A Wild Affair

by Charlotte Lamb

'I suppose all the seats were sold,' she said, and Carmen gave her a dry smile.

  'Of course, but that isn't the reason—your face would be recognised by Joe's fans and you'd be mobbed. I wouldn't put it past some of the more violent ones to take the chance to scratch your eyes out.'

  'Is that why I had to wear dark glasses?' Quincy asked, frowning, and Carmen nodded. She had smuggled Quincy into the hall through a back entrance, but even so they had had to run the gauntlet of a squealing, pushing mob of teenagers and the driver who had brought them had used strong-arm tactics to force a passage for them, flinging back girls out of their path with ruthless disregard for courtesy.

  Joe was already there, behind locked doors, in his dressing-room, resting in privacy until the moment when he would have to walk out on stage. Carmen took Quincy through a maze of dark, narrow passages to a cupboard-like room and left her there with a pile of paperbacks and magazines and a radio. 'Amuse yourself, we'll let you know if we need you,' she said as though talking to a child, and Quincy made a face at her departing back.

  The hours seemed to drag after that. Quincy skimmed through a book, listening to music on the radio, but her mind refused to stay on what she was reading, it kept wandering and she was annoyed by the direction it always seemed to take. However oblique and indirect her path, her mind always managed to finish up with thoughts of Joe Aldonez. She despised herself.

  Carmen came back with Billy Griffith, who was as abstracted as ever. He never seemed quite certain who she was, but he shook hands and told her he hoped she would enjoy the concert.

  'Just stay out of everyone's way,' Carmen commanded. 'Stand where you're put and don't budge.'

  'Yes,' said Quincy, mentally grimacing at the schoolmarm tone.

  They took her along another set of winding, gloomy passages and she emerged on the huge stage to find herself being totally deafened by a sound like nothing she had ever heard—crashing tides of voices fell on her from all directions. She was just behind a heavy dark curtain, and a thin man in shirt-sleeves and wearing a hectic expression drew a chalk mark on the bare boards for her to stand on, reminding her to stay on it. 'Don't move an inch!' he implored, as Carmen had done, then rushed off without another word.

  'This is the warm-up group,' Carmen told her. On stage, in the spotlights, a group was performing. Quincy could get a distorted view of the stage through the curtains, the young men in the group in profile, the loud thud of their beat making the floorboards tremble. She could see the vast audience in the hall, tier upon tier of faces glimmering in shadow, the brightness of their eyes like glowworms at night, and she could sense the electric excitement burning in them as they waited for their idol. It came over in waves to her, a tension distinctly sexual, as though they communicated it to each other and intensified their own emotions en masse until they took form almost visibly, so that Quincy felt the audience was one pulsating creature.

  'Joe will be coming out soon,' said Carmen. 'I have things to do, I'll be back. Stay right there, remember.'

  She vanished, and Quincy was not sorry to see her go. As she stood there, hidden, listening, she felt her own excitement mounting with that of the audience.

  She was so tense her skin was ice-cold and her hands were stiffly curled at her sides, their palms wet with perspiration.

  The microphone was taken by a compere, when the group had left the stage. A smiling man in a blue velvet jacket, he began giving Joe his big build-up, his words punctuated by screams from the audience. Quincy felt herself becoming just as excited and looked around behind stage, wondering where Joe was and how soon he would appear.

  Suddenly the huge building was vibrating with hoarse yells, tidal waves of sound. Joe was walking out into the dazzle of light on stage. Hysteria broke loose and a forest of arms rose to greet him, waving as girls leapt up and down, beside themselves in their ecstatic delight.

  The large orchestra began to play, a line of backing singers at the microphones quite close to Quincy began humming, then Joe's smoky, sexy voice took up the song and the hysteria died down a little as the audience sank into their seats to hear him.

  For Quincy that concert was a revelation of the reality of Joe's life—he had such personal impact, such power and strength, yet as she stood there, watching him alone in that blue-white spotlight, facing the vast cavernous blackness of an audience so large that she couldn't guess how many were out there, he seemed suddenly small, very human, very lonely. The hypnotic sound of his voice only just held the audience hysteria in check and between songs their wild shrieks battered his isolated figure like primitive winds. Quincy felt the need in the audience reaching out to engulf Joe and almost shrank from it herself. No wonder he seemed drained after a concert, no wonder he had fled after the last one, exhausted and depleted, every ounce of his formidable energy taken from him.

