The Overnight Fame of Steffi McBride (14 page)

Close up she was a lot rougher than she had seemed from the other end of the office. She could have done with a bit more weight, her neck was scraggy and there was a line of make-up along her chin, like she was wearing a kabuki mask. Her skin had been smoked as dry as an old kipper, mapped with tiny lines she’d tried to cover with pancake, particularly around the mouth.

Her eyelids were drooping, which meant that the blue eye shadow she’d caked on them looked a bit grotesque in close-up. She looked like one of those women you see selling cosmetics in the department stores – not quite a real person any more. The photographer for the paper must have done a fair bit of touching up to make the pictures look even remotely attractive. She was wearing a lot of perfume too, but it didn’t hide the stink of cigarettes, which clung to her like it clung to Dora.

‘Steffi,’ Quentin said, ‘this is Maggie.’

‘Hi,’ Maggie said.

‘Hi.’

I mean, what else was there to say? I stared hard at her. She did look very familiar. I wondered if she had been watching
me over the years, without me knowing, and I had seen her in the distance. Then I realised what it was: she looked like me. Oh my God! Beneath the wrinkles and sagging and brittle-looking hair was the face that stared at me from the mirror every day. It was hard to tell if the hair had always been dyed, but I was willing to bet that she had once been the same white blonde that I was.

‘Would you guys like us to leave you alone?’ Quentin asked.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘No!’ I said, much more vehemently. I was nowhere close to being ready to spend one-on-one time with this old harridan. They all froze and the atmosphere became even edgier. I remained standing, looking down at her.

‘What made you decide to speak out now?’ I asked eventually.

‘Quentin thought it would be a good idea,’ she smirked, as if she and Quentin were the grown-ups in this situation, the insiders.

‘What made you decide to come and see him, then?’ I persevered, resisting the temptation to punch her.

‘I needed advice on the best way to handle the situation. I wanted to make contact with you.’

I turned on Quentin. ‘That was your advice? A woman comes to you saying she would like to make contact with the baby she gave away at birth and you suggest she does it through the
News of the World
?’

‘Maggie is my client, I had to advise her what would be in her best interests. The story was worth more if there was a
surprise factor. I did contact you, if you remember, but you didn’t want to listen.’

‘You really are gutter slime, aren’t you?’

Now he was smirking too and I realised that he was impossible to insult. The man was so completely certain of his own rightness that nothing I could ever say to him would change his opinion of what he had done. In a way he was right, of course: he was just doing the job for his client.

‘Money’s a bit of a problem,’ Maggie said. ‘I’m getting to an age where I have to think about how I’m going to survive. Show business doesn’t always provide a pension. You’ll need to bear that in mind if you’re going to stay in the business. You can be all high and mighty about it now, but you’ll need the help of experts like Quentin if you don’t want to end up in some home for retired beach donkeys one day.’

For a second I almost laughed at the image, then caught myself. Did this sad old slapper really think she was part of show business? Worse still, did she really think I was part of the same business as her? What about all that Shakespeare with Dave, and improvisation with Dora? What about all the scripts I’d read and the books and the plays I’d sneaked into when I could afford them? Had she done all that? Maybe she had, maybe this really was the way I was going to end up, and that was why Dad was so set against me going into the business. He knew exactly where I was heading because he’d seen it at first hand.

‘I still don’t get it,’ I said.

She shrugged and picked an imaginary fleck of tobacco off her tongue. (I’m guessing it was imaginary because the
cigarette was filtered.) ‘I’m really proud of you,’ she said, avoiding my eyes. ‘I wanted you to know that.’

‘Thanks,’ I said and an awkward silence fell. ‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got a meeting.’

It was obviously a lie, but none of them called me on it. We were all equally keen to escape from the room and breathe some clean air. As we came out, the television crew appeared in reception again. The cameraman had switched on and was pointing his lens at me without saying a word.

‘Turn that fucking camera off or I’ll kick your bollocks up between your ears!’ I snarled as I walked past. Things, it seemed, were really starting to get to me.

Dora had arranged a meeting for me at the record company on my one day off from
The Towers
that week. I felt a bit of a fraud saying I had a record company – I mean, most musicians work for years to get anyone to even look at them while I’d swanned in on the back of one crappy television talent show that had given me a number-one novelty track. But it was still nice to have something to take my mind off all the other stuff and it was comforting to be with Dora and to just relax for an hour or two, being treated like I was a star, even if it was based on one freak Christmas hit.

