The stage was littered with discarded T-shirts, coats, drinks cans and bottles, towels and masses of other unrecognisable paraphernalia. Vix and I stood back and watched the organised chaos with fascination. It may have looked like pandemonium, but clearly Narnia’s Children, organised by Rich, knew exactly how to clear everything away with the minimum of fuss and in the shortest possible time.
Scott was carefully packing away his guitar on the far side of the stage and he looked up and smiled at me. Warily, I smiled back.
‘Go home,’ a voice said in my ear. ‘Leave him alone. He’s got a girlfriend.’
I turned and looked at Mo, his arms full of band gear, and frowned. ‘What?’
‘He’s got a girlfriend. She’s gorgeous. Back off. Ok?’
Surprise, surprise. I sighed. ‘Oh… er… that’s nice…’
‘It is. She is,’ Mo walked away. ‘She’s cool. He’s not into groupies like you, so clear off.’
‘He’s right,’ Rich, also loaded with band kit, paused beside me. ‘Renza’s very special to Scott – and to all of us. He’s going to marry her. Soon. He never looks at other women and he certainly won’t be interested in you. So, stop hanging around. Look, love, putting this very nicely – sod off.’
Renza… pretty name. Italian? She probably looked exactly like Gina Lollobrigida or Sophia Loren. Dark, glamorous, sultry and oh-so-sexy. My imagination went into overdrive as I pictured her and Scott together… Renza… I knew I hated her.
I also knew when I wasn’t wanted. You didn’t have to tell me twice. Picking my way through the group’s muddle, I headed for the gap in the stage curtains.
‘Stella!’ Scott had put down his guitar case and stepped in front of me. ‘Where are you going? You can’t just leave. You haven’t said goodbye.’
I just stared at him. The most gorgeous, flirty, beautiful, clever, sexy – and engaged-to-be-married – boy I’d ever meet. Then I noticed Mo and Rich, still watching me, glaring at me, standing there, side-by-side behind Scott, like twin Outraged Moral Guardians.
‘Go away,’ Mo mouthed silently. ‘He’s got Renza. He’s not interested. Go.’
Rich wasn’t quite so polite. ‘Bugger off!’
I didn’t stop to think. I turned back to look at Scott, and without taking my eyes from his, I took a deep breath, balled up my fist, and punched him in the stomach. Hard.
I heard him gasp, heard Vix shriek, but just turned and ran towards the gap in the curtains. Then looking triumphantly over my shoulder at Mo and Rich, I pushed my way through the curtains, slithered down the stairs off the stage and ran out of the hall.
Stella’s Diary
December 7th 1968 – continued…
Vix caught up with me in the cloakroom as I was shrugging into my fun-fur jacket.
‘Stella! You punched him! You-punched-him!’
‘Yep.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘Nope. Come on – let’s go home.’
‘But… you punched him! You punched Scott! They all saw you! They couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t believe it!’ Vix hurried behind me as we pushed our way through the home-going throng, and emerged into the glittery-dark and bone-numbingly icy night. ‘What the hell did you do that for? What did he say to you?’
‘Nothing,’ I stood outside St B’s, surrounded by laughing people, their breath blowing smoky plumes into the air. ‘Come on. I want to go home.’
Vix grabbed my arm. ‘Did he hurt you? Are you in pain? What – ?’
‘It was nothing like that. Please forget it – or don’t as it’s part of our night to remember…’ I sighed as we fought our way through the excited crowd outside St B’s. ‘But hopefully he now knows I’m not intending to be another one-nightstand groupie – and the rest of them all got the message that I’m well aware about his precious Renza…’
‘What? Who?’ Vix tried to keep up with me, slipping and slithering across the icy car park.
‘Renza. His girlfriend. Fiancée.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yep. Oh.’
‘But you punched him! You’ve never punched anyone ever. Why…?’
‘Honestly? I have no idea…’ Not true! ‘I was just so cross that they all seemed to think – ‘
‘Hang on!’ A loud voice shouted from behind us, interrupting me. ‘Stella! Hang on!’
‘Oooh,’ Vix turned to stare, grabbing hold of me, almost falling on the ice. ‘It’s Mo! The drummer! He’s waving at us!’
