Gimme More

by Liza Cody

  ‘They’re mad,’ Grace said. ‘Auntie Lin pushing drugs? Why are they saying these things?’

  All Robin could do was shrug helplessly. ‘They’ve always said terrible things about her. I don’t know why.’

  ‘I bet there are whole chapters about it in feminist psych books,’ Grace said. ‘Punishing famous women or something like that. If there aren’t there should be. Maybe I’ll write one if I stick to psychology.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you stick to psychology?’ Robin asked anxiously. ‘Is it Alec? Is he telling you to give up your job?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mum. But women’s lives seem to go where the wind blows and it might be more fun to blow back to London. Maybe I’m tired of serious subjects. A job in film or TV …’

  ‘I thought you liked psychology.’

  ‘I did. I do. But at the moment all I’m doing is helping no-hopers. I’m like a junior social worker. You can’t expect me to stick with a career I’ve grown out of

  ‘Have you grown out of it?’ Robin asked quite tartly. ‘I’d have thought a little understanding of human behaviour might be pretty useful to you.’

  ‘It’s Alec, isn’t it? You’ve never liked him, have you?’

  ‘I never said that. But I do think he could’ve been more honest with us.’

  ‘Well he’s being honest now,’ Grace said, ‘and if that isn’t good enough for you we can both leave.’

  Why did everyone always leave her or threaten to leave? It seemed to be everyone’s ultimate weapon. And it worked. The thought of the people she loved dropping out of her life frightened Robin and made her obedient. It caused no end of trouble too. Even the threat of putting her crazy old mother in a home where Robin couldn’t keep an eye on her had driven her into an action which exasperated her husband. Me or your mother, he said. Choose. She couldn’t choose, and her husband left.

  She wanted everyone. She knew what it was like to live with a gaping hole in her heart where a loved someone had been, and she didn’t ever want to repeat the experience. Even if it means a lifetime of … of what? Servitude? The word ‘blackmail’ fell with a thud into the back of her mind.

  Without thinking she reached out her hand and plucked a white Venetian mask from the top of her chest of drawers. She held it in front of her face and said in hollow, theatrical tones, ‘Go, my child. If you have learned all I have to teach you, then go. A strong woman has no need of her mother. My work here is done. Go, and,’ she added, running out of invention, ‘may the force be with you.’

  ‘You’re a nutter, Mum,’ Grace said, laughing uncertainly.

  Robin tied the mask securely on to her head and opened the curtains. All at once, a man with a camera popped up from behind the hedge and took her picture.

  ‘Come away,’ Grace said. ‘They’ll think you’re Auntie Lin.’

  ‘Tough,’ Robin said. But she stood back from the window. She kept the mask on because she didn’t want Grace to see the beads of sweat on her lip or the fear in her eyes. Even joking she couldn’t tell Grace to leave without paying a heavy fine.

  ‘We’re going stir-crazy,’ Grace said. ‘When’s Alec going to come back with the bread? Where’s Auntie Lin?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Robin said. ‘She can’t phone ‘cos she knows I won’t answer and she won’t come here with all these idiots on the doorstep.’

  ‘Maybe she’s gone back to Devon.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Twenty-five years ago there had been islands and villas and yachts to escape to, Robin thought. Where were they now? She couldn’t imagine any of those rich stars, made respectable by longevity, swooping down like knights in shining armour to scoop Lin up and spirit her away this time. Not after this latest sleazy, seedy, slimy smear. Which no one was bothering to retract. Lin no longer looked the part, no longer looked like the child princess in distress. All the ageing knights and princes had grownup families and supermodel brides to support. This latest slur cast Lin as the wicked old witch. Princes don’t gallop up on white horses to rescue wicked old witches. Wicked old witches burn in their own ovens, Robin thought. Only the young and lovely are fit to be rescued. Even ageing princes knew that. Especially ageing princes. The old and the wicked must, perforce, rescue themselves, if they could. Or burn if they couldn’t.

  The smell of charcoal and smoke mixed with pot-pourri drove Robin out of her bedroom and up to the attic to work on a garment fashioned from a thousand pieces of silk remnants. Somewhere, she thought, there was still a square of the old rose-coloured scarf. She searched through her boxes.

