All to Play For (9 page)

Rex had discovered Geordie on the comedy circuit. That is to say, after Geordie had spent seven years working up his act and legging it round any club that would book him, Rex turned up in an established venue one night and decide that Geordie’s act would work in his daytime television show.

Geordie’s real name was Neil Armstrong. While this had afforded him a slight celebrity at school, it was not really useful to a comedian. As the Durham-born son of a vicar he had preferred to adopt a comic persona onstage, and had slipped comfortably into the character of an eager geordie, stubborn but naïve, friendly but ready to react at the first sign of trouble. The accent came easily to him, and he developed standard geordie remarks into swooping musical catchphrases. He was careful not to go too far; he had no wish at all to ever run into a bunch of tanked-up geordie lads who thought he was taking the piss out of them. Offstage his true personality was quieter, his humour ironic, and he spoke with a gentle Durham accent, although Rex liked him to wear Geordie Boy’s clothes and regarded him as walking publicity for the show. He would try to provoke him to behave outrageously, to exaggerate his homosexuality and become a full-blown queen, but Geordie resented this and rarely rose to the bait.

Geordie had very mixed feelings about Rex. He quite liked him, basically; he was grateful for the break, and found Rex honest to the extent that what you saw was what you got. Rex was the son of a Hackney market trader, and it showed in every inch of him. He wasn’t the most sensitive man in the world, and had often trampled on Geordie’s feelings, sometimes deliberately. ‘Come on son, toughen up!’ he would say, jabbing punches at Geordie’s shoulder. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child. You’ll never survive in show business unless your skin’s as thick as a deep-sea wetsuit. If you’ve got it, flaunt it! Sell yourself!’ Geordie chose not to argue, and tried to comply with his boss’ demands, but behind Geordie’s mask Neil was storing up resentment, drop by drop. Tonight, however, he would do it all Rex’s way.

They had come to The Ivy precisely so that they could be seen celebrating. Rex wanted the entertainment world to know that Magenta was now on the map. Tonight he was playing it cool for a change. Instead of working the restaurant, stopping off to shake hands on his way to the gents, politely introducing himself to people he thought might be useful contacts, he stayed in his chair and graciously received congratulations from people who pretended to incidentally walk past him.

As Rex accepted compliments from the new ITV Network Centre Head of Daytime Broadcasting and promised to have lunch with him soon, he winked at Nicky. As the man walked away, he leaned over and whispered in his protégé’s ear, “See that? They’re queuing up to give us a blow job, now!”

Nicky grinned broadly. Rex was amazing. He never lost his self-control. He showed the same cheerful bonhomie to everyone he met, looked them squarely in the eye and listened intently to whatever they had to say. As a result he had no enemies so far. Some people thought him a barrow boy, but ITV was built on entertaining the working class, and there was no stigma attached. In the main Rex was well-liked. He was good company, he made a good show, and he was doing well for himself. He was very happy with this state of affairs, but Rex had no real friendship for anyone in the business who was not part of Magenta; he was a self-made man, possessed no old school tie, and hadn’t spent long enough in the industry to build enduring friendships. He envied other men these allies, but he didn’t grieve over what could never be. Instead, he would privately undercut them, distancing them with a joke.

“I dunno,” sighed Rex with satisfaction, “them bastards have made my soup go cold.” He slurped a few spoonfuls and abandoned it. “Oh well, I never liked asparagus anyway.”

“Why choose it then?” asked Nicky.

“They all taste the same to me, you can’t get my favourite here.”

“Let me guess, chicken soup with dumplings?”

“I know,” cried Geordie. “Pea and ham!”

“No no,” Haris shook his head confidently. “It’s Heinz Cream of Tomato.”

“Absolutely right, that’s why we’re partners,” Rex told the younger men. “Knowing each other well enough to know what he’d say about anything. Worth a fortune, that is. Trust.”

As he made his point Rex glanced paternally at Nicky and Geordie, and discovered something he had suspected for some time. He filed the information mentally and continued talking without hesitation. “What’s the first rule of business, Nicky?”

“Buy cheap, sell dear.”

“Good boy. That’s how my old man ran his fruit and veg stall, and it’s just as true if you’re selling massage or telly programmes.”

“Massage?” asked Geordie.

