Georgia

  Max didn’t answer. They were passing the Hilton’s glass frontage, awash with golden light. A Rolls Royce drew up outside and the doorman rushed forward to welcome the occupant.

  ‘Petula Clark,’ Max waved one big hand, his gold watch gleaming on a thick wrist. ‘One day you’ll have a car like that Georgia. Just stop being so stubborn and listen to reason.

  He took her to a small restaurant in Chelsea, ushering her through the main area to a floodlit garden beyond.

  ‘It’s too nice to be indoors tonight,’ he smiled at Georgia’s rapt face. She looked like a little girl tonight, in that pink cotton dress and her hair in a pony-tail. Surrounded as he was by predatory secretaries who hid behind masks of make-up, her innocence and straight talking was a tonic. ‘The food’s good here too.’

  It reminded Georgia of places she’d seen on films. Honeysuckle covered walls, urns of bright petunias and pansies with little stone statues half hidden beneath the foliage.

  They were the only people eating outside, soft music wafted out as they ate French onion soup and Max kept filling up her wine glass.

  ‘It’s like being on holiday,’ she grinned. Max could be so charming when he wanted to be. She hadn’t eaten anything more than fry-ups and hamburgers for weeks and from inside the restaurant she could smell sizzling steaks being grilled.

  ‘Come away for a few days with me,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘We could catch a flight tomorrow to Spain. You could have this every night.’

  For a moment she could just see a golden beach, turquoise sea and palms waving in a soft breeze. She could feel the sun on her shoulders, the sand between her toes.

  ‘No strings,’ he smiled, sensing her temptation. ‘Separate rooms. Just time to talk and relax.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ she reluctantly pulled herself back to reality, Ian’s face full of hurt. ‘Besides I haven’t any clothes.’

  ‘We could buy anything you need,’ he leaned closer across the table, putting one big hand over hers. ‘Of course you can come. What’s stopping you?’

  ‘The boys,’ she merely whispered it. ‘They’d think I’d sold out.’

  ‘Would you come if I said I’d allow you to make a record with them?’

  Georgia felt her stomach turn over. Was this blackmail, teasing, or merely trying to find out her price?

  ‘Are you serious?’

  He was such a good-looking man. His face in the soft floodlights had a golden glow, his dark, hooded eyes so sexy she felt she wanted to reach out and touch him even if he was the enemy.

  The waiter interrupted the moment by clearing away their soup bowls. It gave her time to collect herself.

  Would the thought of making a record absolve her from being alone in Spain with Max? Would Ian believe nothing happened?

  ‘Of course I’m serious,’ he looked at her through half closed eyes, a faint smile twitching his lips.

  ‘What would Miriam say about this?’ By turning the tables on him she was giving herself time to think.

  ‘I’d tell her and the boys we were going to see a promoter,’ he said too glibly. He hadn’t really planned anything tonight. It had all tumbled into his head when he saw her sad, troubled expression. He wanted her. He had from the moment he clapped eyes on her, her combination of girlish sweetness and the tough rock singer was enough to give any man a hard on. But for now he was content to woo her.

  ‘I can’t make up my mind just like that,’ she said weakly, tempted now to the point where she was almost agreeing.

  ‘There’s plenty of time,’ he smiled, sensing she was almost his. ‘I’m serious Georgia. I can’t fight you any longer this way. I can’t swing a recording contract for the band, but if they came up with the right song, written by themselves, we could insist they got equal billing. After the first hit, Decca might review the situation.’

  The steaks arrived with a huge bowl of salad. Georgia’s mind was still churning over his idea. Was this another ploy to weaken her resolve? Could she hold him to it, get a real promise before they even talked seriously about getting on a plane?

  The lack of contract for the boys wasn’t important. If her first record was a hit, there would be enough exposure to launch them in their own right. They would have the shared royalties and her debt to them would be paid in full.

  The steak was perfect, succulent and tender. The wine was giving her a rosy glow and the smell of honeysuckle filled her nostrils.

  Max was talking about one of his new bands. Georgia smiled as if she was listening carefully, but all the time her mind was on Ian.

