, blues, I didn't care, man. It made me feel alive.

     Something about Carlo seems unassuming to Francesca, but endearingly so. Maybe it's the youthful bounce in his walk, or the openness he radiates instantly. The two of them decide to stick together and track down the mysterious address they've been given. On the way, she figures they might as well get to know each other if they are future bandmates. "So, are you new to L.A. as well, or have you been before?" she asks.

     "Kinda," he shrugs, twirling a drumstick in his hand. "My family lives in Phoenix. I've been wanting to move here for a few years, but my mom, she... she always wanted me to finish my education before doing anything like that with my life. So, I did that, and the minute I got outta High School I came running."

     "Sounds like your mom and mine would have a field day together."

     "Yeah..." Carlo chuckles, for some reason tainted with a bit of sadness. But he quickly brushes it off before it can seem suspicious. "Anyway, about a week ago, one of my friends here in L.A. said he'd met these two guys looking for a drummer in this band. I just thought, you know, why not? What have I got to lose?" He folds his arms across his chest and asks, "How'd you get into all of this?"

     "Something similar, really," Francesca says. "I've bounced from my hometown in Connecticut, to New York and Pittsburgh before getting here, so this really is my shot at making something of myself."

     Grinning boyishly, Carlo adds, "Now you can bounce along the West Coast instead."

FRANCESCA: Carlo and I clicked very quickly. He really wore his heart on his sleeve, you could tell that from a few minutes talking to him. I've always seen him as the little brother I never had.

CARLO: She said that? [Grins] Well, the feeling's mutual. Francesca reminded me a lot of my older sisters, and I think that's maybe why we talked so easily to begin with. You need a friend like that in a place like L.A.

     The pair continue walking and chatting, mostly within the vicinity of music. What else would make sense to talk about, anyway, given that they seem to be bandmates now? Carlo rambles eagerly about Ringo Starr and Keith Moon, while Francesca fondly recounts the various haunts she sat in and performed at, from seeing Joni Mitchell at the Bitter End to fine-tuning her own act at The Westwood in Pittsburgh. Along the way, they ask for directions to a couple passers-by, meandering along the streets of Los Angeles. It's only when they get to a smaller, quieter area that something finally cuts through the distant noise of traffic:

     "Hey! You two gonna come up here at all, or just stay down there 'til your jaws fall off?"

     The disembodied voice startles them both, but eventually their eyes dart up to its unmistakable source — Hank Bowen stood on a tiny balcony above them shielding his face from the sun. The man, the myth, the legend, Francesca thinks sarcastically. But she is pleased to at least see he is in town, and that she hasn't been entirely conned... yet. The sooner she knows she didn't fly all the way to L.A. just to make a mistake, the better.

Hank guides them up to his and Richie's rented apartment. The latter bandmate gives her a slightly frostier greeting than Carlo, and Francesca can't help but wonder if he is always this sullen, or if he just took a sour pill the day she met him. The space is rather cramped with thin walls, barren of any real decoration yet thanks to them barely having moved in; but it is near the Sunset Strip and that's what matters. There's nothing but a few half-unpacked bags and boxes, a couple mattresses on the studio floor and some empty soda bottles.

After a few minutes of touring the apartment — which takes no less than a sixty seconds, given its size — Hank returns from the kitchen with some cool bottles of soda for the four of them. Francesca perches on an unpacked box, while Carlo sits cross-legged on the floor with his drumsticks laid out before him. It's a relief to have something to cool down with in this heat. She thought the summer was rife back in Pittsburgh, or even her hometown, but she has a feeling California's seasons are going to throw her off-balance completely.

"So, I take it you two already met?" Hank asks the guests.

"Yeah, we caught up on the way here..." says Carlo, throwing a smile Francesca's way, which she returns.

But Francesca has some questions of her own. "So, where are we at with the band? What's left to do?"

     "Well, we —" says Richie rather pointedly, "— are just looking for a bassist now, and then we should have who we need."

     "And maybe a lead singer," Hank adds quickly.

     Clearly his friend is not too pleased about that. "We don't need a lead singer, Hank, we've been through this."

     "Have you heard us? I think we do."

     "Could you sing?" Carlo leans forward and asks Francesca.

