A Song for Joey (22 page)

"Jenny, darling," he beamed. His voice was cultured, but with a hint of an Essex accent
that he was unable to eradicate. He reached the foot of the stairs and engulfed Jenny in an
enthusiastic hug.

"Belinda," explained Jenny, disentangling herself from his embrace, "this is Hugh
White, our record producer. Hughie, this is Belinda."
He turned to me, still with that luminescent smile. "Hi Belinda, love. I have heard so
much about you. It's a pleasure to meet you." He held out a slightly plump hand, but his
handshake was firm and confident.
"Come through, come through," he gushed, waving an arm towards one of the doors off
to our right. We followed him into what proved to be a luxurious office. All the prerequisites had been installed to make an impression - rich carpet, leather-topped
mahogany desk, a massive green leather settee and several expensive-looking chairs.
In addition, the walls were covered with guitars of all kinds, peppered here and there
with framed gold records.
A polished brass chandelier, with fake candles pointing upwards and glass bangles
hanging down, dominated the centre of the ceiling.
"Now, Belinda," Hugh began in a business-like tone as we all sat down around the desk,
"I can provide everything, from the best engineer in the country to the best support
musicians. And once we have you on tape, I will sell you to one of the record companies.
But first, Belinda, love, we have to do something about your name. You need something
punchier, easier for the punters to remember .... maybe 'Linda Lean' or something like
that." He locked eyes with me. This was a man accustomed to getting his own way.
I turned to Jenny. Her face was carefully expressionless as she returned my glance and
shrugged.
Joey's voice rang in my head:
"Keep your name, don't let them change it. Belinda
Bellini is a good name, be proud of it."
"Hugh," I began carefully, deliberately using his first name - I would not be intimidated
- "my name is Belinda Bellini. That is what I will be called."
It was a simple statement, no emphasis, no histrionics. I held his eyes, by which he was
trying to master me. He returned my stare, resolutely, and the battle would have gone on
forever, if I had not broken the atmosphere with a smile.

My only previous experience of recording was when Barry and a few of his musicians
had crowded into someone's garage in Norwich, with a tape recorder, to make some
backing tracks for me. White Studios were as much like that as a jet aeroplane is like a
roller skate.

He started in the control room, showing me the console used to record such stars as
Rebecca Strait, The Farm and Pete Lattimer. Beyond the control room, he led me around
booths and cubicles, each with microphones (which he proudly told me were the latest
Neuman models from America) and headphones. This, he told me, was how they
separated the sounds of singers and musicians, which were then recorded individually on
Eric's eight track desk.

Jenny stood in the background, grinning at my enthusiasm as Eric explained some of the
techniques he used to get distinctive sounds for his various clients. After a while, though,
we returned to the control room to plan the day.

"I am trying to get you onto the UK leg of Tony Fortinelli's European tour," she
explained. "but we need a record out as soon as possible, so the punters have some idea of
who you are. If we can get some plays on Radio London it will raise your profile. That's
why I want Bill to come up with some good songs for you."

"What about musicians?" I asked.
"I've got some guys coming in this afternoon. They are session musicians, real
professionals, experienced with studio and stage work. I want four or five of them to tour
as your backing band. They have all performed together before, today will be a chance to
see how they get along with you."
I felt my heart quicken. Professionals? What would they make of a inexperienced little
girl from the wilds of Norfolk, who had never even been in a recording studio before?
Jenny noticed the expression on my face. "Worried?"
I tried to smile, but could tell it didn't work. "Yeah, what if they hate me?"
"Then we sack them. It's that easy, Belinda love. We are paying them well for their
skills, they will do what I say or they will walk." She looked fierce, and I could believe
what she said. Then her face broke into a smile: "But they will love you, I promise. I've
worked with all of them before, they are honest guys, you'll see."

Bill arrived carrying his guitar case in one hand and a professional-looking briefcase in
the other. He looked surprised to see me, but smiled in greeting.
"Bill is now on our books as a songwriter," Jenny told me.
Clearly nervous, Bill opened his case and passed a bundle of handwritten sheets to
Jenny. "I've brought about a dozen songs for you to pick over. They may not all be from a
girl's point of view, but I think any of them would sound good with a woman's voice."
Without even looking at them, Jenny handed them straight to me. "I've learnt that I can
trust Belinda's judgement in musical matters," she grinned.
I glanced at the sheets. They consisted of lines of lyrics with chord names above them. I
needed to hear them before I could sing any. "Can I have some time to go through these
with Bill?" I asked.
"No problem. I want a chat with Eric, anyway - and the boys, when they arrive. Will an
hour do?"
"I expect so. Is there somewhere quiet we can go?"
Eric nodded. "Yeah, there's an office upstairs. I'll show you."

