A Song for Joey (28 page)

As we emerged from the courtyard, Oliver stopped in his tracks and set my case down.
"Please tell me that's not your car," he said, staring at the pink Cadillac, with my
chauffeur standing beside it. "You are supposed to be keeping a low profile."

"A girl has to show a bit of style," I pouted.
"That's not style, that's ..... showbiz!" he spluttered.
I laughed. "Look, buster, if Elvis can have one, so can I. Come on, meet Leroy."
He picked up my case and passed it to my driver as I introduced them.
"I'm sure Leroy is not his real name, but it suits him, don't you think?" I said, grinning,

"Did you choose this uniform?" Oliver frowned at me. He was beginning to realise that
my taste was definitely not conservative. Leroy was dressed in a very well tailored jacket
and trousers in a shade of purple, with crimson piping and a cap to match.

"Of course," I replied as I slid into the rear seat.
With a non-commital grunt, he took his place beside me, and Leroy closed the door.
"Leroy, darlin', would you stop off and get some champagne, please?" I called to him on

I saw nothing of the journey that took us to Birmingham. Oliver and I had missed so
much of each other's lives and, though I had pushed it always to the back of my mind, I
had missed him, dreadfully. We drank champagne and talked, both of us with a million
questions to be answered.

He told me about the week he spent in hospital after the beating he received from Gary
Burroughs' boys, and I told him about my imprisonment in the cellar and subsequent
escape.

He informed me that Burroughs and his gang were held by the police for a day,
following his assault - and that was why I was left alone for long enough to get away.
I recounted how I found Dolly in Norwich, and she helped me with my career, as well as
being a wonderful friend.
Then I listened entranced as he recalled his time in the army. He was conscripted into
National Service for eighteen months, and he loved it. He was equal with every other
newcomer, enjoyed good food and a warm bed at night, and thrived on the hard work.
Within weeks of completing his basic training, he was promoted to corporal, then made
up to sergeant before a year had passed. He even considered signing up for a career in the
new, professional army, but not for long; he had a mission, and that was to find me.
Not one for hitting the town on his evenings off, he had saved his wages, so that when
he completed his term, he had a comfortable bank balance. But then he read about my
success, and his nerve failed him; he dithered, afraid I would think he was only interested
because of my fame. The phone call from Jenny, assigning Hamblin Security to the task
of protecting me, was an unexpected stroke of luck.
With every moment in his company, I found myself falling deeper in love with him. At
last I could admit it to myself, now that he was there with me. Maybe it was the wine, but
the sound of his voice was soothing, and his presence, so close after our prolonged
separation, made me feel dreamy. I could see that he was deeply affected, too - his eyes
were constantly on my face, his hands gripped mine as though afraid we would be parted
again, and before long we were locked together in a passionate kiss that could only lead to
one thing.

"What about Leroy, can't he see us?" Oliver asked, anxiously, dragging his lips from
mine and looking towards the glass screen between the front and back of the car.
"Nope, this is all one-way glass," I waved my hand around at the windows and partition.
"We can see out, but no-one can see in. And he can't hear us either, it's soundproofed."
I raised my voice. "You can't hear us, can you, Leroy dear?"
There was a moment's silence, and I was about to resume our embrace, when Leroy's
voice said, hesitantly: "Er, shall I turn off the intercom now, miss?"
I gasped and stared wide-eyed at Oliver, my hand over my mouth. He was shaking with
barely suppressed laughter. Summoning all my self-control, I managed to answer: "Yes
please, dear."
As soon as we heard the 'pop' of the speakers being turned off, we collapsed in
hysterical, alcohol enhanced, tearful giggling, rolling on the seat, hugging each other.
With bodies, arms and legs entangled like that, however, it wasn't long before we began
kissing again. And, though we may have been drunk, we both knew what we were doing,
what we were telling each other.
My heart was thundering in my chest. We snatched what breaths we could without
breaking the kiss. At that moment, I knew I wanted nothing in the world more than to feel
him inside me.

By an effort of will, I eased my lips from his, staring into his eyes, stroking his face with
my fingers, feeling myself being drawn into him, longing to be possessed by him. Then I
pulled away and knelt on the thickly carpeted floor of the car, facing him, my eyes still
locked with his.