     "Yeah, she can, actually," Hank replies for her.

     "I'm flattered, but I don't think that's the best idea..." Francesca shakes her head, tucking her hair behind her ears. While her stage fright is getting better, that was when she was comfortable back in Pittsburgh. Focusing on her guitar is probably a much better idea than taking on lead vocals — especially when it's more rock and roll than quiet folk. "Anyway, you said something about a bassist?"

     "Right. We're tryin' to get an ad out for an audition, later in the month. In the meantime we're looking for places to play, and when we've got a full band to do some gigs."

     "Open mic nights are usually good for that," she tries suggesting.

     "Yeah, but we wanna get paid. The tooth fairy sure ain't paying the rent for us."

     "Good point..."

     "What about practice? Do we have a place we can rehearse?" Carlo chuckles. "I, uh... I can't exactly bring a drum kit here every day."

     "Right. We're workin' on that... ah, shit! Not again!" Hank leaps up from his seat and rushes out to the balcony, no wider than one pace each way, where a pair of shirts are hanging to dry on the rail for the lack of a washing line. The only problem with that is the ungracious splatter of L.A. pigeon-poop planted right on one of his shirts. From the disdain in his voice, it doesn't seem to be the first time this has happened to Hank.

     Richie rolls his eyes, while Carlo tries not to laugh. Francesca goes out onto the balcony with him and examines the shirt. "It'll wash out," she shrugs. "And isn't bird shit supposed to be good luck anyway?"

     Hank scoffs with a shake of his head. "Sure, I'm the luckiest son of a bitch that a bird crapped on my clothes again."

     "You're the one who hung them out here, so..."

     With an exasperated huff, he chucks the shirt to the side and leans his elbows on the railing, examining the limited view of the asphalt below and the surrounding flats. As the other two guys inside seem to be occupied over drinks, Francesca joins him, drinking in the L.A. sunset for the first time. Hank's restlessness rubs off on her — it is like he has a constant need to be doing, and this slow start to their supposed career is incredibly frustrating for him... so Francesca can't help but ask.

     "Look, Hank," she says, "I just... I need to know something... am I making a mistake coming here?"

     "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks defensively.

     "I don't wanna sound pessimistic, but I did just fly here from the other side of the country, and I... I had to make some pretty big sacrifices to get here." It all flashes through Francesca's mind at once: her decision to leave New York, letting Tony go on without her... Graham. "So I just need to know if you're serious about this. Because I'm ready to hit the ground running here, and I'm more than ready to go all in if you are."

     She can see it in his eyes then — the intense passion Hank clearly has for this. It isn't some whimsy pipe dream that he's going to let wash down the drain. He is going for this with everything he's got.

     "You won't be disappointed," is what he finally says. "I promise."

     Francesca nods decisively, even if she still isn't sure herself. "... Then where do we start?"

.•° ✿ °•.

INTERVIEWER: What made you want to start a band so badly?

HANK: Oh... I don't know. Wanted to since I was a kid, I guess. Haven't I already told you this?

[A silence passes between them. Hank raises his eyebrows at the interviewer]

HANK: You really wanna know? Alright... like what?

INTERVIEWER: What about growing up, what made you love music so much?

[Hank goes quiet and looks reflective for a moment]

HANK: Uh... [Clears throat] Well, I grew up in Boston. Born and raised. It was just me and my Ma most of the time. We lived in this really cramped flat most of my childhood. I'll be honest, where I lived, it was a dump. Everything felt dark, and– and cold. But you got by, y'know? I'd play kick the can with the other kids on my block — including Richie. My Ma worked hard too. She was a maid for this rich family. Then my old man... [Clenches jaw] well, he isn't worth mentioning. So I guess, like any kid with bigger plans, I turned to something like music.

The Beatles were obviously huge for me. I told you how I snuck in with my friends in '64, didn't I? Live in Boston Garden... [Smiles] Yeah, that was somethin' else. Me and my other best friend, Tim, we really pushed this whole band thing the most. We all saw it as our ticket out of here. Richie was one of the friends I dragged into it. So we formed Rusted Rose, practiced for years in our garage, and then after barely scraping outta High School we hit the road. [Scoffs] Although I sure didn't expect to go on a crazy recruitment trip a few months in. To be honest with you, I think my other friends thought of it more as a hobby, or some kinda claim to fame, which is probably why they dropped out so quickly to leave Richie and I.

