Georgia (64 page)

‘I’ve never even seen any of these men, let alone slept with them,’ Georgia gasped as she read about three-in-a-bed scenes from Edinburgh to Penzance. ‘How could they say such a thing?’

‘Fantasy, honey,’ Sam grinned. ‘They’ve spent so long wishing they could do it, that now they think it’s real. But just look at them. No one in their right mind would believe them.’

Ian’s mother made claims that if Georgia hadn’t treated her son so badly he wouldn’t have got drunk and burned to death in that house. Rod’s mother and stepfather backed up Mrs McShane by saying Georgia had turned their son against his family.

‘I don’t believe anyone could make such things up,’ Georgia gasped. ‘Why doesn’t Max stand up for me?’

But Max was caught by a photographer at London airport, leaving for America with a blonde dolly bird simpering on his arm.

‘The first I knew of this was when Anderson came forward.’ Max looked furtive, embarrassed at being caught slipping away. ‘I feel bitter she didn’t take me into her confidence earlier, and although I know the whole story now, I’m not at liberty to say anything. I’m a business man with other clients to look out for. Georgia will handle it all in her own way.’

‘What can I say?’ Sam spread his hands in a gesture of ‘just as I thought’. ‘The man’s sitting on the fence. He hasn’t got the guts to stay firmly on your side. Even now he’s probably planning to sell his memoirs to the highest bidder.’

If it hadn’t been for the scores of letters from the most unexpected people, she might have thought everyone was as uncaring as Max and Jack Levy. Harold and his wife wrote to invite her over to dinner. Norman sent a bouquet of flowers with a note offering his apologies for ever doubting her. Other musicians, girls and technicians from Decca, and even Deirdre, Max’s receptionist sent letters of support and sympathy. Flowers arrived from Andreous, Steven her producer, from an American promoter, Ronnie Scott’s and from Pop and the girls in Berwick Street.

‘Remember, I know the truth,’ Janet wrote on a piece of bright blue paper, her spelling so bad Georgia could barely read it, her handwriting like a child’s. ‘If I’d had my way I would have gone to Fleet Street and told them exactly what that creep done to you. Pop says you’ve got your reasons for keeping quiet and if I go shooting my mouth off it might make things worse. But I want you to know we are all here for you when you want us. Who is this Sam? I hope he’s good to you, if not he’ll have me to reckon with.

Sal and all the others send their love, so do our kids. We play your records all the time.

Love Janet.’

‘Real friends,’ Georgia gulped back tears as she handed it to Sam. ‘You find out the real ones when the going gets tough!’

But just when she thought they had run out of steam, Sam’s face began to appear in the press. They sent someone to New Orleans to check out his home there and soon he was getting the treatment too.

‘Sam Cameron has two children, left with his sister while he holes up with Georgia,’ they said. They found news of a bar-room brawl he’d been in. His ex-wife was interviewed and claimed Sam not only beat her, but kept her as little more than a slave. There was a picture of his two children, both in ragged clothes and bare feet, the house behind them looked like a shack.

‘I took that one myself,’ Sam said, his dark eyes growing black with fury. ‘They’d been out playing in some mud. I thought it was funny that they looked like a pair of waifs. Everyone has a snap of their children like that.’

It was cruel the picture they had painted of him. A heartless vagabond who cared nothing for his family. Somehow by hurting Sam they had succeeded in hurting Georgia still further.

‘How dare they?’ she gasped. ‘Oh Sam, what have I dragged you into?’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Sam shrugged his shoulders. ‘They’re scraping the barrel now.’

But the next day there were more stories. One about Georgia spending four hundred pounds on shoes in one day and another claiming she didn’t wash her clothes, but threw them away.

‘There can’t be much else going on in England,’ Georgia forced herself to laugh, even though she felt desperate. ‘What are they going to dredge up next?’

‘Your headmistress,’ Sam chuckled, opening another paper. ‘Georgia was a real leader. A strong character we all remember well. She did leave school suddenly and although I heard rumours about her father, I remained convinced she wouldn’t hurt anyone unless severely provoked. I hadn’t actually realized the Georgia Anderson I knew and liked so much was in fact the famous singer. Had I known I would have written and expressed my pride in her. I wish her well and I urge her to tell the true story about these events in her past.’

