To Be Someone (14 page)

I started to worry that I wouldn’t be able to write enough good songs fast enough, but Jus pointed out that if the songs weren’t any good, we’d get dropped anyway, in which case I wouldn’t have to worry.

“Oh, great, thanks—pressure me, why don’t you?” I told him.

Then Aunt Sandi’s boyfriend commented that as the songwriter I would get more money than the others, because I’d get publishing royalties as well as artist royalties, which cheered me up no end. Justin looked sulky. After all, I thought, I already have more than fifty songs written, and I’ve only been at it for a year and a half. Many of them were religious, and I didn’t think that Ringside or the band would appreciate them—but that was beside the point.

We would get twenty thousand dollars up front for the first record, out of which we would be required to pay for our studio time and expenses, a producer, equipment purchase or rental, and a van.

“That’s a lot of money,” said Joe.

“Will there be any left over for me to buy a car with?” David wanted to know.

“It’s not our money,” I reminded him. “Remember what Mr. Wallberger said—it’s an advance. We have to pay it back again later.”

“How will we keep track of everything?” I added, as an afterthought.

“You need a manager,” said Aunt Sandi’s boyfriend firmly. “I’ll ask my colleague if he knows anyone good.”

That was how Mickey the Manager came into our lives. Mickey looked like he should have been a lifeguard on an L.A. beach. He was very tanned, with a rugged face and a mustache modeled on Magnum P.I. He had a couple of other bands on his roster, one of whom had recently become quite successful, and he was fond of spewing out clichés like “Stick with me, kids, I’m going places.” Boys apparently joined bands so they could meet girls (well, that was certainly the reason Joe had joined Blue Idea), and I was sure Mickey had started a management company for the same reason, because he couldn’t actually play an instrument or sing. He always had some ditzy little dolly on his arm, picked up from a show the night before. But his womanizing notwithstanding, we all quite liked him. He had a warm heart, under that sharkish exterior, and he did seem to work very hard for us and his other bands. We gave him a lot of healthy shit about how many polyester open-to-the-waist shirts he possessed, and the revolving door through which his girlfriends appeared to pass, but he took it all with good humor.

“Hey, I’m young”—he wasn’t. “I’m a mover and a shaker, and I’m gorgeous”—also debatable. “Why would I want to be tied down with a wife and kids?”

Justin had finally met someone who could outdo him in the arrogance stakes.

So within three months of our lunch meeting with Mr. Wallberger and Willy, the contract was signed, we had a lawyer, a manager, some studio time booked for demoing, and a lot of money in a new bank account that Mickey set up for us, overseen by an accountant also found by Mickey.

We felt like a real band at last. I graduated from high school, the last of the four of us to do so, and told my parents that I was going to defer college for a year to see if my musical career took off.

Everyone in Freehold knew about our deal; the local paper did a small feature about us when we got signed. All our old school friends were beside themselves with envy. The lead singer of Saul punched Justin in the face in the supermarket parking lot, and Margie hissed, “Hell is a very
hot
place, you know,” at me from her front porch when I passed her house one day.

My parents professed to be proud of my new enterprise but couldn’t contain their horror that I was not pursuing further education, at least for the foreseeable future. I thought they were secretly convinced that I would transform overnight into a heroin-shooting, Mohican-sporting, foul-mouthed menace to society who would embarrass them in front of their country-club friends. This was, in a nutshell, how they viewed the protagonists of popular music—even though I told them that punk was dead.

I phoned Sam to tell her that we’d been signed, and she was hysterical with delight and pride.

“Well,” she said when she’d calmed down. “My news is that I got a Saturday job at Price Rite. I haven’t had my O-level results yet, but I think I did all right—they want me to enroll for four A levels and an S level. And that swine Mark Symonds dumped me. So I think you win first prize for interesting news!”

I commiserated with her about Mark, although I had never liked him. He had acne and was not, in my opinion, good enough for Sam. When I’d been over to stay with the Grants in Salisbury the previous Christmas, he and I had fought, subtly but constantly and viciously, for Sam’s attention.

If the truth be known, however, I was also quite jealous that Sam had a boyfriend and I didn’t. I was sixteen and had never even been out on a date. I was absolutely humbled by this pathetic track record.

Sam was the only one I confided in about it, and she was very nice to me.

“Don’t worry, Helena, you’ll meet someone. Now you’ve been signed, I bet you get loads of blokes after you. You’re far too good for those meathead high-school boys, anyway.”

That was all very well for her to say, with her long, slim legs and huge gray eyes.

