Gimme More (39 page)

Maybe you can't bridge the gap between art and money. Maybe you can't ever sell what's precious to you without feeling like shit.

Ah fuck it, I think. We've been here before. If you feel like a slut, make ‘em pay through the nose. We all sell whatever we've got to sell – skill, muscle, time, sex. We don't have to respect the buyer, but we've all got to eat. Jack wasn't pure. Only his voice was pure.

Sasson comes over to where I'm standing, contemplating the
cleanliness of clouds. He lays his arm around my shoulders and says, ‘Well, well, Birdie dear, you
did
have something to sell, didn't you? That was the real McCoy. Very good quality for cassette tape. But you do have the masters, don't you?'

‘Of course.'

‘I won't ask you where you found them.'

‘No. Pointless.'

‘But if there's any more …'

‘It's never enough, is it, Sasson?' I shake off his arm and turn to face him. ‘What more do you want?'

‘Nothing,' he says quickly. ‘Really, Birdie, nothing more. It's just that I didn't know anything about these songs. They aren't leftovers or make-weights. They're fresh and whole and alive.'

‘Unlike the poor singerman,' I say. ‘You don't have to sell them to me, Sasson. I'm selling them to you.'

‘And I'm ready to sign,' he says. ‘I don't mind telling you, Birdie, a couple of days ago I thought your agents were pushing too hard. But now I'm not so sure.'

Nash calls out from his side of the table, ‘Are there cue-sheets?'

I say, ‘Yes. I'll give them to Sasson with the masters.'

‘I'd like to see them now,' he says waspishly.

‘No can do,' I say. ‘Besides, the music deal's with Dog.'

‘Who do you think owns Dog?'

‘I think you own the whole world, Nash, but you'll get the cue-sheets when you get the masters.'

My savvy lawyer butts in to remind Nash of the payment schedule: front money first, contract second, materials third. But Nash silences him. ‘When were these songs written, Birdie? Before
Hard Candy,
after
Hard Time?'

‘Before, during and after,' I say vaguely.

‘Aren't there any production notes?'

‘There wasn't a producer, Nash. Just us. We didn't make notes. We didn't write a diary. And before you ask, there aren't any handwritten, dated, lyric sheets either. I made the cue-sheets when I transferred the masters to cassette.'

‘And when was that?'

‘After I found the masters. What's the matter, Nash? Are you afraid I'm holding out on you?'

He looks up at me like a worried gnome who's about to burst into tears. ‘I don't know, Birdie. You never tell me anything.'

Sasson says, ‘Shall we move on? We should take a look at the visuals now.'

Blinds are drawn, lights are dimmed, and I am denied the consolation of clouds. But I'm less in need of consolation for visual images. Images of young Jack and Birdie do not move me with anything like the force that Jack's voice does. I am hardened against pictures of myself, and pictures, in any case, have less power over me than music does. I'd give you my eyes to save my ears any day.

Pretty people in pretty places – so what? Picture postcards. Flick through, see Jack walk and talk. Amazing, huh?

Around the boardroom table the grey nation watches Jack turn his head to look out to sea, and yes, it's such a pretty profile. There's sun on his face and wind in his hair. Good ol' Jack – for ever young and beautiful – one of the world's most marketable men. He had it all in an age which wants it all. The singer's a genius: fine, yawn. The singer's a beautiful young genius with a lop-sided sexy smile: who-yeah,
now
we're cookin'. Video did indeed kill the radio star. It gave birth to a whole generation who could only listen with their eyes.

The Memo Movie team are all leaning forward, watching intently, and again I'm surprised that Barry is absent. This was what he wanted. Sasson at the head of the table is taking notes. Nash, who has seen some of this before, is watching me.

I go back to my seat between George and the savvy lawyer. George whispers, ‘How're you holding up?'

‘OK,' I say. ‘I wish it were over.'

The savvy lawyer says, ‘Don't worry, everything's fine. We've covered all the bases.'

From across the table Nash's reptile eyes blink slowly and my hand, in response, closes tightly round the audio cassette. He will have recorded my recording – of course he will – in spite of the veto my lawyers put on copying. But a copy of a copy won't help him much. It will just join his collection of stolen property.

