House of Horrors

Riley, A Week Later, New Zealand

As much we avoided acknowledging it, as much we dreamed of starting the New Year off absorbing the music of Muscle Shoals Alabama and Nashville Tennessee, we always knew we'd be in New Zealand for the better part of January, completing Row's exit from Girl Band.

We're both in good spirits as we leave the airport and travel toward the old house we once shared on the outskirts of town. It was only a nine hour flight from Hawaii to Wellington—certainly the least arduous journey we've ever made to our second home. We'd don't keep any staff here, but somehow Row managed to get an AP from the show to have our old Land Rover with the removable top delivered to airport, so we're cruising the late afternoon New Zealand day, hair flying, sunglasses affixed, radio blaring "I'd Rather Go Blind" By Etta James, which was recorded in Muscle Shoals. We've decided to do a serious study of R&B, country, gospel, and folk.

We're not sure how we arrived at this eclectic mix in our own Southern Gothic sound. It just feels perfect. But we both agree, if we're going to play this music, we're going to back it up with a serious understanding and appreciation of our influences.

When the song ends, Row, somewhat impatient with the B-sides of the oldest artists, switches to Alicia Keys, "If I Ain't Got You."

"I love this one, and we need one amazing song to cover," she says. "We could turn the keys into a great opening lick. Our harmonies would be amazing."

"Very romantic, and quite fitting," In particular I'm thinking of the lyrics. Some people want it all, but I honestly want nothing but this experience with Row. Which is bloody fortunate since we're about to be flat broke.

Well, not so much broke as fully invested in our music production. At least for the short term. Row and I have decided to sink everything into our dream. We're not a starry-eyed band with talent but no idea how this business actually works, who has no hope of success without the backing of a label and a talent manager. We have the means and the connections and the expertise to produce, promote, and distribute our own debut album, with the hopes that we'll catch fire in the way so many of the best new artists have—on social media, on independent airplay, on the merit of their talent. We're hoping our investment will be rewarded with a larger distribution deal, and maybe even a small venue tour within a year.

But I've run the numbers. If we don't hit with the first album, we're going to be in the red. Row's not worried, of course. It's completely out of her life experience to worry about her financial health. It's not like her parents would let live in destitution, and anyway she inherits a ridiculous trust in a few years.

Despite all my growth, I'm somewhat pre-occupied with the business side of our new endeavor. I want this for us, but I want to prove I can make this happen for us. Creatively, strategically, and financially.

Our entire relationship, I've been living off her success. And Soundcrush's. I know she doesn't see it like that, but it's true.

Now, things will be different. I'm determined to give Row the artistic success I know we can achieve together. I don't care how much money we actually bank, as long I can give Row what she wants. And despite all her growth, she's still much the girl I married. She doesn't ever want to think about money. So I'll be both the creative partner and the built-in business manager. At least I've gotten her to agree to a weekly meeting where I'll keep her up to date with the financials. That's a step in the right direction for both of us.

When we're about five miles from our-her-house, she switches off the radio and twists in her seat, gathering her dark flying hair in an anxious twirl as she bites her lip. Checking my mirror that no one is behind us, I slow to reduce the wind noise.

"Don't," I smile at her. "Don't pre-apologize again for the state of the house. I told you, we're going to get it cleaned up as best we can and price it to sell as quickly as possible."

We need the cash. The album expenses are going to be steep. Studio time isn't cheap. Neither are studio musicians, producer fee's, design and marketing expenses, professional videographer services, travel for all the self-promotion, publicist fees. We have no label, no promoters fronting us the cash. On the other hand, the pay-off, if it comes, will be complete creative control of our careers and a much bigger revenue share in the profit—

"It's bad, baby. The house, I mean. Really bad." She frowns at me.

I smile at her. How bad can it really be? I mean, a year ago, the place was a little run down, but it couldn't have sunk into the earth in the last twelve months since I've been here to attend to things. No matter how many parties she's had here.

The property isn't part of a neighborhood but a smallish (smallish for New Zealand) compound in the country. When I pull up, the keypad on the gate isn't working and the gate won't open. After spending half in our in our driveway, calling security companies and electricians, finding no hope of a response today, we drive thirty minutes back to the nearest hardware store, and I buy an axe, a length of chain and a lock.

