The Art of the Heart

Boredom Sets In

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Silence.

Thunk. Thunk.Thunk. Silence.

Lindsey Buckingham sighed heavily as he stood up from the couch on which he had been sprawled for the past two hours. This was getting ridiculous; how many other millionaire rock gods wiled away their afternoons bouncing tennis balls off hotel room walls? Certainly not Keith or Mick. And certainly not....His eyes narrowed as his mind automatically segued to the list of Stevie's music industry conquests.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to think about the feeling of weightlessness and freedom swimming gave him. It didn't matter how many years had passed since or even how brief some of the encounters had been, the thought of any other man so much as touching her made his blood boil. As he struggled to focus on imagining each stroke his breathing became slower and less shallow. He smiled serenely.

Moments later he had slung his leather jacket on, pocketed his cellphone, wallet and room card and was striding down the hallway whistling the hook of a catchy Florence and the Machine number he had caught on The Graham Norton Show whilst channel-surfing last night. He chuckled as he reflected on the way his fellow Americans often ended up being a little TOO candid on that show, unused to the less manufactured, less censored approach to celebrity interviewing practiced in the UK.

As he rounded the corner leading to the stairwell, he was surprised to come face to face with Chris. "The inimitable Ms McVie. How're you doing today, sweetheart?"

She rolled her eyes skyward as she mimed a slit throat, then clapped her hands over her mouth theatrically.

"So they've still got you on a talking ban, then?"

She nodded energetically in response.

"Fingers crossed for the Isle of Wight then, I guess," he sighed, not sounding like there was much hope at all.

She looked up at him pleadingly and he saw that she had the index and middle fingers of both hands crossed, holding them out for him to see. He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the head. "It'll be okay, Chris," he intoned, much more careful to sound supportive now. "You're one tough bird and if anyone can will themselves better, it's you."

And then, to lighten the mood, he launched himself sideways, simultaneously crossing his fingers, entwining his wrists so that his arms crossed, and wrapping his left foot around the back of his right shin.

Chris's eyes bulged as she beheld the human pretzel in front of her and he could see she was struggling to stifle her trademark throaty chortle. A look of alarm flashed across his face as he almost became the victim of his own levity but he managed to untangle himself and regain his balance point just in time to prevent the fall.

He hugged Chris goodbye and headed down to the ground floor, taking the stairs three at a time. He kicked himself internally  for not having done this hours ago. It felt so good to be getting out of the claustrophobic confines of the hotel. Everyone was worried about Chris and tensions were running high now that they had a postponement and a cancellation under their belts.

After a pleasant walk, he reached his destination. He had always been a sucker for art galleries and museums, so why not take some time to indulge himself? He strode through to a side gallery, partly wanting to avoid the throng of people drawn to the main exhibition and partly because he was instantly drawn to the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition housed in the smaller side gallery. He had an inkling that he knew the real reason that the beautiful decorative detail, elegantly dressed women with flowing locks and porcelain skin appealed to him but he maintained, outwardly at least, that it was purely a matter of aesthetic sympathy.

Relieved to find himself almost alone, he stopped to examine more closely a striking portrait by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Captivated by the masterful brushwork and the exquisite femininity of the face in front of him, he absentmindedly lifted his hand and reached out towards the painting.

He nearly leapt out of his skin when he felt a small hand press firmly against the small of his back and hot breath on his neck as a sultry voice whispered into his ear, "So desperate you're thinking about copping a feel from a 150 year old painting, Buckingham?"