The Overnight Fame of Steffi McBride (15 page)

T
he address was in Earl’s Court, an area of west London I wasn’t familiar with. It was a basement flat in an old red-brick building that must once have been quite grand, just behind the crowded, noisy main street. As I descended the steps into the damp shadow of the building a shiver ran right through me. It felt a bit like I was walking back into my own past, a time before I was even born. Very weird. I was tempted to turn and run and lose myself in the bustle and roar of the Earl’s Court Road, even after I’d knocked on the door. I forced myself to stay put and wait to see what was going to happen next.

I could see someone approaching through the frosted glass, but it was still a shock when the door jerked open and I saw her face. She looked like something from a horror movie. She must have been wearing a wig at Quentin’s office because her real hair was shorter and almost white. The hint of yellow could have been the last remnants of a blonde past, or could have been nicotine staining. But more shocking than that was the state of her face. It looked like she’d been caught in a house fire, all the skin burned and sore, plasters everywhere. She was wearing dark glasses despite the fact that it was evening and the flat behind her was dimly lit.

‘Hi,’ I said, trying to recover my composure. ‘It’s Steffi.’

‘Christ,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’

She stood back to let me in. The smell of smoke and stale cooking was overpowering. The place was quite tidy and clean, but shabby, like nothing had been replaced or repaired or decorated in twenty years. She led me into a small sitting room next to the front door. There were bars over the window to deter intruders and a gas fire, which had added another smell to the stale air. There were photographs everywhere, most of them of her, some obviously studio portraits taken to try to get modelling or acting work, others snaps taken with people who had the look of celebrities, although I didn’t recognise any of them. It was shocking how much I looked like her when she was younger, except that she had dark hair and eyebrows, not like I’d imagined at all. It was like seeing myself dressed up for a part set in the 1970s or 1980s.

‘If I’d known you were coming I could have warned you,’ she said, gesturing at her face.

‘What happened?’

She laughed. ‘Nothing happened. Self-inflicted. Finest plastic surgeon in Harley Street, or so he tells me. I’m having a make-over. It’s part of Quentin’s plan to relaunch my career.’

‘A televised facelift?’

‘When I did the story I told him I needed enough money for a facelift and he said he could do better than that – said he could arrange for a documentary, which would mean I would get paid and they would pay all the expenses; plus I get the exposure on prime-time telly.’

It all sounded a bit desperate to me, but I didn’t say anything.

‘Hope it’s all right of me to pop in like this.’

‘Of course. I hoped you would.’

She didn’t ask me how I knew the address, so I guessed she must have known about Quentin texting me.

‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked.

The business of fetching ice and cutting slices of lemon filled the next few awkward minutes.

‘Has Quentin got any other plans for you, then?’ I asked, as the atmosphere became a little more comfortable.

‘Plenty. Listen, I know it looks like I’m cashing in on your success …’

I said nothing.

‘But you can see that things are pretty desperate. I don’t have many more chances to make it.’

‘He seems a bit of a sleazeball to me,’ I said.

‘I’ve met worse.’ She shrugged. ‘Hell, I’ve gone out with worse. Quentin and me, we go back a long way together. More than once he’s helped me raise money when it looked like I was just about to go under.’

‘You’ve sold stories through him before?’

‘Quentin knows where all the skeletons are hidden.’ She gave a throaty smoker’s laugh.

It seemed odd to think that a man like Quentin knew things about my past that I didn’t, like he was some spooky, all-knowing, behind-the-scenes manipulator – which, I guess, is exactly what he is.

‘How did you meet Dad?’ I asked. I’d read most of the story in the papers by then, but I needed something to talk about,
and my experience had taught me that reporters didn’t always tell the whole story.

She took a long drink. ‘I was working in a place called Raymond’s Revue Bar. It was the best strip joint in London, probably in Europe, at the time – world famous. Big shows with costumes and proper choreography. Sometimes Raymond would introduce us to the punters after the show. Nothing was expected, unless you wanted to arrange it yourself. Your dad was there with a stag party. They were bloody drunk, but he was a good-looking guy and we sort of clicked.’

‘Did he tell you he was married?’

‘Not the sort of thing that would come up in conversation at a place like that.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ I knew I was in danger of coming across like someone’s disapproving maiden aunt.

