Georgia

  Max had been brusque with her when they met earlier. More interested in getting into the boardroom than speaking to her.

  She had been left to sit outside, he hadn’t even remarked on her outfit.

  Was this how it would be from now on? Alone all the time, watching out for people ready to stab her in the back? Once she would have been thrilled to be given fifty pounds to spend on clothes. All the boys would have come with her to choose them. Yet the boys were off buying speakers while she was signing away her future without them.

  Was the outfit she’d chosen right? A white knee length dress, with a diamond cutout showing her brown abdomen, and new white shoes. She could see herself mirrored in a chrome plant stand. Her hair in soft ringlets, a white ribbon nestling amongst the curls. Was an impression of innocence the right look? Ian would have insisted on something red and dramatic!

  For a place that employed hundreds of people, it was eerily quiet. The faint tapping of a typewriter in the distance, the occasional ringing of telephones, and a buzz of conversation from the boardroom where Max had gone.

  A thick green carpet curled over her shoes. The seats were brown leather, big and comfortable. Huge plants stood in tubs and a brass-topped coffee table held a selection of quality magazines. It was more like a posh dental surgery than a place that dealt with music.

  ‘Would you like to come in now Georgia?’ The blonde iceberg of a secretary was holding the door open, a false, rather cynical smile on her china doll face.

  Beyond the secretary’s notebook, Georgia could see at least ten business men wreathed in cigarette smoke around a boardroom table. All at once she was more nervous than when she went on stage. Her palms were sticky and her stomach turned over.

  ‘This is Georgia,’ Max stood up and pulled out a chair for her, his smile a contrived attempt at a fatherly one.

  She sat down, thrown by the lack of interest in the men’s faces.

  ‘Hallo Georgia.’ A short fat man with small dark eyes held out his plump hand. ‘I’m Jack Levy. Might I say on behalf of all of us, how much we have enjoyed hearing you sing. You’re a girl with an exciting future.’

  Georgia knew he was the top man at Decca. She had expected someone larger, not a nearly bald man with a wrinkled sallow face, a nose so huge it looked like a beak and gold-rimmed spectacles. He looked more like a banker than a maker of stars.

  She glanced around the table.

  Alex Rhodes was there, avoiding her eyes. She had heard he had an administrative position now, perhaps that’s why he had abandoned the tweed jacket and corduroys. His sandy head was bent over some papers, as if trying to forget this was the girl he couldn’t lure away from her band all those months ago. Had he put Max up to the cinema tours? Had he hoped one day she’d come crawling to him?

  Maybe she wasn’t exactly crawling, but it didn’t feel like triumph either.

  Max’s lawyer John Cohen she knew slightly. But here he blended in with all the others. They were all the same. Dark men, all of them greying at the temples. Not one of them less than forty, papers spread out in front of them. All with the same dark suits, gold watches, rings and cufflinks glinting, as if showing their allegiance to the same club. Not one look of interest or admiration. Tense faces as they approached yet another business deal.

  ‘We are offering you a three year contract,’ Jack Levy went on. ‘Under this contract we have the right to choose and oppose any songs which are offered to you. Though of course your opinion will be sought in this matter.

  ‘You may not work for any other record company during your contract with us. Also, work that is outside our field, a film for instance, would be vetted carefully before we agreed to it.’

  He looked at her carefully over the top of his glasses, a shaft of sunlight played on his balding head and his nose seemed to grow larger.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  Georgia nodded. These men were planning to take over her life. Once she’d signed with them she was just another pawn to be pushed anyway that suited them.

  ‘I want you to read through the contract,’ he said more gently. ‘It may seem difficult in parts, legal jargon does sound odd to someone who isn’t used to it. But if there’s anything you don’t understand, please ask.’

  He handed her a document.

  Georgia had no idea what she was supposed to look out for. It seemed fairly straightforward, mainly revolving around her inability to do anything without their permission.

  Then her eyes caught an interesting section about immorality.

  ‘What does this mean?’ she asked, pointing to the section.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ he smiled condescendingly, his eyes so small behind his thick glasses they looked like currants. ‘We understand that young people sometimes get led astray when they find themselves in your position. However, an established company like ourselves do not like scandal.

