Gimme More

by Liza Cody

  IV

  Dancing for Daddy

  Before he met me, Jack was managed by a man called Sasson Freel. Sasson and Jack went to the same school and Sasson got Jack’s first band its first ever gig at his sister’s birthday party. Sometimes it happens like that – a bunch of fifteen-year-old kids banging away in their dads’ garages or school music rooms become hot property. And the first kid to pass his driving test and acquire wheels can find himself with hot property on his hands.

  But not for long. As they say, rock’n’roll is here to pay, and where big money is involved amateur management is about as much use as shoes are to a mermaid.

  People say I came between Jack and Sasson. They say I was the greedy bitch who intercepted Jack on his way to stardom; that I attached myself to him, rendered him fuck-struck and pushed him towards fame and the highlife. They say that I was so impatient for Jack to become a gourmet meal ticket that I separated him from his old friends, corrupted him and introduced him to the professional sharks of the music biz. Oh what power I had.

  It simply isn’t true. Well, true and simple aren’t words which sit comfortably side by side, but apart from that – it didn’t happen that way.

  None the less, some things get said so often that even the participants in a story come to believe them. You wouldn’t think that either Jack or Sasson would accept alien versions of their own story, would you? But it was convenient to both of them for Jack to forget about his ambition and for Sasson to forget his incompetence. If they wanted to forget those critical facts they had to replace them with fiction. And why go to all the bother of inventing a fiction when fans and critics had already done the job for them?

  Well, who cares how it happened? The important thing was that I hadn’t spoken to Sasson in years. And now I am going to meet him for lunch at that Hyde Park Corner hotel which used to be a hospital. Not my choice of venue.

  As a matter of policy, I am always late for an important meeting, but judging just how late to be is a fine art. It’s easy with people like Barry because what you are demonstrating is indifference and contempt. With others, it’s a question of reminding them that you’re worth waiting for. Sometimes you do it to demonstrate how important and busy you are.

  What I wanted to show Sasson was not indifference for him, but indifference for time itself. I wanted to show him my arty side. He knows it exists because, at several steps removed, he pays me for it. He has recently become Managing Director of Dog Records. And, whatever he thinks of me personally, he also thinks that I’m capable of giving some of his baby bands, and their baby songs, a bit of spin and polish.

  To give him credit, when he was frozen out of Jack’s charmed circle, Sasson must’ve admitted to his own shortcoming. Because after wasting a few months ranting about ingratitude and betrayal he got a job with Wild Management and later became part of a consortium which set up an independent label. In other words, he learnt the business and understood that there was more to it than the blind luck of being at school with a major talent.

  He came to understand that the music business is business, not music. True, he made quite a nice chunk of change for a few musicians, but he made a fortune for himself. He became a serious player in a dirty game. How serious and how dirty? I’m beginning to find out, thanks to a small South London security firm with a good computer and an extensive network of contacts.

  Now that I can research Sasson Freel I’ve come to admire and despise him in equal measure. What I’ve found out makes me a little afraid of him.

  Working for a security firm would be a truly unprofitable use of my time if I didn’t have an agenda of my own. But I always do have an agenda of my own, and I don’t work for peanuts unless my employers can supply me with the facilities I need to make a bigger score. Cole-Adler provides me with research facilities. The score is information.

  There is a problem though: if you want, successfully, to pose as a good employee, a reliable office manager, a loyal wage-slave, you have to think like one. And after a while you begin to feel like one. Feeling like a good employee is death to the entrepreneurial soul. The fox, posing as a rabbit, feels like a rabbit. And, believe me, it’s dangerous to go to lunch with another fox if you happen to be feeling like a rabbit.

  I caught myself walking up Sloane Street, looking at expensive shop windows like an obedient office worker who has asked for and been granted time off. Obviously I wasn’t ready for Sasson.

  I turned into the Connaught Hotel to steady myself and adjust my mask. I was angry with myself. I used to be able to switch characters at the speed of light. It isn’t just your skin which loses elasticity as you get older.