But the few people who stood up for her were outweighed by the hate mail that arrived daily. After seeing a sample Georgia refused to even look further, and it was Sam who sorted through it, chuckling to himself.

‘You’ve gotta laugh,’ he said in his defence. ‘Just look at all this stuff. There’s a woman who reckons you killed her dog, another who believes you had an affair with her husband. Even one who thinks you are the anti-Christ. The rest of them are from Rednecks who blame your colour for everything.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You sure stirred up a hornet’s nest, honey!’

Without Sam she might have lost her mind. He somehow put it all into perspective and gave her the courage to write down the full story.

It was ten days after the news first broke that she saw a particularly cruel cartoon in one of the newspapers. A caricature of herself holding a knife over an old man, and the words ‘There’s no time Baby’ coming in a balloon from her mouth.

She couldn’t laugh now. Rage welled up in her, a desire to speak out and be heard.

‘It’s time Sam,’ she said, wiping away tears of frustration. ‘I can’t stay in here another day. I’m going to the press.’

The story was ready. A sharp, impassioned account, without exaggeration or embroidery. She spoke of her happiness with the Andersons until the rape. Her feelings for both her foster parents, then the shock and torment Brian put her through. Recalling the rape and stabbing was so painful it was tempting to gloss over it. She had to dig down deep within her, make herself remember each detail. The way he had laid sprawled on the landing, the knife in her hand as she came up the stairs, the blood as it spurted out of his belly. Once she’d faced that again it was easier to put down her explanation for running away. Her first few days in Soho, the abortion later, were softened by the people who helped her.

‘Want me to come too?’ Sam said. He was making coffee in the kitchen, wearing just a pair of jeans, his feet and chest bare.

‘No,’ she said shaking her head. ‘I’ve got to do this on my own haven’t I?’

‘I guess so,’ he moved across the kitchen to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘They’ll think more of you. Besides I couldn’t trust myself to keep my trap shut.’

She took care over her appearance. For ten days she’d worn nothing but jeans and a sweatshirt. But now she had to look like a star.

A white leather suit fitted the bill perfectly. The skirt was short and tight, the tiny jacket trimmed with silver stars went over the briefest skimpy silver top. She washed her hair and let it dry naturally in ringlets, adding star-shaped earrings studded with diamonds and a pair of long silver boots with cuban heels.

‘You look sensational,’ Sam grinned up at her as she came back into the kitchen.

She faltered in the doorway for a moment.

‘Stage fright?’ He poured her another cup of coffee and slid it across the table.

Sitting on the edge of a chair she lifted the coffee to her lips.

‘What if they still don’t believe me?’

Sam’s eyes crinkled up with laughter, he reached across the table and took her hand.

‘Everyone who really counts already believes you, honey.’

‘Do you think they will find Celia for me?’ she whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

‘You make them find her,’ Sam said fiercely. ‘Don’t forget for one moment, they owe you. Now off you go. Keep your head up, take deep breaths if you’re nervous. I’ll be here if you need me.’

She walked round the table and leaned over on to his shoulder, pressing her lips against his neck.

‘What would I have done without you, Sam?’ she said softly. ‘You’ve been mother, father and friend all in one. I can’t tell you how important you are to me.’

His hand came up to caress her face and she saw his eyes were glistening with tears.

‘Off with you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Before I say something I might regret.’

Through the glass panel on the doors she could see a handful of reporters still patiently waiting, puffing on cigarettes, chatting in small groups.

It had been cold and wet most of the time she had been incarcerated in her flat, but now the sun was shining. Daffodils almost finished, tulips about to surpass them, and the almond tree was covered in delicate pinky-white blossom. Spring was finally here to stay.

Taking a deep breath she opened the door and stepped out.

She wanted to laugh at the way they all jumped. Cigarettes stubbed underfoot, sandwiches shoved into pockets, fingers fumbling for pens, cameras lifted, every face wiped clean with surprise.

