The Overnight Fame of Steffi McBride (10 page)

‘Jesus,’ Luke said when he saw the pictures. ‘Is that what he looks like?’

‘No,’ I tried to reassure him, ‘not at all. They’ve just taken a bad picture of him. He’s really sweet looking.’

I could tell that this was backfiring on me, making it sound like I still fancied Pete, which was only marginally better than leaving Luke feeling shit-scared that he was going to be gunned down in the street by some Yardie heavy, so I shut up.

As well as going after Pete, the photographers had also been tailing Dad to and from the pub. Although Pete was top of their list of public enemies now, Dad was still in there as the wife-beater and father from hell, and there were plenty of reporters who wanted to kick him while he was down. I could imagine exactly how they would have been taunting him, trying to provoke him into doing something violent that
they could snap, illustrating the role that he had been allotted in this whole scenario. I dare say some of them had been buying him a few vodkas to help fuel the fire. He didn’t disappoint them and the papers were full of pictures of him lurching around, throwing punches and ending up on the floor. This was exactly what he must have been talking about when he said he didn’t want the media ‘sniffing through our bins’. He’d been right and I felt terrible, but what could I have done different? Should I have stayed in the hotel kitchens, washing up for the rest of my life? That didn’t mean I didn’t feel guilty. I knew I could have handled Pete a bit more diplomatically, and I certainly shouldn’t have done that riff in Dora’s class about Dad and Mum.

How was I ever going to make it up to him? How was I ever going to be able to make my peace with him without giving up the job that I was enjoying so much? Was that really the only choice I had?

W
e were recording for the final of
Singing for their Fame
(and yes, since you ask, the irony in the title
was
starting to get on my tits). It was going well and everyone kept telling Luke and me we were going to win with ‘Summer Wine’. We were going to be doing two songs for this show and I had asked to do one that I knew was Mum’s favourite. It’s called ‘A Little Time’ by The Beautiful South and she used to listen to it all the time when she was cooking. I’d come into the kitchen and she’d have it on with tears running down her face.

It’s like a duet between a man, who’s saying he needs ‘a little time’ and ‘a little space’ – like the bastards always do – and the girl singing back to him, really sharp and witty. In the end he realises he’s made a mistake and wants to come back and by that time she’s realised she’s better off without him. Really good stuff. I love songs that tell stories like that. All the time I was hanging out with Pete listening to trance and rap and God knows what else, I was probably a closet country-and-western fan really. Not that The Beautiful South are country, of course.

‘I don’t know …’ Luke was doubtful when I first suggested
it. ‘You know the media will think it’s about us, that I’ve been messing you about. If they think that they’ll make me public enemy number one.’

‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit seriously?’ I laughed. ‘It’s just a fucking song. Frank and Nancy Sinatra sang a love song together and they were father and daughter, for fuck’s sake!’ I was learning fast.

‘Yeah, but you are the nation’s sweetheart at the moment and the tabloids can be more protective than any shotgun-toting older brother. You’ve seen that from the way they’ve turned on Pete and your dad.’

‘My God, get a grip,’ I said. ‘It’s a funny song. It’ll make them laugh while they’re crying.’

‘OK,’ he gave in. ‘You win – as always.’

I was so happy to be doing it for Mum. I knew she’d be in the audience with the girls and she would be surprised that I had remembered the song. I wanted to do something special for her. I couldn’t get the image of her walking off to the tube station out of my head; she had looked so small and vulnerable. I mean, she’s not small, not by any stretch, but she looked small in the crowd, so alone, while I was driving off in the big warm flash car with the man of my fantasies and she had to stagger home to a bad-tempered drunk and a load of housework.

The police turned up halfway through recording, which was pretty fucking embarrassing, and I had to go off to a side room with them. They were really keen that I should press charges against Pete, but I was adamant I wasn’t going to. It was bad enough he’d been driven out of his home because of me, I wasn’t going to get him landed in court. I told them I
couldn’t be sure it was him, that I hadn’t been able to see his face in the hood. I could tell they didn’t believe me and they actually started to get pretty threatening, which did not bring out my best side. The stroppier I got, the heavier they got and things were about to get very bad indeed when Luke came to the rescue yet again.

