Gimme More (3 page)

‘I'm in a position to help you,' Barry says, smugly. ‘I can put you back on the map, Birdie.'

‘Where I've always longed to be,' I say. ‘Another fifteen minutes of fame.'

‘Don't tell me you didn't love it,' Barry says. ‘You lapped up all the attention. There was a time when you couldn't open a paper or magazine without seeing your own face. Don't tell me you wouldn't want that again.'

‘Even the bad bits?' I say. ‘Besides, that was a different face. Who'd want to see it now?'

‘You'd be surprised,' he says. ‘I'm telling you, everyone's fascinated by the old rock aristocracy. Roots, genealogy – they can't get enough.'

He pauses. He's pitching but he doesn't know how to hook me. I wait, eating tiny particles of food, making his stomach rumble.

‘The episode about Jack's era was a huge success. I got Teddy and Goff – they had some terrific stories. But I wish you'd responded when I tried to find you because there was something missing. In those years – those truly great years – you and Jack were joined at the hip. You were there in all the footage and all the stills. But not in person, not in the where-are-they-now section. The guys were great but …'

‘Music's a very blokish business,' I say. ‘All you need is a couple of guys.'

‘Wouldn't you like to redress the balance?'

‘There isn't a balance.'

He looks at me, he looks at the artichoke. It isn't even half eaten.

‘There's money in it, Birdie,' he says. ‘Money for old rope. I'm making a compilation programme for the anniversary. It's devoted exclusively to Jack. Maximum budget. I can get you top whack.'

‘Not interested,' I say.

‘A memorial,' he says. ‘Aren't you interested in keeping Jack's memory alive?'

‘His memory's very much alive without me making an exhibition of myself for your benefit.'

‘You wouldn't be making an exhibition of yourself,' Barry says. ‘And it'd be for Jack's benefit.'

‘The dead don't need benefits.'

He glares at the artichoke. It's his personal enemy, and so am I. A waiter comes and asks if we're ready for the next course.

‘Yes,' says Barry.

‘No,' I say, because every time I say no, my price goes up, and Barry is becoming twitchy. Two Mr Twitches in one day – how lucky can a girl get?

‘OK, Birdie,' he says, ‘final offer: if appearance money won't do, I can negotiate production fees.'

‘Oh yeah?' I say. ‘What would I have to do for that?'

‘Nothing. Really. You get a credit, more money. No work, no hassle. Just show up. Supply some of the material – for which you'll be paid handsomely – we do the interview …'

‘Material,' I say.

He drags his eyes away from my plate and forces himself to meet my gaze. My eyes should be bland and blue. His aren't. I smile my sweetest smile. His cheek flickers.

‘I told you I talked to Teddy and Goff,' he says. ‘They say the Antigua Movie exists.'

‘Do they now?'

‘Everyone said the Antigua Movie was the biggest myth in rock history. But Teddy and Goff say it's no myth. They say Jack had a crew with 16 mil cameras and they filmed and taped all the sessions. Teddy told me you might have it.'

This, of course, is why I'll sleep at the Savoy tonight. This is why the man who hates me is courting me. It's why he dribbled on me years ago. It isn't me he wants, it's Jack. Creep closer to Jack. Seduce his sidemen. Maybe they'll deliver him into your frigid grasp. Buy him. Own him. Warm your chilly bones. And when you can't do that, Barry, court his chick, his bitch, his widow.

‘Mmm,' I say. ‘Who knows? Jack left me
so
much.'

‘Bitter?' For just a second his cold dislike shows but he looks quickly at my neglected plate. I push it away. I don't need it any more. Barry's cards are on the table. All I needed to make him show his hand so soon was an artichoke.

Now he's relieved. He signals the waiter who removes the artichoke and brings us the second course. With a full plate in
front of him Barry is in control again. Rich as cream, smooth as butter.

He says, ‘OK, Birdie, tell me about it. You two suddenly, for no apparent reason, upped and split to Antigua. After a couple of months, Goff, Teddy and some of the others join you. You've hired some tin-pot Caribbean studio and you put down all the songs and ideas that turned into
Hard Candy
and
Hard Time.
Right?'

