The Overnight Fame of Steffi McBride (11 page)

‘Fuck that.’

‘He can be good for putting your side of the story across. The editors listen to him. He did some stuff for the West End Boys when we were trying to get some media attention.’

‘Dad would have a fit if I started mouthing off in the
papers. That’s exactly the sort of thing he’s been on about from the start.’

‘Do you think you really need to worry about what your father thinks when he won’t even speak to you?’

‘Fuck off,’ I replied, not willing to even go there.

I suppose I’m kidding myself when I say these girls were my friends in school. Actually, they were just a couple of slags who liked to hang around Pete. In fact, they probably hated me from the start because I was the one who got off with him (not that I’m kidding myself he didn’t shag them too from time to time). I was never quite part of their gang. They caught me reading books once or twice, and the fact that I hung out with Dave discussing plays in break times meant they had me down as a total geek. I guess they only really tolerated me to please Pete, now I think about it. That’s a bit bloody depressing.

Most of what they wrote in the papers about our times in the squat was pretty accurate when it came down to it – it was just the way they phrased it that made it sound so bad. I guess that may have been down to the reporters they were talking to rather than them. I know all too well how they can twist your words to give a different meaning when they want to. The basic gist of their stories was that I had been a hooker – which is a bit of a showstopper as accusations go, really.

I’ve never for a moment thought of myself as being on the game, but there were occasions when Pete couldn’t afford to pay one or other of his suppliers, and he would ask me to help out. Usually it was just a quick hand job, or a blow-job if they weren’t too disgusting and if Pete owed them an awful lot, but
it was never full sex. Having said that, there were a few parties where we all mixed and matched, but I had never been aware of any money changing hands. These two seemed to have different memories. All I can say is if there was money changing hands no one ever told me about it. I’m not saying I would have done anything differently if I had known, I’m just saying … I guess I’m just saying I must have been a bit more naive than I would have liked to think at the time.

I can see why it looks bad when I describe it like that, but it never seemed that big a deal to me. It certainly wasn’t for Pete, who knew exactly what was going on, and was often the one who suggested it. If you love someone you don’t mind doing them the odd favour, do you?

Whatever it may have seemed like to me, it was certainly a big deal to the media now. ‘Steffi’s vice-girl past’ became the big running story in every tabloid over the next few days and the rest of the press overcame their reticence to travel to the country and set up camp outside the mighty gates of Luke’s family estate, snapping and shouting at every car that drove in or out.
The story
fitted so nicely with the plot lines Nikki had in The Towers, and contrasted so beautifully with the on-screen romance Luke and I had been playing out for all to see while singing our sweet little duets, that everyone wanted to read more – or, at least, the editors believed they did.

Although his family were incredibly cool about the whole thing, just pretending it wasn’t happening most of the time, I could see Luke was having a bit of trouble getting his head round some of the detail that was being gloated over by the great British reading public. It was the first time I had seen
him really lost for words. He should have known what the media were like better than most; God knows the West End Boys suffered from more than their fair share of inaccurate rumours and stories in their time. But this one did seem to have got him rattled.

‘Is it true?’ he asked, after reading the first of the slappers’ stories.

‘Well, I’m not a fucking “vice girl” if that’s what you mean,’ I snapped, unreasonably cross with him for the wet way he was looking at me. ‘But we did do some pretty wild partying.’

‘So it is true?’

‘We were only kids,’ I protested, unable to understand why he wasn’t treating the newspapers’ hypocritical mock outrage as a joke like he usually did. ‘We were straight out of school, just messing about. No one died, for Christ’s sake.’

I was probably getting a bit tearful again and he gave me a hug, but didn’t offer any words of comfort, which pissed me off.

