Gimme More (27 page)

Avoidance meant dancing rather more often than he'd intended – which pleased Grace inordinately. Her pleasure was irritating, and worrying in case Mr Freel thought he was a lightweight who couldn't keep his mind on the job. But he didn't have a choice.

Birdie, unnaturally it seemed to Alec, was keeping company with Mr Freel and the bunch of guys who were clearly his subordinates. They were all easily distinguishable from the club crowd and, obviously, that was the way they wanted it. They were not there to have a good time. This was work.

Alec couldn't think of a way to signal to Mr Freel that he was working too. The best he could do was to be unobtrusive. It was annoying. He wanted to be closer to the action. How could he shine and be unobtrusive at the same time? Not by dancing with Grace, that was for sure. Dancing with Grace defeated both objects. He tried to look cool, but her bounce and zest called for some sort of response, and he began to feel disconnected.

What kept him going was Birdie's amused encouraging smile which he caught every now and then when he felt he was flagging.
‘Keep at it,' her smile said, ‘you're doing fine.' The problem was, he was forced to admit, that as she didn't know
what
he was doing she couldn't know whether he was doing it fine or not. All the same, he felt he had her approval.

She could, it seemed, move with ease between her family, the band and the company men. With Mr Freel she appeared to be polite but distant. She doesn't know he hates her, Alec thought once, standing on the edge of the crush at the bar, waiting to be served. The thought surprised him because, of course, Mr Freel didn't hate her. He only wanted something she was unwilling to hand over. Mr Stears was the one who hated her.

The music pounded into him like a jack-hammer, making him light-headed and glad he'd decided early on to go easy on the booze. He wished he could hear what Mr Freel was saying to the guy who'd pushed his way through the crowd to deliver a note. Mr Freel read the note, folded it and slipped it into his inside pocket. He leaned towards Birdie. Birdie nodded slowly.

‘Isn't this great?' Grace said, taking a drink from his glass. ‘Let's dance.'

But Birdie appeared in front of them holding out the Volvo keys.

‘Aren't you staying to the end?' Grace said, disappointed.

‘I've got to talk to some people. Will you be all right on your own?'

‘Don't worry,' Alec said. ‘I'll look after her.' He wanted to add, Unless there's something better I can do to help
you.
But he didn't.

‘Isn't he perfect?' Birdie asked Grace. She gave Alec the keys.

A few minutes later he saw Mr Freel escort her through the club and Alec suddenly felt left behind. Mr Freel's hand was on her elbow, urging her forward, and she looked small, almost fragile, beside him. Not a fair contest, he thought, unexpectedly. And with a pang, he realised that Mr Freel, with his height, tailoring and power, might charm, bludgeon, cajole Birdie into co-operating with him. Then he wouldn't need Alec any more, and Alec would be demoted back to office gofer at Memo Movies.

‘Dance?' Grace shouted over the din. But now there was no one to watch, no one to avoid and no one to approve or disapprove,
and dancing lost its point. After a while he feigned a twisted knee, and after that, there was no reason to stay.

‘Are you OK?' Grace asked, a lot later.

‘A bit tired.'

‘Is the knee still hurting?'

‘A bit,' he said and remembered to limp as he left her bed and went back to Jimmy's room.

He wedged his door ajar so that he could listen for Birdie's key in the lock. Maybe he could meet her on the stairs and suggest a nightcap. But the hours slid away and she didn't come home.

What the hell is she doing? he thought. She said she was going to talk to some people, but nobody talks all night. He could still see her walking away with Mr Freel – Mr Freel urging her, Birdie small and reluctant. I'm sure she didn't want to go, he thought. Leave her alone, Mr Freel, she doesn't want to go and you're upsetting my game-plan. She doesn't trust you. She doesn't even like you. I can tell. She never smiled at you once. You'll come on too strong. I know how to handle her. You don't.

The worst thing about that night was that he could sense the juice draining out of him. He was slowly being expelled from the zone – left unprotected outside the palace gate. What he realised, as the time dragged by, was that he was vulnerable.

