Rooms on Fire

First.

I sit at my computer, one hand resting on my pregnant belly, shaping the transcript of my interview with Stevie Nicks, and the notes I took during the day I spent with her into a coherent piece of writing. I still can't believe that I convinced my editor to let me be the one to interview her. I am still relatively junior on the staff at LA Weekly and seemingly everybody on staff wanted to be the one to get to interview Stevie Nicks. Five years ago no one would have been interested in the assignment, five years ago LA weekly wouldn't have been interested in interviewing Stevie Nicks at all but the release of Trouble in Shangri-La has placed her firmly back in the limelight and suddenly everyone wants a piece of her. It was my knowledge of Stevie's work, I was 16 when Belladonna came out in 1981 and had just experienced my first heartbreak, I must have listened to it a thousand times, if not more, and my commitment to take a different angle, to not just repeat the same tired biographical details that every single article ever written about her seems to dwell on, her relationship with Lindsey Buckingham, her love affairs, her addictions, her short-lived, ill-advised, grief-induced marriage to Kim Anderson, her choice not to become a mother, that got me the job. I made a commitment to get to know something of the woman behind those stories, to understand who Stevie Nicks is in 2001.

Stevie was astonishingly easy to get along with. I had expected her to be guarded but she was an open book. Once I made it clear that I wasn't interested in stories about old addictions and older relationship breakdowns she became even more open, animated, and generous. I asked her about her songs, I wanted to know why she had had decided now was the right time to revisit songs like Planets of the Universe which date back to the 70s. I ask her about being an aunt, both in the literal sense, her niece Jessi is nine and it is clear that she loves her dearly, and in the more metaphorical sense, to a new generation of female musicians who worship her. Several times I felt like I was the one being interviewed, she asked me about my accent, it is solidly Americanized after 10 years of living in California, but she picked up on the little Australian flourishes that remain. She asked me about my family, are we close, do I miss them? I am typing a description of her house, the gorgeous Spanish style home that sits on a cliff above the Pacific, when the phone rings. I answer it and immediately recognize the voice on the other end. it belongs to Stevie's assistant Karen. My heart beats faster and my baby starts kicking me hard in the ribs in response, I'm convinced I've done something wrong. That I've somehow upset Stevie so I'm more than a little surprised when Karen says, 'Hi Kate. would you like to come up to the house and have dinner with Stevie tonight?'

It takes me a minute to respond. I could have sworn to God that Stevie was flirting me a little yesterday but I'm sure that was just wishful thinking, I'm pretty sure she is straight and she probably thinks I'm straight too, or at least attached, the pregnancy certainly gives this impression. 'Yes,' I respond trying to keep my voice from shaking, 'I'd love that.'

'7:30?' Karen asks.

'Sounds good,' I respond and I can't stop grinning.

'Bye Kate,' Karen says.

'Bye,' I reply, hanging up the phone.

---

It is 5:45 and I need to leave in 10 minutes if I am to make it to Stevie's place by 7:30, LA in peak hour is a bitch. I sigh as I take off the fifth dress I have tried on since arriving home. I look at my body in the full length mirror behind my bedroom door and shake my head. I'm spilling out of the mauve lace bra I am wearing, I've gone up two cup sizes since becoming pregnant and I haven't had time to shop for anything new, I haven't even bought any maternity clothes yet. I had lost some weight before becoming pregnant and I've just been wearing the largest dresses in my wardrobe, I never have the confidence in my weight loss to get rid of my fat clothes. Most of them are babydoll style, very nineties, very not 2001 but I feel comfortable in them and they accommodate my bump. My black cotton boyleg panties sit low on my hips, they don't match my bra and I find myself feeling self-conscious about that, I feel self-conscious about the stretch marks, new and old that fleck my stomach, hips, thighs, and breasts. I have a lot of anxiety about my body. I have since puberty. I developed early and it was mortifying being the only girl in 4th grade that was over 5 feet tall and wore a bra out of necessity. Puberty bought weight gain, and a group of girls who shot up like weeds while I stopped growing. It made my hair change, the straight, fine hair of my childhood was replaced by coarse curls that I had no idea how to manage or style seemingly overnight. I don't know why I am worrying now though. This isn't a date. It is just dinner. I check the digital alarm clock that sits on my side table, it is now 6pm and I am running late. I finally settle on a previously rejected dress, a empire line maxi dress with a chambray top and a floral printed bottom, black background with white daisies. I tie my blonde curls into a ponytail, reapply my pale pink lipgloss and place my favorite necklace, a silver ball with a gold moon and several gold stars on a long chain around my neck. It has a bell in it that jingles lightly when I shake it, it helps to calm me when I feel anxious, which is a lot. I grab my purse, simple, black, and slide into the same pair leather flipflops I have worn every day for the last six weeks, pregnancy and the beginning of summer swelling my feet to the point that anything else is uncomfortable and run out of the house, hoping against hope for light traffic on the drive from my apartment in West Hollywood to Stevie's house in the hills above Santa Monica.