Gimme More (36 page)

I noodle on it sleepily. If Flambo were not such a piss-poor drummer, would I be so quick to call him a rat? Even now, after all these years, I'm still liable to believe that good musicians will be better human beings than bad musicians. It's been proved to me a thousand times in a thousand ways that good art does not,
per se,
come from good people. And yet, and yet… Maybe I will always be susceptible. If Flambo were a shit-hot drummer I would not automatically suspect him of being a rat.

And anyway, it doesn't fuckin' signify who ratted on me. The only person to blame is myself. I disobeyed the first law of bunko – which is never, never, never pull a stunt on your own doorstep.

On the other hand, maybe that doesn't signify worth a damn either – if the troika wanted to hang me out to dry they'd have found a way without Serenity.

‘She's sweet – does she mean it? … She's mean – I think she means it.'

Jack

In a drawer beside Robin's bed was a rose-coloured silk sachet. The rose silk was shot through with gold and silver thread. It came from a Kashmiri scarf which Jack once gave Lin and which Lin once left behind after a flying visit. Robin appropriated the scarf. It was her favourite, she wore it all the time. But small children who experiment with paint and scissors are very hard on favourite garments. The scarf retired, injured. Robin was never a woman to give up on beautiful favourites, so pieces of it appeared in one of her layered hippie skirts, in a tiny waistcoat she made for Grace, and a sachet she made to hold pot-pourri.

Now, as well as pot-pourri, it held an ugly shapeless lump of metal – a gift, again inadvertent, from Lin. She came home in the dead of the night, after that dreadful, empty day, her face scraped bare with shock and grief, her clothes smelling of charcoal and her hands balled into fists. Robin, utterly bereft herself, badly needing comfort herself, with no words, no consolation to offer, simply opened her door, her arms, to her widowed sister. And Lin opened her clenched fist to show the ugly fragment hidden there.

‘The Egyptian ring,' she said. ‘He was wearing it. Oh Robin, there was nothing else. Keep it for me. I've held it for hours. I know it's insane because it's been through fire but I've been trying to keep it warm. And I can't. It used to be lovely. Now it's hideous, but it's all I've got.'

So Robin kept it. And with it she kept the smell of charcoal and ashes, of killing smoke, of soot and smuts, trapped in a misshapen lump which had once been bright Egyptian gold. Every so often
she changed the pot-pourri because, even now, she sometimes woke up with tears in her eyes, certain that she could smell smoke. Lin never asked for it back.

Robin was sure she hadn't forgotten – how could anyone forget a thing like that? But that end had been the beginning of a rootless, drifting existence for Lin, with never a place to call her own, never a place to settle down and gather treasures around her. Because a week later she disappeared, chased out of Robin's house by door-steppers, unceasing phonecalls and envelopes dropped through the letter box.

Twenty-five years ago, Robin thought, and it seemed like yesterday. Especially now. She peered through a crack in the curtains and could identify at least half a dozen strange cars in the street outside. She couldn't answer the phone and finally Grace unplugged it.

‘They're mad,' Grace said. ‘Auntie Lin pushing drugs? Why are they saying these things?'

All Robin could do was shrug helplessly. ‘They've always said terrible things about her. I don't know why.'

‘I bet there are whole chapters about it in feminist psych books,' Grace said. ‘Punishing famous women or something like that. If there aren't there should be. Maybe I'll write one if I stick to psychology.'

‘Why wouldn't you stick to psychology?' Robin asked anxiously. ‘Is it Alec? Is he telling you to give up your job?'

‘Don't be silly, Mum. But women's lives seem to go where the wind blows and it might be more fun to blow back to London. Maybe I'm tired of serious subjects. A job in film or TV …'

‘I thought you liked psychology.'

‘I did. I do. But at the moment all I'm doing is helping no-hopers. I'm like a junior social worker. You can't expect me to stick with a career I've grown out of

‘Have you grown out of it?' Robin asked quite tartly. ‘I'd have thought a little understanding of human behaviour might be pretty useful to you.'

‘It's Alec, isn't it? You've never liked him, have you?'

‘I never said that. But I do think he could've been more honest with us.'

‘Well he's being honest now,' Grace said, ‘and if that isn't good enough for you we can both leave.'

