Georgia (45 page)

She liked the picture of her in the arms of the stallholders in Berwick Street, but she wasn’t exactly sure about the rest.

‘Berwick Street beauty tipped for the top,’ was the headline.

‘Georgia James races up the charts with her record “No Time”. Two years ago Georgia was selling frocks in Berwick Street on a market stall, now she’s on her way to stardom with a heart-stopping ballad written by herself and her band Samson. Two of the boys in the band died in a fire earlier this year and the song is dedicated to their memory.’

‘Shit,’ Rod exploded. ‘Why did you say that?’

‘I didn’t exactly,’ Georgia said. ‘Neither did I say I sold dresses.’

Maybe the article was corny. Yet she couldn’t help raise a smile about her love for Soho and the market.

‘They’ve made me sound like a cockney sparrow,’ she giggled. ‘Look at what Bert in the café said!’

‘“She’s got a knockout voice. Of course she’ll go all the way to the top, we never doubted it round here. She’s a lovely girl and we’re all very proud of her,”’ she read, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘Bless him.’

That night people were turned away from the Marquee. Inside it was packed so tight with fans the temperature rose to the nineties. No dancing for the fans now, just pressed up together, hundreds of people clamouring to see her, prepared to face the discomfort just to hear her before she moved on to bigger venues.

The next day it was the
Mirror
’s turn, taking it a stage further with pictures of her against piles of fruit, her door in the background. Another one of her on stage in Miriam’s old white dress, belting out a song, head thrown back, hair like a storm.

They re-capped on the tragedy of Ian and Alan’s death and the star-studded benefit concert that followed it.

‘No time’, seemed almost prophetic now. There was no time to visit her old friends, no time to catch her breath. She had caught the public’s imagination and as the week passed, so the record flew up the charts.

Menzies Enterprises was besieged with callers. Club owners wanted to book the band while they could still afford them. Magazines wanted profiles. Radio and television producers offered guest appearances and fans stood outside hoping for a glimpse of her.

But to Georgia it became real when people turned to stare at her in the street and bolder ones came up to her and asked outright for her autograph.

Two days after the reporters found her home, Georgia was whisked off by Max to The Sunderland, a small hotel close to Sloane Square, leaving most of her belongings behind in Berwick Street.

‘We’ll carry on paying the rent,’ Max said as he closed the door behind them. ‘Let the public think you’re still here for the time being.’

No more long hours of lying in bed catching up from the gig the night before. No afternoons spent wandering around new towns or listening to records with the boys. Max would ring first thing in the morning to arrange her day, every minute planned to give her the maximum publicity.

Whether she was buying clothes, or eating a meal, somehow the press were always there. Cameras zooming in on her, microphones poised to catch even the most trivial of remarks. She had to learn to think before speaking, to keep her guard up at all times.

It was exciting, yet frightening. Like that drug, it distorted her feelings, one moment she was high as a kite, the next strangely alone.

Max was in his element as ‘No Time’ approached number one. He didn’t miss a trick. Sending men ahead to gigs to erect crash barriers for crowd control, creating mass hysteria himself. Press releases were timed to keep her image high, and almost every day there was a picture of her in one of the papers.

At each performance the crowds got steadily larger. Queues stretched down the roads outside for hours before, and as she arrived in a limousine with blacked out windows the fans would surge forward, hands reaching out to touch her.

Georgia was amused yet frightened by Max’s ploys. She understood that he had to promote her with everything within his power to make sure he got a return on his investment, but there was something vaguely dishonest about the flashy way he approached it.

Once it had been hard to get him to watch an entire set, but now he never missed one. He strutted around in his expensive clothes and gold jewellery, opening magnums of champagne. He ordered people around as if he were the star, with a retinue of vacant-looking girls posing as personal assistants clinging to him.

Suddenly everything had to be the best. A luxury coach, to get the band to gigs. A couple of tough-looking men to act as ‘minders.’ A permanent photographer. Hairdresser and make-up artist. Public relations girls, a woman to look after their stage clothes, and roadies to unload and set up the equipment. Hotels were booked for them, dinners, parties and press conferences. It was a circus, with Max as the ringmaster. He didn’t consult the band about anything. But who was paying for it all?

