Gimme More (2 page)

Right in front of Paddington station is the Great Western Hotel. Climb a few stairs, push through glass doors, cross the lounge, slide into the ladies' room. Check the cubicles. All empty. Remove coat. Check mirror. I am wearing a simple long-sleeved, navy blue dress, low-heeled shoes, dark stockings, light make-up. I look like a respectable working woman.

I hide my coat and bag under the counter. Carrying only a magazine I leave the ladies' room and walk purposefully through the hotel lounge. I put the magazine down on one of the coffee tables, turn right again and go into the dining room.

It's lunch time and very crowded. I am looking for someone who is already there. I make that obvious, and none of the restaurant staff stops me.

I take in the whole room. I look right, left. Someone is waiting. I don't know who she is, but she's here, and she must show herself quickly because I haven't got long.

There she is – wearing the smart business suit of middle management. She's with two younger women, she's tapping her credit card on the table cloth, looking round for a server, still talking to her companions who are finishing their coffee.

I'm looking for her, I'm joining her. I smile at a waiter as I make my way over to her table. He can see I'm meeting someone. He can see I have a purpose. He doesn't stop me.

I arrive at the woman's table. I stand at her left-hand side, exactly where she expects to see me.

I say, ‘Can I bring you anything else, ma'am?'

‘Just the bill,' she says, hardly looking up.

‘Are you in a hurry?' I say. ‘Shall I take your card?'

She offers me her credit card. I remove it smoothly from her fingers and walk away – out of the dining room, through the hotel lounge, into the ladies' room. I put on my coat. I take a bright Liberty's scarf from my bag and wind it casually round my throat. I throw my bag over my shoulder. I leave the hotel. I snag a taxi.

This incident took longer to relate than it did to execute.

What sort of mask was that? In fact, there were three. When I was in the lounge carrying a magazine I was a hotel resident. When I went into the dining room I was one diner looking for another. When I spoke to the woman I was a waitress. The trick is that waitresses do not carry handbags but hotel residents do. The magazine stood in for a handbag. On an unconscious level people recognise what your function is by what you wear, how you act, what you are or are not carrying. The mask, therefore, is whatever your mark expects to see. It doesn't matter if it is glossy hair and a beautiful face or a business-like, polite demeanour – the same rules apply.

I changed my shoes in the taxi. I changed my scarf, my hairstyle, my lipstick and my polite demeanour. Little things – all of which tell you that the simple navy blue dress may be understated but it is extremely expensive. It would keep a mother and two kids in chicken nuggets for years. Or it would have done when I first took possession of it. But that was a few years ago.

I needed something hot and new for my next appointment and I don't believe in buying my own clothes – not when a bank or a credit company can buy them for me. In other words, I don't believe in using my own credit card. Spending my own money on clothes is a sign of failure. Besides, nowadays, I need to spend a lot of money to look like someone worth spending money on.

My next appointment was with a man called Barry who has a lot of money to spend. I hadn't seen him for years, and in those days he wanted me so much he dribbled.

But those were the days when I did not have mature reflection to
bring to a situation. I have maturity in spades now, and reflection tells me that I should not have taken his drool personally. My mark, Barry, is an Englishman and as such he was far more interested in my lover than he was in me. He wanted me because he admired to the point of obsession the man who had me. Barry was a rich hanger-on. A sucker for talent and glamour, he was our satellite, always creeping close, like a lizard drawn to a hot rock. He needed heat but couldn't generate any for himself.

Yes, my mark is a reptile and I am the heat. He wants what he always wanted – which is to be at the centre of a charmed circle; though the charm wore out a long time ago, the magic turned against itself and a third of the magicians are now gone. Including my lover, my playmate, golden Jack.

Jack is the one everyone remembers. Jack is the one who defines me. He gives me an identity, even now. Oh yes, I owe everything to Jack. I am Jack's survivor – his rock-widow.

So I need a rock-widow's frock: something dark, mysterious and tragic. Plus shoes to show off the legs, because legs last longer than faces and should attract the attention they deserve. Unbelievable fuck-off shoes, with a hint of S-M. I want to clothe myself in mystery from head to hem, in decadence from hem to heel. A good mask, like a good hustler, should touch the truth lightly and pass on by. A good hustler should use a stolen credit card quickly and throw it away. Card, discard, and move on.

