Georgia (29 page)

For a moment or two there was silence. Georgia sensed Miriam was imploring Max with her eyes, but she hardly dared look up.

Despite the couple’s caring interest, Georgia knew this lunch had a real purpose. Was Max going to help her? Or had she blown it all by being too flippant?

Power seeped out of him like a strange perfume. A tiny bell was ringing at the back of her head, warning her to get advice before she made, or let anyone else make any decisions. But who could she go to? Miriam had already told her he was the best!

‘I’ve been giving you a lot of thought,’ Max spoke slowly, twisting his big gold ring around his carefully manicured finger. ‘But one thing bothers me.’

‘What’s that?’ Georgia said eagerly, wiping her mouth on a serviette.

‘Your lack of experience,’ he said, his thick dark eyebrows almost meeting as he frowned. ‘I mean, your voice is superb, you move well and you have stage presence. But to make it in the music business you have to tour with a band putting on a complete entertainment.’

‘How do I find a band?’ Georgia’s heart sank. She didn’t know anyone other than Andreous’s quartet. Was Max trying to put her off?

‘Well I do have a band on my books which could be the one.’ He pulled a notebook out of his pocket and studied it. ‘Samson have a singer already, but he’s the weak link,’ he looked at Georgia again, his eyes narrowing. ‘Unfortunately they are all very loyal to him. I’ve tried to make them part company with him before.’

‘But Georgia needn’t be a threat to him,’ Miriam leaned forward at the table, lightly touching Georgia’s hand as if to reassure her. Her dark eyes bore into her husband as if willing him to find a way round the problem. ‘Why couldn’t Georgia sing and Ian do the harmonies and backing vocals?’

‘It might work,’ Max beamed at his wife. ‘A girl as pretty as Georgia would enhance the whole band.’

‘How much work would this involve?’ Georgia asked, excitement bubbling up inside her. ‘I mean would I have to give up my job?’

‘Certainly,’ Max smiled at her naïvety. ‘Once you’d met them there would be rehearsals. Then off on the road. They play six nights a week now.’

‘Where?’ she asked.

‘All over.’

‘But where would I sleep?’

‘In digs while you’re away,’ he said with a slight touch of amusement. ‘But living where you do would be handy for the London gigs.’

‘Gigs?’

‘That’s the musician’s word for a job,’ he said. ‘But really the first step Georgia is for you to decide whether you want me to be your manager or not.’

There was an expectant silence.

‘I don’t really understand what that means,’ she said carefully.

‘It means I arrange all your jobs, pay you, organize transportation, publicity and countless other things.’

‘It means he virtually becomes your father,’ Miriam’s maternal, wobbly-chinned smile was reassuring. ‘He looks out for you and guides you through all the problems.’

‘What do you get out of it then?’ Even at the risk of appearing rude and ungrateful something told her she mustn’t agree too readily.

‘A percentage,’ he smiled, but his hooded eyes seemed a little colder now. ‘Very little now, but one day when you go out for big money, I’ll get my reward.’

‘But how much will I get now?’ Her voice dropped. ‘I mean I have to pay my rent and everything.’

Max laughed then, disarming her.

‘This is all hypothetical remember. I haven’t got the band to agree yet. But how does fifteen a week sound?’

‘Pounds?’ Georgia’s eyes flew open in amazement.

‘Well, of course,’ he replied.

Georgia stared at him. That was more than twice the amount Pop paid her!

‘But what happens if the public don’t like me. I don’t get to make a record or anything?’

Max shrugged his shoulders.

‘That’s my problem,’ he said. ‘Do you think I got where I am today by backing losers?’

Miriam smiled, reaching forward and taking Georgia’s hands.

‘Grab it with both hands,’ she said gently, her dark eyes full of excitement. ‘Chances like this come just once. I’m sure you don’t want to spend your life running up dresses?’

Georgia sat for a moment looking from one to the other.

Miriam was motherly, a woman like her wouldn’t lead her into anything bad. Max might be sharp, but just to look at him was to stare success in the face.

‘All right,’ she smiled. ‘I’d like you as a manager.’

‘Welcome to our family Georgia,’ Max beamed, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. ‘Once I’ve talked to the boys in the band we’ll get an agreement drawn up. Meanwhile I think champagne is called for.’