The big black Daimler cruised almost silently down the Strand. Georgia wriggled forward in her seat, her heart thumping with excitement.

Just three hours ago she had heard ‘No Time’ was finally at number one, pushing the Beatles off their perch. Tonight she was going to a party at London’s Savoy Hotel, where she was to be the guest of honour.

‘I used to come down here late at night with my friend,’ she confided to the chauffeur. ‘We used to watch all the rich people and pretend we were rich too.’

It was New Year’s Eve, she remembered most distinctly. Helen with the fur collar of her coat turned up against the cold wind, her hair like gold under the street lights, shivering as they stood in a doorway to watch a stream of cars like this one, disgorging women in furs and silk dresses at the hotel.

‘You never guessed one day it would be you?’ The man chuckled, surprised by the star’s childish confession.

‘Not even in my wildest dreams,’ Georgia laughed softly, breath hot on his neck, her perfume filling his nostrils. ‘I wish Helen was with me now. She died before I got my first singing job.’

‘Are you nervous?’

Robert Wells was over fifty. He’d been working for this company for almost ten years and in that time he’d driven more famous people than he could count. Actors, opera singers, lords, members of Parliament and film stars, but never once had he driven anyone so pent up with excitement.

‘Terrified,’ she admitted. ‘Do you think I look all right?’

He glanced into the mirror. All he could see clearly were her sparkling eyes, but he could remember the way she looked as she walked out of the hotel.

A long red clingy dress, dark curls tumbling over her bare shoulders, and a face so lovely he could hardly drag his eyes from it.

‘All right?’ he laughed softly. ‘You look fabulous. You’ll knock ’em all dead!’

Robert slowed the car, ready to turn into the forecourt. The Savoy had never looked more beautiful. Floodlights had turned it into a golden temple framed by a black velvet sky. Gleaming plate glass doors, beyond, white marble, rich carpets and chandeliers. A perfect setting for this enchantress.

Georgia smoothed down her dress, spreading her fingers out to check she hadn’t chipped the matching nail varnish. She could see Rod waiting for her by the door and she wondered if he was as nervous as her.

He looked so handsome. A white suit straight out of a Hollywood film, his black hair sleek and shiny, restyled with a middle parting, accentuating his Red Indian looks.

The car cruised slowly to a halt. A liveried doorman leapt forward to open her door. A group of fans pushed against the security men who tried to contain them.

‘Have a great time.’ Robert turned round from his driving seat to look at Georgia one more time. ‘I’ll be back to pick you up later.’

‘Well, you look the business,’ Rod said softly, taking her arm and leading her towards the open door.

‘I could say the same about you,’ Georgia touched his bow tie lightly. ‘Thank you for waiting out here for me, I’m scared stiff.’

Ahead of them as they walked up the few heavily-carpeted stairs, Georgia could see the ballroom. It was already very crowded, the soft music almost unheard under the barrage of chatter and clink of glasses.

‘I never thought we’d end up anywhere as posh as this,’ Georgia giggled to Rod, pointing up to a chandelier above them. ‘That’s the real thing, not like the kind Max has in his hall. Don’t any of you get too drunk and show us up!’

There was a hush as they walked in, people turned and stared at her and in that instant, Georgia felt a charge of something strange.

It lasted only a second. A glass of champagne was put in her hand, and all at once there were people clamouring to speak to her.

‘Congratulations on reaching number one. I’m so thrilled to meet you at last. I just love the song.’ The flattery wrapped her in a warm blanket. These sophisticated people in evening clothes, dripping with jewels seemed to know so much about her. Every one of them looked important.

Across the crowded room she could see John and Norman with two leggy, blonde girls. Les looked almost handsome in a grey suit, as a red-haired woman talked to him earnestly. Speedy’s auburn hair caught under the lights, complemented his grey velvet jacket and his dancing partner could have been a model.

Yet for all the glamour, there were no friends in the crowd. Where were all the other stars she’d met on tours? People who she could really talk to. Charming as most of the guests were, Georgia felt a little out of her depth. Lawyers, promoters, club owners, business men and their wives, surely if this party was thrown for her, real friends should have been invited too.