  I followed two well-heeled American women into the cloakroom. There’s something reassuring about cloakrooms in big hotels: they’re designed to make you feel worth pampering. Even the tint and tilt of the mirrors give you a rosy view of yourself and your place in the world. You’re valued.

  I checked my reflection for weakness, spiritual flab and lumpy mascara. I found a hint of doubt in my eyes. Bad, very bad. I thought, I’ve been in this cold, cramped, soggy, snobby little country too long. I’m beginning to look as if I know my place.

  Behind me, the American women smoothed their non-iron garments and blotted their lipstick. I gathered that they were off to tour the public wing of Buckingham Palace, to trot through royal halls fast enough so that they could hit the stores afterwards and still manage tea at Brown’s. They wore energy and confidence like I wore L’Air du Temps.

  In the mirror my eyes seemed to flinch. I envied the Americans their certainty and I knew I couldn’t meet Sasson with docile eyes. I turned my back on myself.

  ‘Buckingham Palace?’ I say. ‘How lovely. Have you any connections there, or are you just doing the public tour?’

  The mark I pick is the taller of the two. She has honey beige hair to match her foundation. She stands securely on tennis player’s legs.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say. Very English. ‘I shouldn’t have butted in. But I was there only a few weeks ago – sublime, of course. I just wondered if you … But I shouldn’t have mentioned …’ I am playing with my own trepidation.

  ‘No, go on,’ the beige mark says. ‘I didn’t know there was anything but the public tour.’

  ‘Well, you have to make a special appointment,’ I say. ‘And it is quite expensive.’

  The other woman says, ‘I’m surprised my travel agent didn’t put me down for it. This is supposed to be a deluxe vacation.’ She is wearing sage green silk, a lot of gold and an avid expression. Whatever’s happening, this one won’t want to miss out.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ I say. ‘Perhaps another time. It’s a shame though – it’s nice, occasionally, to be able to do something not everyone gets to do.’

  ‘What should we ask for?’ the sage-and-gold woman says. ‘I mean, we’re going there anyway. We could get an upgrade.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I say regretfully. ‘You see, your guide would be a Royal Equerry.’

  ‘A Royal Equerry,’ breathes sage-and-gold, a sturdy, gleaming fish nibbling my bait.

  ‘So, you’ll understand that it isn’t simply a question of renegotiating at the box office.’ I return to the mirror and take a small gold powder compact from my bag. Delicately, I touch my face with the tiny puff. It is exact mimicry of what these American women were doing five minutes ago. I’m just like them except that I am English and, therefore, infinitely foreign.

  ‘In fact,’ I say, smiling through the mirror at my beige mark, ‘the box office doesn’t come into it at all.’ I give the words ‘box office’ a little extra flick so that the bait will fly out into deeper water. I’m wondering why I’ve picked the beige one as my mark. I did it instinctively. She is the taller, slimmer one, but it isn’t always true that physical characteristics are a clue to social status. However, we are all animals and animal judgments can prove to be useful.

  I smile at her again, humorous,
rueful. ‘Oh it’s all so boringly British. You can’t get a thing done in this country without introductions and connections.’

  She smiles back at me. She is making an inventory of her own. My accent, naturally, is impeccable and intimidating – it whispers ‘culture’. The venue, an expensive hotel cloakroom, is reassuring. She cannot place my clothes. But my hair has a shining insouciance which, she probably estimates, cost the earth. But am I sound? Would I pass muster at her club? She isn’t stupid, but she is in a foreign country, which can have the same effect.

  She comes to a decision. She extends a beautifully maintained hand and says, ‘Sylvie Glick.’

  Yes! I was right, beige is the social leader.

  ‘Diana Beresford,’ I reply, noting an unexpected pang at my impromptu choice of nom de guerre. Mr John Beresford was a name Jack used when he wanted to make anonymous travel plans or reservations.

  Margaret, the sage-and-gold one, comes directly to the point. ‘So,’ she says, ‘what do you get to see that other people don’t?’

  ‘It’s a suite of quite small rooms,’ I say. ‘I believe they were used most particularly by Edward VII for his more private assignations. The, er, family still occasionally employs them for the same purpose. But the art and antiques are exquisite.’