  ‘Should one of our clients get involved in something which could have a damaging effect on ourselves, we have the right to cancel their contract.’

  ‘What sort of scandal?’ All the men were looking at her now, perhaps wondering if she had anything to hide.

  He shrugged. ‘Something criminal maybe. Drugs. Not turning up for performances continually. Loose behaviour.’ He gave her a half smile as if implying she would never do any of these things.

  ‘I see, and is there a clause in here which protects me if, say, you didn’t act in my best interests?’ She wasn’t going to let them think she was a pushover.

  ‘Why should that be necessary?’ Jack Levy looked shocked.

  Georgia could see he was another Max, he had the same expression on his face Max wore when confronted with his deviousness.

  He looked round the room and laughed. ‘Do you think all these people would be gathered here today if they didn’t intend to look out for you?’

  Georgia had a feeling they were rather more interested in the money aspect than her soul, but she thought it prudent to keep that to herself.

  She continued to read the document, although most of it went over her head.

  ‘It seems okay,’ she said at length.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Max laughed, sucking on his huge cigar. ‘We know what we’re doing.’

  Georgia had always imagined the signing of a record contract would be in a party atmosphere, with champagne, streamers and smiling faces.

  Instead she signed her name in chilly silence. It was witnessed by the secretary who ushered her into the room and then signed by Jack Levy and one of his colleagues. The men all shovelled their papers into their briefcases and got up to leave, barely glancing at her.

  ‘Is that it, Mr Levy?’ she asked as they all filed out.

  ‘That’s the boring part,’ he said, smiling in a more pleasant manner. ‘Now come with me and I’ll show you a little more of our operation.’

  *

  It wasn’t until she was on the train that what was really happening finally sank in.

  She was going to be a star. Making a lot of money for Decca, Max and the lawyers. Soon she would be able to move to a smarter home. Employ a cleaning lady, even a cook if she wanted one. She could have proper driving lessons and buy a car. She would be invited to smart parties and buy all the clothes she wanted. People would want her autograph.

  She ought to have been dancing with happiness, yet somehow she felt cheated.

  ‘I’ve let you down,’ she blurted out to the boys as she made her way into the changing room of The Purple Pussy Cat. ‘I signed a contract with Decca this morning.’

  All the way on the train she had wondered how to tell them. Should she pretend she was happy with everything? Insist their rights were protected? Assure them that everything would remain the same?

  ‘So that’s why he let us get the speakers at last,’ Rod sighed deeply. ‘I wondered why he’d suddenly become so generous. He just wanted us out of the way.’

  Speedy was watching Georgia. He saw how pale she looked, her hands shaking.

/>   ‘It’s all right Georgia,’ he slipped his arm round her shoulder. ‘We’re happy for you. We didn’t expect a contract too.’

  ‘I did,’ Norman’s voice chipped in, his small face alight with pique. ‘I worked my balls off with that song. Now she’ll get all the credit.’

  Georgia burst into tears and ran from the room.

  ‘You arsehole,’ Speedy exploded with rage. ‘What did you have to say that for? The poor kid is already eaten up with anxiety about us. Haven’t you learned anything about her in two years?’

  ‘Speedy’s right,’ Rod sprawled on a bench, a faintly amused expression on his handsome face. ‘Georgia’s incapable of being selfish, which is more than I can say for myself. Max has beaten her down, the same as he’s done to us countless times. But when it comes right down to it she deserves all the success coming to her.’

  ‘I don’t begrudge her it,’ Norman was sullen now, his lower lip stuck out like a sulky child. ‘I just wonder where it leaves us.’

  ‘With a friend in important places,’ Speedy snapped. ‘Now for God’s sake make it up with her. Show some pleasure that she’s got what she worked so hard for. That’s what real friends do.’

  On September 1st, ‘No Time’ was released. Two days later it was on Juke Box Jury.