Row absolutely refuses to let me swing the axe, for fear I'll injure my back. After leaning against the car for a good half hour, watching her curse and sweat and catch a sunburn and finally scream as she hacks away at the lock, I arrive at the conclusion that permanent paralysis might be better than perishing in the hell of New Zealand midsummer, without a drop of water. Or gin.

I'm required to wrestle the axe from her, because she refuses to give it over.

"Stand back," I growl.

"Riley! No!"

"I said stand back, woman!"

She glares at me, arms crossed, pushing up her glorious boobs, which are now alarmingly pink after our several hours in the sun. But she doesn't argue anymore. She just squeezes my arm and says, "Please be careful. Don't hurt yourself."

With three swift hacks, which don't require me to put my back into it, I break the lock and push open the gate. "Madam," I gesture to Row to pull the car through, while I relock the gate with the chain. We roll up the cracked driveway.

Approximately the top half of the house is visible. "You didn't keep the lawn service?" I ask as mildly as possible.

"Well, I didn't even know who they were. They stopped coming when you stopped paying them. It was winter when I was here last, it wasn't growing..."

I nod. "I have an an idea. Why don't you start us a to-do list on your phone and share it with me?"

"Right." She puts fix gate and call landscaper as the first two items.

The house is a contemporary. Or rather it was a contemporary fifty years ago, when it was built. There's a lot of vertical siding and glass and it's surrounded by large multilevel decks. All of which are rotting.

"Be careful! I'm sorry!" she says, as my foot punches through the first step.

"This one's on me." I say as I extricate my foot and put an arm around her shoulder, regaining my balance while stepping up. "They were on my list for upkeep two years ago and I didn't attend to it." I survey the decks with a grimace. I didn't attend to it then because there is more deck than house and it was going to cost a bloody fortune if they were to be upgraded from old school wood to a more modern composite material. If I recall correctly, at the time we were rather short on cash after Row went to fashion week and we had bought two new sports cars in LA that spring.

"New decks," she thumbs with one hand, keeping a tight grip on me in case the deck swallows me again.

"How do you feel about selling your Tesla Roadster?" I murmur, my eyes roaming up to the second story atrium windows above our heads as we enter. The windows are a patchwork quilt of clear, white, grey and green. I wonder how that happened. I peer closely Some maybe have broken seals and are frosted over with haze, or colonized with mildew. Other's have spiderweb cracks as if they took some kind of damage and are growing full in slime between the double panes. I guess Row's parties were destructive.

The Tesla might cover the decks. Or all new windows. Probably not both.

Her lips pucker, nearly a pout, but she pulls them back into a smile. "Are we in that much trouble with this money pit?" she asks anxiously as she adds windows to the list.

"I'm joking, love," I grin at her, pulling her close, kissing her lips lightly.

I hope to Christ I'm joking.

Beyond the foyer, I can see that most of the house is trashed from a party that was never cleaned up. There are a few holes in the drywall and smudges of god knows what all over walls, doors and carpets. Row rushes to the kitchen and I hear her snapping a garbage bag. By the time I follow her in there, I am slightly annoyed.

Or I would be, if I weren't gagging from the smell. There are food containers everywhere. That have been here for at least six months. I make the mistake of opening the refrigerator.

"Bloody hell, Row! Ugghhh..." I slam the fridge, walk to the slider and throw it open, rushing—as quickly as I can—into the fresh air. In my haste to open the slider, I squished a dead rat in the track.

I brace myself on the deck railing, quelling the urge to vomit. Inside I hear Row cursing and exclaiming in between pleas of apology to me. And I hear her gagging and swishing the trash bag. More apologies.

I don't answer. The only answer I would give her in this moment would be a severe scolding. Christ, I want to throttle her. What grown-ass woman with her means leaves her own home fermenting in filth and hops on a plane, knowing she's not coming back for months? She couldn't have had her PA in LA arrange for a cleaning service to come in? What the fuck was she thinking?

Then she screams. Like in real terror.

I rush back to the door to see a container of months old noodles on the floor. Except they are wiggling.

"What the hell is that?" she yells, her face a pale shock of horror as she skitters back from writhing mess.

Dear God. She honestly doesn't know. She's never seen such a thing in her pristine LA world. Or even in the more humble home I managed here.