  He was the stumbling block. Samson for all their talent couldn’t survive without a strong singer. They would have to replace him or lose all credibility. How could she even think of putting Ian in such a precarious position?

  The steaks were followed by strawberries and cream in huge glass goblets. Max filled up her glass yet again, then sat back and lit up a cigar.

  ‘You’re worried about Ian?’ he said, looking at her with half-closed eyes. ‘How long has it been going on?’

  He hadn’t been certain before. Secret looks between the pair of them, the lack of complaints about sharing rooms. Jokes from the other boys. Nothing definite to point to involvement with the lad, but he could see that look of concern in her eyes and he knew it wasn’t for the rest of the band.

  ‘Eighteen months,’ she sighed. It was too late for lies. Why should she cover it up anyway?

  Max crossed his legs, tilting back his chair. The floodlights reflecting on the foliage around him had turned his face green. He looked sinister now. Calculating and mean.

  ‘What made you get involved with him?’ he snapped. ‘He’s a nice enough lad, but by God Georgia, couldn’t you look ahead and see the problems?’

  ‘I could say the same about you,’ she retorted. ‘You’ve got a wife you don’t seem to consider. Did you look ahead and see that coming?’

  ‘Leave Miriam out of this,’ his mouth turned mean and bad tempered. ‘We’re talking about your future. I told you that lad was the weak link. He’s useless as a singer and if you stay together he’ll be a millstone round your neck. If it had been Rod I could have understood it, or Speedy. They’ve got a future. Ian’s got nothing.’

  He painted the scene she’d seen so often at the back of her mind. Ian waiting patiently at home while she got all the glory, how long would it be before his role was nothing more than a lap dog?

  ‘Don’t you dare speak about Ian like that,’ Georgia stood up, her chair tumbling over behind her. ‘You may be my manager. But I won’t stand by and let you belittle him.’

  ‘Sit down darling,’ he reached out for her hand. ‘People are looking!’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see heads turning, middle-class socialites looking down their noses at her cheap cotton dress and assuming she was a pick-up.

  ‘I don’t give a shit,’ she snarled. ‘You’ve got no idea how much of Samson is Ian have you? Without his ideas and drive they would never have got off the ground. If you had any sense you’d be looking for another slot to fit him into, on the management side, instead of trying to get rid of him.’

  A wave of red-hot anger was washing over her. This was the man who was responsible for all the problems, yet for a moment she’d been tempted to conspire with him!

  ‘It won’t be me who gets rid of him,’ Max arched one eyebrow. ‘The lure of fame and wealth does many things to people.’

  ‘You should know,’ she snarled. ‘You wrote the dirty tricks book didn’t you?’

  She turned and ran then, straight through the restaurant, pushing aside a waiter, tears streaming down her cheeks, out into the street.

  ‘Is the young lady coming back, Mr Menzies?’ The waiter approached tentatively, his thin body bending in supplication.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Max snapped. ‘Just get me a large brandy.’

  Chapter 13

  As Georgia rushed headlong towards Sloane Square, angry with herself for being foolish en
ough to believe she and Max had anything to discuss, the boys were just leaving the Hilton.

  ‘We’d better get a cab,’ John wobbled unsteadily along the pavement.

  They were all drunk. Ian so bad he could barely walk, lost in a silent world of his own.

  ‘We can’t all get in one,’ Rod said, slurring his words. ‘Perhaps we ought to walk anyway.’

  Speedy turned at a high-pitched shriek from behind them. A public relations girl from Decca was tottering towards them. Earlier in the evening her blonde hair had been piled up on her head in elaborate curls, now it was dishevelled, falling over her face.

  ‘Take me home Speedy,’ she called out.

  ‘One down,’ Rod murmured, pausing against a car showroom window and pressing his face against the glass. A gleaming red Mercedes was turning round slowly on a revolving platform, it made him feel even drunker.

  Ian swayed, white-faced, eyes half closed a few feet from Rod. John and Alan were sitting on the kerb. Les was throwing up noisily behind a parked car.