  If I find it, shall I use it? she wondered. No. Or only if I make this into a dress for Lin. Lin’s scarf was Lin’s past. No one else deserved it. However much a private client was prepared to pay, Robin knew she couldn’t sew a remnant of Lin’s story into a garment which Lin wouldn’t wear.

  Bugger that, Robin thought. And bugger the rich private client. I’ll make this silk patchwork into a dress for Lin. I’ll clothe her in her own beautiful youth, in her fairy-tale past.

  Robin paused for a moment, picturing Lin swishing into a room wearing the riot of glowing colours. She nodded, and Lin smiled back at her. Yes.

  Swirling Lin morphed into spinning Jack, strutting in front of thousands of screaming fans in a coat of many colours. Robin made the coat for him and he wore it on his last tour. Perfectly cut to swing and shimmer under spotlights, to be seen from the back rows of theatres and stadia, to let his fair skin breathe in the heat and frenzy of performance – it was Robin’s best work. And like Jack it went up in flames twenty-five years ago. Gone.

  Time tangled itself in a knot and Robin sewed, pinned and cut till lunchtime. A shape was forming in her mind, a queenly shape, a garment to be worn with pride. It must have a high collar, she thought. Lin, you won’t hang your head in this frock, no way.

  Downstairs, in the kitchen, she found that Grace and Alec were making toast. Some of yesterday’s chicken soup was simmering on the stove.

  ‘Sit down, Mum,’ Grace said. ‘Alec wants to tell you something.’

  II

  Negative Energy

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘no, no, no.’ Oh I have power – the power of refusal. I can’t make stuff happen the way I want it to, but I can stop it happening.

  ‘Your forty-eight hours,’ Tina reminds me.

  ‘Not mine,’ I say. ‘Forty-eight hours was arbitrarily and unilaterally imposed by Nash.’

  ‘Haven’t you taken enough stick?’ she asks reasonably.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, equally reasonably.

  We’re sitting in her living room. Three of us. The curtains are closed. Outside, lurking, is a handful of reporters. Someone whose name we can only take a wild guess at knows I’m here and has leaked Tina’s address. She, in spite of her reasonable tone, is angry. George is worried. He sits in a deep armchair, his fingers playing nervous scales on his ample shirt front.

  ‘But if you talk to Nash,’ she says, ‘won’t he call the dogs off?’

  ‘He can try,’ I say. ‘But I think his understanding of dogs is incomplete. They’re harder to stop than to start. Please take my word on that one.’

  ‘Isn’t it worth a try?’

  ‘From your point of view it is, from mine it isn’t. I can solve your problem by finding somewhere else to stay – which I will do; this is no way to thank you for rescuing me from the police station.’

  ‘Stay with me,’ George says.

  I smile at him – he’s very sweet. ‘Thank you, but that’d only transfer this gig to another venue.’

  ‘I don’t think Fay would exactly rejoice,’ Tina says.

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ I agree, ‘and I’m not going to do it.’

  ‘Well, what are you going to do?’ she asks. ‘It seems to me that there are two ways to go: one is talk to Nash Zalisky, and the other is talk to the press.’

  ‘The third is leave the country,’ I say. ‘That’s what I usually do in these circumstances.’

  ‘You’ll lose
everything,’ George points out. ‘Plus you risk having that pornography released on the Internet or whatever Mr Z plans to do with it.’ He shifts uncomfortably. ‘I wish that damn lawyer would pull his finger out and get here.’

  That damn lawyer is someone he and Tina trust. Their inexperience is most obvious here. The lawyer is not a music-biz lawyer – he has that in his favour, but he has that against him too. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to Nash. Talk to the press. All reasonable suggestions – if you don’t know lawyers, Nash and the press like I do.

  I am tired. I drank too much Scotch last night hoping it would help me sleep. Fatigue and hangover are sitting between my ears like twin incubi, jabbing my brain and giving me visions of other times when it all went wrong. They winkle out the memories of loss and theft, of impotence and humiliation. They speak through my mouth and say ‘no’ to every suggestion. They have hidden all my chutzpah in their deep dark pockets.

