‘You won’t lose me,’ I say to Jake, just as I’d said to Cat. When the waiter comes to take orders for pudding or coffee, Jake asks for a beer, joking that he needs something stronger. ‘Have you talked to Mum and Dad about this?’ he asks.
‘I’m waiting to see if I hear from Peter first.’
‘I’ll support you every step of the way, Leech, but you know it’s a world littered with rejection, right?’
‘But someone has to make it,’ I say, not allowing any self doubt to creep in, ‘so why can’t that someone be me?’
13
It’s early February, and I’m driving to Kentish Town for my interview with Peter Harris. Six weeks after replying to his ad, I’d lost hope he would ever get in touch, when, out of the blue, he called.
I glance at the street map of Kentish Town on my passenger seat, realising I need to turn left . . . right now. With no time to indicate, the driver behind me slams on his brakes and blasts his horn. Idiot. I now drive Mum’s old bottle-green Peugeot that we converted from a manual to an automatic, and it’s becoming used to a few scrapes and arguments with other cars. I’m in luck when I see a free disabled slot close to the studio. The only good thing about semi-invalid discs is the free parking. Let’s face it. There have to be some perks. Before I display them in my windscreen I scan the street to make sure no one sees me. It would be just my luck to run into Tom right now (still no news on that front) or even worse, Peter Harris.
When I head inside the building all I can see are black painted doors with numbers on them. It’s dark and eerily quiet in here, with nothing friendly like a reception or anyone around to ask the way to . . . I glance at my piece of paper: Studio 56. I walk down a long passageway, past numbers 11, 12, 13 . . . praying this place has a lift. As I head for the stairs I hear someone coming down them. Instantly his face is recognisable from the pictures and my stomach turns as he says, ‘Alice?’
I nod. He has fair skin like Tom’s, but he’s a darker, sandier blond, dressed in a hooded top and jeans.
‘Follow me,’ he says, unsmiling, as he heads back up the stairs, me desperately trying to keep up with him as we walk down another long corridor lined with more numbered doors. It’s like a rabbit warren in here.
Finally we come to a blue door numbered 56. He unlocks it, only to be faced with another door. A blast of warmth hits me the moment I enter and the first things I notice are a guitar on a stand, a three-tiered keyboard and dark green soundproofing on the walls.
‘Take a seat.’ He points to a small sofa in the corner, covered in a blue and gold flower-patterned silk throw that doesn’t quite blend in with the table opposite me, cluttered with a microwave, kettle, half-filled bottle of lemonade and some kitchen roll. He taps something into his keyboard, telling me he won’t be a moment. This place isn’t smart, but it’s pretty cool, I think, a party of machines with buttons winking at me along with gold and platinum discs on the walls. I look at a framed picture of The Teasers, the band Peter signed aged twenty, the group who broke America and sold, in three years, more than twenty million records. There were a few articles in the press about Peter, rumours circulating as to why he’d returned to London two years ago, sacked. Some papers claimed he’d had an affair with the married lead female singer; others mentioned a heart condition, fuelled by stress. I notice a small framed black and white photograph of Peter and a woman walking along a beach, a boat in the background. He swivels round in his chair to face me, must register me looking at it as he says, ‘Cornwall. Tea, coffee, water?’
‘I’ve got water, thanks.’ I gesture to my bottle.
As I take off my coat and scarf I notice him glance fleetingly at my face and clothes as if assessing if I have the right look. I’m wearing jeans and a white shirt; casual, not too much makeup, my hair down. I have a tomboyish figure, so keep my clothes simple.
‘So, tell me why you answered my ad, Alice.’ He’s still assessing me with those dark brown eyes.
‘I want to be a pop star.’
‘A pop star. How old are you? Twelve?’
‘A singer, then,’ I say, willing myself not to feel intimidated.
‘Let me guess . . .’ He rests one leg over the other. ‘You’d like to be famous.’
