It was like a mantra going round and round in my head and I didn’t think I’d ever stop smiling. It didn’t matter that the stunningly gorgeous London girls – no Dolly Rockers here – were watching Narnia’s Children with hungry eyes. It simply didn’t matter. They could look all they liked – he loved me!
The girls all greeted each other with kisses and high-class squeals and swooshing waterfalls of hair. The air was filled with expensive perfumes – definitely not several squirts of Le Train Bleu and Body Mist – and even more high-class shrieks of laughter.
While Rich put the group through their sound checks, I wandered round the dark nooks and crannies of the nightclub, watching as the girls danced sinuously beneath the DJ, moving with grace and perfect rhythm, but careful not to disturb their make-up, hair or clothes. Several of the boys – long-haired and pretty but not a patch on any one of Narnia’s Children – eyed me up as I passed. I smiled to myself. Not a chance, lads, I thought – not a chance…
I found the bar and the eating area. It was like a massive cave, with little stars studded in the roof and thick white candles in fat wine bottles flickering on the tables and the scents wafting from behind the counter made my stomach rumble. Of course, as usual, we hadn’t eaten all day.
I looked at my watch, then at the blackboard behind the bar. There were two meals chalked up: beef goulash or chicken curry – both with rice. I reckoned Narnia’s Children deserved a change from Mo’s cobbled-together Vesta curry – so, even though I had no idea what goulash was, I ordered six portions plus five pints of beer and a Coke for me.
‘For the band,’ I shouted at the chap behind the bar. ‘Narnia’s Children! They’ll be ready in about 15 minutes I guess.’
‘Gotcha,’ he grinned at me and handed me a bucket with cutlery and a numbered wooden spoon in it. ‘ Stick this on your table. You paying?’
I paid. And found a table in one of the darker corners. I was amused by the bucket and the spoon. They didn’t do things like that back home.
Mind you, we didn’t have restaurants like this back home, either. And we never ate out, no one I knew did, it was deemed a waste of good money. Well, maybe Mum and I would have lunch at the Cadena, or I’d share a hippy salad and frothy coffee with Vix in The Fantasia, on our shopping trips to Oxford, and sometimes we all went to the Chinese in Summertown if it was someone’s birthday, and rather daringly one of the local Harbury Green pubs had recently started doing chicken in a basket but I’d never tried it.
This, tonight, was something else entirely.
I managed to weave my way back through the glamorous crowds. The DJ had upped his game to more poppy chart music – The Casuals, The Box Tops, Amen Corner – and the beautiful people still danced with the same elegant grace, the girls making sure that their long Dunhill cigarettes didn’t ruin their carefully-applied pale pink pouts.
You’d think I’d just given the band the keys to Paradise when I told them there was food ready for them. Zak and Joss dropped what they were doing and jumped off the stage. Scott laughed and followed them. Rich and Mo both said thanks and then joined the charge.
Goulash, it turned out, was very much like my mum’s beef stew, only a bit more spicy and with a dollop of sour cream on top – which I found a bit odd but didn’t say – and served on a mountain of rice. The portions were enormous – which went down really well with Narnia’s Children – and everyone scraped their bowls clean and Joss and Zak helped me to finish mine as well.
After that the evening passed in a blur of music and colours and noise. Narnia’s Children’s first set went down a storm. I sat to one side of the stage with Rich, and watched. They were so good, playing all the songs that had become part of my life, so talented. And so very, very sexy.
The beautiful girls clearly thought so too as they pressed round the foot of the stage and stared lustfully. Scott looked across at me – they were playing their Hollies medley: ‘Just One Look’, ‘Stay’, ‘I’ll Be True To You’ – and gave me the slow, knowing smile. Dear God, I loved him so much… and he played the guitar like a dream and sang – sometimes alone – sometimes harmonising with Zak – brilliantly. He was a superstar. Oh – and he loved me!
Still staying with the Hollies, they roared into ‘Here I Go Again’. Scott took lead vocals and sang it to me. Just to me. He stood at the mic, staring at me, smiling, and sang every word to me. Oh, those words!