“That’s how I got started, mate. Didn’t fancy getting up at dawn to juggle fruit and shout me lungs hoarse. So I trained as a masseur.”

Geordie smirked. “Bet your old man liked that idea.”

“Not much, as it goes,” admitted Rex. “He was scared shitless I’d turn out to be a pansy. Eventually I was able to reassure him on all fronts. Within two years of finishing my training I was married with a kid and earning three times as much as him.”

“How did you pull that off?”

“Who wants a massage most? People with stressful jobs – people who earn shitloads of money. So first off I change me name. Reggie was too East End. Rex is Mayfair. Then I built meself a celebrity client list. Low overheads – a car, a portable table – and I charged them the earth. They was glad to pay it: a top class massage, wherever and whenever they wanted it. See? – Don’t take your jacket off, son.”

Geordie was uncomfortably hot in the packed restaurant, but he clenched his teeth and kept it on. “Buy cheap, sell dear makes sense,” he frowned, “but surely it’s a bit more complicated in a creative industry?”

“You know what?” said Rex, draining his wine glass and banging it dramatically on the table, “It’s exactly the same.”

He smiled happily and leaned back in his chair as a discreet waiter began clearing their starters away. “We’ll have another bottle of that, please mate,” he said, waving vaguely at the empty claret bottle. “Whatever it is.”

An hour or so later Rex and Nicky stood side by side at the urinals in the lavishly appointed gents.

“You like our Geordie Boy, don’t you son?” mumbled Rex in Nicky’s ear.

“Eh?” replied Nicky in surprise.

“I can see you like him. And he’s been daft about you since he clapped eyes on you, anyone could see that and all.”

“I’m not gay, Rex!”

“I never said you was. I said I can see you like him. There’s nothing wrong in that, son. I’ve tried it meself.”

Nicky shot him an astonished look and zipped up.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?” Rex guffawed, and watched through the mirror as Ted Danson came out of a cubicle and went to wash his hands. Rex finished peeing and went to the adjacent wash basin, nodding pleasantly through the mirror to the star.

“Alright, mate?”

“Sure.” Ted looked momentarily troubled, as if he feared a conversation were brewing, but Rex gave him a wink as if to say, don’t worry, you’re safe, and Ted smiled as he left the room, “Cheers, buddy.”

Rex beamed at Nicky. “See that? I got Ted Danson to say
Cheers
to me! Now if I’d noticed he was in the restaurant I would have bet you a pony that I could do that, and I’d have won!”

“You’re pissed.” Nicky was nervous. “What was you on about just now?”

“Calm down, son,” Rex patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, no-one’s gossiping about you. You’re like a son to me, I care about you, and I don’t like to see you hung up about this thing. Girls are one thing, boys are another.” Rex stretched out his hands and weighed them against each other as if comparing two melons. “Now, I know that back in the wildwoods beyond the Mile End Road one is kosher and the other is definitely not, but here in sophisticated Soho no-one gives a flying fuck. Boys like having fun together. So why not enjoy yourself? That’s all I’m saying. It’s entirely up to you.” He walked to the door and turned, his hand on the knob. “Tell you what, though. If you can get Geordie to sign up for the next two years on the same deal he’s had up to now, you can produce the new show.”

Nicky gasped. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Come on then, or they’ll think we’re playing hide the sausage in here.”

Nicky was too stunned to speak. Either Rex was a lot cleverer than he had realised, or Nicky’s carefully constructed image was not nearly as watertight as he had imagined. Either way, it made him rigid with insecurity. He kept his eyes low, afraid that they revealed his every thought. His feelings swirled. He wasn’t gay. He had girlfriends. He’d never fallen in love yet, and he hadn’t the least desire to settle down with anyone, ever. He had broken away from his family not long after starting at Magenta. He had no idea what the future held, only that it wouldn’t include anything from his past. He had tried to re-invent himself, starting with a blank canvas, and he had thought himself a huge success at this. He had become a bright, hard-working trainee media entrepreneur: reliable, capable, keen. He soaked up all Rex’s experience and he wanted, eventually, to exceed Rex’s achievements. He didn’t know how, or even what kind of programmes he would make, that wasn’t important. He didn’t have any kind of master plan, although he wondered sometimes whether Rex did. Perhaps one day he would be inducted into that ultimate mystery. For the time being, he was content to serve his time. He was still too young to feel confident about striking out on his own.