Shopping done, I checked in at the Savoy where the receptionist delivered a hand-written note. The note read, ‘Dear Birdie, I do hope you'll be comfortable here. Old memories, eh? Please,
ring me as soon as you get in.
Can't wait to see you – Barry.'

I said, ‘If a Mr Barry Stears rings, would you tell him that I'll meet him here at eight? I don't want to be disturbed till then.'

‘I'll make a note of it,' the receptionist said.

I went upstairs. I ran a bath. I remembered Barry and his characteristic anxiety. ‘Ring me as soon as you get in.' Underlined. Fat chance. I remembered Barry who had to eat his last meal of the day by 7.30 or his ulcer grumbled. I smiled. Both of us, so far, were running true to form.

I bathed. I lay down. I rested. At seven I ordered a fresh crab salad from room service. I began to dress. The salad came and I ate it. I did not want to be hungry or look hungry.

At eight, the phone rang. I ignored it. It rang again at quarter past, at half past and at a quarter to nine.

At nine I went down. Heads turned. Did you think they wouldn't? Why? It is too easy to assume when you've passed the celebrity-girlfriend stage that you're invisible. But invisibility is only a different sort of mask. If it isn't a convenience, bag it and bin it. Be Someone. Don't just enter – sweep in.

I swept. Heads turned.

Here is Barry, a plump chump in a Savile Row suit. He thinks designer spectacles will make him look hipper.

He says, ‘Birdie! My God …' He has been expecting me to apologise for making him wait. I can see that on his face. His face changes as his expectations change. He is off-balance already.

‘Hi Barry,' I say, as if I last saw him yesterday. ‘Where are you taking me?'

‘I thought we'd eat here.' He has obviously been keeping the
maître d'
sweet for the last hour.

‘Don't you know the
good
places any more?'

He rises to the challenge and we go to the Café D'Arte.

So far so good. I can still make him want to impress me.

You have to be a bitch to force a man to impress you. Being nice does not get you a room at the Savoy or the wherewithal to look utterly cool at the Café D'Arte. It never did and it never will.

Whatever Barry was expecting, it was not a nice woman. A nice woman does not take the piss out of you to your face or even behind your back. A nice woman does not kick you in the balls when, after a couple of lines for courage, you pluck up enough spunk to dribble into her
bustier.
She does not say to her starry boyfriend, ‘Hey Jack, queer Stears just tried to hit on me.'

‘Kick him in the balls,' said Jack.

‘Again?' I said.

‘Whatever turns you on,' said Jack. He laughed but the next day he chartered a plane and we went to Antigua. ‘Fuckin' rich groupies,' said Jack. ‘They think they own you.'

He didn't like it. He thought I had a thing about rich men, and I let him. It kept him on his toes, kept him hungry.

As I swept into Café D'Arte, David Bowie was sweeping out. He came to a dead halt and his satellites piled up behind him.

‘Birdie Walker! Jesus – I thought you were dead.'

‘Dead to the world,' I said, ‘exclusive, reclusive, elusive. There's a difference, you know.'

‘I
do
know,' he said. ‘Call me.'

I sweep on by. What a piece of luck! Barry is weeing himself – he's with a woman who knows David Bowie. That's Barry in a nutshell.

We sit. We order. Barry would like to ask for a glass of milk for his ulcer. I watch the struggle between common sense and narcissism. Narcissism wins – as it always did – and he orders wine. It is an important indicator.

I am very casual. I scope the room. Barry tries to gain my attention by pointing out the hot new writers, a sculptor, a singer, assorted socialites, a couple of MPs and bankers.

‘You've been out of touch for so long,' he says.

‘Being here reminds me why,' I say.

‘It's changed.'

‘Three times, at least.'

‘Yes,' he says, ‘but it's all coming back. You wouldn't believe the interest the present generation's showing in the old music.
Our
music'

I look at him. He has enough grace to blush, but he goes on quickly, ‘I told you in my letter, I've done a book, and a couple of series for the BBC and Channel 4.'