"Those are maggots. You know, fly larvae? They are reared on rotten flesh, discarded food."

"Ooooooohhhh," she says. Now she leans forward slightly to inspect her new pets, her perky little nose wrinkling. "That is disgusting."

"Rather," I say dryly, still trying to control my gag reflex as I step over the maggot pile.

By the time I've opened every window in the house, my mood has not improved. The place is crawling with all kinds of vermin, funk growing in every leftover glass.

She's calling to me, promising that she will clean it all up. I ignore her. I cross a third deck to the pool house, unlocking the door. There's no kitchen here, just a wet bar, so the smell isn't as horrid. It mostly  smells musty and sour from wet towels and dried out beer cups.

Unbelievably, there is one unopened bottle of my favorite gin in the way back of the liquor cabinet that is piled with empty bottles. No lemon of course, and I don't trust the ice, there's probably even maggots growing in that somehow.

I take the bottle out to the green pool, swipe leaves and debris from a deck chair and plop down, as I yell, "Rowan!"

She comes to the door, trashbag in hand. I hate the way she looks. Like a dog who knows its been bad. Her forlorn energy flips my switch. All my irritation is gone. I refuse to let our first bad day devolve into old bad patterns. "If ever there was a time for a drink, darlin', this is it. Come have one?"

I waggle the bottle of liquor, enticing her.

She drops the trash bag and plops down beside me, twisting off the bottle and stoically knocking back a good slug of gin, before passing it to me. I give her a murmur of approval; she doesn't even like gin.

As I take a swig, she murmurs, "I cleaned up the...the maggots."

"Really?"

She nods.

I can't help myself. I'm grinning at the idea of Row scooping maggots. "How, exactly?" I can't imagined she got anywhere near them with kitchen roll and sanitizing spray.

"I swept them outside then used the garden hose to wash them away."

I offer her the bottle back. "Ingenious."

She squints at my grin, and then smiles back tentatively. "I am so sorry. I was completely irresponsible for letting things get like this and I'm really ashamed of myself."

"Okay," I say.

She looks down at the bottle, and takes another swig. "Are you angry with me?"

I look at the murky pool. "I am annoyed at the state of things. But..." I take the bottle back from her, "I'm not going to be angry with you for something that happened in our old life. The new you is cleaning up maggots. Obviously you've changed quite a bit in the last year."

"Really?"

"Yes, darlin'. Really. But do you want to talk about...this? How things got like this?"

She leans back in her chair and stares at the pool in contemplation. "I hated being here last season. I hated myself. I couldn't bear to be alone. It was a party of strangers every night. I was like...The Great Gatsby or something. Alone at my own party, just hoping the one person I was longing for would come through my door. But you never did. The day I was done shooting, I didn't even come home. I went straight to the airport. I needed my mom and dad and Bridge, you know? I stayed in bed at home for almost two weeks. Then, you got hurt and I...I just couldn't think about anything but you. I should have called a cleaner, but honestly? I was hoping never to come back here."

"But you knew we were coming back. I'm wondering...is this some kind of test, Row? To make sure I won't lash out at you in the old ways?"

She shakes her head. "Not a test. More like...me trusting you with my fuck-up, I guess. I fucked up, Riley. I'm sure I will fuck-up again. I'm not going to hide it from you when I do, like I used to."

"I'm glad. For the record, I'm sure I will fuck up too, sometimes." I assure her. I reach for her hand. "We'll fix it. We'll fix it together. But we're not staying here until you get a bloody cleaning crew and an exterminator in here, alright? I think that's only fair that be your responsibility. I'll deal with the home maintenance issues, while you are in pre-production."

"Okay," she says. And to my utter shock, she rises with her phone and begins to make her own calls for the services. I was certain she would call an Associate Producer on Girl Band for help with the arrangements.

Two hours later, we're back in Wellington at a hotel. I pretend to find maggots in her hair, but it's only crumbs of a rice cake I found crumbled in the Land Rover console that I shook in her hair while she was still engaging the cleaning crew. She stalks out of room furious because I can't stop laughing at the way she screamed and jumped around begging me to get them out of her hair.

She returns in fifteen minutes with ice cream, which we eat in bed after making love.