He lay, scratchy-eyed, his ears ringing with the tinnitus that comes from dancing too close to big speakers, and realised that he'd invested too much in her. Birdie was way more vivid in his mind than Grace. Grace was Birdie's shadow, her echo. The correspondence on the Net, the sassyness and invention, was a correspondence with Birdie through the medium of Grace – Grace's mimicry of Birdie's style. As soon as he met the original, Grace receded. The most vivid thing about Grace had been the correspondence. Grace in person was only Birdie's niece.

But that was what was supposed to happen, he told himself, get to Grace through Jack; get to Birdie through Grace; get back to Jack through Birdie. Circle complete. Game over. But something got distorted. It wasn't a clean simple circle any more. Maybe it never was. He should have added a tangent: get to Mr Freel through Jack; get the pretty office, the Wurlitzer, the Beamer
through Mr Freel. But only if Mr Freel doesn't take over and award all the prizes to himself.

Insomnia was not in the game-plan. Anger, anxiety and bewilderment weren't either. Feelings were a pain in the arse. Alec saw them as blocks, chasms, snipers and hidden explosives on his screen. His game hero was weakened and in danger.

Shut down, he thought. But instead he waited all night for the sound of a middle-aged woman's feet on the stairs, and it didn't come.

‘What's up?' asked Grace, clear-eyed, glossy-haired. ‘You look dreadful.' She plunked a bowl of muesli in front of him.

‘Why, thank you,' he said. ‘You look enchantingly dreadful yourself.' But banter took too much out of him. He hadn't the heart for it.

‘He's all worn out,' Grace explained to her mother. ‘He's a maniac dancer but he just can't take the Grace pace.'

‘Where's Lin?' Mrs Emerson asked.

‘Didn't she come home?' Grace said. ‘Dirty stop-out. These old people, staying out all night, worrying their children …'

She was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

‘Lin?' Mrs Emerson called.

‘Can't stop, sweetie,' Birdie called back. ‘Got to shower, change and be gone.'

‘At least have some breakfast.'

‘No time.' Birdie's voice floated down from the top of the stairs. Doors opened and closed, water gushed and twenty minutes later she vanished again without Alec seeing her.

‘She'll wear herself out,' Mrs Emerson sighed. And then with unusual vehemence she said, ‘Sometimes I really hate rock'n'roll.'

‘What do you mean?' Alec asked.

‘I don't know,' Mrs Emerson said more vaguely. ‘The way it builds you up and up till there's nothing left to do but crash. The way everything happens at night … I don't know. How does she think she can survive if she stays up all night with one of her bands and then rushes off to an interview in the morning?'

‘Has Auntie Lin got another interview?' Grace asked.

‘I think so.'

‘You can't expect her to give up the music, Mum. She wouldn't be Lin if she didn't racket around at night. Can you
really
see her with a normal nine-to-fiver?'

‘She'd be safer.'

‘Give it up, Mum,' Grace said. ‘Besides, she's my role model whenever I think of growing old disgracefully.'

‘You don't know what you're talking about,' Mrs Emerson said. ‘And I hope you never do.' She got up and drifted out of the room, leaving Grace biting her lip.

‘Me and my mouth,' Grace said.

‘Why?' Alec asked.

‘Because Mum thinks Auntie Lin's one of the tragic casualties of the rock'n'roll holocaust. Whereas I think she's a survivor.'

‘I thought you said she was traumatised.'

‘Of course. Aren't we all?'

Alec couldn't disagree with her that morning. So unaccustomed was he to fatigue that he placed himself in the front rank of the traumatised hoard. But after breakfast he went back to bed and slept till lunch.

In the afternoon, feeling better, he began to compose a communication to Mr Freel.

‘To Mr Freel,' he wrote. ‘The subject has, since I last wrote, been in touch with – 1: BBC. 2:
Mojo
Magazine. 3: Virgin Records. 4: Mr Ireland at your own company. 5: Sheeney Tele-Cine. 6: Inland Revenue. 7: Paul and Dahl Hair Salon …'

Grace swung the door open. ‘What're you doing? Let's go out.'

‘Where?'

‘Anywhere. Who're you writing to?'

‘Just a friend.' Alec closed his laptop.

‘You've got
friends?'
She stroked his hair and slid her hand under his shirt. ‘What on earth do they see in you?'

‘Rat!' he said, grabbing her hand.