  They were all together in the boys’ new flat in Paddington. Later that night they would be playing at the Bag O’ Nails in Soho, but Max had rung them while they were setting up the equipment to let them know he had managed to pull strings to get it on.

  Georgia had no television, so they had leapt in the van and rushed back to Paddington. Now the programme was starting Georgia was biting her nails.

  ‘Stop that,’ Rod smacked at her hand. ‘If you nibble each time it gets on the air you’ll be up to your elbows in a few weeks.’

  Their old flat had been grubby and untidy, but it had been a home. This new flat might be tidy, with almost new furniture but it was soulless, like the boarding houses they spent so much time in. No clutter, no personal touches, just another reminder how much they had all lost.

  ‘Memphis Tennessee’ was the first record played, a catchy number, guaranteed to hit the top twenty immediately. They listened impatiently while the jury deliberated and finally voted it a good song but one they doubted would make it.

  ‘They haven’t a clue,’ Speedy said in amazement. ‘Does our future really lie with people like them?’

  The next record was a ballad called ‘Blue Nights’, so dull and banal Rod pretended he had fallen asleep.

  ‘That’s what I call a good song,’ one of the jury enthused. ‘Great backing, a little slow,’ said another, ‘But it will be a hit.’

  ‘They won’t like ours, I know they won’t,’ Georgia said, sitting on the edge of her seat.

  As David Jacobs introduced ‘No Time’, Georgia thought she saw him wince. It made no difference that the introduction still gave her goosebumps of pleasure, his impassive shiny face seemed to hold more than a trace of irritation.

  The jury however leaned forward in their seats to listen. The youngest man had his eyes shut, resting his face in his hands.

  ‘Look they love it, they’re all spellbound,’ John shrieked.

  To their surprise, the dreamy-eyed man said he loved it yet doubted it would be a hit. But the other three gave it a resounding thumbs up.

  ‘There you are,’ Rod said triumphantly. ‘Aren’t I always right about everything?’

  Max left no stone unturned. He invited reporters to drop in on their London gigs. Copies of the record found their way on to every important desk in the music world. Bribes were passed out to give it plays on the radio.

  The first week after its release was the worst. Rod reported it played first late at night, then again the next morning, but then nothing.

  Anxiety that it might not even make it into the top fifty was quickly dispelled by Max who was suddenly booking them into London clubs only and appearing nightly with photographers, behaving as if Georgia was the only person in his life.

  ‘I’m taking you to a party tonight,’ he announced during the break at The Scene in Windmill Street. ‘Nip off home and get changed the minute you’ve finished here. I want you all glammed up.’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to protest she was too tired, but a look of excitement in Max’s eyes hinted this was one party she couldn’t miss.

  ‘Where is it?’ she asked instead, remembering both Norman and Rod had dates later that night and all she had to look forward to was a new book.

  ‘Kensington,’ Max had that kind of smug grin which meant it would be very swish. ‘It’s important, so don’t let me down.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Georgia saw big wrought-iron gates with the huge house beyond ablaze with lights. Loud music was wafting out, people dancing in front of one of the windows and scores of others sitting on the steps leading up to the front door.

  They had turned off from Kensington High Street just minutes before, but with Holland Park lying in darkness next to this house, they could have been right out in the countryside.

  ‘Don’t be scared.’ Max patted her knee. ‘It’s the home of Louise Wainwright the heiress. She collects stars like others collect stamps or matchboxes, but she’s a good sort.’

  Even with Max’s arm firmly round her shoulders, Georgia felt tongue-tied with nerves as they walked into the hall.

  Max’s cream suit looked just a little ostentatious under a crystal chandelier. Shouldn’t she have worn a proper cocktail dress instead of her new white outfit?

  She had seen glimpses of houses like this back in Blackheath. Antique furniture, Oriental rugs, art that had been collected over centuries, not snapped up from some shop in Chelsea.

  ‘Maxy, darling!’ A bony woman with bulbous frogeyes and a flame-red, poker-straight bob, rushed to them. ‘You’ve managed to bring Georgia, you absolute angel.’

