The Four of Us (20 page)

Aware that it was possibly a scenario that Kiki, who had always thought Rupert Gower an upper-class wanker, would like to see happen, Primmie said, ‘Artemis won't leave him. She's in love with him – and if she begins to believe that he didn't tell her before they were married because he was terrified of losing her, she'll forgive him absolutely.'

‘But at the moment she's grief stricken about it. Right?'

‘Oh yes,' Primmie said, remembering the way Artemis had cried and cried and cried. ‘She's devastated. She's heartbroken about not having children. I don't think she's ever going to get over it.'

‘And you, Primmie? What about your love life? What's happening there?'

Primmie flushed, wishing with all her heart that Simon had telephoned Kiki with the news of their pending engagement. Knowing it would be out of order for her to say anything until Simon had had the chance to break the news to Kiki himself, she said, ‘My love life is wonderful, but I can't talk about it just yet. Maybe in another couple of days …'

Kiki eyed her in amusement. That Primmie had had a secret relationship ever since her early days at BBDO was something she had cottoned on to long ago. As Primmie wasn't secretive by nature, the only conclusion she'd been able to come to was that the guy in question was married. And, if the flush of excitement in Primmie's cheeks was anything to go by, wasn't going to be married for too much longer.

‘Is he older than you?' she asked, voicing another long-held suspicion.

Primmie's flush deepened. ‘He's forty-three,' she said and then, as if terrified of giving away any more, she stood up, saying, ‘Shall I put some pasta on? You must be starving.'

‘Pasta would be super – and don't worry about the age difference between you and your bloke, Primmie. As long as he makes you happy, go for it!'

‘Thanks, Kiki.' Primmie paused at the bathroom door and shot her a blinding smile. ‘I'm going to.'

The next morning as Kiki backed her oyster-pink Mini Cooper out of the flat's communal underground garage she was still seethingly angry at the thought of Artemis's heartache. She'd realized when Artemis and Rupert had first become a couple that Rupert had little knowledge of the real Artemis. He'd fallen in love with a soignée, beautiful, blue-eyed blonde, who sexually had played very hard to get and whose outward demeanour was the last thing in cool, sophisticated chic.

In reality, of course, the cool, sophisticated chic was merely a façade learned at modelling school behind which Artemis skilfully hid her many insecurities. Rupert thought he had netted himself a model destined to become as well known as Twiggy or Jean Shrimpton – models as famous as the pop stars and actors they associated with. Instead, he had netted someone who, now she had gained impeccable social standing, was totally uninterested in being anything other than an indulged wife and a doting mother.

Right from the very beginning it hadn't been a marriage made in heaven. Now it seemed a marriage destined for disaster.

She pulled out into the busy traffic of Kensington High Street, the sun roof open. Denied the pleasure of speeding she turned on the eight-track tape player that took up most of the dashboard, and the sound of Little Richard giving vent to ‘Baby Face', blasted from the speakers. As pedestrians turned their heads to see just where the cacophony of noise was coming from, Kiki grinned. Where rock was concerned, the old numbers were the best. She just had to convince Aled Carter of it.

‘You're not listening, Kiki.' Aled Carter, short, fat and full of frenetic energy, stubbed a cigar out in a giant glass ashtray and sent his swivel-chair revolving, as if doing so would give him time to control his temper. When he was again facing her, he slapped a hand down on his oversized desk. ‘A star appearance on Saturday night TV is a gift. It's absolutely non-negotiable. And you should be on your knees thanking me for it.'

‘Well, I'm not. Variety shows are crap TV and
The Arthur Haynes Show
is barely one up from the Black and White Minstrels.'

Mutinously she stood at the far side of his desk. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans tucked into lizard-skin boots and a T-shirt covered in royal-blue sequins. Her lipstick was sporting pink, her eyeliner jade, her eye shadow fuchsia.