Why did everyone always leave her or threaten to leave? It seemed to be everyone's ultimate weapon. And it worked. The thought of the people she loved dropping out of her life frightened Robin and made her obedient. It caused no end of trouble too. Even the threat of putting her crazy old mother in a home where Robin couldn't keep an eye on her had driven her into an action which exasperated her husband. Me or your mother, he said. Choose. She couldn't choose, and her husband left.

She wanted everyone. She knew what it was like to live with a gaping hole in her heart where a loved someone had been, and she didn't ever want to repeat the experience. Even if it means a lifetime of … of what? Servitude? The word ‘blackmail' fell with a thud into the back of her mind.

Without thinking she reached out her hand and plucked a white Venetian mask from the top of her chest of drawers. She held it in front of her face and said in hollow, theatrical tones, ‘Go, my child. If you have learned all I have to teach you, then go. A strong woman has no need of her mother. My work here is done. Go, and,' she added, running out of invention, ‘may the force be with you.'

‘You're a nutter, Mum,' Grace said, laughing uncertainly.

Robin tied the mask securely on to her head and opened the curtains. All at once, a man with a camera popped up from behind the hedge and took her picture.

‘Come away,' Grace said. ‘They'll think you're Auntie Lin.'

‘Tough,' Robin said. But she stood back from the window. She kept the mask on because she didn't want Grace to see the beads of sweat on her lip or the fear in her eyes. Even joking she couldn't tell Grace to leave without paying a heavy fine.

‘We're going stir-crazy,' Grace said. ‘When's Alec going to come back with the bread? Where's Auntie Lin?'

‘I don't know,' Robin said. ‘She can't phone ‘cos she knows I won't answer and she won't come here with all these idiots on the doorstep.'

‘Maybe she's gone back to Devon.'

‘Maybe.'

Twenty-five years ago there had been islands and villas and yachts to escape to, Robin thought. Where were they now? She couldn't imagine any of those rich stars, made respectable by longevity, swooping down like knights in shining armour to scoop Lin up and spirit her away this time. Not after this latest sleazy, seedy, slimy smear. Which no one was bothering to retract. Lin no longer looked the part, no longer looked like the child princess in distress. All the ageing knights and princes had grown-up families and supermodel brides to support. This latest slur cast Lin as the wicked old witch. Princes don't gallop up on white horses to rescue wicked old witches. Wicked old witches burn in their own ovens, Robin thought. Only the young and lovely are fit to be rescued. Even ageing princes knew that. Especially ageing princes. The old and the wicked must, perforce, rescue themselves, if they could. Or burn if they couldn't.

The smell of charcoal and smoke mixed with pot-pourri drove Robin out of her bedroom and up to the attic to work on a garment fashioned from a thousand pieces of silk remnants. Somewhere, she thought, there was still a square of the old rose-coloured scarf. She searched through her boxes.

If I find it, shall I use it? she wondered. No. Or only if I make this into a dress for Lin. Lin's scarf was Lin's past. No one else deserved it. However much a private client was prepared to pay, Robin knew she couldn't sew a remnant of Lin's story into a garment which Lin wouldn't wear.

Bugger that, Robin thought. And bugger the rich private client. I'll make this silk patchwork into a dress for Lin. I'll clothe her in her own beautiful youth, in her fairy-tale past.

Robin paused for a moment, picturing Lin swishing into a room wearing the riot of glowing colours. She nodded, and Lin smiled back at her. Yes.

Swirling Lin morphed into spinning Jack, strutting in front of thousands of screaming fans in a coat of many colours. Robin made the coat for him and he wore it on his last tour. Perfectly cut to swing and shimmer under spotlights, to be seen from the back rows of theatres and stadia, to let his fair skin breathe in the heat and
frenzy of performance – it was Robin's best work. And like Jack it went up in flames twenty-five years ago. Gone.

Time tangled itself in a knot and Robin sewed, pinned and cut till lunchtime. A shape was forming in her mind, a queenly shape, a garment to be worn with pride. It must have a high collar, she thought. Lin, you won't hang your head in this frock, no way.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, she found that Grace and Alec were making toast. Some of yesterday's chicken soup was simmering on the stove.

‘Sit down, Mum,' Grace said. ‘Alec wants to tell you something.'