Insults and terms of endearment: Alec was grateful, and congratulated himself on the interchangeability of the two. There was no commitment implied in calling someone a rat. If it was interpreted as affectionate no blame could be attached to him. Between him and Grace lay a shallow, frothy layer of jokes, puns
and innuendo. It was what they floated on. Underneath, he felt, was nothing at all.

Birdie blew in at dinner time but before she'd settled down there was a phonecall from a film company called Median Films. Alec knew about Median – it wasn't as big a company as Memo Movies, but it was a competitor. The call upset Birdie.

At first, Alec was glad because it meant that if Median was making a film about Jack too, and Birdie was upset, she wouldn't co-operate with them. But it made him aware of the urgency of his mission.

Then, she explained for the first time why she was so allergic to media attention. And for the first time, Alec understood that what seemed to Mr Freel and Mr Stears like a dog-in-the-manger attitude was self-protection.

The conversation, unlike most of the conversations at that kitchen table, was serious. And, suddenly, Alec felt the force of all three women ranged against him. Even Grace let him down. She, who had previously advocated the healing power of talking, turned tail and left him on his own – left him with a serious enquiry on his hands and what should have been her lines in his mouth: ‘Wouldn't you feel better if you put the record straight, if you talked to a sympathetic friend?'

And Birdie turned him down flat. If rejection wasn't bad enough, she made him feel that even his offer was wounding.

He'd been pushed into showing his hand too early by Mr Freel's interference and Median Film's intrusion. The result was appalling: Birdie cried. Tears hung suspended from her long lashes, and he had to look away because he didn't want to see them fall. That was what happened when you got serious – you left yourself open to attack. Tears were sharp, raking weapons to be avoided if at all possible.

‘Oh, don't worry,' Grace said. ‘She'll come round. She's tired, that's all. She didn't get any sleep last night, remember.'

He took refuge in the acid froth of their exchanges but later, when she went down to watch TV, he stayed in her room to finish his letter to Mr Freel.

How do you tell the Big Boss-man to butt out? ‘I do think,' he
wrote, ‘in view of the subject's reaction to Median Film's approach (tape to follow), that anything that might be interpreted as intrusion or digging should be discouraged. It only serves to harden her attitude …' He was rather proud of that. It took him a long time to compose, but it sounded sophisticated and respectful while saying, ‘Fuck off, you're ruining my game.'

Again, he didn't have time to finish. Grace said, ‘Still at it? Well, you'll be happy to know that Lin went to sleep in her chair. It might be because what's on telly's so boring, but I think, personally, it's because tears are cathartic.'

Junior Moline sits like Buddha at the sound desk. On his right is a young beach bum with a lot of talent and attitude. On his left is The Widow Oats. Change focus and you'll see what they see: the band – Jack, Teddy and Wills, all with acoustic guitars – are sitting on the floor, working something out. Goffis tucked away behind a barricade of cardboard boxes to stop the drum sounds bleeding on to everyone else's tracks. A few more beach bums are building another baffle. What for? I can't remember. Over against the peeling back wall is an upright piano. Jack's blonde chick has her back to everyone and she's playing the piano but you can't hear her. All the mikes are in the middle with the boys. The electrical gear – guitars, amps, etc. – is strung together like charms on a giant black cable bracelet.

It's
ad hoc,
it's messy. It's like a nursery school with all the toys on the floor. Lyric sheets flutter and fall whenever anyone walks by.

Everyone, it seems, is playing trains. They're stoking the engine, building up steam to drive the sixteen-beats-to-a-bar locomotive rhythm which propels the title song, ‘Hard Candy' – uh
huh
huh-hunh … Heads nod, feet pedal, knees pump, sweat rolls.

It's hot in there. The boys are stripped to the waist. The blonde chick's Indian shirt clings to her back.

Pull focus again and you see the way Junior's shorts cut into his meaty thighs. The beach bum's frayed cut-offs sag low on his narrow hips. The Widow's bikini top supports nothing. It clings perilously to the unbelievable cantilever of her astonishing bosom – crimson on bronze. A tiny gold cross winks slyly, heliography from the foothills.

She calls herself Stella Splendens. The blonde chick calls her Offences Against The Senses – Oats for short. Her perfume is too heavy, her make-up too thick, her colours too strong, her voice too brassy, her breasts way too improbable. She strikes me, even now from light years' distance, more as a billboard than a woman. Constructed like a mantrap by the roadside.