I still had a massive crush on the doorman of the local club we’d played at countless times in the past year. He was at least twenty-one, and enormous, with monstrous biceps bulging out of a lurid Misfits T-shirt. He always smiled at me, and sometimes commented, “Yeah, cool set, guys,” to us afterward. I felt sure he said this specifically in my direction, and fantasized that it was only a matter of days before he asked me out.

Every time we played the club, I spent hours getting ready, trying to look as Gothic as I could—until the night we got onstage and I saw the door open and a beautiful punk girl walk in. She was tiny and elfin, with pink hair, black lace gloves, and purple laddered tights. My doorman immediately locked her in the most passionate embrace I had ever seen. They were like two snails stuck together, and didn’t come up for air once throughout our entire opening number. When the song ended, I intentionally sent as much feedback as I could through the speaker, sending the snogging couple, not to mention the rest of the audience, leaping vertically in the air like electrocuted cats.

Oh well, perhaps Sam was right, maybe I
would
get a boyfriend now that we were signed. He would be a musician, too, not just some scummy old bouncer.

I was, however, very impressed at the news of Sam’s academic aspirations. “Four A levels and an S level? Jeez, Sam, you’ll be busy,” I’d said to her.

For a second I stopped thinking about the patent lack of romance in my life, and wondered instead if a patent lack of qualifications would be detrimental to my future ambitions, especially if I planned to move back to England. Sam would end up with examination certificates coming out of her ears, while I wouldn’t have an O level to my name.

But no, I decided, I’m going to be famous. I’ll concentrate on that, and worry about everything else later.

YOU LOOK SO DIFFERENT

M
UM WAS IN THE DOWNSTAIRS LOO WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG
at seven o’clock that night.

“Sorry, Helena, you’ll have to get that. It’s probably Margie,” she called through the door. I could hear the embarrassment in her voice at having to be so vulgar as to speak and pee simultaneously.

I plodded up the hall, feeling like the butler from Trumpton, and reluctantly opened the front door.

A hugely fat woman surrounded by an extended family of suitcases stood in the front porch. Only the man-made fibers of her clothes and the wedges of frizzy hair identified her as the Margie I remembered.

Margie, however, had even fewer clues to go on. “Hi!” she said brightly and politely. “Is this the Nicholls residence?”

“It certainly is!” I confirmed, equally brightly, adjusting my eye patch.

“Is Helena home? I’m an old school friend, Margie Westerburg. I believe I’m expected.”

I feigned shock and joyful surprise. “Margie! Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you. Well, it has been such a long time. Do come in.”

Margie looked at me, confused. Even though I was enjoying winding her up, I felt sick with hurt that I was so unrecognizable.

“Helena?” she asked, in a small, shocked voice.

“As I live and breathe,” I said heartily. “Excuse me if I don’t help you with your herd of bags, I just came out of hospital today.”

To my horror, Margie burst into loud, snotty tears. “Oh my Lord, what
happened
to you? Your poor face! And what’s the matter with your eye? You look so different, I … Oh, sweet Jesus, bless you!”

I turned away from her abruptly and stomped back down the tiled hallway, just as Mum flushed the toilet and emerged, adjusting her skirt.

I left her to greet Margie and fill her in on all the gory details, and went out into the back garden, where I stared at the birds commuting home across the apricot-streaked sky.

I felt utterly heartbroken. It wasn’t just Margie’s shock at my appearance, although that was bad enough. It was the comment “You look so different.”

The last time anyone had said that to me was years ago, and it was Sam. I’d brought her to see Blue Idea headline Wembley Stadium, at an all-day concert with lots of bands. It was the first time she’d ever seen me perform in front of a huge crowd like that—her illness had meant she’d missed both our previous big U.K. tours.

It was a sweltering day, and Sam was tired, so while I got ready, she had taken a little nap on the dusty old sofa in my dressing room. She’d woken up just as the makeup lady had finished working miracles on me and I was in all my stage finery.

“Oh, Helena,” Sam had said, staring at me like I’d been beamed down from another planet. There was real awe in her voice. “You look so different!”

“Kinky Afro,” I thought now, was the song for that day. Because of my memory of Sam’s sheer bliss as we danced around to it, hidden at the side of the stage, during the Happy Mondays’ set. I’d never seen her so happy. It was wonderful.

“Are you all right, darling?” asked Mum, who appeared next to me, red in the face from the exertion of shepherding Margie’s cases in. “Why don’t you come in and fix us all a drink?”