‘We’ve been doing a lot of brainstorming on where to place you in the market,’ one of the suits told me once we were all comfortably sitting around in their flashy meeting room.

‘The demographics are difficult to read,’ another chimed in.

‘Demographics?’ Not a word I was completely sure about.

‘Which sector of the market you are likely to appeal to,’ Dora explained. ‘“Summer Wine” was bought by everyone from grannies to kids; it would be hard to repeat that sort of success next time. They want to work out who your core market of fans are likely to be and then target them.’

‘Sounds a bit like a war plan,’ I joked. ‘Can’t I just record a few good songs and see what happens?’

They all humoured me for a few minutes, but they obviously thought that was about the worst idea they’d ever heard. They kept telling me how wonderful the Brits performance was and how highly I had rated when they market-researched me with the public. They were talking about ‘touring’ and ‘breaking America’ and God knows what else and I began to feel a bit sick because I knew I didn’t want to do any of it. I wished Luke was there because it had all seemed more fun when it was just him and me and a stupid television talent show. This all seemed a bit serious and was likely to cost everyone a ton of money. He would have known what to say to them, but at the same time I knew he would have been agreeing to everything they suggested, so maybe it was better he wasn’t there. Touring America with the West End Boys had been one of the highlights of his life and I knew that was one of the reasons he was pissed off with me. He had been hoping to relive his glory days again with me. I felt so bad about letting him down, but it just wasn’t something I felt comfortable with. I still missed him all the time, still hoped that every call would turn out to be him. And I still wasn’t going to be the first one to crack and make the call.

One of the executives wanted me to write my own material, like I needed another hobby just at the moment, while another executive suggested I record some classic cover versions.

‘Connie Francis!’ someone else yelped, like they’d just discovered gravity. ‘Well overdue for a remix. Fantastic, moving stuff!’

And so it went on, round and round and round, part fantasy, part hard-nosed businessmen desperately trying to
find a concept they could get hold of and market to death. When it was all over, they offered to take us to dinner, but I’d had enough by then and said I had somewhere else to go.

‘That was a lie,’ I admitted to Dora once we were safely back out in the real world. ‘Can you and I go somewhere? I’m starving. I’ll pay.’

It felt nice to be able to say that. The money had finally started to filter through and I was able to make gestures like that without even thinking about it. I’d been sending money home to Mum as well, which felt even better.

‘Sure, where would you like to go?’

‘I don’t care. Nothing flashy. Chinese, maybe.’

We headed for Chinatown and chose one that was shielded from the street and had booths so I could disappear. None of the staff gave any sign of recognising me, even though
The Towers
was playing on a television in the corner of the room and Nikki was in full flow, screaming abuse at one of her punters. Maybe we all look the same to them. (Only joking, honest.)

‘So, how are you really?’ Dora asked once we’d ordered and had a bottle of wine on the table.

‘A bit stressed to be honest.’

‘This Maggie woman, is she really your birth mother?’

‘I think she must be. No one is exactly denying it, and when I met her I thought I could see a family resemblance, although she’s let herself go a bit.’

‘How did she fall into Quentin James’s clutches?’ Dora gave a little shiver as she mentioned his name. He seemed to have that effect on a lot of people: part admiration and part revulsion.

‘She’s hard up, I think, and wants one last stab at making it.’

‘Funny idea of “making it”. What does your mum say about it all?’

‘I haven’t been able to get hold of her. I think Dad must have taken her phone or something.’

‘It would be good to talk it over with her, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m a bit pissed off with her, to be honest. I mean, why didn’t she ever say anything?’

‘Maybe she hoped you would never need to know. If it’s all true, she acted pretty nobly. I mean, you never got any idea from her that you weren’t just like all her other children, did you?’

‘No. Actually I sometimes thought I was her favourite. But she was good at making us all feel like that, I think.’

‘So maybe you are going to have to think about forgiving her.’

I didn’t reply. Too much was going on in my head.

‘And what about Luke?’ she pressed on. ‘Is that really all over?’

I felt a nasty stab of pain in my chest at her words. ‘It seems like it. He was starting to be really funny about it all.’