  At some stage during the evening, Carmen joined her again for a few minutes. She was flushed and elated, looking quite unlike her usual self, Joe's electric performance having got to her, too.

  'Isn't he sensational?' she said, forgetting her usual cynical cool self. 'They're eating him!'

  Quincy shuddered at the image—yes, she thought, how lethally accurate that is—the audience was eating Joe, devouring him like some pulsating leech draining his life-blood.

  As the concert went on their excitement mounted to an incredible high, the waves of sound from them filling the great hall until Quincy was deafened, stunned by the noise. She could see the sweat dewing Joe's brown skin, the dampness of his silk shirt, the way the material clung to his perspiring body as he went on giving out with everything- he had, the high voltage of his performance making the air crackle around him.

  It was a long time before that audience was prepared to let him go, he kept going off and coming back on again to do 'just one more' and from his performance you wouldn't suspect how tired he must be, he had been lifted by the audience, carried by their excitement to a succession of peaks.

  When he went off for the last time Quincy stood listening to the shrieks and stamps until at last the audience began to leave, shepherded out by the uniformed security men who had kept guard on the stage during the show to stop fans from invading it.

  She ran into Carmen and Billy Griffith with a group of other people a moment later, and was drawn along with them to Joe's dressing-room. He had had a shower and was wrapped in a black towelling robe, his long legs bare, the dark hair on them damp as was the thick black hair on his head. His eyes were deep exhausted wells, but he was still very high after the concert, laughing with friends, talking to people, a glass of whisky in his hand.

  Quincy slid into a quiet corner, hemmed in by strangers, out of Joe's sight. She was tired, too, and kept yawning. She wanted to go home and get some sleep, but she had to wait until Carmen could get her out of the building safely. The fans were jammed around the hall, guarding every exit, the animal roar of their presence reaching the dressing-room.

  She leaned her head against the wall, listening to the talk. The room was overcrowded and short of oxygen, far too warm. She got sleepier and sleepier, her lids drooped and her body slackened.

  Inside her sleep-heavy mind Joe performed again: moving like a dark fantasy in a glittering spotlight, trapped in a dream.

  'Quincy! Wake up!'

  His voice seemed part of the dream, she did not break out of her sleep, only smiled faintly, until his fingers brushed along her warm cheek, awakening the pulses slumbering in her body.

  Her nerves jerked, her lids rose, she drew a painful breath as she looked up into the watchful eyes.

  The dressing-room was empty. They were alone and Joe was very pale under his tan, shadows beneath his eyes, a weary expression dominating his face.

  'Where is everyone?' Quincy asked huskily, sitting upright and feeling the sting of pins and needles in her feet as she shifted them after the hour or so she had sat still there, deeply asleep.

  'All gone,' Joe muttered on a half-groan of relief. 'Carmen will
be back in a minute to smuggle you out. You won't be frightened, will you? The crowd is still out there, but you'll be okay.'

  'What about you?'

  'I'll hang on here for a while—most of them will go after a while.' He was talking slowly as if each word cost an effort from his tired brain.

  Carmen came into the room. 'Ready?' she asked. Her face was pale now, and irritated, weariness hanging over her, too, and, when Quincy did not move immediately, she snapped: 'Well, come on, for heaven's sake! I haven't got all night!'

  Quincy got up and Joe's hand briefly touched her fingers, the tiny contact making a spark leap between them, a flash of reassurance which she took with her during the frightening minutes while she and Carmen fought their way through the crush outside. Quincy had been disguised with dark glasses and a headscarf, but she was petrified by the noise and the sheer density of the crowd which pushed and struggled around the building. Policemen forced a way through to a car for them, they climbed in and drove away slowly until they were clear of the hall and fed into the London traffic going back towards the river.

  'It's terrifying,' Quincy muttered, huddled into a corner of the back seat.