But me? No, no, I wanted to actually do something worthwhile. I... I think I'd spent so much of my life 'til then, just... sitting around. Not having control over my future, maybe 'cause of who I was or where I came from. And I thought, "Fuck that." Music fascinated me, always has. It's like putting different building blocks together until you get something unique, something incredible. I wanted to push boundaries if I could...

I didn't want things to happen to me. I wanted things to happen because of me.

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: The four of us got to know each other, slowly but surely, over the couple of weeks that followed. We looked at the song ideas we had so far, exchanged the different music we liked and figured out where we stood. We were all pretty different, to be honest [Chuckles] but the commitment was clear. There was a lot of work to be done though. Looking for venues, looking for a bass player, all of that stuff.

But I remember it all hitting the fan around the day of my twenty-first birthday...

.•° ✿ °•.

"California? What are you doing in California?!" Irene Vestri squawks down the phone.

     "Mom, relax, I told you this in my letter. Remember?" Francesca tries to calm her. A few days into her stay in Los Angeles, she had written letters to those she had meant to contact — including Graham and Camila respectively, just to let them know she was okay and this whole band thing wasn't a total fluke... yet. Of course the most important letters went to Tony and her parents, letting them know where she could be contacted.

... And naturally her parents were very curious as to why, contrary to her original plan, she'd ended up in L.A. of all places. The explanation for Pittsburgh was interesting enough (she'd conveniently omitted the detail of 'the boyfriend' until Tony ratted her out). What Francesca thought was a call to wish her happy birthday, or even the other big event this July 20th, has soon spiralled into a lecture on irresponsibility.

"This is exactly what I was worried about," says her mother. "This last year, all you've been doing is drifting from city to city, and do you even have a stable job so far? You're going to end up like Tony!"

"The whole point of coming here is that I'm actually trying to build a career. L.A. is the place to be, I'm telling you," Francesca tries to reassure her. Then her brain catches up to the second part of that sentence; what did she just say about her brother? Is there something she's completely missed? "Wait, Mom, what did you mean by—"

     "Irene, you're missing the men on the moon!" Giovanni exclaims giddily in the background, followed by some mumbled Italian from Nonna.

     Ah, yes. The other main event of the day — Francesca's birthday just so happened to coincide with history being made. In fact, this isn't even her phone, but the one that belongs to the neighbour above Hank and Richie. It is also the neighbour's TV that the four bandmates have been glued to, for a lack of their own. While she makes the phone call back home, Francesca is watching the three boys wide-eyed in fascination at all the coverage of the astronauts on their way to the moon.

There's a brief silence while the women on either end of the line peer at their own TVs, probably clinging onto the telephone cord with bated breath.

Of course, it's only a matter of time before Irene returns to the more pressing topics...

"There are earthquakes in California, you know."

Francesca sighs. "Mom—"

"I don't want you getting killed before you get a career!"

"Whoa, Mom, relax... look... if an earthquake happens — if! — then at least I've already had my fair share of natural disasters," she makes a poor attempt at being optimistic. But it's true; just the things Francesca saw sweep through Waterbury in her childhood was enough character-building. "There was the tornado of '62..."

Her father pipes up in the background again: "Ah, and don't forget the flood of '55—"

"You're not helping, Gio!" Irene snaps, her nerves sounding wrought.

Francesca winds the telephone cord tighter around her fingers, as if doing so will make her mother feel closer; maybe she will feel it through the line. Irene knows how to find any reason to worry about her children. Francesca has to admit, it's kind of nice to be fussed over like this, when she is further from home than ever before. "I'll be okay. I promise," she says softly.

The crackle of her mother's sigh in the receiver fills her ears. "... Alright."

"Alright?"

"Yes, alright. I believe you."

"So what's the news from home? How's the family?" Francesca asks, thinking that switching the subject might calm her mother. She also can't help but wonder what's going on back in Waterbury; it feels so far removed from her after this year.