The rainbow of colours left Aled unimpressed. He tightened his lips and breathed in hard. ‘Don't push me, Kiki. You're not a big enough star – and you never will be if you don't start doing as you're told. I indulged you in holding off recording an album until you had enough Lane/Grant material to go into a studio with, even though it caused havoc with your recording contract. Now you're telling me there
is
no material – and not likely to be until some unspecified date. You've only had two hit records, Kiki. They were big, but not so big they won't swiftly be forgotten if an album isn't released pretty damn quick. I've been busy liaising with Kit, putting together a package I think we can go with.'

With pudgy fingers, he held a sheet of paper towards her. ‘Cast your eye over the songwriters and here's a tape. Eight of the tracks are brand new. The rest are covers. And this is the way it's gotta be, Kiki. Lane/Grant tracks are gonna have to be for album two.' He paused and then said meaningfully; ‘That is if there
is
an album two.'

Not remotely unnerved, Kiki handed him back his typewritten list, slid the tape into her back pocket and eyeballed him stonily. ‘You haven't come up with one decent name.'

‘Whom were you hoping for?' he shot back sarcastically. ‘Burt Bacharach and Hal David?'

‘Maybe. At the very least Carol King or Don Black.'

He breathed in hard. ‘The day will come, Kiki, but it isn't today.' As if the subject had been satisfactorily resolved, he spun his chair round again and this time, when again facing her, said, ‘As for
The Arthur Haynes Show
. You'll do it. The exposure is huge.'

With rare self-control, she remained silent, knowing that argument would be a complete waste of time.

He wasn't fooled into thinking that she was now seeing things from his point of view. ‘Rock stars have a short shelf-life,' he said bluntly. ‘All-round family entertainers stay the course. Don't be your own worst enemy, Kiki. Don't think you know best where your career is concerned, because you don't.'

She gave an ungracious lift of her shoulders. Choosing to take it to mean she was now OK with things he flashed his teeth in what passed for a smile. ‘And your one o'clock lunch date with Kit is off. He has summer flu.'

‘Has the table been cancelled?'

‘No. Not yet. Why?'

‘Because I haven't seen my father in over three months and if Kit's cancelled I might as well meet up with him, instead.'

She swung out of the office, knowing she was doing so for what was near to the last time. Aled might genuinely believe he knew what was best for her, but lightweight songs and variety shows were not the way she wanted to go – and that meant that he and she were going to have to split up.

‘Bye, Kiki,' Aled's secretary said to her as she marched through reception.

Kiki raised a hand in response and seconds later was in the street. Quite simply, she didn't have to put up with all the shit Aled was dishing out. He hadn't been responsible for the success of her first two records. Francis had been managing her when she'd achieved her breakthrough successes. All Aled had done was to capitalize on the success she and Francis had achieved – if sending her off to Australia for two months and thinking that getting her a spot on
The Arthur Haynes Show
could be called capitalizing.

Knowing what it was she was going to do the instant Francis returned to London, she didn't head immediately for her parked Mini, but for the nearest phone box.

‘I'm back, Simon,' she was saying three minutes later. ‘How do you fancy lunch at Mr Chow's?'

A group of American tourists descended on her as she walked across the pavement towards the restaurant.

‘Kiki!
Kiki!
‘ they whooped, surrounding her in a flurry of excitement, searching in pockets and bags for something she could autograph.

She obliged them with gusto, seeing, with a real buzz, that her father was approaching down the street and was witnessing the adulation she was receiving.

He hung back until her fans finally allowed her to continue across the pavement.

‘My goodness, does that sort of thing happen often?' he asked as they walked into the restaurant together.

‘Fairly,' she said, trying to sound cool about it and not give away the thrill it had given her for him to see her in pop star mode.

Once they were seated at a table, he said, ‘How was Australia? Did you get to see much of it?'

‘I saw dusty small-town airports, dusty dressing rooms and scores of hotel bedrooms that all looked the same,' she said, doing a recce of the restaurant. ‘I didn't have a day off – or not one when I wasn't travelling from one town to another – in the entire two months I was there. The road crew were hell and the weather was worse. I don't like sun, not day in and day out with temperatures zooming off the scale.'

‘Oh!' he looked disconcerted.