‘Anyway, there was a chemistry and we got it together. He took precautions, but it must have ripped.’

That was more information than I needed, but I said nothing, taking a large swallow of gin while I absorbed the story so far.

‘Where did you go?’ I asked, not sure why I felt the need to know. ‘A hotel?’

‘Good God, no,’ she laughed again. ‘Neither of us could have afforded a hotel. He came back here.’

That was a shock. I was actually sitting in the flat where I had been conceived. She had been living in this hole for all those years; that was depressing.

‘So, it was just a one-night stand?’

‘Not exactly, but once he discovered I was pregnant he got
all pious and Catholic on me. I would have had an abortion if he’d been willing to pay. Sorry,’ she said with a grimace, ‘but I would. He said that would be a sin, gave me the whole spiel; said he would bring you up himself. I didn’t think he was serious, I certainly didn’t think his wife would agree. When she did it seemed like the perfect answer.’

‘And they paid you?’

‘I had to live and I needed to stay healthy till you were born. Not a big demand for pregnant strippers.’

We sat in silence for a few minutes. It was a bit of a slap in the face to know your own mother would have got rid of you if she’d had her way, but the thought that Dad had wanted me so much he was actually willing to go to Mum and confess all made me feel quite tearful in a good way. He might be a moody, stubborn, violent old bastard who couldn’t hold his drink, but at least he’d wanted me. Mum must have wanted me too, otherwise she wouldn’t have been willing to treat me like one of hers for all those years. It’s funny the places where you can find a bit of consolation for life’s tougher blows, isn’t it?

‘How old was I when you handed me over?’

‘They took you away immediately. I never even saw you. All I knew was that you were a girl.’

‘And you never wanted to get in touch, find out how I was doing?’

‘Sometimes.’ She shrugged. ‘But I’d made a deal, promised not to. I even came over and sat outside your block once or twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, but you never came out while I was there. I sort of felt sure I would recognise you if you did. I was pretty busy after that, getting my career going again.’

Another silence fell as I tried to work out what I was feeling.

‘I read in
The Stage
that you’re nominated for a Bafta,’ she filled the silence. ‘That’s a hell of a good break.’

‘Yeah, thanks. There’s no chance I’ll get it. They must have been short of people to nominate this year.’

‘Don’t put yourself down, you’re a talented actress. It’s in your genes.’

‘Thanks,’ I said again, although I knew she was complimenting herself as much as me.

‘What will you wear?’

‘I don’t know. Everyone asks that.’

‘All the designers will be on to you, wanting to lend you stuff.’

‘Yeah, my agent has told me. I’m not really into all that. I like vintage. I’ll probably pick up something in Camden Market.’

‘You like vintage?’

‘Well, Oxfam mostly.’

‘Ever heard of a 1970s designer called Bill Gibb?’

‘No.’

‘Same period as Zandra Rhodes and that lot, but he died early. His stuff was always in
Vogue
; magical, beautiful designs. I modelled for him once.’

‘Yeah?’

‘At the Albert Hall. It was this huge charity production.’

Just remembering her glory days was making her sit up straighter, raising her chin and running her fingers through her sparse hair as if it were still beautiful.

‘I was dating this guy who was one of Bill’s backers. He
gave me one of Bill’s originals, had it made to measure, real couture perfection. Everyone modelling that day was wearing their own Bill Gibb originals; all the most beautiful actresses and models and society girls. Everyone loved Bill, they were all happy to do it for him. It was a fabulous night.’

‘Pity you don’t still have it,’ I joked.

‘I do. Do you want to see it?’

‘That would be great.’ It was a relief to find something neutral to talk about.

She led me through into the bedroom, which was even darker than the sitting room. The unmade bed was a tousled mess of dark-red and black bedclothes; there were more pictures of her on the walls. In the corner of the room was a wicker peacock chair covered in leopardskin-print cushions. She saw me looking at it.

‘Biba. The whole flat was Biba once, but things get broken and wear out. There’s never been anything like it since.’