  ‘What do we have to do to get in?’ Margaret says. She is quite transparent: the tour of Buckingham Palace is already ruined for her. Behind the tapestries and security guards is another world that Joe Public does not have access to, and of course it’s more wonderful than what she’s been offered. This is the story of her life – what she already has, by its very nature, is not special. What she has is always spoiled by what she doesn’t have.

  ‘Well,’ she says, defending herself from Sylvie’s scolding glance, ‘she, I mean, Diana, she’s been there. She must know somebody.’ She turns her disappointed gaze on me and goes on, ‘Tomorrow we’re flying up to Scotland. The guys are crazy to play at St Andrews. A coupla days in London is all we’re getting. I might’ve guessed we’d be fobbed off, even though we paid top dollar.’ ‘What a shame,’ I sympathise.

  ‘So we really wanted these two days to be something to remember,’ Margaret goes on. A disappointed, middle-aged child.

  ‘We-ell,’ I say. I raise an eyebrow in the direction of the social leader. Her decision. Her responsibility.

  ‘We can’t ask you to put yourself out,’ she says, ‘but if you have a number we can call?’

  ‘I do have a number,’ I say. ‘It’s a personal contact. I could just enquire, if you like. But I should warn you, it’s expensive.’

  ‘How much?’ says Sylvie.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll enquire about that too. It’s unlikely to be less than a hundred pounds a head. If that’s too steep for you, please tell me now because I don’t want to waste my friend’s time.’

  ‘What’s that in dollars?’ asks Margaret.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I’m cool. No pressure. These women are hooked. I don’t have to go any further. I can meet Sasson feeling like a fox. This one, you see, was for laughs, for ego, a practice hit. It wasn’t for money.

  But sometimes, as in the past, my detachment acts as a come-on. And now I had two very hot-to-trot American women on my hands.

  We left the cloakroom and went to consult the husbands. Sylvie’s was a man who knew beyond any question that he was an Alpha male. Sylvie might be the queen of the women’s cloakroom, but he was king of everything else.

  The women make their pitch. I sit, nonchalant, on a fake regency sofa, uninvolved. I look at my watch. Time is passing. Sasson is ten minutes’ walk away. If I leave now I will be five minutes late. I watch Sylvie’s husband, and without warning I find myself imagining lying in bed with him, playing the whore for him in a way that Sylvie, with her tennis player’s legs, would find impossible. I can imagine his prudent passion, his puritan pornography. A few years ago I would have bet on myself to make him part with a Central Park apartment within a week. I stop the thought dead and look at my watch again.

  Sylvie’s husband is The Banker. All decisions depend on his indulgence. His. Money, time, all his to dole out or deny.

  Suddenly, I hate the prick. I get to my feet. I say, ‘Sorry, I should be on my way.’

  ‘Oh, Diana,’ Sylvie says, ‘I didn’t realise … But my husband says …’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, looking at my watch again. ‘No harm done. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but now I really must go. I hate to be late.’ I nail her husband with a smile of pure charm and regret.

  ‘Wait,’ says The Banker. ‘Can’t I persuade you to stay for a few minutes longer? Sylvie was just explaining the deal.’

  ‘There’s no deal,’ I say, taking offence. ‘You’ve misunderstood.’

  ‘I used the wrong word,’ he says smoothly. He detaches himself from his wife and isolates me a few steps away. A practised power move. ‘The girls are very keen on this palace tour thing and I hear that you know a Royal Equerry.’

  ‘Let me explain,’ I say. ‘It was just friendly chit-chat, and all I was offering was an exploratory phone call. Your wife is a very charming woman.’

  ‘It takes one to know one,’ he says, eyes warm and focused. ‘Would you like to use my phone?’

  ‘I’ll use my own,’ I say. And then, to punish him for the warm focused eyes, which probably worked on his secretary but which he should never have used on me within two paces of Sylvie, I add, ‘If I do get through, and if my friend is willing, would you be interested in the Private Portfolio?’ Always dress a punishment in a reward’s clothing. ‘Just the men,’ I say softly, and my smile is full of dare, amusement and complicity. I know you’re flirting, my smile says, but how far will you go?