I nodded and came back inside, the whiny guitar intro of “Kinky Afro” coiling up in my head.

“Drink, Margie?” I inquired, opening the sideboard to reveal my standing-room-only collection of the hard stuff. “I’ve got gin, vodka, Scotch, wine, beer in the fridge—”

“Oh, just a soda, please,” Margie interrupted hastily. “I don’t touch a drop of alcohol, never have.”

Her eyes roved around the room, obviously trying to take in anything other than my offensive face. “You have a lovely home. Have you lived here long?”

“About five years now. Glad you like it.”

I poured Margie a tepid Diet Coke and handed it to her, spitefully omitting to add ice. This crime was enough to cause the average American to rush to the airport and jump on the first available plane home, but sadly Margie was made of sterner stuff.

“You Brits sure do like your drinks warm, don’t you? I’m kinda used to it now, though.”

“Mum? G and T?”

“Yes, please, dear,” said my mother. “I’ll get the ice.” She marched pointedly into the kitchen to find the ice bucket. Traitor, I thought.

Drinks dispensed and chilled, we all sat awkwardly in the living room. Mum and I sat together on one sofa, because Margie’s bulk seemed to spread across most of the other one.

“Say, Helena, you
have
lost weight,” Margie began. She’d been looking at my thighs, perhaps because it was easier than looking into my eye.

You haven’t, you fat cow, I thought, berating myself for being such a bitch.

“Oh, that fell off years ago,” I managed airily. “Being on tour was pretty physical work, even though people think you’re just sitting around in tour buses all day.”

Margie nodded knowingly, as if she went on tour all the time. “It sure was incredible, wasn’t it, how you guys got to be so huge?”

I resisted the temptation to say the same went for her. “Yeah, I suppose it was, yeah. It was a pretty interesting few years.”

I had no desire to dredge up my life history for Margie. I was saving it for the manuscript. “So, what do you do with yourself these days? You mentioned you were over here for a conference?”

Margie’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, it was real fascinating! I’m a rep for a firm that sells evangelical products, and we had our annual sales conference in Man-chester for the first time. It’s such a thrill to be in England. I’ve never been here before! And it was wonderful to meet all the other reps. Such a sense of community!”

“Sorry to be ignorant, but what are evangelical products?” I asked earnestly.

Mum grinned into her G&T, making ice bounce off her teeth as she swallowed.

Margie didn’t notice. “Gosh, all sorts of things, really. You know, hymnbooks and chalices and kneelers.”

I had a sudden thought. “Hey, you don’t sell those big wall-hanging things, do you, like the ones we had in church?”

Margie nodded ecstatically. “Yes, yes, that’s right. You remember those? Well, I’m not surprised. They are so beautiful.”

I actually managed a smile. “Yeah, they were. You know, I always wondered how churches got ahold of them. Who’d have thought you’d end up selling them?”

Me, for one. It seemed perfectly fitting.

Mum got up from the sofa and began to head for the kitchen. “Are you hungry, Margie? I was going to make a little supper for us all—if you’d like some?”

Margie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Nicholls, that would be wonderful.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Margie, please call me Eve. We’re all grown-ups now.”

I thought of Cynthia Grant, how she wanted me to call her Cynthia long before Sam and I were grown-ups. I must get in touch with her before the Plan, see her one last time.

Mum vanished off to rustle up a meal, and I realized Margie had asked me something. “Excuse me, Margie, what? I’m still a little deaf in one ear.”

“I SAID, ARE YOU IN TOUCH WITH ANYONE ELSE FROM FREEHOLD?”

I rolled my eye. “It’s okay, I’m not that deaf. There’s no need to shout. No, I’m not in touch with anyone actually, apart from the Blue Idea boys. Mum keeps me up to date with the news—although she hadn’t heard anything from you until your call a few weeks ago. You still live there, then? Are you married?”

Margie puffed her chubby cheeks up into two rueful cushions. “Yes, I still live in Freehold. Guess I’ll never leave the old place. And no, I’m not married. I was engaged, actually, until last year. But my fiancé left me for someone else.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “That must have been terrible.”

“Well, Jesus got me through it. He always does. I hope He’s been helping you in your time of trial, too, Helena.”

“Yeah,” I replied hastily, trying not to add, “Whatever.” “So do you know if Mary Ellen Randall still lives locally?”