Reaching behind me, I ran the zip of my dress down to my waist. He watched,
hypnotized, as I shrugged it from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor around my legs.
My little bra was next; I unhooked it and slipped it off, sliding it down my arms to join
my dress on the floor. Wantonly, I raised my hands to my head and posed, turning a little
left and right.
He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips, and his eyes narrowed in appreciation as
he gazed up and down my body.
In the confined space of the back of a Cadillac, I realised that some gymnastics were
needed to remove the rest of my clothes. I had to half stand, bent at the hips, leaning
across the width of the car, steadying myself with my hands on the window frame, so I
could step from the heap of blue material that had been my dress.
From that position, nearly naked, with my arse in the air, I unexpectedly found myself
face to face with crowds of people waiting to cross the road only a foot away from me. I
gasped, before remembering that they could not see me, and was then shocked to find that
their closeness actually seemed to feed my passion; I felt as though I wanted them to
watch us making love.
Oliver moved from his seat to crouch in the little space that remained on the floor
behind me. I felt his hands sliding up and down my legs, stroking first the outside of one,
then the inside of the other, his breath hot on my bottom.
With a fluid movement, he suddenly slipped his fingers into each side of my knickers,
and eased them down to my thighs. I wriggled a little to help him, and heard his breath
catch at the sight of my naked bum jiggling before his eyes.
Then, grasping my hips with both hands, he pulled me closer and pushed his face
between my legs, so that his mouth was pressed hard against my vulva. I cried out at the
exquisite sensations that flooded through me as he moved his face and lips against me,
nibbling at my labia, pressing his tongue into the wet cleft between.

He released me, and I looked back to see that he was unhooking his belt.
Quickly, I turned and, kneeling again, helped him to remove it, then began undoing the
buttons below, acutely aware of the tightness of the fabric beneath my fingers. His
trousers fell away, and I felt a violent force take control of me when I saw the bulge of his
erection forcing against the thin material of his underpants.

Unable to hold back, I stretched and pulled down his pants and grabbed his manhood as
it sprang forth, holding it lovingly between my hands, stroking it with my fingertips,
feeling it twitch in my hands. I kissed it, licked the shiny head, then opened my mouth and
engulfed it.

I heard him gasp, then sigh, as I slid my tongue over it, savouring the musky saltiness of
it, pushing my face into his groin as I took as much of it as I could into the back of my
throat. I held it there for a long breath, then slid it almost out again, wrapping the fullness
of the head with my lips while I breathed again through my nose.

He took my face between his hands and raised it to his own, kissing my lips and nose.
Then, easing away from me for a moment, he twisted his body so that he was lying on the
carpet, then drew me to him, wrapping his arms about my shoulders like the wings of an
angel. I rested my head on his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he breathed heavily, hearing
his heart beating a frantic rhythm.

His voice, when he spoke, boomed in my ear: "I have to know, my love. Are you sure?"
I raised my head to gaze up at his face, so earnest, so concerned. "Yes, my darling, I
have never been so certain of anything in my life. I love you with all my heart, I want us

To leave him in no doubt, I arched my body and slid over his until I was lying on top of
him, my breasts brushing the coarse hair on his chest, my feet on either side of his legs.
I kissed him hard, then wriggled my hips to capture his cock on the entrance to my
vagina. Holding it like that for a moment, I felt it swell rock hard, pressing against my
opening. I swayed my body a little, each movement easing him a little further inside. My
whole body was screaming with desire, I needed to feel every inch of him tightly inside
me.
I placed my hands on his chest and sat up, all my weight pushing his beautiful prick into
me as far as it would go. His pubic bone pressed against my clitoris and I shuddered with
delight, raising myself a little to press down again, and then again, gasping with the
intensity of the sensations that flooded every part of me. I wriggled, each movement
filling me with fire.
Oliver drew me down to kiss my face. As he did so, and while we were still joined
together, he grabbed my buttocks, pulling my hips tight against his, then rolled us both
over, so that he was on top of me.
He grinned, impishly, then straightened both his arms, so that his torso was raised above
me, and began to slide his cock in and out, each time plunging deeper, then holding still
before withdrawing and repeating the action. Each movement was like a wave bursting
over me, I found I was climbing to a climax. "Oh yes!" I cried. "Oh, my love, yes, yes,
yes." And suddenly, we were grinding at each other, thrashing on the carpet, sweating and
gasping and crying out together. As I reached my orgasm, he thrust into me, and I felt
each pulse as he released his fluids deep inside.