‘No,' I say, ‘no, no, no.' Oh I have power – the power of refusal. I can't make stuff happen the way I want it to, but I can stop it happening.

‘Your forty-eight hours,' Tina reminds me.

‘Not mine,' I say. ‘Forty-eight hours was arbitrarily and unilaterally imposed by Nash.'

‘Haven't you taken enough stick?' she asks reasonably.

‘Yes,' I say, equally reasonably.

We're sitting in her living room. Three of us. The curtains are closed. Outside, lurking, is a handful of reporters. Someone whose name we can only take a wild guess at knows I'm here and has leaked Tina's address. She, in spite of her reasonable tone, is angry. George is worried. He sits in a deep armchair, his fingers playing nervous scales on his ample shirt front.

‘But if you talk to Nash,' she says, ‘won't he call the dogs off?'

‘He can try,' I say. ‘But I think his understanding of dogs is incomplete. They're harder to stop than to start. Please take my word on that one.'

‘Isn't it worth a try?'

‘From your point of view it is, from mine it isn't. I can solve your problem by finding somewhere else to stay – which I will do; this is no way to thank you for rescuing me from the police station.'

‘Stay with me,' George says.

I smile at him – he's very sweet. ‘Thank you, but that'd only transfer this gig to another venue.'

‘I don't think Fay would exactly rejoice,' Tina says.

‘She wouldn't,' I agree, ‘and I'm not going to do it.'

‘Well, what
are
you going to do?' she asks. ‘It seems to me that there are two ways to go: one is talk to Nash Zalisky, and the other is talk to the press.'

‘The third is leave the country,' I say. ‘That's what I usually do in these circumstances.'

‘You'll lose everything,' George points out. ‘Plus you risk having that pornography released on the Internet or whatever Mr Z plans to do with it.' He shifts uncomfortably. ‘I wish that damn lawyer would pull his finger out and get here.'

That damn lawyer is someone he and Tina trust. Their inexperience is most obvious here. The lawyer is not a music-biz lawyer – he has that in his favour, but he has that against him too. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to Nash. Talk to the press. All reasonable suggestions – if you don't know lawyers, Nash and the press like I do.

I am tired. I drank too much Scotch last night hoping it would help me sleep. Fatigue and hangover are sitting between my ears like twin incubi, jabbing my brain and giving me visions of other times when it all went wrong. They winkle out the memories of loss and theft, of impotence and humiliation. They speak through my mouth and say ‘no' to every suggestion. They have hidden all my chutzpah in their deep dark pockets.

‘I'll make some coffee,' I say, and I leave Tina and George to make their naïve suggestions to each other. I go to the kitchen pretending to be quiet efficient Ms Walker. She may be in a jam, she may be causing a jam, but she's ever so helpful and she uses real beans. Her mask is perfect: she's useful, tidy, organised. She expends her energy in the service of others. And she doesn't cost much.

Birdie grimaces behind Ms Walker's tidy mask.

The phone rings and is answered. A moment later, George comes through to the kitchen. He says, ‘It's Mr Z. Tina's talking to him.'

I let him carry the tray and follow him.

Tina shields the mouthpiece with her hand and says, ‘Mr Zalisky is summoning you to Badlands. He's sending a car.'

Tidy Ms Walker says nothing. She begins to pour the coffee.

‘Linnet?' Tina says. ‘You don't have to go alone. I'll come with you.'

‘So will I,' says George. ‘So will that damn lawyer when he bloody gets here.'

‘Mr Zalisky says that you'll have all the protection you need from the media at Badlands.'

Ms Walker hands George a cup. Black, no sugar. She knows what he likes. She places a cup on the table beside Tina. White, one sugar. She considers Mr Zalisky and his summons. She knows what he'd like, too.

‘Linnet?'

I say, ‘Tell Nash thanks but no thanks. Tell him that Ms Walker will be making a statement to the press – the sort of statement which will have the media camping on
his
doorstep within half an hour of its release. And press helicopters flying over his house. Tell him especially about the helicopters and how noisy they are. If he can lie about me, I can lie about him. And I'm
way
more inventive than he is. Tell him further that I've put up with shit before and I can do it again. He isn't hurting me, he's just raising my price.'