I was on cloud nine – and I just laughed and blew him a kiss. The beautiful girls all glared at me so I smiled at them and blew them a kiss too.
At some point towards the end of the first set, in the midst of my delirium, I was aware that Stephan had arrived. He nodded at me and sat next to Rich. They had a brief shouted conversation then Stephan disappeared off into the crowd.
‘Talking to A&R men…’ Rich yelled in my ear. ‘Always wheeling and dealing…’
The Equals burst on to the stage at midnight. They opened with their big hit of the previous year – ‘Baby, Come Back’ – and Eddy Grant was absolutely fantastic. Again I sat at the side of the stage, this time with all of Narnia’s Children, and with Scott’s arms round me. The Equals were amazing – but I still thought Narnia’s Children were better.
The Equals closed their first set with the stonking ‘Michael and the Slipper Tree’ and I was practically bouncing up and down.
Scott kissed me as Rich and the group stood up ready to take the stage again. ‘Stay there, Twinkle, so that I can see you and letch.’ He laughed. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too.’
Almost straight away, Stephan plonked down beside me. ‘That was a good catch-up just now – very lucrative – a nice bit of schmoozing with some guys I’ve been trying to tie-down for a while. All went well. Should reap dividends for the boys.
They’re going great tonight and it’s been noticed. It is really nice to see you again, Stella. And thanks for all the Fan Club and PR stuff. Damn good work, love. Shame you won’t be around for much longer, you’ve done the band proud. They’re gonna miss you.’
Stunned, I blinked at him wordlessly. On stage, the boys were taking their places. Zak was doing the “one-two one-two” thing into the microphone.
Stephan shrugged. ‘Well, they’re off to Germany for several weeks and then I’ve got them signed up for a summer season in Jersey – it’ll be Autumn at the earliest before they’re back over here, and…’
Of course I knew about Narnia’s Children going to Germany, which was bad enough, but Jersey? For the whole summer? Why hadn’t Scott told me? Why?
My glorious golden bubble burst with a sad plop.
And wherever they were, I wouldn’t be with them. And Scott would be with Renza and I’d never see him again.
I knew exactly what Stephan was saying.
And I wanted to cry because I knew it was true.
Stella’s Diary
April 1st 1969
Lunchtime. My first day back at work. It was to be a short re-introduction to the world of Subsistence Claims as it was Easter Week and we finished for the holiday break at lunchtime on Maundy Thursday.
So far every hour had seemed like a lifetime.
Everyone in the office had been really kind to me:
Debbie and Sally – the clerical assistants and my friends – because of course they knew all about Scott; Mrs Everton our Executive Officer because she was very motherly anyway but also because she’d probably been briefed by Personnel to be nice to me after such a serious illness and long absence; even Nicholas, my fellow CO, who wore cardigans and sucked bullseyes and never talked much and still lived with his mum even though he was very ancient.
I hated it.
I hated being away from Scott and the band and the crazy life that had become my reality for the last few months. I hated the pointlessness of shuffling piles of paper. I hated the feeling of being trapped here for ever. I hated the fact that I had to dress reasonably sensibly again. I hated the fact that I’d never see Leighton Buzzard or th
e house again. I hated that right now Scott was in Kaiserslautern with Renza. Oh, God – how I hated that.
But most of all I hated the fact that it was over. Really all over.
It felt like a bereavement. An aching, tearing loss that would never, ever go away.
Oh, yes, it was lovely to be back home with mum and dad and the dogs and cats again – it was lovely to have my mum’s home-cooking and to see my grandparents again, and catch up with Vix and my other friends… but, because this was all there was ever going to be from now on, it made me want to cry. This time there’d be no dashing back to Leighton Buzzard; this time there’d be no happy reunion with Scott – this time I was home, on my own, for ever.
My parents had been great about it. I’d written to them regularly while I was away so they knew most of it anyway. Neither of them had asked too many questions. Dad had hugged me a lot and said I needed feeding up. Mum had wisely said nothing about my tear-stained face each morning or made any remarks along the lines of “plenty more fish in the sea”. They’d both welcomed me home quietly and warmly and with love – and I knew I was lucky to have them.