Touring creates a false world, filled with the oddest feelings. There's the nerves before
going on stage. Even though you are used to it all, you still can't quite believe it can keep
going so well, it can so easily fall down around your ears. Many people become
obsessively superstitious, and accumulate all kinds of talismans and routines, afraid to
stop in case they unleash all their worst nightmares.

And then there's the emotional high while you perform to a thousand, or ten thousand,
adoring fans; there is nothing like it. You have them, they love you, want you. Your heart
pounds with a kind of ecstasy. Then, after the encores, you sit in the silence of your
dressing room, with echoes of your performance still resounding in your head, until the
exhaustion catches up with you and you start to shake.

Every show, on and on, day after day, highs and lows, up and down, and up again, and
down again.
That's when I can understand the artists who take drugs ... to relax, to prevent throwing
up from nerves, to get a feeling of creativity when your mind is numb, or just for an
escape. I had always known that the boys in the band smoked hash, I had smelt it in the
bus the first time we travelled together, and had also seen them buying packets of gear
from shady looking characters in expensive cars. And there had been the night on the bus
when I was sickened to find them high on other substances, and having sex with young
girls.
If not for my experiences when Burroughs was pumping me full of stuff, maybe I would
have followed that same road, just as so many other performers have done. In a way, what
happened then had prepared me for this part of my life, though I could never bring myself
to feel thankful. I'm also convinced that, if he had not fed me such a mixture of drugs, if
he had just got me hooked on heroin, for instance, I may never have recovered. Once
drugs have their evil hold on your mind and body, they never let go. There can be only
one outcome.
Without Oliver, I would have hated that tour. I was already disillusioned by the
falseness of the life and the pressures imposed by the people who wanted a piece of me. I
had made up my mind at the end of the last one that I would take a long holiday once my
current obligations were fulfilled.
But this tour was suddenly different; I had my Ollie with me. He was there in the wings
when I performed, in the dressing room with me, in the car with me, and in my bed. It
created a weird dichotomy: two worlds running parallel - the insane, unreal existence of
the pop star, offset by the security of a lover's arms. For a little while, I was happy.

Manchester. I came off the stage, waving to the audience, skipping past the band, who
were still playing the closing bars of the last encore.
Oliver,waiting in the wings as always, took me in his arms and hugged me. Together we
waited while the crowd clapped and cheered. This is where, after two encores, we need to
let them show their appreciation, but start to wind down towards the moment when I
would return to the stage for the last time, and rejoin the boys for our curtain call. The
fans understand, they know the drill as well as we do. It is part of the love affair they have
with me. So I wait, and they clap until their hands are sore, and shout until they are
hoarse.
A stage hand called across from around a partition: "Telephone call for you, Miss
Bellini!"
"I'll be right there," I shouted. "I have to finish."
I turned and ran back on stage, to a surging wave of cheers and applause. Whoever was
ringing would have to wait - the show always comes first.
The band ended the number with chords and a drum-roll, and we left together as the
curtain came down and the compère ran on.
Panting, after two hours energetic performance, I took the phone from the stage-hand.
"Hello, Belinda Bellini," I smiled.
"Yeah," growled a distorted but familiar voice. "I know who you are. You gonna die,
you fuf-fucking cow, and there ain't nothing you or your sus-sus-smart-arse boyfriend can
do about it. In fact, I'm - I'm - fuff-fuckin' gonna kill him too."
There was a click, and the call was cut off. I stood, unable to move, shivering, hearing
the purring sound of the dead line in my ear. Oliver had been in conversation with the
stage manager, but ran over when he saw my face.
"It's Burroughs," I said.
A shocked expression crossed his face. He snatched the phone from me and put it to his
ear.
"He hung up," I added, needlessly.
"What did he say?"
"He said he's going to kill both of us."
With a grim expression on his face, he returned the handset to its cradle on the wallphone, and led me back to my dressing room.