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ I say, and I leave Tina and George to make their naïve suggestions to each other. I go to the kitchen pretending to be quiet efficient Ms Walker. She may be in a jam, she may be causing a jam, but she’s ever so helpful and she uses real beans. Her mask is perfect: she’s useful, tidy, organised. She expends her energy in the service of others. And she doesn’t cost much.

  Birdie grimaces behind Ms Walker’s tidy mask.

  The phone rings and is answered. A moment later, George comes through to the kitchen. He says, ‘It’s Mr Z. Tina’s talking to him.’

  I let him carry the tray and follow him.

  Tina shields the mouthpiece with her hand and says, ‘Mr Zalisky is summoning you to Badlands. He’s sending a car.’

  Tidy Ms Walker says nothing. She begins to pour the coffee.

  ‘Linnet?’ Tina says. ‘You don’t have to go alone. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘So will I,’ says George. ‘So will that damn lawyer when he bloody gets here.’

  ‘Mr Zalisky says that you’ll have all the protection you need from the media at Badlands.’

  Ms Walker hands George a cup. Black, no sugar. She knows what he likes. She places a cup on the table beside Tina. White, one sugar. She considers Mr Zalisky and his summons. She knows what he’d like, too.

  ‘Linnet?’

  I say, ‘Tell Nash thanks but no thanks. Tell him that Ms Walker will be making a statement to the press – the sort of statement which will have the media camping on his doorstep within half an hour of its release. And press helicopters flying over his house. Tell him especially about the helicopters and how noisy they are. If he can lie about me, I can lie about him. And I’m way more inventive than he is. Tell him further that I’ve put up with shit before and I can do it again. He isn’t hurting me, he’s just raising my price.’

  ‘But he is hurting you,’ George says.

  ‘As for his forty-eight-hour deadline,’ I say, smiling pleasantly at George, ‘here’s one of my own: tell Nash that unless he comes up with an acceptable offer within forty-eight hours I will call a press conference in Hyde Park, at the site of Jack’s last free concert, and I will explain the situation and then publicly burn all the materials, both audio and visual. If I can’t do one last honest deal for Jack the whole lot goes up in smoke. The symbolism will be very clear.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Linnet,’ Tina says. ‘You won’t do that.’

  ‘Try me,’ I say. ‘What have I got to lose? Money? If Nash has his way I’ll be robbed blind anyway. My reputation? I never had one. Tell Nash it’s cash or conflagration. His choice.’

  Tina looks at me as if I’m a child having a tantrum. Mature women negotiate reasonably. I walk away and go to the spare bedroom before she can talk me down. That was my message, Tina Cole. Deliver it.

  Ten minutes later they come to find me, and by that time my bag is packed. I say, ‘The usual procedure is a decoy car at the front door and a greengrocer’s van at the back – in the absence of which, I’ll call a cab. I’ll contact you at the office later.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Tina says. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

  ‘All right, but there isn’t much alternative. I know you think I’m being destructive and unreasonable, but this is an unreasonable situation. Mature, reasonable folk with mature, reasonable aspirations don’t succeed in rock’n’roll.’

  ‘So you put a gun to your own head and say, “If you don’t give me what I want I’ll pull the trigger”, is that it?’

  ‘Sounds pretty much like it,’ I say, and start to laugh. ‘What did Nash say?’

  ‘He said you were wilful and cutting off your nose to spite your face. Then he hung up on me.’ She thought about it for a moment and then said, ‘Wilful? I haven’t heard that one since I was about five years old. He really does think you’re a moron, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘he thinks I’m a hysterical greedy woman. Same thing maybe.’

  George says, ‘Did you mean any of what you said?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Then start with the press release,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing Mr Z take a dose of his own medicine.’

  ‘Right away, Mr Adler,’ I say, ‘as soon as I get settled. It’s top of the list.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Tina asks. ‘Look, I know I’m pissed off with the twats outside but I think you’d better stay. George won’t forgive me if I let you go.’

  The phone rings and she goes to answer it. George looks at me and says, ‘She’s right – I won’t. She isn’t asking you to leave, you know. I know you think you should but it isn’t necessary.’ He has a relieved, twinkly look in his eyes. I know that look. I’ve done something which pleases him. What is it?

