How the hell could Max push them back into line after she’d spoilt them all?
Was there anything left up his sleeve to pull out?
‘More long tours,’ he murmured, banging the pillow and lying down beside Jenny. ‘That should knock the stuffing out of her, piss the boys off. I can get a few backhanders again and fiddle the expenses. In a year or two she’ll be dying to sing at the Albert Hall.’
Max smiled to himself as he slipped off his suit jacket and opened his office window. In his briefcase he had enough cash to buy himself the new ‘Roller’. A white one this time with red upholstery and his double ‘M’ on the doors in gold.
The second LP was already the top selling album for ’65. He had five gold records on his wall, and any day he would be getting the sixth.
Where did she get the inspiration from to write such brilliant songs? Every one fresh and new, the latest ‘Devil Man’ he liked to think was about him, but she only laughed when he suggested it.
August in London was usually impossible, but right now it looked wonderful.
‘Strange how things work out,’ he said aloud, posing in front of the mirror. That masseur in King’s private health club in Pall Mall was doing him a power of good, he’d tightened up his muscles, made him look ten years younger. ‘I send them off to Europe thinking they’ll soon be urging me to bring them back home, and what do they do? Make it fucking well work for all of us!’
Sell-out concerts in every major city, promoters ringing Max offering him anything to book a return date. That was where this new wedge had come from. Five thousand pounds, slipped under the table. Riox, Georgia and the taxman couldn’t trace it.
‘They’ve been working their arses off,’ Max chuckled, opening his silver cigar box and lifting one out. He paused to smell it, savouring the moment before lighting it. ‘Yet somehow they found time to write enough material for an LP and a string of new singles.’
A tap on the door surprised him. He wasn’t expecting any visitors today and Deirdre always used the intercom.
‘Come in!’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’ It was Deirdre, her dark hair dyed a deep auburn and cut into a ridiculous copy of Cilla Black’s. ‘There’s a man in reception and he won’t leave.’
‘Who? What does he want?’ Max’s earlier feeling of well-being fizzled away. ‘You know I don’t see anyone without an appointment.’
There were times he wanted to get rid of this girl. He never had fancied her and she was far too thick with Georgia. But at least she wasn’t hysterical like most of them.
‘I told him that. He say’s he’ll just sit there and wait until you are free. He says it’s personal.’
‘Do I know him?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Deirdre was hopping from leg to leg, her mouth twitching with nervousness. ‘He’s different from the usual boys we get in here. He’s kind of stern.’
‘I’ll give him stern,’ Max snapped. ‘What’s this creep’s name?’
‘Peter Radcliffe,’ she said softly. ‘He isn’t a creep Max, he’s got a kind of,’ she paused.
‘Peter Radcliffe?’ The name came back to Max, as sharp and clear as if he’d heard it earlier today. ‘All right, I’ll see him.’
‘You will?’ Her brown eyes opened wide in surprise, mouth dropping open.
‘Why not?’ Max regained his composure quickly. ‘I don’t know him from Adam, but I can’t have people cluttering the reception area all day. If he’s selling something you’ll be for it.’
The cigar was still unlit in his hand. Max grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, put it back on, returning to his desk just as the knock came at his door.
‘Come in,’ he lowered his voice to a growl, opened a file and bent his head over it as the door opened. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’ve got five minutes.’
‘I’m Peter Radcliffe, sir. An old friend of Georgia’s.’
Max looked up. The voice was deep and well rounded, just a trace of a London accent, but the face in front of him gave him a jolt.
That day as he wrote the fake letter back to Manchester, he had imagined some weedy academic with acne and greasy hair. This lad was like a Greek god, blond hair, blue eyes with the deepest golden tan Max had seen away from St Tropez. Big shoulders almost bursting out of a washed-out denim shirt, jeans that fitted so snugly round his narrow hips he could be a male model.
‘Georgia is away on tour,’ Max said picking up the cigar and lighting it. ‘But even if she were in London I doubt she would see you. Every day we get people claiming to be an old friend of hers.’