"Oh, there's not so much to tell. Nonna still talks at a mile an hour. Sergio got that job in New Haven he was hoping for. Your father's busy at work with Bruno... which reminds me, when are you going to come see your new nephew?"

     "I'm not sure, it's... not exactly easy for me to do that right now."

While Francesca was in New York, her eldest brother became a father once again to another son. The contrast of his life settled down in Waterbury to hers, carving a name for herself, feels starkly different. But she has to admit hearing about the recent birth of her second nephew back in February wasn't easy. She still has yet to meet him, and clearly Irene won't be letting her get away with it so easily — or perhaps L.A. has hammered in the realisation of their distance more than ever.

But there's still one person Irene has conveniently left out.

"What about Tony?"

The line goes quiet. "... Well, you know, I hear from him now and then."

Francesca raises an eyebrow. "Mom, are you sure there's something you're not telling me?"

"It's just—"

"IT'S HAPPENING!"

The outcry is so loud and abrupt that Francesca nearly drops the phone, fumbling to catch it mid-fall. Carlo skids excitedly into the hallway, bouncing with awe. "What? What's going on?" she asks, once she stills her racing heart.

"Irene! The television!"

"Just a minute, I'm talking to Francesca!"

"The lunar module just undocked," Carlo beams. "They're on their way to the moon!"

"Oh wow, did you hear that?" Francesca smiles into the phone, while lightly slapping Carlo on the shoulder to usher him away.

"Gio, she says they're on their way to the moon!"

"I know, I'm WATCHING it!"

"Look, I'll talk to you guys soon, clearly now is not a good time—"

"Oh, but honey?" Irene quickly interjects.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. Have a wonderful birthday. And don't wait this long to call me next time."

"Thanks Mom, love you too, bye!" Francesca hastily slams the phone back on the receiver and sprints back to the TV set, watching her fellow bandmates and the neighbours crowded around the small square screen. The newsreaders talk with bated breath about the history that is unfolding before everyone's eyes, mirroring all the viewers watching around the world. Francesca sits on the carpet next to Hank, right in front of the TV.

FRANCESCA: I don't know... I don't know why that moment stuck out to me [Smiles] I guess it was just one of those huge events. If you remember the moon landing, you know exactly where you were and who you were with. And for whatever reason, I was with these guys who'd — for the most part — end up becoming a huge part of my life. It was a real icebreaker, I can tell you. All the hesitance we might've had about each other fell apart, as we all got excited about this common thing, this special moment we were all witnessing together. You know, I think Richie and I might've even hugged when it happened... which was, you know... [Raises eyebrows]

HANK: The world... felt like it got bigger that day.

Her brain buzzing after hours of riveting footage from the moon, Francesca rubs her eyes and sighs with an exhilarated smile. Hank has been up on his feet ever since Armstrong and Aldrin set foot outside the module, pacing back and forth and jumping for joy when appropriate. "You know what? Fuck it... we've gotta celebrate this," Hank decides, rubbing his hands together.

"Yeah, especially since it's Francesca's birthday," Carlo casually slips in.

She whirls around to look at him, a bowl of snacks in his arms, and asks, "How did you know that?"

"I heard you saying something on the phone. I have ears, you know."

"Well, why didn't you say something? Happy birthday!" Hank's voice crawls up a couple octaves in pure delight, as if the birthday occasion is the cherry on the cake of this merry day. Seeing him this giddily happy is certainly a new sight for her, but she sure does like it. "I'll tell you what we should do — wait, how old are you?"

"Never ask a lady her age," Francesca jokes. "... But, uh, twenty-one."

"Perfect. So why don't we go out and see some wicked good music, have a few drinks and celebrate the future. Who's with me?"

She has no idea where this attitude came from, but she's all for it, so Francesca raises her hand with a laugh. Carlo and even a smiling Richie join in. So once they're convinced they have seen all of the main event, the four of them head downtown to the Sunset Strip. The fresh faces of the excited youth spill out onto the streets looking for a place to celebrate — like moths to a flame, they all find themselves drawn to the bright lights of the famous music venues. Eventually the group decide to head into the one and only Whisky-a-Go-Go.