‘Probably making sure we’ve left the area,’ I muttered. ‘He warned me off. More than once. Not that it mattered as I’m going to be dead, but…’
Vix stopped walking. ‘Stop saying that. And let’s see what he’s got to say.’
‘No thanks.’
I tried to side-step her. I shouldn’t have punched Scott. Of course I shouldn’t. It was childish and ridiculous. I’d never done anything like it before. But I was just so angry… and hurt… and… scared…? Yes, scared. And not just because of the operation any more. But because of the way I felt about him. I knew I’d made a fool of myself. It really wasn’t the way I’d planned my last night out ever, to go.
Mo slid to a halt beside us. ‘Please stop… I’m sorry… Stella, Scott’s just told us… Sorry, again. It’s just that we all love Renza and…’
Renza… I never wanted to hear the name again. I shook my head and snuggled deeper into my fun-fur. My nose and ears were hurting with the cold and I couldn’t feel my hands. It was far too icy to stand about talking nonsense. ‘Forget it. Have a safe journey back to Jersey. Tell Scott I’m sorry I punched him. Goodbye.’
‘Look,’ Mo stood in front of us, ‘I don’t know why you hit him, but Scott’s told us that you’re a music journalist and he’d asked you to do an interview with us sometime, that’s what you were talking about. He also told us you’re going into hospital which means you’re ill. I’m so sorry – we just jumped to the wrong conclusions.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, laughing to myself at Scott’s tactful interpretation of “music journalist”. ‘I’m sorry too. Goodnight.’
‘The least we can do is give you a lift home,’ Mo indicated over his shoulder to where a dark blue transit van was revving up. ‘Rich has got us all packed in and we’re ready to go. It’s a rotten night and you shouldn’t be walking anywhere.’
‘That’s ok.’ I shrugged. ‘I only live round the – ‘
‘We’d love a lift,’ Vix said quickly. ‘Thanks so much.’
‘No, we wouldn’t -’ I started.
‘Yes we would.’ Vix glared at me. ‘We really, really would.’
Mo waved towards the transit, and with lights blazing, it crawled through the reluctant home-going crowd towards us.
It drew to a halt, doors were opened, voices shouted above the blaring music on the radio, and Vix and I were pulled inside.
‘Where to?’ Rich, who was driving, looked over his shoulder.
‘Round the corner,’ I muttered. I was half-sitting on a guitar case, with a rucksack under my feet and Joss squashed in beside me. I couldn’t even see Scott. I guessed he was in the back somewhere. I didn’t allow myself the pleasure of turning to look. It was enough to know he was there. ‘Seriously. Round the corner. Out of the main gates, right turn, immediate left turn, then the second turning on the left.’
In the darkness, Dusty Springfield was singing ‘Son of a Preacher Man’. Oh, those words… so evocative and sexy. I knew I’d remember them for ever and always think of Scott when I heard them. At least until I died on Monday, of course.
‘And then where?’ Rich said over his shoulder as we left St B’s behind.
‘Second house on the right,’ Vix giggled from the front seat where she was sitting on Zak’s lap – by accident or design I wasn’t sure.
Rich frowned at me. ‘You’re kidding? You live here? You could have walked that in two minutes.’
‘I know…’ I sighed. ‘I did say.’
We pulled up outside my
house. I slid off the guitar case and scrabbled for the door handle just as a tall figure loomed out of the darkness.
‘Oooh look,’ Vix said, slithering from Zak’s lap, ‘it’s your dad, Stella.’
‘Christ! Put your foot down, Rich,’ Zak chuckled. ‘He’s a bloody giant – and we don’t want any more run-ins with angry dads.’
‘Stella’s dad isn’t like that,’ Vix said, helping me scramble from the transit van. ‘He’s lovely. Oh, look – he’s got the dogs with him. He must have been taking them out for their late night walk. Hi, Mr Deacon!’
Dad beamed. ‘Hello, Vix. And what’s this then? You got a lift home? That’s nice… Stella?’ He looked anxiously at me. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you, love? You didn’t have to be brought home because you felt ill?’
‘No, no – I’m fine,’ I assured him, bending down to fuss the dogs. ‘We’ve had a wonderful night.’