‘Good morning.’ She waved the brown envelope containing her story, holding her car keys in readiness. ‘Glad to see you haven’t lost interest!’

A small man darted forward. She had seen this one before on many occasions. He reminded her of a ferret, with his thin head, sharp nose and tiny eyes.

‘Have you any news for us?’ he said, as the others quickly clustered round him.

‘I’m off to the
Mirror
,’ she smiled more confidently than she felt and patted the envelope in her hand. ‘The truth’s in here. As they started the whole slanderous business, I expect them to lay it to rest too.’

‘Why have you taken so long to retaliate?’ A woman’s voice came through the crowd, Georgia could only see a pair of brown eyes and a mop of untidy red hair.

‘Timing,’ Georgia grinned round at them. ‘Giving you enough rope to hang yourselves. The story will be out tomorrow.’ She paused to pose for the cameras. ‘Go home now. There’s nothing for you here.’

The sun was glinting on her red Mercedes. She opened the door and slipped in, winding down her window and turning her radio up loudly.

As she drove quickly out of the courtyard, she saw for once they were speechless, mouths open with shock.

It was sometime since she’d been to Holborn and she hadn’t thought to check out where the building was. As she stopped at the lights, just past Gray’s Inn Road, she noticed the huge modern building on her right.

Without even considering the heavy traffic going through to the West End she did a ‘U’ turn in the road, ignoring the other motorists who honked furiously at her and pulled up with one wheel on the kerb.

‘You can’t stop here.’ A young policeman came forward, a frown of irritation vanishing into a smile of delight as he recognized her.

‘You park it for me then,’ she said dropping the keys into his hand. ‘I’ve got important things to do.’

There were double ordinary doors up two steps or a revolving one to the side. She went through this so fast the door swung on round several times more behind her.

She got a last glimpse of the policeman staring after her, a bemused expression on his face, her keys still in his hand.

The foyer was all brown, highly-polished tiles and huge green plants in tubs. The corpulent uniformed porter looked up from his desk as she marched up to him. He knew her face was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

‘The Editor!’ she snapped. ‘Where is he?’

‘I’ll just telephone his secretary,’ he picked up the phone.

Georgia put out her hand and prevented him.

She could hear the lift coming down behind the porter, she wasn’t anxious for anyone to recognize her just yet.

‘Just tell me which floor,’ she barked. ‘Now!’

‘Third, no fourth,’ he stammered. ‘But –’

‘I’m going up there,’ she said coolly. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Phillips,’ he said weakly, his hand straying to the phone again, afraid he would lose his job.

‘You can warn him I’m on my way up,’ she called back as she made for the stairs. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell him it was all my doing!’

She was out of breath by the time she reached the fourth floor. Her face was flushed and her heart hammering nearly as loudly as her heels on the tiled corridor. She marched quickly down the corridor giving only a cursory glance into open doors where typewriters and teleprinters clattered, the girls who worked them looking up in astonishment as she passed.

His name was on the door. ‘John Phillips, Editor.’

She didn’t even knock, but opened the door wide and swept in.

She had expected a big man. Someone like Max in silk shirts and a fat cigar, full of bluster, a mouth like the Blackwall Tunnel. But the man behind the desk was short, thin, almost weedy, a boyish, open face. He wore corduroy trousers and a knitted tie, perhaps fifty, but he looked younger. His brown eyes blinked furiously, a small, gentle mouth opening in surprise.

‘Miss James,’ he jumped up, holding out his hand.

‘I’m surprised you recognize me,’ she snapped. ‘After all the fiction you’ve been writing about me lately, I thought you had me mixed up with someone else.’ She ignored the hand and plonked herself down in a chair, staring coolly at him.

He was disconcerted. One finger ran round the collar of his shirt, his face turning pink.

‘What can I do for you?’ he said weakly. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘You can print the truth,’ she said, fixing her dark eyes on his pale brown ones. She noticed he had a small mole on his cheek, one of his front teeth was slightly broken off and he’d cut himself shaving. He didn’t look as if he had a woman to look after him.

‘As far as we are concerned everything Mr Anderson said is the truth,’ his eyes dropped from hers, tiny lines showing round his mouth.