I’m not easily embarrassed, mainly because I haven’t done that much in my life that I’m ashamed of, but this was a bit of a setback. I still didn’t really regret anything I’d done, but I wouldn’t necessarily have wanted to share it with the whole world. I mean, taking a dump is one thing, taking a dump in the middle of Trafalgar Square on New Year’s Eve quite another, if you get my drift. This is the thing about fame: there are just some things you would rather not do in front of the whole bloody world, and that includes giving blow-jobs to passing scumbags. But the worst thing was that the girls were claiming I’d betrayed Pete, sold him up the creek (a bit rich,
coming from a couple who were definitely selling me up the creek). They were implying that I had turned my back on my old friends and wasn’t therefore the ‘nice girl next door’ that I pretended to be. Well, I’ve never pretended to be anything – unless I was acting, that is. It was the reporters who decided to make out that I was some sort of ‘tart with a heart’, but now the same journalists seemed to be keen to show that I had somehow tricked them into thinking I was a loveable working-class character when actually I was some sort of ambitious, social-climbing, scheming, treacherous, ‘vice girl’ bitch. Well, thank you soooo much! In fact, they were making things far worse for Pete than I had, because now the press thought he was a pimp as well as a gun-toting junkie.

Once the story was out there, and once I was back in London, every reporter in the world seemed to be banging on the door or ringing me to try to get my side of events. Apparently, it’s always a bit quiet for news in the New Year. They were all really sympathetic and keen to help. ‘We can offer you protection,’ they all said. ‘We could take you to a secure location and make sure no one else bothers you. Then you could have the opportunity to tell your story in your own words.’

They all said exactly the same thing, more or less. ‘What they are actually saying,’ Luke explained, ‘is that you should sign an exclusive contract with them and they will then make sure none of their rivals can get near you to write a spoiler.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it to anyone.’ I was

categorical. ‘Then don’t accept any of their offers. Retain a dignified silence.’

But that didn’t stop them from asking. They were more persistent than any telephone-sales person. They were driving me fucking mad; I came so close to giving in and going with one of them, just to shut them all up, which was exactly what they were after, of course.

Usually when something went wrong in the papers, Mum would give me a ring to check I was all right. In fact, sometimes that was the way I found out that something had appeared in the first place. But this time there was a deafening silence from that direction. I could imagine just how Dad must be crowing, as if this was proving he was right to chuck me out of the house. He was probably dumping all the blame on her head for supporting me in my dreams to be an actress and not backing him up when he tried to put a stop to them.

It took me a little while to pluck up the courage to ring her after the latest set of revelations and when I did she put a brave face on it as usual, but I could tell she was shaken by the whole thing. She didn’t suggest coming round to give me something to eat and a hug, but maybe she thought Luke would be handling that side of things now. It was an odd conversation, like we had become strangers. It left me feeling deeply sick, like my soul had been bruised.

I dreaded going back to work after Christmas, when I knew everyone would have read the stories. I half expected to be told that Nikki was going to have to be written out of the series, but it was like nothing had happened. The other actors were all so used to reading things about one another and themselves that they just assumed the whole thing was a fabrication and didn’t even bother to comment, apart from
the odd passing commiseration. The producers said nothing to me, but Dora informed me they were now even keener to sign me up for the next few months – so keen that she was holding out for more money.

‘You are by far the most famous person in the series at the moment,’ she explained, when I expressed my surprise. ‘You’re their star; they aren’t going to want to lose you while you’re so hot. We have to make the most of it while it lasts.’

She was turning out to be such a good businesswoman on my behalf it was hard to understand why she had never been able to make money for herself in the past. She also seemed to be totally unconcerned about the nature of the stories.

‘They’re all begging for interviews,’ she said. ‘Every paper and magazine has been on to me, and all the sofa shows.’

‘I don’t want to talk to anyone, in case I drop Pete even further in the crap. And I really don’t want to be having hundreds of conversations about blow-jobs with leery reporters.’

‘It might be good to do just one big TV interview, so you can set the record straight, put it all in perspective. We could lay some ground rules for what they can and can’t ask. It helped Hugh Grant when he did
Letterman,
and
Parkinson
did wonders for George Michael when he had that trouble in the public toilet.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘if you think I should.’

I would really have liked Luke to come on the show with me, but he was acting a bit funny about the whole thing, so I decided not to push my luck. He kept going into long, silent moodies, and then swearing there was nothing wrong when I
asked him. To be honest, it was beginning to get on my tits a bit. All I really wanted to do was concentrate on my acting, do a bit of singing if anyone asked and spend as much time as I could with him. It should all have been going so well, but somehow it just didn’t feel right any more. It felt like something even worse might be brewing up on the horizon, that these stories had just been warning rumbles of thunder and the real storm was yet to come.