‘Yes.’ I’d love to be famous. Why is he looking at me like that?
‘Do you think I don’t hear this all the time, from everyone I meet?’
‘I’m not like everyone, though.’
‘Buy a ticket and head to the back of a long queue of people who tell me they want to be famous.’
‘I don’t like queues.’ I smile. ‘Especially not long ones.’
He shrugs, but I can tell I’ve grabbed his interest. ‘What makes you so special then?’
‘Well I can sing.’
‘Well, that’s a good start.’ He seems to be warming up. ‘Remind me how old you are again?’
‘Twenty-six.’ I’m ready for him to say . . .
‘That’s old.’
‘Some things are worth waiting for.’
‘Sure, but look at Britney Spears. She’s a teenager. Natalie Imbruglia is three years younger than you with a number of hit records behind her. In the music industry twenty-six is late to start.’
‘Yes, but it’s never too late to follow your dream.’
‘Don’t give me that “follow your dream” jargon. Such a cliché.’ He reaches for his coffee.
‘I believe if you really want something, if you work hard enough, it’ll happen,’ I say, refusing to give in to his cynicism, before knowing I need to cough. Soon I can’t stop. I drink some water, although water never helps but I need to do something, anything, to avoid Peter’s stare . . . I know what he’s thinking, and sure enough—
‘You need to give up the fags.’
‘I don’t . . .’ cough . . . ‘Smoke.’
‘Drink more honey and lemon then. OK, let’s hear your sound.’
‘Right now?’
‘Well, we could do some knitting first . . .’
Do I stand in front of him, or sit here, on the sofa? ‘Up,’ he says. ‘You always sing better standing.’
Wishing I didn’t feel so nervous, I ask him if I can sing one of my own songs.
‘Sing whatever you like.’
‘It’s called “Sweet Fantasy”.’
He leans back in his chair.
As I sing, I notice him shifting his position. Is he bored already? My cough is creeping up on me again, like an unwanted guest. ‘You can’t ignore me,’ it says, ‘I won’t go away, I’m like the guest who will never leave . . .’
I manage to suppress it, but Peter holds up a hand. ‘You have an earthy tone, a kind of breathy sound.’ He strokes his chin. ‘You remind me of Bjork.’
Bjork is an Icelandic singer, kooky and original and hugely talented, ‘I love her,’ I say.
‘Yeah, but you need to sort out your twenty-a-day habit or your bug and come back when you feel better. I don’t want to catch your germs.’
I hear Daisy’s voice inside my head. ‘Can you catch CF?’ she’d asked in front of our class before an English lesson. She’d glanced down at my open textbook. I’d been given full marks for our last test, ticks in the margin. ‘Don’t sit next to teacher’s pet,’ she’d said to one of the girls approaching my desk, ‘Miss Gold Star Alice . . .’
‘I can’t do that,’ I say to Peter, jolted from my memory.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘She won’t live long enough to become famous. She’s ill. She’ll be dead soon!’
Stop. Listening. To. These. Voices. ‘I can’t come back when I’m . . .’ I hesitate, ‘. . . better.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘I have . . .’ Say it. Don’t say it. Say it. ‘Cystic fibrosis.’
‘Cystic fibrosis,’ he repeats, his eyes not leaving mine. ‘That’s to do with your breathing, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a lung condition, that’s all,’ I say with my trademark shrug. ‘That’s why I cou
gh. It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Sure. Sorry, Alice, but I don’t think this is going to work,’ he says, his voice already quieter and sympathetic.
‘I swear it’s no big deal. I write my songs with gaps between the words so I have time to breathe and my doctor says—’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, shaking his head. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to waste your time when I know this isn’t going to work.’
‘But . . .’
‘Alice, singing is essentially about breathing and here you are telling me you have a chronic lung condition. I could find you a music teacher—’
‘I don’t want a teacher! I had one of those and she destroyed all my confidence by saying I could never do this.’