  Speedy and the girl crossed the road towards Knightsbridge. The tall blonde girl’s white dress was so tight she could only hobble, she trailed a pink feather boa over her shoulder, unaware it was touching the pavement behind her. The pair of them had linked arms and it was hard to see which one was holding the other up.

  ‘He won’t be much good to her when they get back,’ Rod said to nobody in particular. ‘But then I think he’s already given her one in the toilets.’

  It had been a wonderful party. Scores of girls milling around, convinced Rod was every bit as much of a star as Adam Faith, Billy Fury and all the others. One tart had given him a wank under the table and he could have pulled anyone he wanted if he’d put his mind to it.

  But Ian was bugging him. He hadn’t said or done anything other than drink himself stupid, and he knew it was all to do with Georgia.

  ‘Where’s Norman?’ he asked, lurching forward towards where John and Alan sat hunched mindlessly on the kerb.

  ‘Gone off with some girl,’ John turned bloodshot eyes on Rod. ‘Can you get it together to flag down a cab?’

  Ian was usually the one that rounded them all up after nights like these, but one glance at his blank face was enough to know he was the one who needed looking after.

  ‘All right,’ Rod lurched into the road and put up his hand.

  A taxi came seconds later.

  ‘Where to mate?’ A raw-boned face under a flat cap looked out suspiciously.

  ‘Ladbroke Square,’ Rod said. ‘Just a minute while I get my mates.’

  ‘Don’t any of you throw up in the back otherwise I’ll rub your noses in it,’ the taxi driver said sharply. ‘And open the bloody windows, the fumes are enough to make me sick.’

  Rod paid the driver as the others almost fell out the taxi. Les rushed back to the gutter, and once again vomited.

  The house was in darkness. Timed switches on the wall turned themselves off even before they climbed slowly to the first landing. A smell of curry came from behind the door of a Jamaican family. Their flat was right at the top of the house. Three large rooms on the fourth floor and another up a flight of steep narrow steps to the attic.

  Rod put his arm round Ian, supporting him as they made their way up. Alan and John had already reached the top now. Les was hauling himself up by the banisters like an old man.

  ‘What’s been eating you tonight?’ Rod asked Ian as they finally got in the front door.

  ‘Georgia,’ Ian said stupidly, his mouth drooping. ‘She’s only staying with the band because of me and I can’t bear it any longer.’

  ‘Come on now mate,’ Rod eased Ian back into an armchair. The whole flat was filthy. He would have to find some bird to come and sort it out. Clothes in heaps, records all over the floor, piled up ashtrays, half eaten food going mouldy on plates left there weeks ago, and at least two dozen empty beer bottles.

  The flat was a mixture of tastes. Speedy’s collection of old books. Ian’s posters and records of blues and soul artists. Rod himself was responsible for the red warning road lamps, picked up on another drunken binge. There were nude girl posters. A Salvador Dali print and a bull-fighting poster personalized with Norman’s name. A black and red pair of knickers had been on the table lamp so long no one could even remember who they belonged to. A messy, tasteless place, but it was a storehouse of good memories.

  Alan was lurching up the steep stairs that led to the attic. His new grey leather jacket was stained with drink and he’d burned a hole in his one good pair of black trousers. His small, boyish face grinned inanely, his blond hair brushed down on his forehead made him look like a medieval page boy. He didn’t even realize he was making for the wrong room. The attic belonged to Rod and Ian, but Rod couldn’t be bothered to turf him out. Les was in the bathroom being sick yet again and John was attempting to make some coffee.

  ‘Get some in here sharpish.’ Rod called out. He turned back to Ian and crouched down beside him. Even drunk, Ian was as immaculate as when he arrived at the party. Tie neatly knotted, shirt crisp and fresh. Even his hair was perfect, baby soft, shining pale yellow in the murky light.

  Rod knew Ian loved Georgia. He’d even been jealous at first, hurt that anyone could come between him and his best friend. But Ian was level-headed. He had maintained all his old enthusiasm in the band, perhaps even increasing it. What had happened to make him react like this now?

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Rod felt a pang of sympathy for his friend. If a girl made him miserable, he just went out and found another, but Ian was different. ‘Why don’t we give her the elbow? Insist we want to go it alone that way she won’t have to feel bad about us?’