She nodded, as if she’d seen such things a million times before. ‘And Gerry?’

‘He’s so sweet, and such a good friend, and Mum thinks he’s absolutely lovely, but …’

‘But he’s not Luke.’

I nodded, sitting back to let the waitress lay out the hotplates in readiness for the food.

‘So, what did you think about the things they were all saying at the meeting?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘I mean it all sounds fun, but I don’t
want to be a pop singer if it means I have to give up the acting, and I doubt if it’s possible to do both justice.’

‘Billie Piper made the transition well. Cher got a best actress Oscar and she started out as a singer. Diana Ross, Whitney, J-Lo, Beyoncé …’

‘Yeah, yeah, I get the message, but being a pop princess almost killed Billie Piper and you know what everyone says about Whitney … I just don’t want to push my luck; getting
The Towers
was a good break. Nikki’s made me a household name. If I went out on the road flogging records I would be just like all the rest of them.’

‘Nice to be in a position to have such a dilemma.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. Am I behaving like a spoiled brat?’

‘Not at all. It’s very refreshing, and you’re right. Lots of girls can sing nicely but not many can act like you.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I tried to change the subject. ‘I’ve just had some lucky breaks, like coming to your classes.’

‘Lots of people have found my classes in the past, but none had the potential you have. Only a few people as talented as you come along in each generation. We should probably be thinking about getting you
Hedda Gabler
at the National rather than
Sweet Charity
.’

‘Can’t I do both?’

‘Probably,’ she laughed, ‘if you play it right.’

‘Play it?’

‘The fame game. Schmoozing with the right people, not losing your credibility, all that.’

‘Sounds like a day out on a tightrope.’

‘It will be. You’ve seen that already.’

The rest of the evening passed in a bit of a haze as I demolished most of the bottle of wine. I wasn’t due at the studio until the afternoon the next day because we had a night shoot to do on location, so I was still sleeping it off when the house phone started to ring the next morning. Hardly anyone used the landline, so I dragged myself up from my dreams and picked it up.

‘Sorry,’ Dora’s voice drawled into my ear, ‘did I wake you?’

‘Don’t worry. What time is it?’

‘About nine. I just rang so I could say, “I told you so.”’

‘Ah.’ I struggled to work out what she was on about. ‘OK.’

‘Ask me what I was right about this time.’

‘OK, what were you right about this time?’

‘Your acting ability. I’ve just had a call from Bafta. You’re up for an award.’

‘I am?’

‘Best actress.’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Look out, Oscar, here comes Steffi.’

Good old Dora, always there to dangle the dream a little bit further out of my reach.

The full impact of her words didn’t hit me until after I’d hung up the phone. Best actress? That meant I was competing against the very best people on television; actresses who’d been in the business for years, served their apprenticeships in the RSC and God knows where else, while I was just a jumped-up little nobody in a trashy soap opera. It was laughable, but really cool at the same time.

When I got to work that evening everyone seemed to have
heard already. If the other actors were pissed off they hid it well (skilful acting), and everyone talked about how good it was for the series and how it showed that the arts establishment was finally accepting that soaps were an art form. Everyone, including me, knew I didn’t stand a chance of winning, but it would be great to be there anyway as a contender.

As soon as they had congratulated me they all asked the same question: ‘What will you wear?’

I
finally managed to get hold of my sister Jenny on her mobile. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s me.’

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Cool.’

‘How is it at home?’

‘Fucking terrible. You really did it this time.’

I was about to protest that I hadn’t actually done anything apart from be born to the wrong woman, but decided it would be a waste of my breath. ‘Is Mum OK?’

‘My mum or your mum?’ she taunted.

‘Your mum,’ I replied, willing to humour her. ‘I can’t get hold of her.’

‘He smashed her phone, just before he smashed her and the rest of the house.’

‘How was any of it her fault?’

‘He was on the whisky, and angry.’

‘I’d really like to see her, to talk to her.’