He waits for me to approve. I raise one eyebrow. Old groupies don't die. They turn into music nerds.

‘They went down very well,' he says hurriedly, ‘rave reviews et cetera. People can't get enough.'

Food comes: soup for him, a decorative arrangement based on an artichoke for me. He begins to gobble his soup. Good. I can spin out an artichoke for ever. I can make him ravenous.

He says, ‘Of course Jack and several others of the people you – er – knew were central to my programmes. You were in there too – that
old footage of the Dock Concert, Live at the Hall, other stuff. And the pictures Bailey took. Birdie, you were the quintessential rock-chick.'

‘Was I
really?
' I say. Does he honestly think that being called a rock-chick will appeal to my vanity? Yes, he does. He has made a career out of his own sideline association with musos so he must think we are made of the same stuff.

He has finished his soup. I suck delicately on the end of an artichoke leaf. He goes on. ‘I'm a bit of a celebrity myself, now; a pundit, whatever.' He watches me eat.

‘Why didn't you get in touch, Birdie?' he says. ‘You knew I was looking for you two years ago. I talked to your sister and all I got was the big block.'

Always the wrong question. You shouldn't be asking why I haven't been in touch for two years, Barry, you should be asking why I'm in touch now.

‘Where have you been, Birdie?'

‘Fishing.'

‘Fishing?' says Barry, astonished.

I nod and select another artichoke leaf.

‘I thought you'd be married to a millionaire by now.'

‘Why?'

‘Why?' He's astonished again. He has never questioned his judgment of me. He says simply, ‘Because you loved spending money.'

Now this is true but if that were all there was to it, Barry, why was I fucking Jack and not you? At the beginning, certainly, you could have bought and sold Jack and the whole band twenty times over.

‘You're right,' I say. ‘I still love spending money. I'm very good at it.'

‘And have you got enough now?' This, to Barry, is the central element of his pitch. Because, if you haven't figured it out already, Barry is pitching to me. It is why a man I once kicked in the balls is paying for me to stay at the Savoy instead of dropping me down the deepest hole he can find.

‘If I remember correctly,' he says, ‘enough for you is a
lot.'

‘Absolutely correct, Barry,' I say, and I take my time choosing an artichoke leaf. It's painful for him to watch. His stomach hurts and he wants his second course. It's driving him crazy, watching me picking fastidiously at an intricate vegetable. Good. He will come to the point more quickly because he will believe that if he does, he will be controlling the situation. Hunger and impatience are my friends but his enemies.

‘So, how
are
you doing these days, Birdie?'

‘What you see is what you get,' I say, secure behind my obscenely expensive frock and fuck-off shoes: the frock and shoes he hadn't expected to see on someone who has been off the scene for so long.

‘Shine like silver, ring like gold,' I say.

‘What?'

But I shrug and don't explain. It's a song: ‘Take This Hammer'. Taj Mahal used to sing it and one night I told Jack, ‘Your hammer “sure ‘nuff shine like silver, ring like solid gold”.' He liked that. He picked out the chords till he could play it for me. I lived for those moments. God, he was good, and when he wasn't off his face, he surely did shine like silver, ring like gold. Alone, for once, and quiet, listening to old recordings by legendary bluesmen, picking out chords, riffs and fills, putting a new spin on them, making them his own. That's how the great songs pass from old to young hands, from old to young ears. Old love to new love, nothing starts from scratch. But you, Barry, you can sit and watch me eat artichoke till the angels weep and I won't tell you anything important. Because you won't understand the important things. A great song isn't safe in
your
hands.

Barry says, ‘You're an expensive woman, Birdie. You cost Jack a fortune.'

‘Yes,' I say. ‘And worth every penny.'

‘Well, Jack seemed to think so.'

Oh yes, indeed he did, Barry, and you'll never understand why.

‘What I'm getting at, Birdie, is that maybe, these days, you don't have quite what you were used to.'

‘That's true,' I say, scraping the flesh off another petal. ‘However much there is, it's never enough.'