Margie nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes! I see her at church every week. She was so excited when I told her I was coming to visit you. ‘Do send Helena my fondest love,’ she said. ‘I wish I could see her, too. She was such a lovely girl.’ ”

I was touched. “That’s nice. I always liked Mary Ellen. Send her my love, too, won’t you? Is she happy?”

Margie looked at me as if I was mad. “She sure is. She has the Lord in her heart, and a wonderful family—two children, cute husband. Great job, too; she coordinates missionary placements in the Third World. Of course she’s happy.”

Instead of feeling my usual envy, I was pleased that Mary Ellen was happy. She deserved it. For a second, though, I did wish that I’d kept up my faith. It must be wonderful to be content that, whatever life threw at you, you’d be okay as long as you had God, and a supportive community of like-minded people around you.

The telephone rang, and then stopped again. After a couple of minutes, Mum appeared back in the living room, cordless phone in one hand, potato peeler in the other.

“It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” I hissed at her, annoyed that she had answered it in the first place. Missing a heartbeat, I wondered if she was going to say Toby.

“Cynthia Grant,” she replied, in a slightly strained voice.

I stood up and took the receiver, waiting for Mum to get back to spud-bashing, but she continued to loom in front of me, clutching the peeler in a rather defensive manner.

“Hi, Cynthia, it’s me,” I said into the phone. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Helena, love!” said Cynthia, warmly. “How are you feeling? I’m so happy for you, that you’re out of hospital—but I feel so guilty for not visiting! Were you thinking that you’re going to hate me forever now?”

I laughed. “Of course not. It would be impossible for anyone to hate you, least of all me.”

“Well, I rang the hospital—I was going to pop in and see you tomorrow because I’m coming up to London to meet some girlfriends for lunch. But now you’re home, I don’t think I’m going to have time to come all the way over to Twickenham—I’m so sorry. I wanted to ring anyway, though, to say welcome back.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It was really sweet of you to think of me. And thanks for the card, too. To be honest, I’m feeling pretty wiped out.
I’m not really up for too many visitors.
”

I raised my voice a tone for the last sentence, but Margie appeared to be comfortably engrossed in a
Marie Claire
she’d found in the magazine rack. Mum, however, was still looming strangely. I made a face at her and she turned abruptly and left the room.

Something occurred to me. “Cynthia—there is one thing. You remember when I came down to Salisbury last time, you asked if I wanted to take that hat box—you know, our, er, Hel-Sam box—and I said no, I couldn’t face it yet? Well, I wondered if I could get it picked up by courier. I’ve started to write a book, and it would really help to have a rummage through it.”

“Oh, Helena, of course you can, love. I’ve been keeping it here for you. What a wonderful idea! You always were a clever girl. Make sure you autograph me a copy, won’t you?”

I felt a moment’s sadness, for both of us, that I wouldn’t be around to do any book signings when the book saw the light of day. “Sure.”

“I’ll get the box wrapped up and addressed, ready for collection. Mind, it’s quite heavy. It’ll be ever so expensive to have it couriered. Are you sure you don’t want to wait until I can drive up with it? It would have to be next week, though, I—”

I cut her off. “No, no, really, you don’t need to do that. I can afford it. And Cynthia?”

“Yes, love?”

“You won’t look inside it, will you?”

Old habits died hard.

Cynthia laughed. “Well, I’ve managed to contain my curiosity for about twenty years, so I think I can probably resist for another few days!”

I laughed, sheepishly, as well. “Sorry—I can’t believe I said that! There’s nothing very exciting in there anyway, as far as I remember. It’s just stuff like our old baby teeth, my second favorite Barbie, Sam’s four-leaf clover—you know, things that we thought were a big deal at the time.”

“Sam certainly thought that clover was a big deal,” Cynthia said, a wistfulness creeping into her voice.

She’d brought up Sam’s name! Much as I longed to talk about her, I wasn’t sure that I was up to it—I still felt too delicate. And besides, I certainly couldn’t cope with doing it in earshot of Margie, marooned on the sofa, and Mum, sulking in the kitchen. Briskly, I headed the encroaching emotional tenor of the conversation off at the pass. “Yes, well, it’s mainly the letters I’m interested in. Thanks for doing that for me. I really appreciate it. I have to go now, though. I have a friend from Freehold here, and we’re about to have supper.”

We said our good-byes fondly, promising to keep in touch. I replaced the phone, got myself a second gin and tonic, and poured Margie another Diet Coke—with ice. When I handed it to her, she put down the
Marie Claire
and, for the first time, looked straight at me.

“You know, Helena, I owe you an apology.”

I was taken aback. “You do? What for?”