  He says, ‘The thing about Tina is that she’s very concerned with fairness. Unfairness makes her angry. She isn’t angry with you.’

  Ah, that’s it. Efficient Ms Walker has behaved like a child throwing a wobbler, which you’d think was a great big turn-off. But in fact sweet George digs it. It allows him safely to hold my hand, protect me and explain the world to me. Essentially, it has allowed him to become parental in his relationship with me. He can act in the mask which suits him best – the Good Father’s mask. Yes, sweet Mr Adler is at his most comfortable as the Good Father.

  ‘Tell me about the tapes,’ he says. ‘Are they really so valuable?’

  ‘Yes. And no. They’re just songs taped on a little four-track. They were only meant to be guide tracks. But death and age have given them enormous value. There’s a mystique too. It’s all part of the unfairness. Why does one singer gather mystique and value and another drop out of sight? Why is fame and success splashed so liberally on a few and not on others? It’s neither fair to the famous nor to the forgotten. Value doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with quality. Jack’s tapes are extremely valuable because so many people want them.’

  ‘And for no other reason?’

  ‘They’re good songs,’ I say. ‘But that’s not what’s causing all the fuss, is it?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Fame and notoriety are causing all the fuss. What I want to know is how valuable are they to you?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ I think about it. ‘If your house was on fire, and all the people you loved were already safe, what would you rescue?’

  ‘Ah yes, that question,’ he says. ‘But you say you’ll destroy them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he says, ‘something’s coming back to me. In olden times, some parents would murder their own children rather than let them be taken into slavery. I don’t agree with it but you can see their point.’

  If you let a man answer his own question he will find an answer he understands. He may not understand you, but an answer is generally a satisfactory substitute for understanding.

  Fortunately Tina returns before the dear man’s answers become even more absurd. ‘Well, well, well,’ she says, ‘your lousy reputation’s working in your favour for a change. Mr Zalisky seems to think you’re capable of acts of vandalism and s
elf-destruction beyond my wildest dreams. What a way to do business!’

  ‘He believes her?’ George asked.

  ‘We-ell, maybe he thinks he can’t afford to disbelieve her. Linnet, what did you ever do to the man? He’s very, very weird about you.’

  ‘I went to the movies with him once a long time ago,’ I say. ‘But it isn’t me. He’s weird about Jack. It’s that old mystique again. Jack had it in truckloads.’

  ‘No,’ Tina says. ‘he’s weird about you. Why do I think he’s a pervert?’

  ‘A pervert?’ says Good Father George.

  ‘I want to send myself to the laundry after talking to him. Why?’

  I just smile and shake my head.

  ‘And how did he get to be so rich and powerful? He’s such a warty little shrimp.’

  ‘He does challenge evolutionary theory, doesn’t he?’ I say.

  ‘It really frightens me when two women discuss a man they don’t like,’ George says. ‘So would you mind sticking to the point. What did the warty little shrimp agree to?’

  Tina consults her phone pad. ‘Well, subject to Linnet’s approval, the suggestion is that we send our lawyer over to talk to his lawyer.’

  ‘Lawyers,’ I say. ‘He’s got them in football teams. We’ve got to discuss that.’

  III

  Q BIRDIE WALKER: As mad and bad as ever. Jack did what Jack did. Shit happens.’ Now the face that launched a thousand hits takes on Super Spider. Who’s your money on?

  Words: Ty Casparo

  Photographs: Roy O’Brien

  It is one of those soft late summer days and the overgrown garden behind the Chelsea Arts Club is suspended for a moment between sunshine and showers. Ms Walker sits on the terrace with a glass of wine in her hand treating the aging hipsters to a rare glimpse of Birdie unbuttoning.

  ‘Rule number one,’ wannabe music scribes were taught back in the bad old days, ‘Birdie walks, but she doesn’t talk.’ Those were the days when rockchicks were mad, bad and dangerous to know. So how’s she feeling today? Bad? Not so’s you’d notice. Dangerous? Well you might want to avoid those Ibiza-trash heels. Mad? Ah, now you’re talking! ‘Mad as hell,’ she steams.