  The words may not have registered, but the smile certainly has. ‘My god!’ he says. ‘They keep that sort of thing at the palace?’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ I say, with just the hint of a dimple.

  He laughs. Naughty boy.

  ‘It’s amazing.’ I let my lashes tremble. ‘Raphael, Leonardo, Rubens, Michelangelo. Well, Michelangelo you might expect, but Fra Angelico?’

  ‘Good grief,’ he says.

  ‘And hardly anyone has ever seen them. Only the cognoscenti even know they exist. It’ll cost a little extra, of course.’

  ‘Make the call,’ he says.

  I move off a few paces. I produce my phone book. I look up a number. I punch buttons. Reception is poor. I go to the hotel door. I have a two-minute conversation with my sister. The Banker hovers.

  ‘Well?’ he says, as I snap the phone back in my bag.

  ‘Well, you’re in luck,’ I say. ‘But can we solve the money problem? You can’t hand traveller’s cheques to a Royal Equerry. You can’t be seen paying him at all. It’s etiquette or protocol or something.’

  The Banker is good at solving money problems. And so am I. He can lay his hands on a lot of cash and I can relieve him of it. We both do what we’re good at. Dance for Daddy, little girl, and make him pay.

  My reflection in the window of Harvey Nick’s didn’t flinch at all so I dropped in and bought an extraordinary velvet jacket. A prize. The velvet was dark, dark green, crushed and antiqued. The soft fabric caught the light and glowed. It draped and floated. The design was so clever that you couldn’t tell whether it was brand-new or a rare art-deco hand-me-down. Exactly right for Sasson, and the best part of all – it was a present from The Banker. I saw it, I wanted it, The Banker bought it instantly. And now I was half an hour late for lunch, which, in the circumstances, seemed exactly right too.

  The walk into the hotel was a walk into parallel time. Walking beside me was baby Birdie, bleeding from a wound in my shoulder when one of Jack’s fans stabbed me with a pair of hairdresser’s scissors. Another Birdie was carried in – miscarried, actually, after Jack, wired beyond sanity, beat me up. Yes, Saint Jack could be hard to handle after a concert and so could his fans.

  It looked like a hotel, it
smelled and sounded like a hotel, but it will always be St George’s hospital to me. I even met Sasson here once, when Jack OD’d on goof-balls and Southern Comfort. Happy days!

  The Sasson I knew then and the Sasson I met today were also as different as hospital and hotel. Yesterday’s Sasson wore jeans and a sloppy sweater. He did the I Ching, bet on no-hopers in the Grand National, watched Grand Prix motor racing on TV with a tab of acid under his tongue and was always in love with some pretty girl or boy who had problems but never, ever wanted to go to bed with him. Yesterday’s Sasson was permanently eager and always disappointed. His hair was Spanish black, his eyebrows met in the middle and he would’ve died rather than wear a collar and tie. No suits for yesterday’s Sasson.

  Today’s Sasson was a suit. His tailor had constructed him. His eyebrows were plucked and the Spanish black hair was steel grey. Poor, rumpled, dark Sasson was gone.

  I said, ‘Remember visiting Jack here?’

  ‘Here?’ he said. ‘Birdie, you’re late. Whatever are you talking about?’ Even his voice had grown richer. His accent was now patrician.

  ‘EMI were sniffing around, waving a contract and I was totally panicked and rang you. You came running and we schemed all night about a food-poisoning story and how to get Jack up for the London Uni gig so that they’d never know. And then, after we’d spent all night in a state of advanced paranoia, Jack woke up, bright as a newborn chick, and we all went next door to the Pizza Express for American Hots.’

  ‘Good God,’ Sasson said. ‘I haven’t thought about that for years. Was that here? I remember the EMI deal fizzled out – which was probably just as well, in the long run.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ I sighed. ‘You remember the paper; I remember the pizza. No wonder you’re so prosperous and I’m so broke.’

  He scopes the jacket and smiles. ‘Word games, Birdie,’ he said. ‘You always were good at those.’ But his smile was smug. He’s up. I’m down. As far as he’s concerned the seesaw has come to rest in its proper position.