J
onathan Ross – what a star the man is. It was like chatting to one of Dad’s leery mates in the pub. He asked his questions with a mixture of innuendo and irony which made the whole thing seem like a storm in a teacup.

Dora had always said that a good actress can sense the mood of an audience, and I felt I could sense a strong affection in that studio. If I looked up I could see older women smiling at me indulgently, like I was their favourite cheeky granddaughter, and I swear that the men whose eyes I caught while I was signing autographs afterwards all blushed. What was that all about? Probably best not to think about it.

The papers were still ranting on about how I was an example of everything that was morally wrong with the young people today, that Pete and I and the others at the squat were typical examples of the ‘disenfranchised underclass’ (that bloody word again), but these people I met, who were presumably readers of all these papers, didn’t seem to be judging me at all. It was all a bit confusing, especially when Mum and Luke, the two people I cared about the most, were acting all odd.

Dora had been keeping all the articles that were appearing,
good and bad, and eventually I plucked up the courage to go round to her place and go through them. She said it would be good for me to understand fully what was being said. She opened a bottle of red wine and rolled a joint and we settled down at her kitchen table with the cats wandering about over the papers as we read. She was right; when looked at with a cool head, it wasn’t so bad. Quite a lot of journalists had come out saying that I hadn’t done anything wrong, that my openness and honesty was very refreshing and should be applauded. Even some of the ones that had ranted the most when the accusations were first made were mellowing in the face of readers’ letters and a general reluctance on the part of the public to get their knickers in a twist over anything so stupid. One article got all serious about my acting – in
The Towers,
for Christ’s sake – claiming that the reason I brought such ‘depth’ and ‘power’ to the role was because I had so much emotional baggage to draw on. I rather liked that one, read it twice and highlighted ‘depth’ and ‘power’ with Dora’s yellow pen thing.

‘You’ve had a few interesting offers too,’ Dora said, once I’d read all I needed to. ‘I’ve had a call from a publisher asking if you would like to do a book.’

‘Me, write a book? Do they know I didn’t even get my English GCSE?’

‘They’d give you a ghostwriter for that.’

‘Nah, that would be the final nail as far as Dad was concerned.’

‘The other offer that I think might be worth considering is a revival of
Sweet Charity
in the West End, playing Charity.’

‘Seriously? The Shirley MacLaine part? I love that movie.’

‘It is another hooker, of course – well, a sort of hooker – so we’d have to think about typecasting.’

‘And what about
The Towers
?’

‘That’s the other thing we’d have to consider. The way things are going at the moment I could probably get you six months off to do the play, with Nikki coming back again later. But maybe it’s time to move on anyway.’

This was a shocker. I had sort of imagined that I would be doing Nikki till they threw me off. I imagined myself hanging on like Ken Barlow in
Corrie
, or Dot Cotton in
EastEnders.
It hadn’t occurred to me that it might just be a stepping stone to something bigger. I think the media always assume that someone like me has some grand career plan, but how would that work? How could I have foreseen any of the stuff that was happening to me that year?

‘My God, Dora. I thought this would be it. I thought I’d be playing Nikki till I was all wig and wrinkles.’

‘That’s partly why the public loves you so much,’ she said, topping up my glass.

‘Why?’

‘Because you haven’t the faintest idea how good you are. It’s very appealing.’

That made me feel a bit of a fraud, because I had always thought I was pretty good at the acting and singing, I just hadn’t imagined that I would be able to break into the business so easily.

‘You don’t have to make up your mind yet, but it does put you in a strong bargaining position. They have been asking if
you would be interested in doing
Chicago,
too, but everyone does that.
Sweet Charity
would be better because she’s such a nice character. The women in
Chicago
are such bitches.’

‘Fantastic parts, though.’ I couldn’t believe we were actually having this conversation. I was turning down parts in West End shows because my agent didn’t like the characters? How weird was that?