  'You get used to it,' Carmen shrugged indifferently, but Quincy knew she never would—she marvelled to think of Joe facing scenes like this everywhere he went in the world. It must need great courage to walk out on to that stage each time. Having been through it with him tonight she could sympathise far more with his own need for some comforting contact afterwards, understanding fully what had made him come to her that night, in Lilli's flat. He had just done a series of concerts, he must have been totally flat, used up, half dead.

  Lilli was in bed when she got back to the flat. She let herself in and went to bed, too. Nightmares kept waking her up—always the same, the crowded hall, the terrifying screams, the reaching, imploring hands from the dark. Each time she lay, trembling, in the darkness of the small bedroom, listening to her sister's rhythmic breathing, envying Lilli her ability to relax like that. How did Joe sleep after a performance? How long could he keep up tours like this one? He surely couldn't enjoy it?

  She slept late next morning and found Lilli gone and the flat empty, for which she was rather thankful. She did not have the energy to talk to anyone this morning, she thought, sitting over her morning coffee in the silent room.

  It was her last day in London—tonight she would be having dinner with Joe, followed by dancing at a small but exclusive night club, and tomorrow she was going home.

  Perhaps it was because she was still tired after last night that she felt so depressed—ever since she came to London she had been wishing she was back home, yet this morning the prospect of returning did not make her want to dance and sing, it made her feel as though her heart was made of lead.

  When the doorbell went she started violently, putting a hand to her head as it began to thud. Slowly she dragged herself to the door and opened it. Her spirits were not exactly lifted by finding her visitor was Carmen Lister, wearing a very chic dark grey two-piece suit of smooth woollen material under which a white lace blouse showed. Giving her a brisk smile, Carmen advanced, talking as she came. Quincy could see she was in a businesslike mood and that it would be a mistake to argue with any of the plans Carmen had made.

  'Now, we have a lot to do today to get you ready for the evening. Beauty parlour again—hair, face, manicure. I'll come over an hour before Joe is to pick you up to make sure you're looking good. We'll be taking photographs throughout the evening.' She paused, eyeing Quincy impatiently. 'Well, aren't you ready? Come on, I haven't got all day, you know, you seem to have no sense of time at all.'

  Dragged at Carmen's chariot wheels, Quincy was carried across London to the beauty parlour, left in the capable hands of the young man who had taken charge of her the first time, and after several hours was collected again by Carmen. At any other time, Quincy would have been able to enjoy the fun of it all, but she found it hard to enjoy the experience under Carmen Lister's contemptuous, dismissive eyes. Carmen made it too clear that she was trying hard to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

  The dress she was to wear that evening had been chosen by Carmen, and Quincy herself would never have thought of wearing anything so revealing or so daring. When she was dressed she stared at herself in the mirror, pink to her hairline. She could not go out like that! She felt half naked. Lilli wandered into the room and halted, whistling.

  'Wow!'

  Quincy gave her an anguished look. 'I can't wear it, Lilli! I feel so conspicuous!'

  'Exposed would be a better word,' Lilli said, and laughed. Quincy did not think that was funny—it was too close to the truth.

  The dress was made of a clinging white crepe and was seamless, one huge swathe of material which had been designed to flow over the body like a second skin. Her shoulders were quite bare, the bodice beginning with a fold of black and gold gauze around her breasts, skimming the smooth lift of her flesh just above the nipples, a matching belt of plaited black and gold around her waist, from which the white gown fell softly to her feet.

  Quincy did not know herself as she gazed at her own reflection. The dress seemed to give her a height she had never seemed to have—the delicate, stiltlike black and gold plaited leather sandals she wore increased the impression. Her chestnut hair had been set in soft feathery layers which clung to her skull, emphasising the fine bone-structure of her flushed face, and her green eyes glittered between thick black lashes. Tonight Quincy looked tall and slender, elegant, very sophisticated.

  'Stop worrying,' Lilli scolded, shaking her head with amused affection. 'You look terrific—what a marvellous dress! I couldn't believe my eyes when I came in just now—you're a real knock-out, you'll cause a sensation.'

  'I don't want to cause a sensation!' wailed Quincy.

  'Don't be an idiot! All you have to do is put your chin up, look as cool as a cucumber, and if you haven't got the self-confidence of a duchess tell yourself you have and you'll sail through the evening.'