Max’s big hands gripped the steering wheel to control his mounting excitement. She could really sing, she was beautiful, but best of all she was alone!

Stage-door Mamas were his bête noire. Hanging around, poking their noses in his business, demanding this and that and producing lawyers if he didn’t comply.

He wouldn’t even need hype this time. Georgia had the face, the body and the voice. She wasn’t going to be a one hit wonder, the darling of the kids in youth clubs for two months, then dropped like a stone. No, Georgia was going to line his walls with gold records.

‘A “Roller”, a mansion in the country,’ he said aloud, turning his driving mirror so he could see himself. ‘Well Maxy, the sky’s the limit this time. Straight up, no messing!’

When Max was onto something he wasted no time. After saying goodbye to his wife and Georgia he was straight off to Birmingham to see ‘Samson’. They liked playing ‘The Coconut Club’, it was Saturday night with a day off tomorrow, all excellent reasons for them to be in a receptive mood.

Seven unambitious lads from the East End and every one of them a first class musician. They’d paid their dues in London pubs and youth clubs, all they wanted out of life was a regular wage, a bit more crumpet and someone to organize them. Too loyal to split up and join bands with a name. Too thick to realize their own potential.

Ian McShane was their leader and singer. Max had plans for him at first, his pretty-boy blond looks could have given singers like Ricky Nelson a run for their money. But despite his gentle charm, Ian was an obstinate young cuss. He wouldn’t play bubble-gum music, not even for the lures that Max put out. He had an obsession about soul music and that was exactly why Max wanted Georgia to join them.

The beaten-up old van was parked outside the club. The equipment all ready inside. Max brushed past the doorman with a few words and went into the club.

Why exactly it was called The Coconut Club, eluded him, as apart from a cut-out wooden palm tree outside it had no exotic aspirations. Inside it was like a catacomb, with small cave-like seating areas leading off the dance floor. The stage was at the far end, with a long bar which reached all down one wall.

Max took a seat tucked away behind an archway. In a well-positioned mirror he could see Ian crawling around the stage checking wires, but to Max’s surprise they were almost ready.

Now with the main lights on, the club looked shabby. White walls gone yellow with smoke, velvet seats with no pile left, drink-ringed tables and a sticky, dirty carpet. Yet in an hour or two it would be transformed with subdued lighting, and five or six hundred kids looking for the Saturday night dream.

‘One, two, three, testing,’ came the inevitable cry over the PA.

‘It seems all right,’ Ian shouted to the boys. ‘Let’s get the balance now, then we can go for a few jars.’

The usual high pitched whine. Les and Patrick tuning up and John flexing his fingers on the trumpet valves.

The organ came in, a crashing from the drums and then they started to play.

It never ceased to surprise Max that these boys could actually unpack a van full of heavy equipment, with miles of wiring, cart it into a club or pub and within half an hour create a decent sound. The drums alone looked like a Chinese jigsaw puzzle to unravel. There were endless extension leads, lights and jack plugs. Yet, at the end of the evening they would pack it all away carefully, no matter how much they’d had to drink, only to repeat the performance the next night somewhere else.

They were all in their early twenties, all too thin and unhealthy looking, not a muscle between the lot of them.

A bunch of underfed dogs, that’s what they reminded him of. Mongrels with more courage and persistence than brain. All too keen to lick his hands for a titbit. On a long leash they were happy. A kick up the backside now and then to show them who was boss, then brush them up, show them off and they gave him undying loyalty.

In a year Max had learned little about them individually. At times he even had difficulty remembering their names. But then it was always Ian who spoke for them.

He was leaning lazily on the microphone. Butter-yellow hair falling into his eyes, pale skin and soft girlish mouth. It was a shame his voice wasn’t that hot. He could have been a real matinée idol. He wasn’t a wanker like the rest of the bunch. A bit weak, a gentleman, but a likeable lad for all that.

Rod the drummer should have been their leader. He had the height, arrogance and charisma Ian lacked. His angular, almost Red Indian features drew the eye, his glossy black hair, his lean frame were a trap for any woman under fifty. Sometimes Max had an uneasy feeling this lad was biding his time, waiting for his moment.

The others he lumped together. Anaemic looking, sharp East End faces. In their scruffy jeans and plimsolls they could be the boys he grew up with.