‘And they’ve asked if you and Luke will present an award at the next Brits Awards ceremony.’

‘That would be so cool.’

‘I told them,’ she continued as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘that you would only do it if you and Luke got to perform a song of your choice.’

My God, Dora was turning into Colonel Tom Parker before my very eyes.

‘Perform at the Brits? Are you sure? If they thought Michael Jackson was a sell-out, what are they going to think of the winners of something as naff as
Singing for their Fame
? They’ll boo us off the stage, won’t they?’

‘I don’t think so. You are both very popular at the moment, and you’re selling a fuck of a lot of records. Do you think Luke would be up for it?’

‘I’ll ask him.’

I knew bloody well he would be up for it. It was just the sort of credibility he craved, putting him right back where he was before the group split, but I thought it was only respectful to ask him first. He was just as excited as I’d expected.

‘I think we should do something other than “Summer Wine”,’ I suggested.

‘But everyone loves it,’ he protested.

‘I know, but they’ll be bored of it soon. Let’s do “A Little Time” and camp it up a bit.’

He wasn’t hard to persuade and, to my amazement, nor were the record company or the Brits organisers. I couldn’t get my head round the way that everyone was happy to do whatever I asked for. I didn’t notice it at first, but once I had noticed it I saw it all the time. It started out being really nice, but then it began to get on my nerves a bit. I think that was why I liked being with Luke’s family and Dora, because they treated me like I’d always been treated. I wasn’t comfortable with being pandered to, like I was a star. I was still the same person who had been washing dirty dishes a few months before, being shouted at by a load of sweaty chefs. One of the main reasons why I wasn’t comfortable about it was because I could see it was really pissing off the other cast members at
The Towers,
and I could completely understand their point of view. None of them minded me doing publicity stuff, because they all got to do that from time to time, but, when it was known that the production staff were consulting me about developments in Nikki’s character, the whispers really started.

Actors on soaps look like they’re getting all the glory, with their red-carpet moments and the features in magazines and all the rest, but actually they’re pretty low in the pecking order at the actual television companies. Really distinguished actors can find their characters killed off without any warning and anyone protesting too often about some lines they have been given, or some piece of business, will soon find themselves called into the office and dressed down like a naughty school
kid. I’d never had it happen to me because basically I’d been doing exactly what I was asked, but I knew several who did.

When things went wrong for the actors in their personal lives, the company would make all sorts of statements about us being one big family and all sticking together, but actually they were only interested in ratings. If an actor pissed off the press by two-timing his wife with a hooker, his days were numbered – which was what made it strange that no one was cross with me about the squat revelations. There seemed to be some double standards at work here. Because I was young and considered a bit sexy, I was allowed to get away with things that would have ended the careers of some of the older men. Thank God for it, of course, but it didn’t make any of us feel too secure. We all wondered when the tide of public sympathy would turn against us.

‘It’s the public who decides our fate,’ one old hand told me early on. ‘If they decide they don’t want to see you any more then you’ll be out faster than any politician. If the
powers-that
-be believe you’re putting bums of seats, then they’ll be crawling up your arse morning, noon and night.’

They seemed to think I was putting bums on seats, which was nice to know, but I didn’t like the idea that the others might think I was getting above myself.

Performing at the Brits was like a dream come true. Luke said it was like the first time the West End Boys went on
Top
Of The Pops.
There were so many stars backstage I just walked around with my mouth hanging open, forcing myself not to ask for autographs. They all said ‘hi’ so casually it was like I was one of them, like we had known each other forever. I swear
to God half of them wouldn’t have known me from a hole in the ground, probably thought I was some groupie who had managed to get past security. I was given this incredible dress by Stella McCartney. Stella McCartney, for fuck’s sake! It was all so weird.

‘Am I doing your make-up?’ one of the girls in the Make-Up department asked as I sat in her chair.

‘Yeah, is that all right?’

‘Of course. I just thought you’d have your own people. Most of the stars come with an entourage of stylists and make-up artists and all the rest.’