  ‘Don’t be such a fucking idiot,’ Ian seemed to sober up suddenly, his blue eyes flashing ice cold. ‘Do you really think I could fill Georgia’s shoes as singer?’

  ‘We did all right before she joined us!’ Rod said evenly.

  ‘We didn’t know what a good singer could do then, did we?’ Ian slumped back in his seat, eyes closing. ‘You’d be looking to me to make it right. The audience would wonder why you had a wanker like me up front. I’m stuck in the bloody middle holding you both back. That’s the reason she won’t go. She’s afraid for me.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting we all used to sing before she joined us?’ Rod had never seen Ian like this before. ‘Mick Jagger’s voice ain’t so hot, and what about the Beatles? All we have to do is use a bit of strategy. Stop feeling sorry for yourself mate. Georgia loves you, anyone would think she wanted to dump you!’

  ‘Maybe she does!’ Ian’s head slumped down towards his chest. He looked defeated and old. ‘Aren’t I more like a brother to her? You can love someone, and be “in love” with them, the two aren’t necessarily the same. She loves all of us. That’s the bloody trouble.’

  ‘Of course she loves you,’ Rod said firmly. He sat down on the arm of the chair and hugged his friend awkwardly. ‘After all it’s you she sleeps with!’

  Rod wasn’t one for soul searching. A girl to him was a diversion, nothing more. They all had their attractions, once he’d played them out, he moved on. He couldn’t really understand why other men agonized over feelings, it was such a waste of energy.

  ‘You don’t know anything about her,’ Ian sniffed. ‘Her father raped her when she was only fifteen. That’s why there was never any blokes in her life until me. If any of you had been the one to press the right buttons you might be the one sharing her bed now.’

  Rod was too drunk to think that one out, or even be shocked.

  ‘It’s you she loves, you prat,’ Rod hauled him up by the shoulders. ‘You was always mates, right from the start and she ain’t the type to use anyone. All you gotta do is to push her out on her own, ’cos she’s too damned stubborn to do it herself.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she come with me to the party tonight?’

  ‘I expect she knew we’d all end up rat-arsed like this,’ Rod grinned. John was swaying behind him w
ith three cups of coffee. ‘Now drink that and piss off to bed. And stop seeing problems where there aren’t any.’

  Ian seemed to pull himself together a little after his coffee.

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you about Georgia,’ he said as he went on up the steep stairs to the attic. ‘I only told you because I know you’re a real human being under that flashy exterior. You won’t let on to anyone?’

  ‘You’re a wanker when you’re pissed,’ Rod called after him. ‘Any more crap from you and I’ll tell her what a feeble little prat you can be.’

  Rod woke up, a faint smell of something in his nostrils.

  For a moment he couldn’t quite place where he was, he had cramp in his legs from lying curled up on the couch and as he moved he fell on to the floor knocking over the half drunk coffee.

  ‘Shit,’ he exclaimed. It had splattered his new shirt and it would stain if he didn’t see to it.

  Standing up, he looked around.

  There was a smell, and a strange noise, a kind of faint roaring above him. His head felt as if it were full of cotton wool, his stomach was churning. Yet he was sure he wasn’t imagining that smell.

  ‘Fire!’ he yelled, running out the door and leaping up the stairs to the attic, three at a time. The door was closed, smoke billowing under it and as he opened it another cloud of it hit him in the face. Beyond the smoke were flames. Licking up by the window, fanned by the draught from the door.

  He closed the door quickly, leaped down the stairs again and rushed into the other bedroom.

  ‘John, Les,’ he shouted, shaking their arms. ‘Fire! Ring the fucking fire brigade. Alan and Ian are in there burning alive!’

  John was up immediately. Dark eyes gleaming in the dark. He grabbed his trousers and ran for the door.

  ‘Les, for fuck’s sake wake up,’ Rod screamed now. ‘Fire. Get out now!’

  He stopped only long enough to grap a heap of blankets, his heart thumping like a steam hammer.

  Running into the bathroom he turned the taps on full, then dunked the blankets in, hauled one out and carrying it dripping in his arms he made his way up the stairs again.