Soon, the lights are switched on and refreshments are brought in. There's tea and coffee, sweet and savoury nibbles. I notice, on the bottom tray of the caterers' trolley, ice buckets with bottles of a very good champagne in them. All you can eat and free champagne, just sign on the dotted line.

The Memo Movies men bat me questions about film stock, format and the condition of the materials. My savvy lawyer and his honest but inexperienced colleague field them. One of Nash's representatives asks for and receives a handful of photos. He asks if negatives are available. They are. My savvy lawyer shows them. He collects the video from the machine, he brings the photographs back to our side of the table. The small hoard still belongs to me. So far I have signed nothing away.

The lawyers buzz around in circles comparing amendments, inclusions and deletions, shaking crumbs off the contracts. We are almost ready.

Sasson says, ‘I suggest we begin with the music.'

Everyone shuffles back to their places. Sasson is straining at his tether and chivvying.

I whisper to the savvy lawyer and he raises his hand. ‘My client would like to begin with her agreement with Mr Zalisky.'

‘Birdie,
please,'
Sasson says impatiently. ‘Surely the music is at the top of the list.'

I shake my head and my savvy suave lawyer digs his heels in. Birdie is being capricious again. She won't budge.

Nash turns the pages of his copy of the contract as if he's never seen one before in his life. It's as if the decaying little boy is rummaging through birthday wrapping paper, searching for a present he might have missed.

‘Nash?' Sasson says. ‘Would you mind kicking off?'

Nash hands the contract to one of his lawyers to tidy. He looks at Sasson and me. The lawyer shows him where to sign and hands him a pen.

He puts the pen to the paper and waits for me to do the same. As I start to write he puts the pen down and sits back in his chair. His expression is sulky and dissatisfied. He says, ‘I don't know. I'm still not sure.'

Sasson turns his impatience on Nash. ‘What aren't you sure of, Nash? We've heard the tracks. Everything is as Birdie said it would be. Now, please, may we get on?'

‘Oh, well, yes,' Nash says uncertainly. ‘The tracks. Magnificent, of course, but I keep asking myself, are we contracting ourselves to the wrong party?'

‘What on earth … ?' says my savvy lawyer. ‘We've spent hours, days, establishing title.'

‘Nash,' Sasson says warningly, ‘you gave me your word.'

‘Well, I suppose I did.' Nash dithers with pen and contract. Then he drops the pen again. ‘It's no good,' he whines, ‘I can't quite bring myself to do it. I'm sorry, Sasson, but what if Barry's right? Wouldn't we feel just awful if we signed this extortionate deal with Birdie when we should be signing with Jack?'

A thick silent fog drops on the room. People peer at each other, eyebrows raised. They look at me.

Sasson says, ‘This is absurd. Birdie, I'm so sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen. Barry thinks Jack is still alive. He's gone to the States to look for him.'

I cannot think of a thing to say. I glance around the shrinking room. The walls are creeping towards me. The grey nation's grey faces sway in my direction like giant mushrooms.

Nash's slitty little mouth moves. His voice sounds like an owl hoot. ‘I could've spared you this, Birdie, if only you'd come to me. I don't really understand Barry's reasoning and I'm sure neither Sasson nor I concur with him, but there you are. He's convinced. What could we do?'

‘You could've tried harder to talk him out of it,' Sasson says disgustedly. ‘You didn't have to lend him your plane. And you certainly didn't have to introduce the subject now.'

‘Ah, but Sasson,' Nash hoots, ‘keen as we all are, we cannot be party to a fraud.'

Only my sister's clever dressmaking keeps my head erect.

‘Yes, Birdie,' Nash says, his frog-spawn eyes magnified behind his glasses. ‘I'd love to sign, believe me. You know I have your best interest at heart. But Barry, well, he was always such
a fan,
don't you think? He's sure he'll find Jack alive on a small island off the
Florida coast. I hope you won't be too upset but we'll have to postpone the signing till after his return.'

My two lawyers are on their feet, arguing. Nash ignores them. He says, ‘I wish you'd trusted me, Birdie. Mistrust, you see, breeds mistrust. And now look what's happened. Barry is utterly out of control. Do you know, he's so certain that he's found Jack's location that he's taken your sister, Robin, along to help him with the identification.'