     Francesca hasn't seen live music crackling with energy like this place. The room is packed to the brim with swaying bodies, whether it's the crowd on the floors below or those on the platforms above them. From the stage at the front explodes a giant beacon of warm lights, beckoning everyone in awe. After grabbing a couple of drinks at the bar — a newfound novelty for Francesca now — the group drift nearer to the front of the stage, getting lost in the wave-like rhythm of the music flowing through the crowd.

     "Someday, this could be us!" Hank suddenly yells above the noise.

     Yeah, she thinks fondly. Maybe it really could be.

     She is all lost in the whimsy of the moment, perhaps nursed by the couple of drinks she's already had, when Francesca sees something that makes her heart skip a beat. A few rows in front of her, a taller guy with a head of brown curls, calmly enjoying the music. Her mind instantly puts a name to the face — Graham. Without even thinking twice, she's overwhelmed with elation. So he did come to L.A. after all! thinks Francesca, delighted. It's a good thing, too, because she was starting to miss him quite a bit. She absentmindedly begins pushing through the crowd, meandering past strangers all mesmerised by the music. Like parting the seas to reach him.

     "Graham!" she calls out, a ghost of a smile on her face. "Hey, Graham... Graham!"

Francesca reaches out and places her hand on his shoulder. By instinct, the man turns around, and she instantly recoils — the face is completely unknown to her. Instead, she is met with tired brown eyes and a bushy moustache. It is like seeing a ghost. Lost for words, she stumbles back, letting the confused stranger melt back into the crowd of faces she can't place.

It really hits her then — what she has compromised to come here.

God, she really misses him.

The only thoughts flooding her brain are how he would love seeing all this, with that wide-eyed admiration of his. Then she remembers how reassuring it felt to look into those eyes, to feel his surprisingly strong arms embracing her. Francesca then jumps to that day a couple weeks ago, when she said goodbye to him, and the hurt began creeping in... but she had pushed it away back then. Now, though? It encompasses her in full-force; the delayed reaction to cutting the tether.

Since she's thinking of it... Graham hasn't yet written back to her, or returned her calls.

She might well never see his face again, unless it's one she is looking for in a crowded room.

Right now, Francesca just needs to forget that feeling. She'll deal with it tomorrow. But in the present, she pushes past everyone else back to the bar, grabbing herself a couple more drinks. The alcohol burning in her chest is strangely addictive right now. With it, she feels her inhibitions slipping out from beneath her like ice, and her worries washing away to circle the drain. The other three guys soon pop up around her — she wishes they were more familiar to her than they currently are. Hank is lost in the music, Richie looking behind him while Carlo gets up on a bar stool and swivels round to face her.

"What's up, birthday girl?" Carlo asks, trying to hide the tinge of concern in his voice.

"We're celebrating... remember?" Francesca massages her temple after another large gulp.

Hank and Richie are maybe a little too buzzed to notice her mood, as the former raises his glass triumphantly: "I can drink to that... can't you, Rich?" To this, his taller friend nods, significantly loosened up by the booze. "You made a birthday wish yet? Anything you wanna wish for? Maybe a record deal?"

Francesca's brow creases, the bottle slipping slightly in her grip. Then she raises it up to herself in an imaginary toast and takes a sip. No one ever wishes and tells these things, and there's no way she is going to jinx it now by telling the boys. But she finds her mind drifting to the seismic shifts in her life that swept her to L.A. — Francesca would consider herself something of a believer in going where the wind takes you. She tries sometimes not to question this idea. That, no matter how frustrating, everything has its place and time in the universe. Just like New York, just like Pittsburgh, and just like Graham. But her one wish is simply this:

Please, please, please let this all be worth it in the end.

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: [Wincing] Yeah, I, uh... I don't exactly remember the rest of that night. But oh boy, do I remember the morning after.

.•° ✿ °•.

Francesca's first life lesson of her twenty-first year on this planet: never drown your sorrows in alcohol again.

Did someone hit her over the head with a sledgehammer? Because they could sure have her fooled. Her mouth feels dry like sandpaper, wincing whenever she tries to swallow. Water... she needs water. Then of course when she gets up, the head-spinning begins. The familiar off-white walls of Hank and Richie's apartment seem too off-kilter, as Francesca staggers her way across to the kitchenette. She fills herself a glass of water and sips tentatively at it.