One minute they were practically threatening to arrest me and have me banged up and the next they were on their feet pretty much doffing their caps to Luke, just because he’s some old pop star; or maybe because he is really good at doing that patrician thing with his voice, which makes it quite clear that he’s one of them, not one of us. You wouldn’t think the modern police force would still be impressed by all that old crap, would you? But he almost had them apologising for wasting his valuable time. I tell you, I’m going to get Dora to teach me to speak like that. I’ll tell her it’s for a part. She calls it ‘RP’ which apparently stands for ‘received pronunciation’, sort of like the Queen sounds.

The show went really well. Everyone kept saying we were the favourites to win, which made me jumpy in case people thought they didn’t need to vote for us because we were a sure thing. The producers were doing everything they could to rev up the number of calls being made, building the tension and making us all really nervous and close to tears. The presenter kept asking us to appeal to the voting public and the other competitors all kept giving these really creepy little speeches about how honoured they felt to be there at all and how grateful they were to everyone. I was having real trouble getting my tongue round any of that, so I left it up to Luke
and just hung on his arm, hoping I looked like I was keeping my sense of irony but probably just looking a bit arrogant.

They caught me out when I started to talk about dedicating my song to Mum and wanting to give my money to her children’s home if I won. I started out talking about it quite normally, live on camera, and then my eyes watered up and my voice cracked. The camera swung on to Mum in the audience, just as I had expected, and I could see her eyes wide with surprise. In fact, she looked more shocked than moved, as if it had never occurred to her that any of us had taken any notice of the songs she listened to when she was alone and thoughtful. My tears must have looked really fake to viewers but actually they weren’t, which was a surprise to me. Every time I thought about Mum I was getting a bit tearful and I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like I wasn’t getting to talk to her on the phone whenever I wanted, and I could easily arrange to see her when I needed to. So why did just thinking about her make me so sad?

‘Hormones, probably,’ was Luke’s suggestion after my little crack-up in front of the camera, which is the sort of annoying thing men say when they can’t be bothered to give something any thought at all.

Despite the fact that the whole phone-in thing was really just a giant money-making scam by the production company and everyone else involved, I couldn’t help feeling really moved when it was announced on the final live show that we had won. Even though I knew millions of copies of ‘Summer Wine’ were already in the shops waiting to be released into the Christmas market to mop up every last consumer who
needed an emergency stocking filler for someone in their family, by the time the presenters had finished building the suspense I was tense as a whippet and Mum was covering her face with her hands in the audience. Then there was a long silence before the announcement and an explosion of tears as the dam burst. Mum and the girls were jumping up and down like little kids, tears streaming down their faces. Even Luke was crying. God knows how those actresses hold it together at all when they win Oscars with all the build-up that goes into that. If I ever win one of those – and don’t think I haven’t got my acceptance speech already down pat – I’m going to be a complete ‘hormonal’ puddle.

The nicest bit about the whole thing was seeing how happy Luke was to be back on top. It was only a television show, even if it was being watched by close to 10 million people, but it seemed like the whole world at that moment. I was standing with the man I had been in love with since I was 12, soaking up the adoration of the audience and God knows how many telephone voters. I think it would have been impossible not to be a bit freaked out.

The whole Pete fuck-up wasn’t going so well. The papers seemed to be building him up into some kind of symbol of everything that was going wrong with the great British ‘underclass’ – which is one of the least charming ways of describing anyone, don’t you think? Everyone who had ever known him was coming out of the closet and telling stories about his drug deals, making out like he was corrupting
the entire youth of the world, when all he was was a bit of a dopehead.

I was trying to ignore the papers as much as possible. A few of them seemed to have been able to track me down to Luke’s family palace, but they were too intimidated to make it past the stately gates and demented packs of off-duty gun dogs that seemed to roam around all the time. I was just driven up to the studios each morning, dodging whatever journalists were waiting outside, and then driven back again at night. I heard that there was a permanent contingent of photographers camped outside my house, so there was no way I was going back there yet.