‘He’s away a few days next week, working up north or something. I think he’s going on Monday.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’

She hung up as casually as if we had conversations like that
several times a day. After work on Monday I hired a minicab, because it would be less conspicuous than a black cab, and headed back home. It felt odd to be back after so long, everything so familiar but strange at the same time. So much had happened to me since the last time I was there but I could still see the same faces on the streets and it didn’t look as if anything had changed in their lives. No one gave me a second glance in the tatty-looking car. The driver was Asian and used to carrying actors from
The Towers,
so he left me alone with my thoughts all the way over. It was still light and there were kids playing outside as I got out, asking him to wait. I had no idea how long I was going to be, but I had his mobile number if I needed him. He didn’t seem bothered. He knew where I worked; he could find me again if necessary. He settled down with the radio on and a creased Tom Clancy paperback.

Jenny obviously hadn’t told Mum about my call because she looked genuinely startled to see me, tears springing to her eyes as she held out her arms and I fell into them.

‘I’m so sorry, child,’ she murmured, rubbing my back, ‘so sorry.’

I was surprised again by how short she seemed, her head resting on my shoulder rather than the other way round, as I would have expected. I guess I hadn’t really been looking at her before, when she was just my mum, someone who was always around when I was tiny and everyone seemed big. She bustled me through to the kitchen, wiping her eyes as she went. There was no one else in, which was a relief. I wanted it to be just her and me.

Once she’d made me a cup of tea and we’d sat down at the
table, she took my hand tightly in hers. ‘I want you to know that you were always a daughter to me, child,’ she said. ‘I never thought of you as any different to the others, just because you didn’t spring from my womb. You were a gift from God just as surely as any of them.’

‘What happened?’

‘Your father made a mistake, a bad mistake. He’s not a bad man, but he can be a stupid one, as you know, when he’s in the drink. He was in the drink the night you were conceived, but his stupidity turned out to be a blessing for us all.’

‘A married man knocking up a stripper seems pretty fucking bad to me,’ I said and the look of pain that shot across her face at my vulgarity made me feel guilty. ‘How did I come to be with you, then?’

‘It was the only way he could persuade her not to get rid of you.’ She squeezed my fingers even harder as if to help me through the pain of this revelation, but having met Maggie it didn’t come as a big surprise. ‘He confessed to me as soon as he found out what he had done. He begged me to help him. She said that if we promised to look after you then she would go full term. Your father had to work a lot of overtime to compensate her for the months she couldn’t work, but she stuck to her word. She wasn’t such a bad woman as all that. She gave birth to you and then she let us have you.’

‘Weren’t you angry with Dad for betraying you?’

‘Of course.’ She laughed softly as if at a pleasant memory. ‘I gave him hell for a few weeks and he had no choice but to take it. But you can’t live like that forever, especially when you have been given a beautiful new life to care for. You were
always a beautiful baby and I thanked God for the honour of being the one to bring you up.’

‘Did she ever come to visit? To see how I was getting on?’

‘No, I made her promise that she would stay away. I wanted you for my own. I didn’t want to share you with her. Did I do wrong?’

‘No, of course you didn’t.’

The whole sanctimonious bit was beginning to get on my nerves, but I could hardly say anything when the woman had given up so much in order to love me.

‘Have you met her?’ she asked.

‘Briefly. She’s pretty rough trade.’

‘She’s your mother, child, you must be respectful.’

That was about as much sugar as I could take in one go, so I gave her a hug and left to find my taxi driver, promising to come back soon. I gave her a new mobile phone I’d bought and made her promise to keep it out of Dad’s sight. At least now I could stay in touch with her again. Some of the local kids had gathered around the taxi by the time I got back there and the driver was looking nervous behind locked doors and tightly closed windows. He had given up even pretending to read his book and his eyes were rolling around all over the place. All credit to him for not just driving off and leaving me stranded.

‘Hey, you’re Steffi McBride,’ one of the girls said as I walked through them and the crowd parted respectfully. I remembered her as being a lot younger.

‘Hi, Tina,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Usual shit. Nothing changes. You doing more music?’

‘I don’t know. I’m pretty busy.’

‘You should do more music,’ she said, snapping her fingers appreciatively. ‘That telly stuff is crap. I’ve written some songs, you want to hear them?’

‘Sure.’

I leaned back against the car and the driver, sensing he was now safe, opened his window to listen to Tina’s rap. It wasn’t bad. There are so many people out there with a bit of talent who just need a break. If I hadn’t met Dora I would probably still have been in much the same place as these guys, just a few years older and a few years more disillusioned. Mind you, a group like this would have thought themselves way too cool to hang out with someone like me the way I was then, someone who actually quite liked school and didn’t mind going to work in hotel kitchens.