  'You're used to being stared at,' Quincy said gloomily. 'I'm not.'

  'You can get used to anything,' her sister told her. 'Where's Joe Aldonez taking you, anyway?'

  'The Ritz,' said Quincy, and Lilli whistled again, her face full of intrigued amusement.

  'I wish I was going to be there to see it.'

  'You'll probably see the photographs,' Quincy said, her mouth turning down at the edges. 'Carmen Lister and her photographer are coming everywhere with us, it seems.'

  'How romantic,' Lilli said drily. 'Hardly a candlelit dinner for two, then, is it? More like a circus.'

  'Why do you think I'm not looking forward to it? I shall feel like a clown.'

  'You certainly don't look like one,' Lilli assured her. 'Quincy, believe me, you look fantastic.'

  The doorbell rang and Quincy stiffened, biting her lip. 'That will be them.' Her hands curled at her sides, her nails digging into the soft skin of her palms as she grimly considered her reflection in the mirror. How would Joe look at her?

  'I'll go,' said Lilli, paused, came back and gave her a quick kiss. 'Remember, you look beautiful.'

  'Thanks, Lilli,' Quincy said gratefully. She needed all the confidence-boosts she could get tonight. Lilli walked out and the door opened, followed by Carmen's high clipped tones. Quincy turned slowly and reluctantly to leave the room. She found herself face to face with Joe as she came out of the door. He was frowning as she appeared, but the frown vanished and his face tightened as he looked at her. Quincy could not read his expression. He looked at her with a blankness which defeated her attempt to guess at his reaction.

  'There you are!' said Carmen. 'Give her the flowers, Joe.'

  Joe's hand came out holding a small cellophane-wrapped box. Quincy automatically took it and the flashlight of the photographer exploded in her face, blinding her. When she could see again she looked at the spray of flowers inside the box, forcing a smile.

  'How pretty!'

  'Take t
hem out,' Carmen commanded. 'Joe, pin them on her, would you? That would make a nice shot.'

  Quincy's fingers fumbled helplessly with the lid of the box. Joe leaned forward and removed it for her, scooped out the spray of pink orchids, and, holding them, moved closer. Quincy looked down, her lashes drooping against her hot cheek, as his fingers took a fold of her gown so that he could pin the flowers to it. She stood frozen in intense awareness as his cool fingers brushed the warm flesh of her half-exposed breasts. He was standing so close to her that their bodies almost touched, she heard his breathing above the ragged sound of her own. The photographer took pictures, moving around them. Through her lashes Quincy took in the elegance of Joe's evening clothes; his wide shoulders smoothly filling a beautifully tailored jacket, his long legs moulded by the matching trousers. His shirt was white, a ruffle of fine lace tumbling down the front of it, which gave him something of an eighteenth-century look, and which emphasised the brown, sun-tanned skin and the jet of his eyes.

  'The car's waiting outside,' Carmen reminded them as Joe stepped back, having adjusted the flowers to his satisfaction.

  'Have a good time,' said Lilli with a certain sarcasm in her voice, and Quincy gave her sister a drowning, pleading look.

  Joe intercepted it, his brows meeting. As they left he let Carmen and the photographer go on ahead and slowed his own stride, murmuring to Quincy: 'What's wrong? Nervous?'

  She gave him a quick look. 'Scared stiff—do we have to have that photographer hanging around all evening?'

  Joe frowned again. 'I'll speak to Carmen,' he said as they came out into the street.

  A silvery-blue limousine stood in the yellow lamplight and a chauffeur in a peaked cap and dark uniform saluted as he opened the passenger door for them. Quincy was helped into the back by Joe amid further flashlit excitement, the photographer darted around the car clicking away like a computer.

  They drove through streets shining with a sudden spring rain, the windows of the limousine spattered briefly before the rain stopped, the tyres hissing as they moved over the wet road surface. When they climbed out in front of the Ritz, Quincy's eyes skipped down Piccadilly, which was ablaze with lights, faintly blurred by the recent rain, the street lamps glimmering along the edges of the park which was plunged into darkness, the trees whispering in the wind. Joe took her arm, his fingers warm, and guided her into the hotel entrance.