‘Georgia,’ Max pushed his way through the crowd, took her hands and kissed both of them. He wore a dark dinner jacket with a plum-coloured cummerbund. ‘You look gorgeous!’

With him was a tubby smaller man, reptilian eyes flickered behind gold-rimmed spectacles, his large forehead glistened with perspiration.

With one arm round her Max introduced them.

‘This is Al Green from Memphis, he flew over this afternoon to meet you.’

The name ‘Al Green’ was one Max often brought up in conversation. Georgia understood he was responsible for the glut of American pop stars that dominated the charts. He arranged tours for everyone from Elvis Presley downwards.

‘Hi there.’ The man put a podgy hand into hers, his thin lips barely moved and she could see no pupils in his dark eyes. ‘You’re quite a girl Georgia. We’ve been hearing your name even back in Memphis. This is one helluva party honey.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you, too,’ she smiled politely. ‘How nice of you to come all this way just to meet me.’

She didn’t like him. It was ridiculous to feel something so strong when she’d only spoken a few words to him. Maybe it was just those eyes, how could anyone feel anything but repulsion for a reptile?

‘I don’t know whether I’d have come if you hadn’t been footing the bill,’ he laughed, double chin wobbling, taking out a flamboyant red handkerchief and wiping his shiny brow. ‘But now I’m here, I’m just loving it.’

Georgia looked round for Max, only to see his back view retreating into the crowd.

For a moment she just stared at the man. His dinner jacket was midnight blue, as he moved she caught a glimpse of silver lining. It was vulgar, even for someone in show business, the mark of a man who had no taste.

‘Me footing the bill?’ She could feel her heart thumping just that little bit harder. Something smelled fishy, and she was going to get to the bottom of it.

‘Well, Max is your manager,’ he licked his thin lips focusing on her cleavage. ‘Don’t that mean the same thing honey?’

What was it Max had said right at the outset? ‘I lay out all the money, and when you start earning that’s when I’ll get it back.’

All those chauffeur driven cars, champagne, new clothes, photographs, hairdressing. Everything was being logged down against money she was earning. But why should she pick up the tab for a party that was supposed to be for her? Or pay to fly this jerk over to meet her?

‘You and Max are lining up an American tour?’ The man must have got his wires crossed. Maybe Max just implied the expenses would be met by him to try and impress Al.

‘Sure thing, honey,’ he drawled. ‘I’m gonna take a look see round this little island, get myself a piece of the action.’

‘How do you think I’ll go down in the States?’ she smiled sweetly. ‘Has the record reached the charts there yet?’

‘It’s been played honey,’ he shot her a scathing look. ‘But what our kids want is good old rock and roll.’

All at once Georgia understood. Max was offering free seats on the gravy train. This man wasn’t interested in her. It was an excuse to get his podgy hands on some British rock and roll bands, kids with stars in their eyes and no experience. The pair of them were intending to expand their interests, using her earnings to finance it.

‘Where are you staying?’ she asked through clenched teeth.

‘Here, honey,’ he drawled. ‘Max booked me into a suite overlooking the Thames.’

He couldn’t even pronounce Thames correctly, making an awful th sound.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ she lied. ‘I must go and talk to the band now. Goodbye.’

Her earlier euphoria vanished. Already the vultures were gathering and if she didn’t keep one jump ahead, she might end up with nothing.

Slipping out unnoticed to the reception desk, using the excuse she wanted to know who to thank personally for the evening, she discovered the whole event had been booked by Menzies Enterprises.

Champagne by the truck load. Smoked salmon, caviar, breast of chicken, roast beef, fresh cream gateaux, mountains of salad, all paid for by her. She was the guest of honour and the mug who’d paid for it.

Now she understood why none of her friends had been invited. It wasn’t to celebrate her success. Just another way for Max to climb further up the ladder. She was just another trophy he’d won, and tonight he was displaying her publicly.

As the prattle of high-pitched snobby voices washed over Georgia, she felt murderous.

That feeling she’d had when she first walked in! She knew what it was now. Everyone here had the same motive as Al Green. They weren’t interested in her talent, just how they could get a slice of the action.