‘I understand that sir,’ the boy had no trace of belligerence in his voice or face. ‘But I do believe she would like to see me. I can’t believe she’s changed that much.’
‘Sit down. What did you say your name was again?’ Max waved his cigar at a spare chair by his desk, tilted his chair back and narrowed his eyes.
‘Radcliffe, Peter.’ He sat down, his arms bent slightly, resting his fists on his knees and leaning forward.
‘Tell me where you know Georgia from?’ Max said. The lad was looking unswervingly into his eyes, he wasn’t sure he liked that much honesty.
‘We were sweethearts,’ Peter said. ‘That sounds a bit trite I know, but it’s the best explanation. She ran away from home.’
‘When was this?’ Max wanted to know what happened, and where, but he’d have to take it one step at a time.’
‘January 1960,’ Peter said. ‘She was fifteen then, I was seventeen. She sent her mother a postcard saying she’d be in touch when she was sixteen. But we heard nothing more.’
‘Well, there we are,’ Max shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s an open and shut case. She didn’t want to know.’
‘But I think she did,’ Peter insisted. ‘Her mother moved and the only address she knew was mine.’
‘Mother?’ She’s an orphan!’ Max said quickly.
‘That’s right,’ Peter half smiled. ‘I should have said foster mother. Anyway Celia moved on. I suspect Georgia called at my house and my parents never told me.’
‘Now why would they do that?’
‘Because she has mixed blood.’ Peter raised one perfect golden eyebrow. ‘They thought she would mess up my career.’
‘Which is?’ Max had a sinking feeling this lad was going to be more difficult than he imagined.
‘Teaching,’ Peter replied.
Max felt a bubble of pleasure. Thank goodness he wasn’t a lawyer. Any man with looks like his who wanted to spend his life with kids couldn’t be dangerous.
‘But if all this happened five years ago why are you concerning yourself with her now? Aren’t you just jumping on the band wagon?’
‘Her mother and I looked everywhere for her.’ Peter didn’t turn a hair at Max’s suggestion. Pride and truth shone out of his handsome face. ‘Until I read about the fire and a friend described Georgia James to me I was in the dark, assuming she had forgotten me. I wrote to this office then and I received a letter back making it quite clear she had no time for me.’
‘But why persist then?’ Max puffed on his cigar, blowing the smoke up to the ceiling.
‘One of the tracks on her LP.’
Max gulped. He knew immediately what the boy meant. He had listened to the track himself so many times, wondering where the inspiration came from. Yet until now it hadn’t clicked.
‘We were so young, we thought we had it all,’ Peter said slowly. ‘Nights of crying for you, are you out there crying too?’
‘Don’t be daft man,’ Max chuckled. ‘It’s just a love song. They all have the same theme.’
‘Do they all mention kisses in the hall, a glimpse of blonde hair, waving goodnight in frosty air?’
‘You know the lyrics better than I do,’ Max raised one eyebrow. ‘But even I could work those words around to any number of old loves. Anyone could.’
Peter reached behind him and pulled a cutting out of his back pocket.
r /> ‘This is from Honey magazine,’ he held it steady and Max knew he intended to read it to him. ‘An interview. “Do your lyrics have special significance, or do you write about general feelings?” That was the journalist’s question. Georgia replies, “Mostly it’s general, but now and then it’s like a secret message to someone. ‘The girl with red hair’ is an old friend of mine who died. ‘No Time’, was for Ian and Alan. ‘Crying’ for someone very special.”’ Peter folded the paper and put it back in the pocket of his denim shirt buttoning it deliberately as he calmly stared at Max.
‘That doesn’t mean it’s you!’ Max retorted, feeling just a little hot under the collar. How come he hadn’t read this interview?
‘No?’ Peter looked up at Max. ‘Why does she go on to say “It was someone who coloured my idea of love, when I was very young. Someone I lost and still hope I’ll find again.” Does that sound general?’
Max gulped. He could see now why Georgia had been attracted to Ian. He was a watered down, punier version of this lad. Everything made sense now. The way she turned down dates, kept herself at arm’s length. If only the women in his life had been so constant!