Understatement.
‘The boys in the band gave us a lift home,’ Vix said. ‘Because it’s a cold night. Wasn’t that kind of them?’
‘Very,’ Dad said, nodding towards Rich and Zak in the front seats of the van. ‘Thank you, lads. Have you got far to go tonight?’
Jersey, I thought. A million miles away from here.
‘Bedfordshire,’ Rich said.
Not Jersey? Really?
Dad looked at the transit van. ‘It’ll take a good couple of hours in that, I reckon. You’d better come in and have a bit of a warm and a hot drink to set you up for the journey.’
Oh God. I closed my eyes. ‘Dad – there’s no need…’
‘There’s every need, Stella, love. The boys have been kind enough to see you safely home. It’s a bitterly cold night. They’ve got a long way to go.’
‘Yes, and to Bedfordshire not Jersey,’ Vix giggled, and I kicked her.
Rich leaned out of the van. ‘Are you sure? I mean, I could murder a cup of tea – but it’s well past midnight – it’s very late and…’
Vix laughed. ‘Stella’s parents are ace. Everyone’s welcome. It’s my second home – and it’s just like an open house for waifs and strays.’
‘Hardly that bad,’ Dad grinned, ‘although we’ve had our moments. But yes, I think a quick cuppa would be the least we can do. Come along… follow me…’
‘Dad!’ I grabbed his arm, hearing Narnia’s Children leaping out of the transit behind me. ‘Please…’
Too late. They were out of the van.
With Dad and the dogs in the lead, Vix still giggling and hugging me, and the group bringing up the rear, we all paraded into the old-fashioned, cluttered and cosy kitchen.
‘Visitors, duck,’ Dad said to Mum, with her fly-away hair on end and her big glasses on the end of her nose, who was sitting at the kitchen table with two cats and a crossword puzzle. ‘I’ll get the kettle on…’
It was surreal. Seriously. Amidst all the kitchen clutter and the animals and the ancient dusty coke boiler pouring out heat and my parents both talking at the same time, were Narnia’s Children.
Sexy, knock-out, famous, drop dead gorgeous, Narnia’s Children.
In my home.
A few hours ago Vix and I had been lustfully staring at them in the spotlights, on the stage, rocking St B’s as it had never been rocked before. And now they were here.
‘Take your coats off, girls, and go on through to the living room all of you,’ Mum said once introductions and explanations had been made. ‘It’s warmer in there. Tea or coffee or hot chocolate?’
Everyone opted delightedly for hot chocolate. I didn’t. I was still shell-shocked.
Somehow we all moved through to the living room, all lamplight and big old-fashioned lop-sided sofas and huge scruffy chairs and a coal fire roaring up the chimney.
‘Wow!’ Rich grinned. ‘Paradise.’
Zak, Mo and Joss nodded in agreement.
They all plonked themselves down round the fire, stretching out their long legs, holding their hands out to the flames. Vix, the dogs and three of the cats joined them. I just stood in the doorway looking at them and wanted to laugh hysterically. It was all too bizarre for words. Still, I’d wanted a last-Saturday-night-on-earth to remember, hadn’t I? I certainly hadn’t bargained on this, though.
Scott had stopped to stroke one of the cats in the kitchen. He smiled at me. ‘Fab home… and parents… you’re so lucky.’
‘I know…’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry. About hitting you. It was unforgiveable.’
‘It was a shock,’ he laughed softly. ‘You pack quite a punch. Want to tell me why?’
I shook my head. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. Put it down to insanity. I’m just sorry. That’s all.’
‘Here we are,’ Mum bustled in then with a tray loaded with mis-matched cups and mugs and started handing them round to murmurs of thanks and appreciation. ‘Now, I bet you boys haven’t had anything to eat tonight, have you?’
Oh my God… I shook my head. ‘Mum, honestly, they’re ok…’
As one, Narnia’s Children, who were so skinny they looked like they hadn’t eaten a decent meal for months, looked at her expectantly.
‘Will beans on toast be ok? If I’d known Stella and Vix were going to bring friends home I’d have popped some potatoes to cook under the fire. Nothing like a baked potato for supper on a night like this.’