The air was clearer in there, as if she had a no-smoking rule in there at least. An ancient dark-wood wardrobe dominated one side of the room, covered in hangers and clothes. She lifted them off, throwing them on to the bed, so she could open one of the doors. Inside the rail was crowded but she seemed to know exactly what she was looking for and pulled out a dress in a plastic cover. She threw it on to the bed on top of everything else and directed the bedside light at it, as if arranging a spotlight on a stage, before unzipping the bag and lovingly lifting the gown free. I had been all set to make some polite comments but I actually gasped at the beauty of the gown that emerged. It had been stitched together with
intricate layers of feathers and beads on a background of lace and silk. It was the sort of dress a little girl might imagine a fairy princess to wear. It was a fantasy.

‘It was the one that the press liked,’ she said wistfully. ‘We were on the front of all the papers the following day; even Twiggy didn’t get as many column inches. I’ll show you the cuttings.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I whispered, gently stroking the feathers as if they were still attached to a living creature. It seemed incredible that an object of such beauty and delicacy could be living in such a terrible, sad, shabby place, imprisoned in the dark when it should be out in the spotlight.

‘Do you want to try it on? You look about the same size I was then.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I wasn’t sure I was quite ready for such an intimate moment with Maggie.

‘Go on,’ she coaxed. ‘I dare you!’

I giggled stupidly, excitedly, like we were naughty schoolgirls raiding a grown-up wardrobe together. ‘OK.’

She helped me into it and it felt as wonderful as it looked. She must have been exactly the same size as me when she was my age because it fitted perfectly, like Cinderella’s slipper.

‘You should wear it to the Baftas,’ she said. ‘That way at least you’ll get the press coverage, even if you don’t get the award.’

O
nce the news got out that I was up for an award all the big London designers contacted me, trying to tempt me to wear one of their dresses. I went to see them all because it was such a laugh. It was like being a little girl with the biggest dressing-up cupboard in the world, but I didn’t like many of the frocks they tried to talk me into. What surprised me was how grown up some of them made me look. I didn’t think I was ready to look like that yet. I would have felt like a fraud swanning up the red carpet in some slinky Valentino or Chanel number. But that didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy all the attention I got from their public relations people, all the champagne they plied me with while incredibly posh people rushed around suggesting jewellery I should borrow and shoes I should try.

It was like they were all looking at me and none of them could see that I was just a south-London girl who’d got lucky. Through their rose-tinted shades they seemed to be seeing someone like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, while I still felt like Steffi from the squat.

None of the things they showed me was a patch on Maggie’s dress. By the end of our evening together I had
actually felt quite fond of her. I mean, I didn’t want to think too hard about the state of her maternal instincts or her morals, but as a friend I thought she might turn out to be a bit of a laugh. As a gesture I said I would be happy to be filmed for her make-over documentary if she thought it would help to pull in a few more viewers. It seemed to me she was going through an awful lot of agony just for one more shot at the big time, so maybe she deserved a bit of support, especially as it was no skin off my nose (no pun intended there).

Quentin rang me the next day to see if I had been serious about the offer. Now that I knew he was an old friend of Maggie’s I felt a bit of an obligation to be nice to him, like I might be to a lechy old uncle at a wedding. It was set up for me to come along to see her once the transformation was done, so they could film my reaction.

‘I’ve got a lot of plans for your mother,’ he said. It sounded funny to have her referred to like she was a big part of my life, but I let it pass. ‘And your friend Pete.’

‘Pete?’

‘We’re getting together a record deal for him. He’s very talented.’

‘You’re behind that?’

‘Absolutely. I told you no one escapes me for long.’

I had mixed feelings about that. It did seem like he was snooping around every part of my life, but at the same time I was happy to think that Pete might be getting his big break because of me. I felt that made up a bit for me messing him around with Luke.

After the first visit to Maggie’s I found myself thinking about
her a lot, and thinking about her led to me getting back in a taxi again a few evenings later. This time I went armed with flowers and was shocked to see her eyes watering up when I gave them to her. I guess it had probably been a while. She had her wig on, which made her look less shocking, and the plasters were coming off, although her skin still looked terribly raw. She had lost the dark glasses and her eyes had scars all round them where the surgeon had removed the loose skin. She’d just spent the day at the dentist having major stuff done to her teeth and the immaculate white results looked a bit shocking, like a brand-new Bentley parked in the middle of bombsite.

‘I’ve got to do it, haven’t I?’ she said once we were sitting down with the gin bottle.

‘Do what?’