  She inclined one angular cheek to Max, drowning them both in ‘Joy’ perfume, then reached out for Georgia, enveloping her in a bony hug. Behind her on a wide sweeping staircase Georgia saw Vogue’s top model, Bonnie Jackson in a long chiffon pink dress, her blonde hair caught up with a single rose.

  ‘This is Louise Wainwright,’ Max said, winking at Georgia, suggesting silently she made out she had squeezed in the time for parties between other pressing engagements.

  ‘Thank you so much for inviting me,’ Georgia stammered, feeling distinctly underdressed next to this formidable woman in her Dior emerald green evening dress. Diamonds glistened on her ears, more on her fingers.

  ‘My darling,’ Louise gushed. ‘It’s my pleasure to meet you at last. All London’s talking about you and your record.’ She touched Georgia’s hair lightly, her frog eyes nearly leaping out of her face. ‘I didn’t expect such devastating beauty. But come on in and meet everyone.’

  With a glass of champagne in her hand, Georgia found her nervousness leaving her. The huge drawing room with doors open on to a floodlit garden beyond was too crowded to feel conspicuous. Some of the guests might have pedigrees going back to the Armada, others had forged their way out of far humbler homes than her own, but they all seemed to be linked by a common theme, they were people who were on the way up.

  A disc jockey modelling his patter on Alan Freeman kept the sounds coming and with Louise Wainwright holding her elbow she was whisked round to meet everyone.

  ‘Bill Johnson, the photographer,’ Louise said breathlessly, as she introduced her to a gaunt-faced man in black leather. ‘I expect you know his pictures, he did that wonderful spread in Queen a few weeks ago.’

  Georgia didn’t know, but she smiled, shook his hand and Louise whisked her on to her next protégé.

  Actors, models, debutantes and professional men. People from the advertising world, still more entrepreneurs doing everything from running art galleries to boutiques in King’s Road.

  By her third glass of champagne Georgia was doing the ‘twist’ with a red haired architect called Ivan. Louise
had told her he won an award for an office block in the City, but he was more interested in talking about Georgia.

  ‘Get into films,’ he said as if he knew all about it. ‘That’s where the real money lies. Demand to go to Hollywood, you’ll be bigger than Doris Day.’

  The entire party was like a film set. The backdrop was the gracious, high-ceilinged room, with its paintings and exquisite furniture. Jewellery glittered and jingled, perfume assaulted the nose. Outrageous dresses on perfect bodies. Dinner jackets and bow ties. Braying ‘Sloane’ accents mingled with cockney and Liverpool. One minute she was just another singer hoping for a break, now suddenly she found herself amongst kindred spirits.

  She spotted Michael Caine’s blond hair and glasses across the crowded room, dancing with an equally tall languorous brunette. His friend Terence Stamp was said to be there too but she didn’t see him.

  Dance after dance. Friendly chatter as if she had always been part of this exclusive club, shared jokes and invitations to everything from dinner to a country house weekend.

  ‘No Time’ was played while she was in the dining room helping herself to food. She giggled with embarrassment as heads turned towards her, and Max caught her eye.

  ‘This is what it’s all about.’ He came up behind her and whispered in her ear. ‘By tomorrow you’ll be the name on everyone’s lips.’

  As Georgia sipped yet another drink she contemplated whether she would ever be rich enough to have even a small house of her own.

  Apart from the drawing room, and the dining room she’d only had glimpses of the other rooms in this huge place. A library lined with old books, a sumptuous sitting room with silk-lined walls and matching peachy-coloured armchairs. Upstairs there were at least six bedrooms and there was another floor above that and a basement too. What would you do with all that space? Would you end up like Louise, throwing parties all the time just to fill it?

  ‘I think this had better be the last one,’ Max’s deep voice came from just behind Georgia as he handed her yet another glass of champagne, an hour later.

  ‘Who says?’ Georgia giggled. They hadn’t been together for more than a few minutes at one time all night, yet she’d been aware of his presence. Even amongst all these dynamic people he was still a man to catch the eye. His shoulders broader, his tan deeper than most. The expensive cut of his cream suit, the animal grace. ‘Have you been watching me?’