But none of this helped to heal my broken heart.
So, at lunchtime on my first day back, I was sitting on the grass outside the office in the sunshine – the glorious spring weather had continued – with Debbie and Sally, eating lemon mousse from the shop. It was one of the plusses of working for the Atomic Energy Research Establishment – it was like a large village with beautifully landscaped grounds and gardens, shops and social clubs, each of the buildings situated on wide roads lined with trees.
‘… but why don’t you just ask him to finish with this Renza?’ Debbie frowned, hoiking her skirt up to get the sun on her legs. ‘If you love him that much why don’t you fight for him?’
‘There’s no contest,’ I sighed. ‘Their relationship is different. Special. He loves Renza. He’s in love with Renza. He’s going to marry Renza. I was always just a stop-gap. If I asked him to choose then I know he wouldn’t choose me – which is why I never asked. And never will.’
Sally looked shocked. ‘But that makes you sound so cheap. And feeble.’
‘Thanks,’ I laughed.
‘No, but you know what I mean, Stella.’
I tried to keep the wobble out of my voice. ‘Yes. But that’s how it is. How I knew it would be.’
‘So, when you left Leighton Buzzard, how did he end it?’
‘He didn’t.’ I pushed the unfinished mousse away. I had no appetite. ‘He just said it’d be ok and he’d write to me.’
‘And has he?’
‘No.’
Sally and Debbie looked at one another and pulled faces.
‘He probably can’t,’ I said, ‘even if he wants to. Because he’s in Germany. With Renza.’
‘Does she know about you?’ Sally frowned. ‘Like you know about her?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never asked. We don’t talk about Renza. Probably… oh, I don’t know! All I know is that he’s in Germany with her now and not with me and it’s over.’
‘So you’ll never see him again?’ Debbie rolled over on to her stomach. ‘He’s gone – out of your life – just like that.’
‘Exactly like that.’
‘But you love him?’
‘More than life.’
‘Blimey…’ Sally shook her head. ‘It’s bloomin’ tragic.’
Bloomin’ tragic – yes, that’s exactly what it was. And I wasn’t at all sure I’d be able to cope with it. Not now – not for the rest of my life without him.
Debbie frowned. ‘And he loved you?’
‘So he said.’
‘And yet he still loved – loves – this Renza?’ Sally squinted against the sun.
‘Yes, he said that too.’
‘Well, that’s just plain wrong,’ Debbie asserted. ‘He’s got it made, hasn’t he? You’re both in love with him and he’s making the most of it by being with the one who’s handiest at the time. Bet he doesn’t really love either of you. He’s just messing you both about. I know he’s gorgeous and all that, but I’d forget all about him if I were you. Plenty more fish in the sea.’
I winced. Ok, maybe there were, I thought, staring up at the cornflower blue sky. Maybe somewhere out there was a boy who might just take Scott’s place in my heart… maybe one day I’d meet someone else who would love me and make me fall madly, giddily, insanely head-over-heels in love with them too…
But I doubted it.
I scrambled to my feet. ‘Come on. Lunchtime’s over. Let’s get back to the joyous world of subsistence claims.’
Stella’s Diary
April 3rd 1969 – Maundy Thursday
How life can change in just a few short days!
Coming home from work at mid-day – it was still scorchingly hot, more like July than April – I plodded slowly from the bus towards our house, carrying a massive box of Swiss chocolates – the traditional Easter gift to everyone in the office from our Higher Executive Officer, Mr Williams – wondering how on earth I was going to get through the next few days of not only missing Scott to the point of insanity, but also the enforced holiday.
At least at work there was the mundane routine and office chat to while away the hours. Now there’d be nothing but being alone to torment myself about Scott all over Easter.
Good Friday was always pretty awful anyway: apart from the early morning queue at the baker’s to buy the hot-cross-buns, and then a further queue in the middle of the day for fish from the chip shop, no one ventured out, and everything, everywhere, was closed. It was a long dreary day of quiet reflection.