Again, the boys all raved ecstatically about beans on toast and Mum bustled out happily.
Oh, I loved my mum – but her need to feed the world was sometimes so embarrassing.
Scott, who was perched on the arm of one of the sofas patted the seat beside him. I sat down.
‘Are you cold?’ He looked down at me. ‘You’re shaking. Oh – do you feel ill?’
I shook my head. The reason for my shakes was exactly the same as the reason for the punch, and had absolutely nothing to do with my illness – but I wasn’t going to tell him that. Never. Ever.
‘Good – oh, and does your mum need a hand with anything? It’s the middle of the night. We really shouldn’t take advantage like this and…’
I turned away from him. I couldn’t look at him. He’d know how I felt. And because of Renza, there was absolutely no point in it, was there? And, of course, the fact that I wasn’t going to be alive for much longer anyway didn’t help.
‘Mum’s fine – she’s never happier than when she has a houseful of people to feed – and we’ll just get in her way. I’ll help her with the washing-up later.’
‘We could do that,’ Scott grinned. ‘Not that we’re much good at it. But it’d be the least we could do.’
‘Believe me, she wouldn’t let you. You’re guests. In my mum’s rules, guests don’t do the washing up.’
I knew he was looking at me. I stared at the carpet. It really was very old and worn and covered in dogs’ hairs. I wondered if Scott had a posh house in Jersey. Of course he did. Everyone in Jersey was fabulously rich. Even I knew that.
What a lame conversation! But what else could I say? He belonged to Renza and would soon walk out of my life forever. He’d disappear back to the delights of the sultry Renza in Bedfordshire or Jersey or wherever she lived. There was absolutely no point in pretending it was going to be any different.
‘Stella,’ Scott’s voice was low. ‘I need to say so many things – but, about the interview…’
‘Probably not a good idea. Not right now.’
‘No, of course not. But maybe in the future. When you’re better. You can let me know when the time’s right. Look, if you give me your phone number now and…’
‘We’re not on the phone.’
‘Oh, right…’
And I’m not going to survive the operation and you have a fiancée and I really, really want to cry now, I thought.
Dad made his entrance at that point, carrying a massive pile of sliced bread and several toasting forks. ‘Make yourself useful, lads. Grab a fork… beans are bubbling… Supper won’t be long…’
There was a lot of vying for
the best position in front of the fire as Narnia’s Children knelt on our faded, tatty hearth rug and duelled with toasting forks, much to the delight of the overexcited dogs. It was growing more and more wacky by the minute.
The television, sharing its battered two-tiered table in the corner with the wireless, was long-silent, given the time, so Vix, still grinning at me, turned the radio on to Luxembourg and danced around the living room. Judy Clay and William Bell were singing ‘Private Number’.
Scott had asked for my private number. Some hopes!
I let the sexy, sultry voices and the words of the song seep into my brain, staring at Scott’s black hair gleaming in the firelight as he attempted to turn his slice of bread on the toasting fork without burning himself, knowing again it was a song that would always mean the world to me.
‘How we doing, boys?’ Dad stuck his head into the room. ‘Ah, looking good. Right here’s some more bread to toast. I’ll butter this lot. Ta.’
Within moments, plates were piled high with beans on toast, Vix joined the boys eating their mountainous supper – Mum never did things by half – while Dad asked them endless questions about the group and about Jersey and about them now living somewhere in Bedfordshire… Leighton Buzzard I thought I heard them say… I wasn’t absolutely sure where it was but I’d heard about it because of the Great Train Robbery. And then Rich was saying they wouldn’t be living in Leighton Buzzard properly again until January as they were going home to Jersey for Christmas and then had gigs in France for the New Year.
Leaving them all eating, drinking, talking and laughing at Dad’s outrageous stories, and because I wasn’t able to eat anything, I went into the kitchen and hugged Mum. ‘Thank you. They love it. And sorry to have dumped this lot on you so late.’
She hugged me back. ‘Don’t apologise. Dad says they were kind enough to see you home, and he invited them in – not you. They’re a lovely crowd of boys, too. So polite – and very handsome. Actually, I saw you and the very good-looking boy with the black hair, Scott – is that his name? – chatting just now.
Only One Woman Page 21
