Glue (49 page)

— Yeah sure, Taylor shrugged. — I just wish she had the sales profile to prove it.

— The new album’s got some great songs on it, but it was a mistake to lead off with
Betrayed by You
. There was no way that single
was going to get airplay.
Mystery Woman
would have been the ideal choice for lead single. That was the one she wanted to go with.

— We’ve had this debate, Franklin, more times than I care to remember . . . Taylor said wearily, — . . . and you know as well as I do that her voice is as fucked as her sick head. You can hardly fucking well hear her on the album, so whatever single we took from it was going to be a pile of old bollocks.

Franklin felt the anger surge inside him. He chewed on his rare steak and, to his great pain and annoyance, bit hard into his tongue. He suffered in silence as his eyes watered and his cheeks flushed. His blood merged in his mouth with the cow’s, making him feel like he was eating his own face.

Taylor took this silence for compliance. — She’s under contract to do one more album with us. I’ll be straight with you, Franklin, if she doesn’t redeem herself with that one I’d be very surprised if she made another, on this label . . . or any other. The Newcastle gig last night was slated in just about every paper that bothered to cover it and the audiences are thinning out. I’m sure that it’ll be the same sorry tale tomorrow here in Glasgow.

— This is Edinburgh, Franklin stated.

— Whatever. It’s all the same to me, the obligatory Jock gig at the end of the tour. The point still holds. Bums on seats, mate, bums on seats.

— The tickets are selling well for this concert, Franklin protested.

— Only because the Jocks are so far removed from civilisation that they haven’t heard the word: Kathryn Joyner has lost it. The news will filter across Hadrian’s Wall at some point. But it was a good move putting her on here, at the Edinburgh Festival. They’ll take any old shit here. Any washed-up has-been can re-surface and the cunts that put the programme together call it ‘daring’ or ‘inspired’ and the thing is, people are so used to going out, they actually go along. Next week she could be doing the same show at their local shit-pit and they wouldn’t even fucking dream of going to see her. Taylor’s eyes sparkled with mischief, as he produced a newspaper cutting and slipped it over to him. — You seen this review of last night?

Franklin said nothing, trying to keep his features impassive, aware all the time of Taylor’s sniggering gaze on him, as he looked over the cutting:

Too Heavy On The Mint Sauce, Ms Joyner

Kathryn Joyner
City Hall, Newcastle Upon Tyne

The vibrato vocal technique is a controversial device to say the least. It’s often the last weapon of the songster scoundrel, the clapped-out chanteuse whose voice lacks its former range. In Kathryn Joyner’s case, it’s sad, almost to the point of being painful, to witness the public humiliation of a vocal talent which was once, if not everybody’s cup of tea, then at least a truly distinctive phenomenon.

Now, Joyner, when audible, bleats through every song like a lamb on Mogadon, often sliding into this pathetic warble at the least challenging of obstacles. It’s almost like our Kath’s forgotten
how
to sing. A boozy, middle-aged crowd on a nostalgia trip might have shown some empathy to a more engaging performer, but Joyner, like her voice, seems elsewhere. Her communication with the audience is zero, exemplified by her stubborn and perverse refusal to give us a rendition of her biggest ever transatlantic hit,
Sincere Love
. Repeated calls from the floor for that old standard were studiously ignored.

In the end though, it matters not a jot. Hits like
I Know You’re Using Me
and
Give Up Your Love
were given the woolly treatment by a painfully thin Joyner, who currently oozes the kind of sex appeal which makes Ann Widdecombe look like Britney Spears. The set positively reeks of mint sauce, and, for the good of music, this is one piece of mutton-dressed-as-lamb we can only pray will fall into the clutches of a Hannibal Lecter very soon.

Franklin struggled to contain his anger. This artist needed support, and here she was being written off and ridiculed by her own company.

— Get her to eat, Franklin, Taylor smiled, holding a forkful of greasy chicken to his mouth. — Just get her to eat. Get her strong again.

Franklin felt the pain in his mouth subside as his indignation rose further. — Don’t you think I haven’t been trying? I’ve tried every clinic
and special diet and therapist known to man . . . I get them to send up club sandwiches every day!

Taylor raised the glass of red wine to his mouth. — She needs a good fucking, he mused, looking conspiratorially at Franklin who just then realised that the record-company executive was a little drunk. — Mint sauce, eh? That’s a good one!