He could trust Rex. He knew that for certain. Maybe he should listen to Rex’s well-meant advice on his private life too. He did fancy Geordie, it was true. He didn’t want to. He wished the feelings he had for Geordie could be re-directed towards Melanie, the pretty girl he had been going out with for nearly six months. It had never developed beyond a casual relationship because he had never got beyond liking her quite a lot.

He was afraid of starting something with Geordie that might get out of control. He didn’t know where it would lead. He didn’t want to be a queer, to join the gay community, to camp around. He hated all that. He wanted to be masculine, strong. But he would like to screw Geordie. He was there for the taking, and had been ever since Nicky joined the company. Nicky had behaved from the start as if there were no possibility whatever of sexual contact, and Geordie had respected this; he had given up years ago, resigning himself to admiring Nicky from afar, employing the patient self-denial his church upbringing had given him. Nicky was confident Geordie would never turn him down.

And he could be producing the new show in a matter of weeks! That would surely make him one of the youngest producers ever. He thought he could pull it off successfully if Rex was around to help out when he hit problems. He could have it all. Rex was handing it to him on a plate. He felt poised to emerge from his chrysalis, not even sure what his wings would be like, but sensing them folded tight against his back, capable of carrying him up in the sunlight so he could reveal their dazzling colours to the world. It was a heady feeling. He liked it. He would go with it. Carefully.

“Anyone care to join me at the casino?” enquired Rex as he handed the waiter his credit card. Haris excused himself, but Nicky accepted.

“Love to, Rex. You’ll come, won’t you Geordie? Go on, it’s fun. I’ll show you what to do.” Nicky smiled winsomely into Geordie’s eyes, and made him feel wanted – the party wouldn’t be complete without him.

“Alright, why not, eh? Don’t let me lose me wages though, will you?”

“Don’t worry son. We’ll take care of you,” growled Rex, patting him on the back as they left the restaurant.

Outside, Haris went off to the multi-storey car park to pick up his Volvo, and the rest hailed a taxi. The Soho streets were shiny black and busy with jostling people interested only in their own pursuit of pleasure. As the cab pulled over to them Nicky pondered how he would tackle Geordie. The cabbie leaned over and asked. “Where to, guv?” and Nicky shrank behind Rex. He knew the driver. He climbed into the back seat trying to conceal his face, but couldn’t resist a glance forward to see if the man had recognised him too. The cabbie wore a puzzled expression, as if he thought he knew Nicky, but wasn’t quite sure.

It was Walter, ex-colleague of Nicky’s father Les, one of the four men suspended from the Ilford police force for corruption. Les and the other two were currently on trial at the Old Bailey, but Walter had escaped prosecution by taking early retirement. He had forfeited part of his pension, and become a part-time cabbie. Nicky knew this from his mother, whom he spoke to occasionally on the phone. She longed for him to visit, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and live the lie. She occupied a fantasy world in which Les was a wrongly accused hero who would eventually be proved innocent, like an old Gregory Peck movie. Nicky intended to go and see her when Les was convicted. She would need support then, once she knew the awful truth. He had decided this four years ago, not realising how long it could take for a case to come to court.

They soon arrived at the casino in Mayfair, but Nicky failed to escape Walter’s attention when they got out.

“Nicky Mason! Thought it was you. How’s the old man bearing up?” Walter’s confident booming voice alerted all three men.

Nicky pretended to see him for the first time. “Walter, is that you? Good heavens. How are you?”

“Mustn’t grumble. Is Les doing alright? How’s your mum coping?”

Nicky fought a rising panic. “They’re fine, fine. You know. It’s not easy. Nice to see you, Walter. Got to go.” Nicky’s ears were burning and he desperately searched for an explanation he could pass off on Rex and Geordie. He hoped that Walter would at least be discreet enough not to mention the trial.

“I hear on the grapevine that the trial’s going very well. Very well indeed, if you get my drift. Tell your mum not to worry. Your dad’s gonna be alright. Tell her I told you.”

Nicky took a deep breath. “Okay Walter. Good night.”

“Night, son. Good to see you. It’s been a long time. Glad to see you’re doing well for yourself.”