I was still horribly aware of just how much of a witch hunt was building up and eventually, after a good few glasses of wine, I plucked up the courage to ring Pete’s mum. The moment I heard her tired, sad voice I was fighting back the tears again. She told me none of the family had heard anything from him since the night of the incident and that set me right off. I was sobbing and snuffling away and saying how sorry I was, over and over again.

‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, lovey,’ she said. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. I told him over and over that you were the best thing that ever happened to him and that if he didn’t pull himself together he was going to lose you. He’s got no one to blame but himself.’

That did it. There’s nothing like a bit of kindness to really hit the emotional meltdown button.

‘I just feel so bad for him,’ I sobbed, ‘and for the others in the squat, who lost their home.’

‘Don’t you go wasting your sympathy on them,’ she scolded. ‘They all needed a kick up the rear to get them going. They couldn’t stay in that terrible place forever.’

‘Have you heard from any of them?’

‘They’ve been in touch, but you’re not to be taking any notice of anything any of them is saying.’

That was the first inkling I had that I maybe should be worrying about what was going on with the others from the squat.

‘Why, what have they been saying?’

‘Oh, you’re not to worry about any of that. We don’t think any of this is your fault.’

‘But they do?’

‘They’re just jealous of your success. You take no notice, they’ll come round.’

It was nice to know that she didn’t hold any grudges against me, but I still came off the phone with a new lead weight in my stomach. These people had been the nearest things I had to friends all through my time at school. Even though I knew they only really tolerated me because I was with Pete, they were still the closest friends I’d had so far. We’d been through puberty together, for Christ’s sake, and a fair bit more besides. I didn’t like the idea that they might be badmouthing me around the place. Pete’s mum might not be taking any notice of them, but there were always people who were keen to think the worst of anyone who appeared on telly or in the press. It sounds pathetic to say it, but I just wanted everyone to like me.

When I told Luke about my worries he suggested I ring
them and put my side of the story, show them that I wasn’t putting on any airs or graces just because I’d had a bit of good luck. It sounded like good advice, but when I tried to ring their mobiles none of them picked up. Maybe that should have rung some alarm bells, but all it did was make me sad about how much of my past I had lost.

I don’t know how I would have coped without Luke and his family. It just seemed to be taken for granted that I would be staying with them for Christmas. They never questioned me about my situation or anything else, just included me in all their family rituals. Despite all their efforts to make me feel a million per cent comfortable I couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, finding myself thinking about Mum and the others and what they would be doing at any given moment. Luke’s mum said I was welcome to invite my family over, but I knew that wouldn’t work. If they had felt uncomfortable in my little house, imagine how they would have felt there.

When ‘Summer Wine’ sold more copies than any Christmas single since God alone knows when, the news actually seemed to filter through to Luke’s family that I was a celebrity (cringe, cringe), but they still didn’t seem that interested. The song came on the radio in the kitchen once or twice and Luke’s mum commented on how much she liked it in a polite sort of way, but nothing else. And when the first of my old school friends’ ‘exclusives’ appeared in the
News of the World
it didn’t seem to impinge on their world at all.

I know it didn’t bypass them completely because this time one or two brave journalists actually made it up to the house, or rang the house phone, but Luke’s dad just told
them to fuck off (using different but obviously much more effective words) and they did. I guess they have an automatic respect for people who look like they could afford the best lawyers and wouldn’t hesitate to use them. Apparently, one of Luke’s brothers was a red-hot media lawyer and Luke said he would be happy to help if I wanted. I said I didn’t want to get into all that. The whole idea of lawyers and courts frightened me sick, if I’m going to be honest. I thought it would be better to just keep my head down and wait for the whole storm to blow over rather than risking making it worse by creating a fuss.

There were two girls in particular who had obviously cashed in big time with the paper. Apparently, they had been to see a publicist called Quentin James, who Luke told me was well known for selling these sorts of stories for really high prices.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘He’s infamous, a talking head on the telly, gets on the news every time there’s some sort of new scandal or sleaze exposé. He’s got a finger in everything; disgraced politicians, adulterous footballers, misbehaving royals, the lot. He’ll probably be ringing you next, offering to tell your side of the story. Just about everyone ends up in his office eventually.’