Once alone in the office, Bill confronted me. "So you're behind this, are you?" he asked
in his gruff voice, but he was grinning.
"I couldn't say anything until I knew what Jenny's reaction would be."
"I thought it was odd that two women showed interest on successive days. Thanks for
putting in the word for me, pet."
"Your music did it, Bill. Someone was bound to grab you someday, I'm just glad we
found you first. Now, what have you got for me?"
We sat side by side at the big desk, and I laid out the sheets. He picked through them
and chose one. "I could imagine you doing this one," he said, handing it to me, nervous
again.
"Sing it for me, please."
He unpacked his guitar, checked the tuning, then, with a opening chord, began to sing
the one called 'Paddington Nights'. I followed the words on the sheet as he sang, and
recognised it as one he had sung on the embankment. On the second verse, I joined in,
and on the third he stopped singing and let me finish it.
My face must have been something to see, I knew I was grinning like an idiot. "I love it,
Bill. One thing that drew me to you is that you write songs about your life, and I can relate
to some of the things you've been through. I've decided I want to make people aware of
the hidden people, the ones with no voice of their own, because they have fallen through
the gaps in our society. But the message must be subtle, it must be the music that people
hear first. I love 'Paddington Nights' because it is about hope from despair. It is definitely
one to try with the band."
He stared at his feet. "I can only write what is in my heart, pet. And I'm sorry it's not a
proper music sheet, I never learnt to write those quavers and things."
"I can't read them, so don't worry about it. What's the next one?"
By the time Jenny came up to collect us, we had played through six songs, all of them
suitable, and had selected two to run through with the band..
"You guys getting along ok?" she asked as she entered.
"Aye, bonny," said my new songwriter.

The musicians were setting up as Bill, Jenny and I came down the stairs. Jenny called
them over and introduced us, then Eric took me to a booth, for a sound check, before
retiring to his control room. I could see him through the big window, from where he
looked down upon the studio.

"Ok. Belinda," his voice suddenly arrived in my headphones, making me jump, "give
me some lah lah lahs."
I duly made some noises into the microphone. "Thanks, Belinda. Andy, now you." And
so on, through the band until he had a level for everyone - Andy 'Judge' Morisson on
guitar, Nick Frame who played bass guitar, 'Legs' Aspinal, trumpet, Marco Lane on
saxophone and Benny 'The Boots' O'Brien, the drummer. Bill was included - he sat on a
stool, with a mic for his guitar.
Jenny, meanwhile, had been photocopying Bill's song sheets, and she circulated,
distributing copies among the band.
"Who plays what, here?" asked Marco, eyeing the sparse notes on the sheets
suspiciously.
"That's up to you guys," Jenny replied, in her authoritative voice, "you've worked
together often enough. Improvise. Ready, Belinda?"
"Yes," I said, nervously. "I'm going to sing 'Paddington Nights' through with Bill, first,
so you can get a feel for it."
As we played the song, I could hear Bill through the headphones, strumming and
harmonising, and, gradually, I heard the other guys experimenting with backing ideas. By
the end of the run-through, we had quite a good sound, and after six more times, Eric
announced it was good enough for a take. An hour later he was satisfied with it, and we
moved onto the second song.
It was a gruelling, repetitive, frustrating afternoon's work, and I loved it.
Performing on stage is only one aspect of music; essential, of course, but impossible
until you have everything else perfected. Creating, refining, and developing a song is
where it all starts, and it was a joy to be part of that process. By the end of the day we had
bonded as a team, and I knew we were a good one.
As we were clearing up, Jenny called us all together.
"I've got us a slot on the UK venues of Tony Fortinelli's tour, starting in three week's
time."
The guys groaned.
"Ok," she smiled, "I know what you think of him, but it's a good gig and will pay well.
Are you up for it?"
There was a chorus of answers from the band, which included a fair bit of swearing, but
seemed to amount to a general acceptance.
"How do you want to be billed?" Jenny asked. "Only I have to get your name on the
posters and promotional stuff."
After a brief consultation, Andy, who seemed by consensus to be their spokesman, said;
"We'll stick with 'Daylight Robbery', Jen."
"Good, 'Belinda Bellini and Daylight Robbery' it is. I'll write to you with the details and
an appointment to sign contracts. In the meantime, back here tomorrow morning at eight
sharp for more rehearsals. Belinda, we need six good songs for your set on tour, and two
of them to submit to the record companies as a single before the weekend. See you bright
and early, guys."

