November 3rd, 1967
Feeling a pang of guilt in her chest, Indigo made her way into the kitchen of her tiny, dingy flat, grabbing the letter she had left on the counter and sitting down on the floor, resting against the counter. Everything ached and it felt like she would drop down at any minute; her eyes felt foggy like she wasn't really awake at all and the words blurred on the page. She quickly highlighted the phone number, hoping she'd remember why in the morning and wondering why she was on the floor.
She felt her head slump against her chest and through her blurry vision, she thought she could make out a figure in front of her.
"Christine?" she asked, but no response came.
She woke, hours later, with even more pain in her back, and an ache in her neck from where her head had slumped over, too exhausted to stay awake any longer. She looked frantically up to the clock, glad her shift wasn't for another three hours. She stood shakily, holding the letter tightly as she made her way to the front door, sure to lock it behind her- then check it, then halfway down the stairs- then check it again. Indigo wasn't really sure when she had started doing that, but since she had moved back onto the street she had lived on growing up, she didn't think it would be too much of a stretch for her mother to find out where she lived. And she needed to keep that place safe.
Biting back a groan as the bitter winter air hit her chest, she made her way to the payphone, dialling Christine's number as quickly as she could. She wasn't sure if she would even pick up after so long- surely she wouldn't be mad at her, she had said in her last letter how tired she was and how little time she had to write, even if she wanted to. And how she was saving every little bit of change she could find to call her.
She waited. For minutes as the tone rang, and rang, and rang until finally she heard a voice and perked up, side jerking away from where she had been leaning against the side of the booth.
"The number you are calling has been disconnected."
"Fuck," she cried out.
When had Christine left there? Had she really left her all alone, without a way to talk to her? She couldn't send any letters there now, assuming she had moved out without telling her.
Indigo's fist collided with the brick wall and she suddenly felt shaky again, leaning against the booth as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Christine-"
November 5th, 1967
The news came as quite a surprise to Christine; since she'd moved onto a nicer street to live closer to the studio with her newfound wealth, she had found herself in a completely new crowd. Gone were the days of student unions and retail jobs, she was hanging out with actual musicians. If someone had asked her to describe what that should be as a child, she would have mentioned sheet music and formality, but as she sat in the pub they'd just finished their gig at, she took in the regular sight of beer, cheap wine and cocaine flowing over tables.
She'd never touched the stuff herself. Wine and beer, fine, but not coke. Never, she told herself. She wouldn't be the girl getting high with all the men and ending up in a back alley somewhere, like she'd heard about another singer a few years before her. That terrified her, so she usually kept a wide space between her and the old-timers.
Chicken Shack had abandoned her after a show, choosing to drink at another pub, continue the circuit. She was perfectly happy sat with her white wine when she noticed a group of men enter the pub. One was unmissable- tall and skinny, with a pretty brunette on his arm, who looked less than pleased to be in a place so low. And Christine could barely blame her- she looked like a goddess. She caught her eye and looked away quickly, blushing. The woman leaned up and whispered something in the tall man's ear, and before she knew it, they were approaching her at the bar.
"Hi," the tall man smiled warmly, "You're the new girl in Chicken Shack, right? Jenny saw you the other night."
"Yeah, I am," she said uncertainly, "Christine."
"This is Mick, my husband," the woman said, "I'm Jenny."
"It's just that we were wondering if the rest of the band is around?"
"They went to the cheaper pub, down the road," she sighed, getting the distinct impression that this man wouldn't take her seriously as a woman in a band.
"Okay, well we have some news if you'd like to relay it to them?"
"Mick, honey, you haven't told the poor girl who you are," Jenny prompted.
"Oh right, Mick Fleetwood, of Fleetwood Mac."
Then it all clicked into place and he laughed as her eyes widened.
"The Fleetwood Mac? The ones who got the overseas deal?"
"The very same," he smiled, "We need a warm-up band, and Chicken Shack is just right for us, so how about we go down to that cheap pub and discuss it?"
"They'll be half drunk by now."
"That makes four of us then," he laughed, making Jenny roll her eyes.
Somehow, she'd been left on the sidelines as Chicken Shack made their decision to accept the deal. She tried to push herself forward, but they didn't seem to care what she thought, even if she was agreeing with them. She despised that.
"No offence," she whispered to Jenny, "But is he always like this?"
"Absolutely," she said, "He likes being the charismatic, tall, good-looking Englishman."
Christine looked back at him. Tall and charismatic, sure. Good-looking? Jenny must be blind, she thought. But if he could bring her good money and success, who was she to complain?
Jenny was better looking than him anyway, she decided as she looked at her.
"See the bass player? John?" Jenny motioned her eyes towards the bar, "He keeps looking at you."