Last night was a big mistake. Francesca likes to think she already knew how drinking away your problems never works. But for one night, she just wanted to cut loose and have some fun. Or more importantly... forget. Forget the uncertainty of her current situation to instead embrace it as going with the flow. Forget how ending things with Graham actually stung more than she allowed herself to feel —

Knock knock knock!

     A sudden rapping on the door sears through her headache in a sharp ache.

     "Ah! Fuck!" Hank exclaims mid-snore from somewhere on the floor.

     Francesca's regrets about last night all boil down to one splitting headache. Everyone seems to be operating in slow-motion, no one quite realising what should be done next. Richie is only just waking up to the world, whilst Carlo — who didn't even get drunk— is practically dead to the world and curled up in the corner.

     "You gonna get that?" she asks.

     Hank grimaces. "Me? You're standing right next to the door."

     "It's your door!"

"Hey, stop shouting... my head..." Richie whispers; when in actual fact, the most either of them are doing is mumbling coherently.

     "Alright, I'll get it, I'll get it..." Francesca mumbles, staggering over to the door. It seems a little early for anyone to be knocking, but what the hell? At least she is standing on her own two feet. She picks up the keys and fumbles with them before unlocking the door. She opens it a crack, leaning against the doorway for support. "Yes?"

"Erm... you're not Hank Bowen, are you?" the blonde stranger replies, in a polished English accent veering between sophisticated and blasé.

"Oh yeah, he's in here. Can I help you?"

Francesca straightens up and takes a better look at the petit young woman in front of her. She certainly doesn't seem like the type to audition for a rock and roll band — appearing more like a mod girl, and neat fringe to go with her smooth, vanilla blonde hair, she looks like the last person ready to rock out. But what is immediately noticeable is the girl underneath all that. Even though her expression may be somewhat neutral, her wide, electric blue eyes hold an alarming intensity that wakes Francesca up. There is a spark just waiting to be ignited beneath everything.

"I'm Victoria Mercer... I'm auditioning for the bassist in his band," she doesn't suggest, but simply states.

Oh! The memory slaps her around the face mercilessly, remembrance hitting her all at once. July 21st was meant to be the day they'd meet one of the bassist auditionees — Francesca recalled speaking to her on the phone about a week ago. No wonder that voice sounded so familiar. Now flush with embarrassment, she stammers, "Oh God! Yes, you're right, I'm– I'm so sorry... I just, uh... I have to check something... would you mind waiting a minute?"

Victoria shoots her a crooked grin, shrugging one shoulder. "By all means."

She half-closes the door, then opens it again. "I'm Francesca, by the way. Rhythm guitar."

"Pleasure's all mine," the blonde deadpans, shaking her hand hastily.

As politely as possible, Francesca slams the door shut and swivels around. The other boys are barely waking up still. She grabs the nearest pillow off the couch and hurls it at Hank's head.

"Hey! What the fu—"

"Did you hear any of that?"

"All I saw was that blonde chick in the mini-skirt," Richie manages smugness through his hangover.

"Well, that blonde chick is auditioning for bass... today!" Francesca hisses. "So get up off your asses already!"

"Shit, shit, shit!" Hank curses.

She hops over to where Carlo is sleeping and shakes him awake. "Carlo! Carlo, wake up! We've gotta audition the bassist."

Stifling a yawn, he rubs his eyes. "I thought that was at ten..."

"It is ten."

"Mierda!"

VICTORIA: First impressions? Yeah, not amazing. [Chuckles] But of course you know how this ends, don't you? I didn't end up screaming and running away. I could've... but I didn't. I suppose I thought they were a rather harmless bunch. So I decided to stick around.

FRANCESCA: Oh my God, I was so fucking embarrassed... [Slaps her hand to her forehead]

After a few frantic minutes of sobering up and looking (somewhat) presentable, the four bandmates meet Victoria outside the apartment to head to their rehearsal space. The plan all along had been to meet their first, but she had decided to rock up at their place first — making an impression of some sort. Admittedly, Francesca just feels a whole lot worse after she explains that. So much for a great first impression.