‘Let me tell you something in confidence,’ Max leaned forward in his chair, trying hard to be chummy and pleasant, yet he knew he was going to assassinate Georgia’s character.
‘We keep it well under wraps, but Georgia has had many love affairs. Every one to her is special for a week or two, then she moves on. Ian McShane is the only man she ever moped about, and if he’d lived it would have ended the same way as all the rest.’ He wanted to add more, imply the girl was a bitch and a whore, but somehow he knew Peter Radcliffe might just get angry. ‘Forget her Peter, she’s not the girl she was any longer. Singing and making money is what drives Georgia these days. Stay with the beautiful memories you’ve got, don’t try to see her and find yourself disillusioned.’
‘I’m not a kid,’ Peter leaned forward, eyes flashing dangerously. ‘I haven’t sat on the sidelines of life pining for her. While she’s been setting the world alight, I’ve done my share too. Of course there’ve been other men in her life. There’ve been women in mine too. I’m not some jerk with a broken heart.’
Max noted the muscles straining the denim shirt. He hadn’t got those just lifting books!
‘I didn’t think you were a jerk,’ Max said carefully. ‘But I’ve been very close to Georgia for a long time. I know her as if she was my daughter. To be honest she can be a pretty cold, calculating girl.’
‘Has she talked about her childhood?’
Max had a feeling he was being tested and he felt trapped.
‘Which incident?’
‘Why a fifteen-year-old felt running away from home was the only option?’
Max tried to bluff it out. ‘Oh, the row! She regrets that now.’
Peter sat back in his chair. ‘Just as I thought,’ a cynical smile played on his lips. ‘If Georgia was really close to you, she would have told you.’
‘Don’t be a smart arse with me boy!’ Max half stood up, clenching the edge of his desk. ‘Come on, out with it!’
‘No,’ Peter’s lips moved into a straight determined line. ‘I didn’t come here to blab her secrets. Just tell her I called.’
Max’s heart thumped. This boy had the missing bit of the jigsaw and he wanted it.
‘Why don’t we go down to the pub?’ Max said. ‘It’s hot in here and I could do with a pint.’
‘It won’t work Mr Menzies,’ Peter looked right into his eyes. ‘I’m not about to spill the beans, even with eight pints inside me. All I ask is that you give her my address.’
‘Sure,’ Max pushed a pad and pencil across his desk. What was it about her that inspired such integrity? Riox couldn’t be bought, or the boys in Samson, and now this guy?
Peter stood up, flicking back his golden hair in a weary gesture and picked up the pencil.
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Max said flippantly. ‘The way things are going with Rod, she might just be married by then.’
He saw the lad’s neck swell, and a tinge of pink colour rose to his tanned cheeks.
‘Just give it to her sir.’ The ‘sir’ sounded more of a threat than respect. ‘I’ll be away till October, but if I haven’t heard anything by Christmas I’ll be back to check up on you.’
It was as if the sun had suddenly been blotted out. In the past few months Max had regained Georgia’s affection. He’d helped her buy her first car, even gone with her to choose furniture for her flat. Granted he hadn’t got beyond giving her the odd cuddle, but at least she looked on him as a father if nothing else.
Perhaps it was because he played it straight with her about that flat. He’d wanted her to buy something ritzy, not the top floor in a block full of old Brigadiers and snooty blue rinses. But when she took him to see it he could see she had her heart set on it.
It was huge if nothing else, with a nice view of the Thames from the balcony. But the old lady who’d died hadn’t had any repairs done for years. The kitchen was something out of the dark ages, the Regency striped wallpaper was almost peeling off the walls.
‘But can’t you just see it Max?’ she wheedled. ‘The lounge all painted yellow, white carpets and huge comfy settees. I can get someone in to do all the work.’
She had magic eyes that day, she’d even managed to make him enthusiastic. It took him back to the thrill of buying his own first home.
Of course she didn’t let him get anyone in he knew. A poncy woman from Sloane Street drew up all the plans. Swedish pine in the kitchen, a bathroom designed to look like a tropical jungle. All Max got to do was oversee the workmen and make sure it was all done to Georgia’s plans while she was away.