‘Catch her,' George's voice booms in my ear, ‘I think she's going to faint.'

In the night, Robin listened to the roar of the engines. It filled her head, driving cotton wool thoughts into a stampede. Everything was too loud: jet planes, cars, baggage carts, human voices, all chewed up and blended in the air-conditioner.

Robin was not a good traveller. Nervous of flying, prone to air sickness, a martyr to jet lag, she always felt she'd left three-quarters of her brain at home with all the other essentials she'd forgotten to pack. And nowadays she could add swollen ankles to her list of miseries. Swollen ankles and disillusionment.

Flying in a private plane should exempt you from the discomforts of coach-class travel. There was a bathroom, with scented soap and face spritzers, so why did her skin feel oily and bloated? Why were her fingers puffy and clumsy? The food was freshly cooked in the galley and presented with an elegant vase of flowers, so why was her stomach bubbling with gas exactly the same way it did when she couldn't distinguish fish from foul fowl on normal flights. Surely millionaire moguls should have solved the problems of earache and flaky elbows in their private transport.

Oddly though, discomfort was a comfort to Robin. It filled her mind with small, pressing spikes and distracted her from a huge and terrible vertigo. If she opened her eyes and looked ahead she would certainly see where she was going, and she'd know that although the jet was flying, she was falling.

Without indigestion to concentrate on she would have felt like thieving Judas – stealing her sister's life. Lin's life was planes and
travel. Lin always said, ‘Gotta go,' and then hopped it without explaining. Robin was the one left behind. Lin rang up from Paris, LA, Bangkok. Robin was there to take the call. Strange men sent cars to carry Lin to strange places. Robin left a covered plate of food in the fridge for when she returned.

Robin still wore her ex-husband's ring years after he emigrated to New Zealand with his new family. Robin kept Jack's Egyptian ring in a sachet next to her bed for twenty-five years. She did not fling down her life, leave her daughter alone with a stranger, abandon her sister at a difficult time and whizz off to the other side of the world at the word of a fat man she didn't trust.

Barry Stears, the pickpocket of rock music, always trying to squeeze into the same frame as the talent, jealously eyeing his neighbour's plate, receiver of stolen images – he had told her a theory so unbelievably laughable, so laughably unbelievable that, if it were true, it would turn the last twenty-five years of her life into a mockery.

‘You're insane,' she said. ‘You're pathetic.'

‘No, listen,' he said.

‘Get out of my house,' she said.

And here she was unable to sleep or think. Because she was going to squash the cruel story flat. Laugh it into oblivion and save Lin the trouble. Really.

Really? Wasn't it just as likely that she was a pitiful straggler climbing up Glastonbury Tor on midsummer eve, hoping for a glimpse of King Arthur's ghost? Arthur lives and is watching over England. One day he will return to lead his people and all that crap. UFOs. Atlantis. The Second Coming. Pitiful.

But something sick and triumphant made Robin write a note to Grace: ‘I'm off to the States. Shouldn't be gone for more than a couple of days. Look after yourself.' Borrowing Lin's attitude, Lin's handwriting almost. Gotta go. See you soon. Love.

Alec, furious, dropped a bottle of milk on the kitchen floor. Shattering glass, milk splashing on his shoes and trousers, allowed him to swear – fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

‘Just mop it up,' Grace said, irritable too, but for a different reason.

There was no reason that Alec could see. So she had to make her own breakfast once in a while. Big fucking deal. It wasn't like she'd been kicked out of her own game, back to level one, after doing all the work, and having all the inspiration which should have taken him to level ten. To the airport. To the States. Grace wasn't the one who'd cooked up all the arguments that had allowed Mr Stears into the house and kept him and Mrs Emerson talking. All she did was look at him narrowly every now and then and say, ‘Whose side are you on?'

‘Yours,' he'd say every time. ‘Yours, a hundred and twenty-five per cent. Don't you see? This is for you. It's like an abscess. It needs to be lanced.'

‘If it's true,' she said. ‘But it isn't true.'