‘That's right,' I say. ‘You know all about it. So why bother me?
Hard Candy
exists.
Hard Time
exists. No one's taking them away from you.'

‘They were the end product. Amazing, classic, seminal stuff. Jack's definitive statement. His finest work. But it seems to come out of nowhere.'

‘The magic of rock'n'roll.'

‘The albums aren't the whole story.'

No, Barry, not to you they aren't, not when you're a groupie, the monarch of music nerds – when what
you
want are the out-takes, the between-takes dialogue, the fights, the
gossip –
when you ached so badly to know what it was
really
like to be Jack you tried to fuck his chick and, for one brief spasm, be where he had been.

He says, ‘Jack took the studio tapes to the record company, mainly acoustic stuff, I'm told – like a notebook full of bits and pieces. When the album was finished there was no further use for them. I've been to the record company, I've spent days in their vaults. The guys there say they were lost, cleared out, I don't know. That's what happened in those days. No one had the least idea of the value of what they were throwing away.'

‘They had
no
value,' I say. ‘As you say – a notebook – not Jack's “definitive statement”.'

‘How can you say that, Birdie?'

‘Because I'm not like you, Barry. What the artist wants to give is good enough for me. I don't want what he had to do to make the gift possible. The rough cuts were not what Jack wanted anyone to hear.'

‘Easy for you to say. You were there all the time. You know. You heard. What I'm hoping is that the film of those sessions in Antigua will help fill in the gaps. It would in any case be a valuable social document.'

‘Why?' I ask innocently. ‘The music's important, but a film of
ad hoc
sessions, work in progress, has no value at all.'

He steadies himself with forkfuls of steak and potatoes and says, ‘Excuse me, Birdie, but are you the best judge of what is valuable? I've studied the work and researched it, and written articles on it for years. If I may say so, I'm the one who's, almost single-handedly, kept it alive while tastes changed again and again.'

‘You've done a good job.'

He checks my eyes for sarcasm, but all he sees is bland and blue. ‘Yes,' he says. ‘I have.' He rewards himself with food. ‘OK, Birdie, straight question. Were the sessions filmed? Yes or no?'

‘Yes, you know that already. Goff or Teddy told you.'

‘Then what happened? Where is the film? Was it made?'

‘Sort of,' I say. ‘No, not really.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Look, Barry, it was just a bunch of Berkeley film students we met on a beach. It was just a couple of guys with Eclairs and another guy with a Nagra. We were all bumming around, having a good time.'

‘But they were there, damn it, with film in their cameras, at the Antigua sessions. What happened to the film?'

‘They took it back to the States to be developed and edited.'

‘Who were they, Birdie?'

‘I can't remember the names. It was years ago. We spent a load of time stoned, with people drifting in and out. What did Goff and Teddy say?'

‘They didn't even remember Berkeley. I suppose that's something at least.'

‘Why?'

‘To help me track it down.'

‘What?'

‘Jesus, Birdie, haven't you been listening? The film, the film, the film.'

I pause for a moment before my precision bombing raid. I say, ‘But Barry there was no film. All that happened was that these guys stung Jack for a heavy slice of bread for materials and time and what they produced was crap. He'd lost interest by that time, anyway. People were always trying to rip him off.'

I sit back and watch the explosion in Barry's head.

‘Produced?' he says. Sweat pops out of his face like bubbles from a baby's mouth. ‘You say they actually produced something. You've seen it? Jack saw it?'

‘Of course. Jack paid for it, didn't he?'

‘What did you see, what did Jack get for his money?'

‘Three hours of this and that in three big film cans.'

‘Three
hours?
' Barry is dribbling again. It makes me quite nostalgic.

‘And all the raw stuff they didn't use. Half a roomful of cans and boxes. I'd no idea it'd take up so much space. We tiptoed around it for days before Jack took it all out to the garden and burnt it.'

Barry's face collapses. ‘Jack burnt it?' he whispers.

‘Of course,' I say. ‘It wasn't just that he'd paid for it. He wanted it so that he could destroy it. By that time, people were already taking things, souvenirs, whatever, just to say they had something of Jack's.'