‘Nah,’ I replied, not sure what the correct response was. Was she suggesting I was a star? I assumed she was talking about people like Madonna, J-Lo, Gwen Stefani and the rest, not someone from the cast of
The Towers.
I wasn’t sure if she was sending me up or not. As we chatted I realised she wasn’t being horrible or anything, just speaking her mind. She was really nice and offered to put me in touch with all sorts of people if I needed them. I couldn’t quite imagine what I would do with my own personal stylist, any more than I’d know what to do with my own personal butler; still, it was a nice little fantasy to indulge in for a bit.

Luke was such a gent, introducing me to everyone like he was at some cocktail party. They all seemed to know each other; maybe it’s some sort of rock star club they all belong to. The organisers had agreed to our doing ‘A Little Time’, and had given us dancers and backing singers and the whole bit. It was a big production and I decided to treat it like an acting master class. Luke looked a bit embarrassed when I did more
than just stand there and sing, but he could see the production people liked it and so he didn’t complain. It worked OK with him singing it straight and me stamping back and forth around him, being really girly about the whole thing. It was cute. It felt good and the crowd whooped and yelled for more – but then they did that for all the numbers, being hyped up on a mixture of drink, drugs and encouragement from the management, who wanted the whole thing to look like a really happening event, not some dry industry thing.

After our set everyone backstage became even more friendly, like I had passed some sort of initiation test, become a member of their exclusive club. Luke was high on adrenalin, bouncing about like a kid in need of Ritalin. It was such a high. He had some coke, which we used when we got to a club afterwards, and then we danced through the night, the centre of attention, feeling like we owned the whole world.

Luke and his management were bubbling with plans. They wanted us to go on tour together, break America, become the next Carpenters. The music in the club was so loud I hadn’t the energy to talk back or do anything except throw my arms round Luke’s neck and cover him in kisses. I didn’t want to be the one to break the mood with practicalities like my contract with
The Towers
and wanting to do the acting and all the exciting plans Dora had for me.

I even got to meet the famous Quentin James, although I can’t say I warmed to the guy in his sharp blue suit, Hermès tie and shiny white shirt. To be honest, there seemed to be a whiff of sulphur in the air when he was around. Everyone else was treating me like I was one of them, but he seemed to be talking
to me like some sarcastic old schoolmaster. I might have taken more offence if I hadn’t noticed he did it to everyone.

‘You need to cash in now,’ he told me, leaning close in order to shout over the noise. ‘I could make you a couple of million if you want to sell your story in the next few weeks.’

‘Nah, I’m all right, thanks,’ I shouted, wanting to be polite because he scared me a bit, but keen for him to piss off and leave me alone.

‘Leave it too long and I can’t promise I’ll be able to get you anything. The public have short memories.’

‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ I joked, but he didn’t laugh, just looked irritated. He was so immaculate I just wanted to ruffle his hair, or make a smudge on one of his white cuffs. It looked to me like he was wearing some sort of foundation, which made him appear a bit orange, but maybe it was just a carefully applied tan. He had definitely had his teeth fixed – they looked like they would glow in the dark.

‘It’s up to you.’ He shrugged, like he didn’t have time for such foolishness. ‘I can’t make you do the right thing, I can only advise.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ I said, snuggling up close to Luke, who seemed to be a bit in awe of the man but put his arm round me anyway as Quentin just walked off without so much as a goodbye.

‘What a wanker,’ I shouted into Luke’s ear.

‘A useful man to know when you need a few quid really quickly,’ one of the other girls at the table said. ‘Everyone ends up in his office eventually.’That was the second time someone had said that to me.

It was a great night and I wanted to indulge myself, and Luke, to the hilt. I was living the fantasy, riding the wave, dancing on top of the world till my thighs ached.

The next morning, when we woke up in a suite at the Covent Garden Hotel, I didn’t feel half so good. In fact, I felt like complete crap. If I had stuck to the coke it wouldn’t have been a problem, but in my euphoria, believing I could handle anything that life might throw at me, I’d also siphoned in an explosive mixture of free cocktails – pink ones, blue ones, crystal-clear ones – with no idea what was in any of them. It felt like someone had buried an axe between my eyes.