He also, she noticed, looked very out of place in Mr Chow's. He was wearing grey flannels and a tweed jacket with elbow patches. As he pushed a lock of floppy fair hair away from his forehead, she found herself looking for signs of grey. There weren't any, and neither was he going bald. If only he didn't dress like an old fogey he would still, she thought, be passably attractive.

‘So when did you arrive back?' he was saying. ‘Yesterday?'

She nodded, still recce-ing the room. Dudley Moore was seated with a young woman at a nearby table but, as she didn't know him, there was no kudos to be gained from his proximity. An agent she knew slightly was having lunch. He caught her eye, briefly acknowledging her presence. It wasn't quite the in-crowd atmosphere her ego needed. Then the door opened and Davy Jones of The Monkees breezed in, Peter Tork, Mike Nesmith and Micky Dolenz behind him.

She'd been on the same bill with them at a concert at Wembley Arena and, as heads turned and the atmosphere at their presence became electric, she simply made eye contact with Davy and enjoyed the next few minutes with almost orgasmic pleasure.

‘Kiki!' Davy hollered, ignoring the head-waiter, who had rushed towards him, and heading straight towards her table. ‘How was Aussieland? Great to see you. Now you're back we'll have to meet up. We're staying at the Savoy and heading back to the States in a week.'

Every eye in the room was on them, as well it might be. The Monkees'last album had sold over three million copies. They were as big as the Beatles. Bigger than the Rolling Stones. What was more, they were greeting her as a fellow performer and her father was there to see it. It was a high better than anything she'd ever experienced on cocaine or LSD.

When the mini-reunion was over and the headwaiter had steered Davy, Peter, Mike and Micky to a reserved table at the back of the room, Simon said bemusedly, ‘Who are they?'

She stared at him.

‘Are they a pop group?' he asked helpfully.

‘They're The Monkees,' she said at last, in a strangled voice. ‘Don't you know
anything
, Daddy?'

It was the first time she'd called him ‘Daddy'in years and was a sign of just how truly shocked she was by his ignorance.

‘Surely you've seen their TV series?' she said, regaining her breath. ‘And don't you remember seeing them on the TV when they first arrived in England? There were thousands of screaming fans at Heathrow to meet them.'

A young man stepping up to their table interrupted them. ‘I know this is a very uncool thing for me to do when you're dining,' he said, handing his menu to her, ‘but would you sign it for me?'

It
was
an uncool thing to do, but Kiki didn't mind. Flashing him a brilliant smile she signed the menu with a flourish.

When they were on their own again Simon said, bewildered, ‘Does this sort of thing ever let up?'

‘No,' she said. ‘I'm a pop star.' She remembered her confrontation with Aled. ‘I'm a
rock
star,' she amended, deciding it was high time she began making the distinction.

‘And you're happy?'

Her eyes widened fractionally. It was a question she could never remember him having asked before. ‘Yes.' Being forced to think about it made her realize that she wasn't one hundred per cent happy – and wouldn't be until she'd ditched Aled and was again being managed by Francis. That, though, was now only a matter of time. ‘Are you?' she asked, to take the heat off herself.

‘Yes.' He leaned across the table towards her, his hands clasped in front of him. ‘I'm very happy, Kiki. Happier than I've ever been before in my life.'

‘Great,' she said, embarrassed by his unexpected intensity. ‘Shall we order?'

‘Not until I tell you why I'm so happy.'

He looked nervous as well as intense and suddenly she knew what was coming. He'd found himself a girlfriend. Was perhaps even thinking of getting married again.

‘Do we have to have this conversation here?' she said, her stomach coiling in knots. ‘Won't it wait?'

He shook his head, his grey eyes holding hers steadily. ‘No, Kiki. It won't wait. It's waited too long.'

‘You've got yourself a girlfriend,' she said, wondering why the idea was so repugnant to her. ‘And you want to introduce me to her.'

‘I've got myself a fiancée,' he said, a pulse throbbing at the corner of his jaw. ‘And I don't have to introduce you to her. You already know her.'

She stared at him blankly, wondering if he was speaking of one of her mother's friends, or one of his patients. Dozens of them were divorced or widowed ladies of a certain age, but no one likely came to mind.