‘Perhaps she was right.’
‘She wasn’t.’
‘The music industry is one of the toughest to crack.’
‘I believe I have what it takes.’
‘Do you? I’ve seen many talented people without the problems you have get nowhere so why put all that pressure on yourself when you’re ill?’
‘I’m not ill, I—’
‘You know, fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either, take it from me. I don’t think this is the right thing for you.’
‘Let me prove to you you’re wrong.’
‘I’m always right, so we’ll have to agree to disagree.’ Already he’s shut down; he’s made up his mind. ‘Listen, I think you’re brave and—’
‘Brave? You can call me deluded or mad, crazy, whatever, but don’t call me fucking brave. I want to be a singer . . .’
‘And I want to be a billionaire.’
‘If you never believe in anyone, how do you get anywhere? Sometimes you need to give people a chance and have some faith. People are putting faith in you again, aren’t they?’
He looks at me as if I’ve hit a nerve.
I’ve blown it.
‘Thanks for your time, I’ll see myself out,’ I say, gathering my things before dropping my lyrics book, pieces of paper scattering on to the floor. Peter helps me pick up the sheets.
‘ “If You Fall”.’ He continues to read my song, before he turns over another page. It feels strange seeing someone reading my innermost thoughts and feelings. My heart and soul exposed on those pages. All I can hear is the sound of the ticking clock until he says, ‘Sing it.’
I position myself in front of him. Don’t muck up. Don’t cough.
I clear my throat.
‘Memories of a little girl . . .
in her perfect world
won’t cry
no need to know
the reasons why
Her faith is so easy,
in her carefree world,
she’d jump into
her father’s arms,
trusting that she’d
be unharmed’
Peter doesn’t say a word. I slot my book back into my bag, ready to leave.
‘You have something.’
‘I’m sorry?’ But I heard.
‘That song, it’s about you, right? You’re the little girl.’
I nod.
‘So sing it again. Be that girl.’
Really? I point to the guitar on the other side of the sofa. ‘Can I?’
‘Sure.’
I sit down and warm up, the strings hard and cold against my fingers. I notice Peter looking at them.
‘Memories of a little girl
in my perfect world
won’t cry
no need to know
the reasons why
my faith is so easy . . .’
I look up at him, can’t help smiling at how much better it sounds.
‘. . . in my carefree world
I’d jump into
my father’s arms
trusting that I’d
be unharmed . . .’
I stop. Wait, my hand resting over the strings.
‘Carry on,’ he encourages.
‘If I cry
if I fall
into your arms tonight
will you be there?
and say that you care?’
‘Sometimes it’s as simple as that, making it personal.’ He holds up my lyrics book. ‘There’s a frustrated, angry, happy, strong and frightened girl inside of here, someone who wants to be loved, someone passionate, a woman trying to make sense of the meaning of her life. I’m not going to lie, ninety-nine point nine per cent of people don’t make it in this industry and they don’t have even half the battle you have.’
‘I will be that point one of a per cent who make it then.’
‘You’re ballsy, I give you that.’
‘I’ve had to be.’ When I can see he’s still undecided, I tell him, ‘Give me a try. I won’t let you down.’
‘Music is a platform to say something, to express yourself, and you have plenty to say all right, and it comes from here.’ He taps his heart. ‘That’s what I look for in an artist.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Hope has crept into my voice.
‘What I’m saying is maybe I’m not right all the time.’ He smiles at me, almost as if he can’t quite believe what he’s about to say next. ‘Something is telling me not to let you go without trying, Alice. So, see you next week?’
14
Mary’s Diary
February 1999
I was peeling potatoes in the kitchen when Alice returned, saying, ‘Mum, I’m going to be a singer.’ She told me about this man, Peter Harris. With his help they will produce a ‘demo’ – a CD with a sample of her songs that he will send out to record companies to see if they will give her a recording deal. She was talking so quickly that I had to make her slow down.