Sometimes when he watched the lads performing, Max wished he was in their shoes. Girls looking up adoringly, already damp with excitement. By the interval they were ripe. One drink, a little snogging and before the equipment was packed those fresh-faced girls were waiting with their knickers in their handbags. He might have the money and the flash car, he might even promise a night in a swish hotel, but he still had to take knickers off manually.

‘That’s it lads,’ Ian called out. ‘Down the pub.’

Max got up from his seat.

‘Ye gods, it’s the boss,’ Norman leapt down from his organ and landed on the dance floor. ‘Hallo Max, what brings you up here?’

Norman was an irritating little know-all, with red hair and freckles, the boy he liked least.

‘To watch you,’ Max said easily. ‘Find out what I’m wasting my money on.’

‘We’re going over to the pub,’ Les said. ‘Are you coming?’

Les was the most easy going, possibly the dimmest of the bunch, with rounded shoulders, sallow skin and a hooked nose. Right now he had a spot on his greasy chin that flashed as vividly as a Christmas tree light.

‘Why not?’ Max grinned, ‘I’ll even do the buying!’

Once at the pub Max humoured them by listening to the same old complaints. The van that overheated, no new sheet music for Norman. Why couldn’t they have new band suits, and some time off?

‘Have you finished?’ he said, looking from one to another, fixing them with his bright eyes. ‘I didn’t come all this way to have my ears bashed!’

‘Go on,’ Norman said. ‘What is it this time? Have we used too much petrol?’

‘No,’ Max waited until he had their full attention. ‘Have you ever wondered why you’ve never been approached by a record company?’

There was a nodding of heads all round. Speedy, the bass player stuck his head over Rod’s shoulder and grinned inanely.

‘It’s not because you aren’t good enough musically, but because the voice isn’t there,’ Max said firmly.

Max noted how Ian’s face blanched, his blue eyes grew darker, his lip curled.

‘Are you saying you want me replaced?’

‘Not replaced, added to,’ Max had to be careful not to antagonize Ian, after all he only intended them to train Georgia. ‘If I could show you a girl singer who could blow the socks off everyone in the room, what would you say?’

‘Do we all get to shag her in the van too?’ John said dryly.

‘She’s not that type,’ Max replied. John was better known for his irreverent humour than his classy trumpet solos. His brooding dark eyes were watching Max closely, missing nothing.

‘Then she’s definitely out,’ Norman broke into a high-pitched shriek of laughter.

‘I’m serious,’ Max looked round at each of the boys, that ‘Trust me because I know best’ look he had perfected. ‘I don’t want to replace Ian. He has a big following with your girl fans, and he keeps you lot in order. But this girl will enhance everything you do. She’s young, pretty and a fantastic singer, and if you’ve got half a brain, you’ll let her rehearse with you and see what you think.’

‘Can we just have a moment to talk about it?’ Ian said, he looked at each of his friends in silent appeal.

‘Fair enough,’ Max got up from his stool. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes.’

He would have given anything to stay and hear what they were saying. Instead he took his drink to the other end of the bar and watched them from a distance.

‘I don’t like it,’ Rod said immediately Max was out of earshot. His dark eyes flashed with anger. ‘He’s got something up his sleeve.’

‘He’s an arsehole,’ John scowled. ‘This is the first step to kicking Ian out.’

‘He can’t get rid of Ian,’ Speedy smirked. His nickname came from his slow, lethargic attitude. But he was the only one of them that had left school with any qualifications. ‘We’ve got a contract with him as a complete band.’

Ian flashed a look of gratitude at Speedy. He looked and acted thick because it suited him to do so, but despite appearances, he was as sharp as a razor.

‘Thank, lads,’ Ian said softly. ‘Max is no fool. He must have found someone special. If she’s as good as he thinks she is, she may be the one to help us, too.’

‘I don’t want no fucking girl hanging out with us,’ Norman stuck out his pointed chin defiantly. ‘It’ll be a drag and you know it. It’s probably some tart he fancies and she’ll be running back to him with stories.’

‘Possibly,’ Ian said. ‘But on the other hand she could be what we need. Max is right. I ain’t got a brilliant voice. There’s nothing to separate us from a thousand other bands. Why don’t we agree to an audition? Nothing more. If we hate her, if she’s his bit on the side, we’ll refuse. He can’t make us take her.’