Barry's collapsed face stains red and I wonder what
he
took. I say, ‘It was freaking him out. He had dreams about little pieces of himself being cut off and bleeding away. He wanted to see a shrink but he couldn't trust anyone. So he sort of destroyed the evidence. It was, like, if he had nothing, no one could steal it.'

‘So
he
destroyed the film?'

Didn't I tell you? It's no use explaining anything to Barry – he has no understanding whatsoever. I sigh and get on with my job.

‘He burnt all the stuff that wasn't used.'

Hope flares like a distress beacon. ‘And the three hours?' he croaks.

‘Oh, he kept that under the bed,' I say airily. ‘He wasn't
completely
paranoid till a few months later.'

I love messing with Barry's head. It renders him so powerless that he can't ask the next question. He has even forgotten to chew.

I say, ‘Look, Barry, I don't know what you want me to say. When Jack died the vultures descended. Nearly everything that wasn't burnt was stolen, even his music rights. I rescued what I could, but it wasn't much.'

‘The film?' he croaks.

‘Maybe,' I say.

‘Maybe?'

‘I never looked,' I say. ‘There's stuff I haven't looked at for years. Life goes on.'

Yours
did, he wants to say. You went off with the next brightest star as if Jack never existed. He wants to say that as far as he's concerned, I am one of the vultures. Oh he really wants to say it. Poor puppy. I smile at him. He's coming to loathe my sweet smile.

He controls himself. ‘So you might have it somewhere?'

‘Don't know. Possible.'

‘Where?'

‘Oh there's stuff all over the place.'

‘Can I look?' he says.

‘Certainly not,' I say. ‘Anyway, it's probably not in England.'

‘Not …?'

‘No. Look, Barry, I'm tired – I've been travelling all day. And as I'm only spending one night in London I want to get up early tomorrow. There are people I want to see before I leave.'

‘But you can't leave,' he says. ‘Nothing's settled.'

‘That's your problem. You've been badgering me to come and talk to you. I came and talked. Now I want to go home.'

‘I don't even know where you live. How can I get in touch?' He is almost wailing. ‘You haven't finished dinner yet. You haven't heard my proposition.'

‘Yes I have – you said “final offer” when you were talking about production fees. And the food's cold.' I reach for my handbag. There's something emblematic about a woman reaching for her bag. It frightens Barry to death.

‘Wait,' he says. ‘I didn't mean
final
final offer. Birdie, sit down, will you, please?'

I sit down again, sideways on the edge of my chair, where he has an intimidating view of my legs and the fuck-off shoes. Long legs, S-M shoes, ready to walk, Barry, out of here or all over you. Your choice.

‘When I said, “final offer”, Birdie, I just meant the programme budget. It's the
programme
which has a limited budget, Birdie,
I
don't. If that film exists, the sky's the limit as far as I'm concerned.'

‘Lawd, lawd, lawdie,' I say. ‘I had no idea …'

‘You could buy a fair few frocks and take a couple of luxury cruises on what I have to offer – if the film exists.'

‘Tempting,' I say. ‘But I'd have to take a few cruises to find the damn thing first. It could be anywhere. For instance, after Jack died, Mick Jagger lent me an island and I left stuff there. And then I was in LA and I left stuff there too. And, who was it? – I don't remember – but he had a big house on Paxos, or was it Naxos? I got around. You know that.'

He knows that. Everyone knew about it. The paparazzi chased me all around the world – Birdie in full flight – and told everyone all about everything.

I say, ‘And I'm not going to re-run that trip just to suit you, Barry.'

‘Lent you an island?' Barry is appalled and impaled, as usual, on a superstar.

‘Don't you believe me?' I say. ‘Well, darling, you know all the old faces. Ring him up and ask him to look for your film. Maybe
he
can afford the time and trouble. I can't.'

There – message delivered, loud and clear. It reaches Barry and he sits staring at me with embarrassment, greed and social intimidation leaking from his forehead and upper lip. He's wondering why, after all these years, he still can't afford me. He should have me over a barrel: I'm an ageing broad and everyone knows they mean less than nothing. He's offered me biscuit and a little media attention, so I should be licking his hand and wagging my tail. Age should have softened me and made me malleable.