Juice Terry didn’t like heights. He wasn’t cut out for this type of work. The window-cleaning he didn’t mind, but being up high, it just wasn’t for him. Yet here he was suspended on a platform above the city, cleaning the windows of the Balmoral Hotel. How the fuck he had let that jakey auld cunt Post Alec talk him into this gig was beyond him. Alec had said it would be cash-in-hand as Norrie McPhail was in hospital getting an operation on his shoulder. Norrie didn’t want to lose the lucrative hotel contract so had entrusted Post Alec with completing the job.

— Fuckin view-n-a-half fae up here but, Terry, coughed Alec, hacking up a lump of spittle from the back of his throat and gobbing it out. Even as far up as they were, and with the noise of the traffic, Alec fancied that he could hear the gob splatter off the pavement.

— Aye, barry, Terry replied, without looking across and down at Princes Street. You could just step outside the scaffolding and let go. Just like that. It was too easy. It was a wonder more people didn’t do it. A bad hangover would swing it. You’d only have to sense the futility of it all just for a split-second, then you’d be away. It was too tempting. Terry wondered what the suicide rate for window-cleaners on high buildings was. An image from the past crashed into his head and Terry felt giddy. He clung hard to the barrier, his hands sweating and numb on the metal. He took a deep breath.

— Aye, it’s no every day ye git a view like that, Alec marvelled, looking over at the castle. He took a half-bottle of The Famous Grouse whisky from the inside pocket of his overalls. Unscrewing the top, he helped himself to an almighty swig. He thought twice before reluctantly holding it in front of Juice Terry, chuffed when Terry declined, feeling the alcohol burning satisfyingly at his guts. He looked at Terry, that frizzy mane of hair blowing in the wind. It had been a mistake to get
that mooching cunt in on this, Alec decided. He thought it would be company, but Terry had gone all silent on him, which was unlike Terry. — Fuckin view, Alec repeated, stumbling a little and shaking the platform. — Makes ye happy tae be alive.

Terry felt his blood running cold in his veins as he tried to compose himself. No be alive much longer, up here wi this auld cunt, he thought. — Aye, right Alec. When’s wir fuckin brek? Ah’m starvin.

— Yuv jist hud yir breakfast in that café, ya greedy fat cunt, Alec sneered.

— That wis ages ago, said Terry. He was looking into the bedroom which lay on the other side of the window he was cleaning. A youngish woman sat on the bed.

— Stoap checkin oot the fanny, ya dirty bastard, Alec spat with concern, — any complaints fae guests n it’s Norrie’s livelihood that’s at stake.

But Terry was spying the club sandwich which lay untouched on the table. He tapped at the window.

— Ur you fuckin mad! Alec grabbed his arm. — Norrie’s in the PMR!

— S’awright, Alec, Juice Terry said soothingly, as the platform shook, — ah ken whit ah’m daein.

— Harassin fuckin guests . . .

The woman had come to the window. Alec cringed and moved along the platform and took another swig from the bottle of Grouse.

— ’Scuse me, doll, Terry said as Kathryn Joyner looked up and saw what she thought was a fat guy standing outside her window. Of course, they were cleaning windows. How long had he been looking at her? Was he spying on her? A weirdo. Kathryn wasn’t taking this bullshit. She went over to him. — What is it that you want? she asked sharply, opening the huge double-windows.

A fuckin septic, thought Juice Terry. — Eh sorry tae disturb ye n that, doll . . . eh, see that sanny thair, he pointed to the club sandwich.

Kathryn pulled her hair back from across her face, pinning it behind her ear. — What . . . ? she looked across at the food with distaste.

— Ye no wantin it likes?

— No, I don’t . . .

— Goan gies it then.

— Eh sure . . . okay . . . Kathryn couldn’t think of any reason not to give this man the sandwich. Franklin may even think
she’d
eaten it
and it might stop him busting her ass for a minute. This guy was pushy, but what the fuck, she’d give him it. — Sure . . . why not . . . in fact, why don’t you just come in and have some coffee with it . . . she said caustically, annoyed at being disturbed.

Terry knew Kathryn was being sarcastic, but decided to steam into the room anyway. You could play the daft laddie, pretend to take somebody at their word. The wealthy almost expected it of the lower orders, so it suited everyone. — That’s very kind of you, Terry smiled, stepping in.

Kathryn took a step back and glanced at the phone. This guy was a nut. She should call security.

Terry noted her reaction and threw his hands in the air. — Ah’m jist comin in fir a coffee, ah’m no one ay they radges like in America, that cut ye tae pieces n aw that, he explained, breaking into a big smile.