There was a colourful poster on the side of a bus waiting at the traffic lights in Regent
Street. I had stopped walking and was staring at it, without realising why, for several
seconds before it dawned on me that it was announcing a performance of The Nutcracker,
by the Royal Ballet at Covent Garden. Connor had carried on walking, oblivious for a
moment, but became aware that I was no longer beside him, and came back to stand
beside me. "Ah," he said, wistfully.

"What! Do you know how much those tickets cost? More than a week's wages for
serving at tables, that's for sure."
"No problem, I can afford it; it will be my treat. Wouldn't you like to see Sigi in action?
C'mon," I urged, hugging his arm, "call it an early birthday present."
He thought about it for ages, looking first at me, then his feet, then off into the distance,
then back at me, a slide-show of emotions flitting across his face. Eventually, the bus
moved off, and the Connor show stopped at 'Happy Smile.'
"Ok. Yes. Oh yes please, Belinda my love, there's nothing I would like more."
And so we did. I telephoned the booking office and ordered the tickets as soon as we
returned to the hotel - and he was right, they did cost as much as he could earn in a week.
Because of his working hours, I booked a Sunday performance. I got seats in a box, the
best in the house.

We arrived at the Royal Opera House early, to savour the occasion.
It's a magnificent building. Joining a steady flow of arrivals, we climbed marble steps
beneath towering white columns, so tall they seemed to meet at the top. In the opulent
foyer, we collected our tickets, then stood gazing around at the crimson and gold
decorations and the elegant clothes of the wealthy patrons.
We took our places about twenty minutes before the performance, and soaked up the
atmosphere - the orchestra tuning, a buzz of voices as people arrived and found their
places; a sense of expectancy filled the air. I had never experienced this before; I was
always locked in my dressing room feeling my own nervousness. Today I could relax and
be entertained.
Eventually, the house lights dimmed, the orchestra struck the first notes of the overture,
and we were transported into another world. It was all I could have hoped for - colourful,
graceful, uplifting. Connor pointed out his beloved Sigi, splendid in a red military
uniform, tall, handsome and muscular, and a fine dancer; I could see why he had fallen for
him.

After the show, we decided to put off going out into the grey reality of autumnal
London. Instead, we went up to the theatre bar, where we sat drinking coffee, watching
people coming and going, listening in to their chatter about the show. Eventually, Connor
looked at his watch. "Thanks for a wonderful evening, Belinda, darlin'," he said. "It's been
great, but I have to get back to work now. It's my turn to lay up for breakfast."

He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
At that moment, Sigi came around the corner, walking with another dancer, laughing. I
recognised them both at once. Connor had seen them too, and started to rise to his feet, a
big smile on his face, but he stopped. We had both caught the look that passed between
the two men when they saw him. He seemed to sag, to sink back into his chair like a
balloon as the air leaks out. Sigi and the other man could not pretend they hadn't seen us,
so they came over to our table. Sigi was bristling. He had been caught out, and he was
responding by turning it against Connor.
"I told you never to come to my work," he snapped as soon as he reached the table,
before anyone else could speak. His eyes flicked from Connor to me. "Gone over to the
other side, have you?" he sneered. "Gone 'straight'?"
Connor seemed unable to answer. His face had coloured up, his mouth twisted. I went to
stand, but he put a hand gently on my arm and shook his head.
He turned to the two men. "How long?" he asked hoarsely.
"What does it matter?" spat Sigi. He spoke with a strong German accent, but his English
was perfect. "It was you who wanted to make a 'relationship'." He made the word sound
like something unpleasant. "For me it was just a bit of fun. Sex, nothing else."
"You knew I loved you." Connor's voice had taken on a hollow, empty sound. I studied
his face; it was like a white mask, drained of blood, expressionless.
"What do I care?" the dancer laughed, then turned away and walked out of my friend's
life.
I took Connor's hand, and we walked silently out of the theatre and back to the hotel.
When we parted at the door, I said: "I'm so sorry, my dear friend."
He managed a wan smile and a little shrug of the shoulders. "My own fault. I fall in love
too easily. Should have learnt my lesson by now. Goodnight, darlin'."
"Goodnight, dear Connor." I stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. "I hope one day
you find someone who deserves you."
He turned and headed for his digs, and I closed my door with a sigh.