The crazy thing is I don’t really know how good Alice is at singing. Unlike Jake, she wasn’t particularly good at the piano because of her poor finger coordination. When she was about six she had local lessons with Betty and I do remember her being heartbroken when Betty got shingles. But then she didn’t enjoy her lessons with Miss Ward and asked me to stop them. She once sang a duet at school with Nicholas; I think it was ‘Good King Wenceslas’. She loves writing and playing on her keyboard now, but I’ve never thought much more of it. In a way it’s not that surprising she has inherited some talent, what with my mother being a professional pianist; and Nicholas indignantly pointed out to me in bed last night not to forget his mother too, who played the piano for the searchlight crews in the war, the people who would scan the sky at night with huge torches, looking out for enemy aircraft, trying to detect if any danger lay ahead.
I feel guilty that perhaps I should have encouraged Alice more seriously with her music but I’ve never been pushy. Nicholas is the same. Deep down he probably wanted Jake to follow in his footsteps (I’m laughing at the image of Jake wearing a wig in court – it’s funny enough seeing Nicholas in one!) but the only thing we ask for is that our children are happy.
Nicholas and I know nothing about the music world. After talking to Alice I called Jake immediately. Like me, he’s relieved Alice has a goal but he was anxious too. He said it’s such a competitive world, a road littered with corpses. I’m glad Alice has talked to Professor Taylor. She cannot risk her health or damaging her lungs further by singing. I might try and have a quiet word with him too.
Sometimes I wonder what might have been, if things had been different. Before I had Alice, I’d always imagined that once my children were school age I’d work, maybe find something of my own too. My passion has always been in clothes and design. When I look back, sometimes I think, ‘what have I done for the past twenty or so years?’ Not very much! My role has been to care for Alice and keep our family on the road, to make everything as normal as it can possibly be, for Alice and Jake, for Nicholas and me. I’m so fortunate that Nicholas has been able to financially support our family but there are moments when I glimpse the other life I might have had. Sometimes it makes me feel sad but I have no regrets. My art is important to me now. When I paint I
forget everything except the picture in front of me. I imagine that’s what it’s like for Jake. And for Alice when she sings. She becomes lost in her own world. And often that’s what we all need, to be deliberately lost, far away from our own reality.
15
Tom
As the lasagne is cooking Tom showers and changes, still wondering what he’s going to do about Alice when he sees her tonight. He knows she’s keen. Each time they have been on dates she has been warm and flirtatious. He recalls their last evening together, when they’d met George and a few other friends in a wine bar. ‘What about us?’ she’d asked at the end of the evening, woozy from lack of food and the smoky atmosphere. He was about to admit his feelings; he was about to kiss her before she’d rested her head against his shoulder. As he stroked her hair, he was aware of George’s disapproval, his friend muttering that she needed a strong coffee.
Tom glances at the book about CF on his bedside table. It hasn’t made easy reading. Part of him wishes he didn’t know so much. Ignorance is bliss.
After he’d left the bookshop empty-handed he had cycled home, expecting to feel relieved. He could cycle away from this, leave their memory solely at their brief encounter. Yet he felt anything but relieved; instead he was on edge and disappointed in himself. Work didn’t offer any distraction. All he could think about was how he’d just found out the woman of his dreams had an incurable illness. He felt so angry at the injustice of life. Without thinking he’d grabbed his car keys and driven to his parents. He didn’t want to confide in them about Alice; he simply needed time out of London to clear the fog inside his head. Tom had been brought up on the Essex coast; the sea was his playground, the only place where he felt entirely himself. Despite the fading sun he walked to their local beach, the sound of the waves immediately comforting. Before he left his worried mother gave him supper and he did feel much better for seeing his parents and getting out of London. Thoughts of Alice, however, returned the moment he unlocked the door to his dark and empty flat.
A Song for Tomorrow Page 7