— I’m glad to hear that, Kathryn replied, gathering some composure.

Post Alec was surprised to see his friend disappearing into the room. — What’s the score, Lawson? he shouted, in rising panic.

Terry beamed at Kathryn, who was still judging her distance to the phone, then turned back and poked his face out the window. — The lassie’s jist asked ays in fir a wee bite tae eat. American lassie likes. Nice tae be nice, eh, he whispered back at Alec’s disgruntled pout before closing the window.

Kathryn raised her eyebrows as the overall-clad figure of Juice Terry stood before her in her bedroom. He’s an employee. A window-cleaner. He just wants a coffee. Calm down.

— Gittin ehsel aw harassed. The joab’ll git done, that’s what ah say. Cannae be daein wi stress. It’s a killer. That’s Alec’s problem, Terry nodded outside to the red-faced man who waved the chamois against Kathryn’s window, — too much executive stress. Ah telt um; Alec, ah sais, yir a two-ulcer man in a one-ulcer joab.

This asshole sure had some balls. — Yeah . . . eh, I guess so. Does your friend not want some coffee? Kathryn asked.

— Naw, he’s goat his ain stuff and eh’s jist gaunny press on. Terry sat down on a chair which looked too dainty and ornamental to support him, and started tearing into the sandwich. — No bad, he spat between chomps as Kathryn watched in fascination bordering on horror. — Eywis wondered what the sannies wir like n they posh places. Mind you, ah wis at ma mate’s weddin in the Sheraton the other week thair. They pit oan no a bad spread. Ye ken the Sheraton?

— No, I can’t say I do.

— It’s doon the other end ay Princes Street, Lothian Road likes. Ah’m no that keen oan that part ay toon, bit thir isnae as much bother thair as ye used tae git. Or so they say. Ah’m never that much in the toon these days but, eh. End up peyin toon prices. Bit it wis Davie n Ruth’s choice ay a venue . . . Ruth’s the bird ma mate Davie mairried but eh. Nice lassie ken.

— Right . . .

— No ma type likesay, bit top-heavy n that, Terry cupped his hands to his chest, caressing large invisible breasts.

— Right . . .

— Davie’s choice bit, eh? Cannae go roond tellin ivraybody whae thuv goat tae fuckin well mairray, eh?

— No, Kathryn said with an icy finality. She thought back all those years, four, five, to him in bed with
her
. With
them
.

The tour. And now another motherfucking tour.

— So whaire’s it ye come fae yirsel bit?

Terry’s terse questioning snapped Kathryn away from that Copenhagen hotel room back to the cornfields of her childhood. — Well, I’m originally from Omaha, Nebraska.

— Is that in America, aye?

— Yeah . . .

— Eywis wanted tae go tae America. Ma mate Tony jist goat back fae thair. Mind you, he thought thit it wis overrated. Every cunt . . . eh, pardon me, everybody eftir that, Terry rubbed his thumb and his index finger together. — The fuckin yankee dollar. Mind you, it’s gittin that wey ower here. Doon in that Waverley Station ye git charged thirty pence fir the bogs! Thirty pence fir a pish! Ye want tae make sure thit it’s a long yin fir that price! Ah’ll huv a fuckin shite n aw if it’s aw the same tae you, mate! Tell ays what the fuck that’s aw aboot, if ye kin!

Kathryn nodded glumly. She didn’t really know what this man was saying.

— So what brings ye tae Scotland? First time in Edinbury, aye?

— Yes . . . this fat oaf didn’t know who she was. Kathryn Joyner, one of the greatest singers in the world! — Actually, she said snootily, — I’m here to perform.

— Ye a dancer likes?

— No. I sing, Kathryn hissed through clenched teeth.

— Aw . . . ah wis thinkin ye might be a dancer up at Tollcross or somethin, but then ah thought that this yin’s a bit fancy fir the go-go’s n
that . . . he looked around the huge suite, — if ye dinnae mind ays sayin so likes. So what is it ye sing?

— Have you ever heard of
Must You Break My Heart Again
 . . . or perhaps
Victimised by You
 . . . or
I Know You’re Using Me
 . . . Kathryn couldn’t bring herself to say, ‘and
Sincere Love
.’

Terry’s eyes widened in recognition, then focused in disbelief for a beat, before expanding once more in affirmation. — Aye! Ah ken aw thaim! He burst into song:

After we’ve made love

a distant look it often fills your eyes