Yet she knew immediately she arrived home that he had put in some work for her. She didn’t miss a thing. The row of little yellow duck soaps in the bathroom. The tubs of flowers on the balcony, food in the fridge, even a hot water bottle to air the new bed.
The woman from Sloane Street had laughed at his idea of hundreds of red roses, or a silver champagne bucket. But he had to admit the freesias and the Nottingham lace bedspread she did approve of him buying, were more Georgia’s style.
‘Let me cook you and Miriam a meal,’ she said, bouncing around the place like a puppy when she saw the finished work. ‘You’ve been an absolute angel Max, without you I bet it wouldn’t be so perfect.’
He had to settle for the meal. He would rather have sat in her tub amongst the palm trees with that ridiculous monkey grinning down at him, seeing those small breasts again and carrying her later into that pink and ivory bedroom. But instead he had to listen to Miriam advising her on the best places to buy bedlinen and china, and eat over-cooked roast beef.
Miriam leaving him should have made everything right, yet for some strange reason he felt gutted. She went home to Greece for a holiday and the next thing a letter came saying she was staying there permanently.
‘I think I’ll always love you,’ she said in her letter. ‘But I want more than being your hostess and housekeeper. I want to sit in the sun with a man who needs me, grow old with a man who desires me. I didn’t come out here looking for that, but I found him, here in the village which has always been my real home. Be happy for me Maxy. Find someone for yourself that makes you feel like this too. I hope we can always be friends.’
Why wasn’t he rushing around like a man with two cocks? He could have it all now. Georgia was so concerned she was even inviting him over for drinks and meals. He was top unattached male on every hostess’s list. So why did he get a lump in his throat thinking about Miriam with her fat Greek? What made him keep recalling the way she looked on their wedding night?
Guilty conscience maybe? Afraid that if Peter Radcliffe did find a way to Georgia he’d be snookered? She might not care about the guy any longer, but she sure as hell wouldn’t like Max playing God. If she wrote him out of her life too, he’d be finished.
Chapter 18
‘Something
wrong, Georgia?’ Rod shook his head like a dog, spraying her with water. ‘Don’t you want a swim? You’ve been quiet all day.’
Georgia pushed her sunglasses up on to her head, dropped her book to the ground and smiled up at him.
‘Just thinking,’ she reached out for her suntan oil and rubbed a little into her legs, stomach and arms. She could see now how tanned she was getting, her skin had turned from coffee coloured to a rich dark brown, her white bikini standing out in vivid contrast. ‘I was just thinking about how lucky we’ve been. Even if we don’t get time to appreciate it.’
Three days earlier they were playing in Paris and with over a week before their next gig they had flown down to Barcelona to catch a few days of sunshine and sea.
Rod dropped his towel on to the ground beside her, picked up a bottle of water and guzzled it down before replying.
‘Thousands of miles of travelling, more success than we ever dreamed of, fame, money, the works. And now this place.’
The villa they were staying at belonged to the family of a saxophone player who had joined them for many of the European gigs. Set amongst pine trees, above a deserted stretch of beach, it was the closest Georgia had ever seen to paradise.
Seen from the road it looked like a dilapidated fortress, peeling shutters firmly shut against the strong sun, a neglected, abandoned home. A huge old door creaked open as if protesting against visitors, but once inside, it was obvious it had been cared for with love, its outer neglect protecting it from unwanted intruders.
Designed in a traditional Spanish style, the villa was built round a central courtyard, complete with fountain, palm trees and a vine-covered pergola. A Moorish influence was strong, with vivid blue and yellow tiled steps to the upper floor, white stone walls and wrought-iron balconies. Purple bougainvillaea and scarlet hibiscus, scrambled up the walls. Urns full of bright orange lilies, geraniums and daisies filled each nook and cranny. Everything was simple, cool marble floors, heavy dark furniture, brightly coloured, scattered rugs and huge cushions, walls painted dazzling white. Yet for all its simplicity it was comfortable and inviting. Tiled bathrooms adjoined each of the spacious, airy bedrooms, a kitchen with every modern device to make their stay a happy one.