The rehearsal space they managed to rent consists of what was once someone's garage. It is merely a couple of blocks away from Hank and Richie's flat, a short walk to and fro. Francesca observes Victoria's face as they walk in, noting every curious or bemused look she gives the four walls. Carlo instantly flocks to sit behind his drum kit; he immediately grabs his drumsticks and teasingly does a drumroll, only for the other three hungover bandmates to flinch at the noise. Evil incarnate, Francesca thinks, shaking her head at the boy's huge grin.

     "So, Victoria — you sure that's what you like being called?" asks Hank, cocking an eyebrow.

     "I think you can manage three syllables, can't you?" she fires back coyly.

     "... Touché. So, uh, first we'll just ask you a few questions, see if you're a good fit for the band. Then you can jam with us on some of the songs we told you to learn."

     "Fire away."

     Hank pulls out a chair, sitting on it back-to-front so his folds his arms across the top of the backrest. "How long've you been playing bass?"

     "Oh, a couple years," Victoria replies casually, crossing one leg over the other. "I started out on guitar, but I've dabbled in some bass here and there, so I reckon I'll get the hang of it pretty quickly."

VICTORIA: Of course I bluffed. I'd hardly played bass up until that point. I was telling the truth that I played the guitar, but the bass part was a complete fib. Although... I didn't think it should be that hard [Scoffs] Whether that was a naive or stupid thought, I'm not sure. When I was at Benenden, I got roped into the school orchestra, and I ended up on violin. And my father made me have piano lessons before that. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I was no stranger to approaching a new instrument. Anyway, I thought to myself, "How hard could bass guitar be?"

... Proceeded to be absolutely shitting myself that week before the audition, but hey, it's not like things didn't work out, is it?

     "The first songs I learned on the bass were Nancy Sinatra—" says Victoria, before she's cut off.

     "Sinatra doesn't exactly fit with the image of our band," Richie protests in a mumble.

     Mocking an expression of understated surprise, she shoots back: "Well, aren't you lucky that I'm not Nancy Sinatra!"

     Francesca can't help but bite back a grin at that. She certainly likes her enough already — and she definitely would not protest to having another girl in the band, if nothing else to relate her experiences to. Of course, dry wit and anecdotes about her bass skills aren't the true test of her place in Rusted Rose. The band decide to have a jam session with some of the songs they gave to her. So everyone gets into their positions, Hank and Francesca tuning their guitars, while they watch Victoria pick up her bass guitar the other way around.

"You'll have to excuse me," she says, "I'm a leftie."

After he warms up on the keyboard, Richie turns to the new girl. "We'll start with the cover songs we gave you — 'Light My Fire', then 'All Day and All of the Night' — before we do one of our original songs. Just play along and see if you can catch up."

The band launch into the two cover songs, predictably by The Doors and The Kinks, which seem to be two of Hank and Richie's biggest influences in creating Rusted Rose. Hank's voice is a little scratchy and gravelly as he plays along on lead guitar, while Richie's has a slight wailing quality to it between his fingers slamming the keys. Carlo stays the heartbeat of the songs in the back on his drum kit — she has noticed a habit of his, which is that he's never quite glued to his seat, bouncing jovially to various degrees as he plays.

     And Francesca... well, the rhythm guitarist still struggles to know where she fits into their sound. It is another factor that's added into her worries over all of this being a mistake. She still favours her acoustic guitar over anything, having expressed that she would rather play that over electric if possible; but with the sound Rusted Rose have right now, it either gets drowned out or feels aggressively wrong.

One person that does seem to fit perfectly is Victoria. She is like a pocket-rocket on the bass, her shorter fingers playing with a spontaneous, experimental kind of flair. It is as though she is doing it all by the seat of her pants — if she is unsure of anything, Victoria doesn't show an ounce of fear. Even just in a small rehearsal space, she oozes charisma and spunk. The kind of confidence that Francesca could only dream of having onstage. Her performance may not be perfect, but then are theirs either? It shows even more potential when they get into one of Rusted Rose's original songs, 'Where I'm Going':

"Where I'm going, there ain't no promises
And ain't no use to cry about tomorrow
Come on baby, I know I want you
Come on baby, you know you want to
Follow me where I'm going..."