Easter Saturday was a bit more normal and the only day of the four when the shops opened, and Vix and I and the rest of the gang always went into Oxford; then on Easter Sunday Mum and I went to church and then Dad joined us for dinner and tea at my Nan’s; and Easter Monday was the village fete which anyone with any sense avoided like the plague.
Oh, joy…
Mum was sitting in the back garden in an ancient deck chair under the apple trees, surrounded by the dogs and cats all sprawled out in the dappled shade, and she jumped to her feet when I walked miserably down the path.
‘Thank goodness you’re home, I’ve got some ginger beer on the go,’ she said, smiling broadly. ‘I thought we could have it out here as it’s so hot and… ooh, chocolates!’
‘Have them.’ I handed her the ornate box. ‘They’re probably already melting and I don’t feel much like chocolates at the moment.’
‘Oooh, thanks, and I’ll save you some, promise,’ Mum smiled kindly. ‘You might feel differently later… shall I get the ginger beer?’
‘Please. That’d be lovely.’ My mum’s home-made ginger beer was legendary. She had a ginger beer plant continuously fermenting in the larder and single-handedly supplied the village. ‘I’ll just go and get changed.’
‘OK,’ Mum stopped smiling and looked a bit put out. ‘But don’t be long. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
Oh, please, I thought as I trudged upstairs to put on my faded Levis and a T-shirt, don’t let her have cooked me something. Eating was the last thing I wanted to do..
By the time I got back to the garden, Mum had pulled out our rickety wicker-work table and another deck chair for me. The massive jug of cloudy ginger beer, jingling with ice-cubes, and two glasses stood on the table – and mercifully there was no food.
‘Sit down,’ she indicated the chair. ‘Go on, Stell. Sit.’
I sat.
She poured out a glass of ginger beer and pushed it towards me, then she scrabbled in the pocket of her apron and handed me a postcard. A picture postcard. Of a very beautiful foreign-looking chalet covered in tumbling purple flowers. Addressed to me in oh-so-familiar spiky writing. With a German stamp. Postmarked Kaiserslautern.
‘There you go, my love,’ she beamed at me. ‘Happy Easter.’
I knew she’d already read it – it was a postcard after all – and it didn’t matte
r. Nothing mattered.
He said he really missed me. He said things were going ok but that the club they played in wasn’t the best place they’d ever been, and he couldn’t wait to leave and see me again. He asked me to write to him asap – and gave me the hotel address – and that he had a suggestion for us meeting up in the summer. He ended with love and kisses.
I hugged the postcard, hugged Mum, couldn’t wipe the smile from my face and ignoring the heat and the ginger beer, grabbed my purse and my shoulder bag and headed into the village.
I bought a pale pink airmail writing pad and envelopes from WH Smith. I didn’t even wonder if Renza had watched him write the postcard. I didn’t even care that she may wonder about the pale pink airmail letter that would arrive for him as soon as I could get it there. I didn’t wonder about Renza at all. In fact, I realised as I got home, sitting in the garden under the apple trees with Radio One playing softly, and writing to Scott, that I honestly didn’t care about sharing him. It was far, far better than never seeing him again. I could only hope that Renza felt the same.
As I’d done before, I was careful to make the letter funny and fairly non-committal. Something a good friend and fan club secretary would write to a member of the band. Just in case Renza read his mail. Yes, OK, I cared that much – I didn’t want to hurt her. After the Mike and Bernice episode, I’d never do that to anyone else – especially not to someone as young and in love as Renza clearly was.
I drew little pictures in the margins and managed to stick some of the pretty and quirky wrappers from my Easter Swiss chocolates on as well, which proved a bit tricky on the flimsy paper. Then, still playing it very cool although I actually wanted to pour out my heart, I finished with a bit about being intrigued about meeting up for the summer, hoped the rest of the group were well, and couldn’t wait to hear from him again. I too ended with – rather reckless under the circumstances – love and kisses.
Only One Woman Page 33