‘You want to text me those lyrics?’ I asked, giving her my number. ‘Maybe I can do something. No promises.’

‘Promises are all bullshit,’ she grinned. ‘I remember when you lived round here. You were always an odd one.’

‘She was the hot one,’ one of the brothers added.

‘How come you never told me that then?’ I teased and he looked bashful, which blew his tough-guy act.

‘You were with Pete,’ he said. ‘Pete had a lot of respect.’

‘Anyone hear from him now?’ I asked.

‘He’s around. They don’t come looking for him so much now. You want to see him? I can take you to him.’

‘Sure.’ I felt a tremor of excitement at the thought of seeing Pete again. I had no idea what sort of reception I would get.

A couple of the kids climbed into the car with me, the one
in the front giving the driver instructions that took us down some streets even I had never been to before. Every house was boarded up, but they knew which boards to knock on to get a response. I waited in the car till Pete emerged, blinking in the light, and then climbed tentatively out.

He flashed a bright grin. ‘Hey, the Queen of the World has come slumming.’

‘Fuck off, Pete. You OK?’

‘Sure, yeah.’

I could see he was tripping. It felt oddly nostalgic to be with him like that. I felt like tearing his clothes off and licking him all over, but I knew it was too late for that. He was right in a way: I was slumming and there was no way I could have gone through those boarded windows into the darkness beyond like I would have done a few months before. I wasn’t part of that world any more and I felt a stab of sadness, because what had I replaced it with?

I was vaguely aware of a figure lurking in the background, but we had been talking for a few minutes before I realised he was filming. I guess I must have been tense anyway because this acted like a match to gunpowder and I went off like a rocket, screaming abuse. To his professional credit the guy kept the camera running as I charged towards him, even when I stabbed the toe of my boot into his shin and he started to crumple to the floor, the camera still pointing up at me, buzzing away, taking in the whole magnificence of my fury.

‘What the fuck are you doing, man?’ Pete asked, genuinely confused by my sudden burst of action.

‘I’m sick to death of these bastards,’ I screamed. ‘They
follow me everywhere, poking their noses into every fucking corner of my life!’

‘Wow, babe!’ He put a steadying hand on my arm, pulling me back as I landed another kick. ‘That’s
my
film crew, man. They’re making a documentary about me and my music.’

I couldn’t believe it; the guy was still filming as he hauled himself back to his feet. He wasn’t even moaning or anything and I know for sure it must have hurt like fuck because I put my full weight into that kick and they were mean boots.

‘Ah, shit, Pete, you didn’t say.’

He was laughing.

‘It’s not fucking funny, Pete, I could have killed him.’

I was trying to apologise to the guy, trying to explain that I’d never done anything like that before in my life, but the camera was still running and I could imagine how pathetic and ridiculous I was sounding, so I gave up and retreated to the safety of the taxi while Pete and his team slunk back into the building to continue being filmed. It was only once we were well away from the area that I realised exactly what had happened. They were making a film about Pete to promote his music? How the fuck did that happen? Last time I’d heard he was a fucking fugitive from justice.

By the time I got back home that night I felt more depressed than I had ever felt before – which was pretty weird, really, considering how well most things in my life were going. There was a photographer lurking in the street outside who fired off at least fifty shots of me between the car and the front door. I said hi to him but he didn’t respond, just kept firing away. If he’d been halfway polite I might have invited him in
for a drink, just to have some company for a while and maybe to make up for kicking the shit out of the other poor guy. Missed an opportunity there, silly sod. Probably could have made another ten grand out of a few shots of me at home.

Once I was inside I wasn’t sure what to do. I would have asked Gerry round, but I knew he was out working on a location shoot. I didn’t fancy getting drunk on my own.

I scrolled back through my phone to a message Quentin James had left me a week or so before, with Maggie’s address and number. I’d been pissed off when he sent it. I didn’t think it was any of his business to try to act the cupid in our mother–daughter horror story. But I hadn’t deleted it, so God knows what was going on in my subconscious. I thought about ringing to see if she was in but changed my mind. I slipped out the back door in case the photographer was still there, and went in search of another taxi.