After the last chorus finishes, the hum of the instruments fading out is soon overpowered by the triumphant cheers of (most of) the band. Francesca places her guitar down to lean against the wall, giving Victoria a friendly smile. "You sounded great," she compliments, looking pointedly at the bass guitar.

"So were you guys," replies Victoria, "considering that you're clearly all very hungover."

Oops. Busted.

"I'm not hungover!" Carlo innocently interjects from the back, raising his hand like a kid in class.

Hank clears his throat awkwardly. "For the record, this was a one-off thing, it was just shitty timing—"

"Relax, I'm not judging. Just... next time, sober yourself up a little more

"... Next time?" he asks hopefully.

"Well, I'll have to sleep on it, but..." Victoria shrugs, as if trying to look as casual about it as possible.

VICTORIA: I just remember thinking, "Please, please, please let them say yes..."

Afterwards, the bassist walks outside for a cigarette break, and Francesca soon joins her — the boys (mainly Hank and Richie) are inside debating whether to let her join, but frankly her mind is made up. She expressed her eagerness to bring her on quite quickly, and saw no more need for discussion. Victoria is leaning against the outside wall with her cigarette between her fingers, slowly exhaling smoke from her parted lips.

"Want a light?" she asks.

"No, I probably shouldn't right now," Francesca chuckles. She leans against the wall with her and they stand in silence for a few moments. "You were great in there."

"Thank you very much."

"They'll probably say yes, you know."

"Probably?"

"Well... for me, it was instant," Francesca admits. "But the boys... they'll just battle it out I guess."

"Have you known them long?" asks Victoria.

"Not really. I only arrived in L.A. a couple weeks ago."

"That's a long way to travel for a couple of blokes."

"... True," she hums. Speak for yourself, she secretly thinks. What would bring Victoria all the way from London, as she only briefly mentioned, to here?

After stubbing out her cigarette on the nearest surface, Victoria suddenly turns to her rather abruptly. "Oh God, you're not living with them, are you?" she asks; the distaste is clear in her voice, a deduction made from Francesca having answered the door earlier this morning.

"No, I'm hotel-bound right now. Don't know what I'll do after that."

"Oh... alright then," Victoria nods, smiling a little bit at her. "I was just wondering. You see, I have a place here in L.A. and I've been thinking of getting roommate. Mostly 'cause, well, I'm shit at cooking and I'm blowing everything on restaurants and takeaways right now."

"I see," Francesca hums. "And you're asking me?"

"I never said that. I mean, good grief, I've known you for a couple hours. But... if this whole band thing works out after all, and you're no longer hotel-bound... would you be interested?"

"... I'll have to sleep on it."

This time, Victoria breaks out into a fully-fledged grin, and Francesca returns it. Yes, she thinks to herself, she's definitely the bassist for them.

.•° ✿ °•.

HANK: So we had our bassist. And in the beginning, that was all it was meant to be — Richie on keys, me on lead guitar while we both sang, then Francesca on rhythm guitar and Victoria on bass. That was Rusted Rose. But of course, there was something missing...

[He pauses for a moment]

Or... someone.

.•° ✿ °•.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

the absolute cosmic timing of this chapter being published on july 20th, francesca's birthday, while some of the actual events of the chapter take place on her birthday, which we've established is july 20th... THE PLANETS HAVE ALIGNED! speaking of which, this year francesca would be turning 75, and that is just absolutely bonkers to me. it also makes me glad the show went with younger interviews than in the book, because my scenario for older-age francesca may or may not be slightly sadder 👀

anyway, what did we think of this chapter? we're finally in L.A. and meeting more members of what will become solstice! i'm not a massive fan of this chapter, but i think that's just because it felt very out of my comfort zone, and i kept worrying that things didn't feel organic or accurate for the way a band is formed. but it's making me relieved just to get this chapter out of the way, even if that just means i can move on with the story.

also i don't know how well i'm doing balancing interviews and prose out, i think for the exposition it's kind of handy to speed things up a little, but at the same time i worry it's taking you out of the moment too much. i'm planning to ease back on interview portions once things settle a bit in the chapters, so don't worry! (also i promise i'll stop being so self-doubting in these author notes soon haha)

Published: July 20th, 2023