‘Give up smoking. I can’t put myself through all of this and then turn everything yellow again, can I?’

‘Might be a bit of a waste.’

Not knowing what to do with her hands without a constant supply of cigarettes, she took too many nervous sips at her glass and was having to refill it while I was still only halfway down mine.

‘Were you ever married?’ I asked.

‘Came close a few times, in the early days, when rich men were still taking an interest. I worked at a casino in the West End as a croupier and had a couple of interesting proposals there.’

‘Why didn’t you, then?’

She narrowed her eyes and stared at me and for a moment I thought she was going to tell me to mind my own business. ‘Couldn’t imagine giving up my ambitions. What man would
be willing to put up with a woman hustling her way up through the show-business jungle? If I’d married I would’ve had to admit defeat on all that; give up my dream.’

We both fell silent at that, me thinking about the fact that I’d given up Luke and her probably thinking about a lot more than that.

‘Can you understand that?’ she asked eventually.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Not many women can. Most of them, by the time they get to my age, think I’ve made all the wrong choices. They look at this –’ she gestured round the room ‘– and they compare it to their big houses and their family holidays and their big fat pensions, and they think I’m deluded. But they’ve never known what it feels like to be standing in a spotlight with every pair of eyes in the room on you as you dance or sing or whatever. Or, if they have, they’ve forgotten it. They’ve forgotten what it feels like to be the centre of attention. Would I rather be spending my days cooking meals, doing school runs and going to coffee mornings?’

She left the question unanswered and I waited for her to go on.

‘I know I haven’t made it yet, but I still could. Every day that I wake up there’s a chance that something amazing will happen; a hit record or a television job, something that will be the big break I need to get back on top.’

‘Did you act, then?’

‘Still do when I can get the jobs. It’s usually background work but sometimes I get a line and you never know, do you? I played a patient in
Casualty
a year or so ago, but they made
me up to be dying of cancer so you’d never have known. If this make-over programme does OK it could lead to something else. Maybe I could end up as your neighbour at
The Towers
.’

I laughed politely, but I actually felt a tremor of anxiety, like she was threatening my private territory. I was happy to spend time with her as long as it was here, in her dingy basement, which I could escape from at any time. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about having her in my life any more than that. I was shocked by my readiness to reject her as quickly as she had once rejected me. She topped up my glass. If she had seen the horror on my face she didn’t mention it.

‘What other stories has Quentin sold for you in the past?’ I asked.

‘Kiss and tell, you know the sort of thing. I hung out with the pop groups in the 1970s, and with a few footballers later on. There was a politician once. The media loves all that. Stories about Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies; names that won’t mean much to you now but were big in their time.’

‘Didn’t you feel guilty about grassing on your lovers?’

‘They always benefited in the end – raised their profiles in the media, came out looking like super-studs.’

‘What about their marriages?’

‘If they were screwing girls like me on the side their marriages were pretty fucked anyway, don’t you think? Some girls I knew would encourage their lovers to get divorces and marry them, and then take them to the cleaners later. At least I never did that.’

‘Most people end up getting married and then staying together, though, don’t they?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. But then most people give up on their dreams quite quickly, maybe before they’ve even left school. I never wanted to do that.’

‘How do you know that your dreams aren’t just fantasies?’

‘Well, you don’t, until they come true. But having fantasies can be fun too. I’m not sure most people’s reality is that great.’

It felt like I was talking to a real-life, older version of Nikki. Maggie was a one-woman research project for an aspiring young actress.

‘What about you?’ she changed the subject. ‘What was the story behind the boy with the gun?’

‘Pete? He was my first love, childhood sweetheart, but he got too much into the drugs, frazzled his brain. He was sweet, though.’

‘Yeah, but a gun. Fucking hell, Steff …’

‘I know, but it’s all calmed down now. Quentin’s trying to get him a music career.’

She laughed. ‘That man never misses a trick. With Quentin behind him it just might happen. And what about the pop singer?’

‘Luke? I’ve been in love with him since I was 12.’ I grinned sheepishly.

‘Ah, so you have fantasies too. Or is it a dream come true?’

I shrugged, not wanting to let her into that part of my life – not yet, anyway. It was still all much too raw and painful. I changed the subject.

‘Did you mean it when you said I could wear your dress for the Baftas?’