The two women embraced in the center of the room, under the gawking eyes of those who knew they were witnessing a newsworthy reunion. Madeleine stepped back, still holding Ann’s arms, and examined her old friend minutely.
“Good God, girl. I never thought I’d see you again. What are you doing in L.A.? And you look so good. I thought I was the only old hag who could hold a light to these modern day groupies.”
“Well, we’ve still got the legs, dear,” said Ann, laughing at the ease and familiarity of sharing a time joke with someone who really knew her. “And if you seriously expect an answer to your question, it’s another question. You free for dinner?”
“Yes, I am,” laughed Madeleine, now turning her attention politely to Craig, standing there patiently, and blatantly impressed.
“And this is Craig Portman. Craig, Madeleine Raleigh, legend and survivor of the sixties revolution.” She grinned mischievously at Madeleine, Reggie now behind her, politely hovering with a laminated pass in his hand, wanting to take her into the A room. “Craig is New Hollywood.”
“Don’t worry, Reggie. I’ll have a drink here first. Tell Swindon I’d love to see him, though. You remember Ann Mayberry, friend of Swinny’s.” Madeleine winked at Ann, letting her know that she’d observed the stick-on pass Ann had fiercely slapped on her jacket.
“Yes, I do,” said Reggie, shaking Ann’s extended hand.
“Hello, Redge. Lovely to see you again. You’re doing a wonderful job here. How is he? The boy genius.”
“Better than ever. You’ll see.”
“Can’t wait for the show. Say hi from me.”
Reggie nodded, quickly found Madeleine some wine and headed off to report to headquarters.
“It’s great to meet you, Madeleine. And I insist on taking you both to dinner at Le Dome. I have a reservation,” said Craig, in the manner born to a climber who knew how to stay in the right niche once he’d found it. Madeleine and Ann mutually agreed by exchanging lifted eyebrows in subtle communication.
“Alright, that’d be very lovely. Thank you, Craig. As long as you don’t mind being bored to death with an evening of nostalgia and very dirty stories,” said Madeleine. “Then you can tell me what you did with the Old Hollywood. They never liked me. And by the way, that revolution. We lost.”
***
All eyes shifted to the perception of action from a far corner of the tent. It was Swindon emerging from the inner room behind a guarded flap. He was flanked by three busy eye-swiveling minders, but he managed to spot Madeleine and Ann, clearly his mission, and created his own path through the gushing peasants, his laser beam of fame cutting a swathe as he wagged his precious arms vivaciously towards them both.
The rock idol jutted his famous head by way of greeting them, without a word, just gestures of camp delight, a life-long performer, playing out his intimacy with the women. He planted kisses on Madeleine’s cheeks first.
“Darling old Swinny,” she smiled. “I’m really happy you invited me, honestly, but how the hell did you know I was in town? I barely knew myself.”
“Bloody good press agent, dear,” he said to Madeleine, while pecking Ann’s cheeks. “He knows all the tricks and don’t think he doesn’t overcharge me for it, either.”
“Oh, shut up about your wallet, Swindon. I think you keep your brain in it,” laughed Ann, giving him a little pinch on the thigh.
The star giggled like a fan, enjoying the rare luxury of being chided by someone who loved him but wasn’t intimidated by his power.
“And you’re still a bitch. So who are you two having it off with these days? Anyone we know? Not this young man, I presume?” Swindon threw a horny wink in Craig’s direction.
“No and no, Swindon. This is Craig Portman. You’ll be able to make a movie deal with him one of these days, so remember the name. He’s far too ambitious to be having it off with the likes of me. As for Madeleine, we only just met up again in this room. Ask her.”
“Yes, what’s your story, Maddy?” chuckled Swindon. “If you can trim it down to two minutes. Ann, I know you’re writing for some independent rag, political as you ever were, no doubt?”
“Not really, darling, I just write my acerbic opinions about what’s wrong with mainstream entertainment. It’s a stunningly full time job, which makes me still something of an anarchist, I suppose.”
“And I, dear Swindon, am about to launch a new CD of cynical songs for middle aged broads who’ve been dreading the arrival of 1984. It seemed easier than writing a book. I’ll send it to you. If you listen to the lyrics you can pretty much catch up with my entire life since I stopped being Pete Stebbings’ dolly bird of the year. Even penned one about our beautiful daughter.”
“Daughter? I didn’t know you had a kid together.”
“No one does, it was the smartest thing I did, making sure of that. I protected her and made it easy for him at the same time. I was playing into his skinflint hands but it was more important that a little girl didn’t grow up unloved and confused. I told him when she turned twelve. Now she gets expensive gifts. Frankly I prefer it this way.”
“Sounds like a cynical song to me, sister,” said Swindon, looking genuinely sympathetic and reaching out to hug Madeleine. “And after all you’ve been through, you really don’t look like a tough old bird at all,” he said, rocking her in his arms. Then he almost shoved her away, clicked his fingers for the waiter to bring over more wine, and chucked her tenderly under the chin.
“Now don’t go feeling sorry for yourself. You and ’er,” he said, cocking his head over to Ann with a lopsided grin. “You and Miss Ann here had the two prettiest boys of the entire century. I could never score either of them.”
He grinned back at them over his shoulder as he sailed off into the waves of worship, shorter than everybody, but king of the room.
CHAPTER 4
Le Dome Restaurant, Los Angeles
Ironically they got a better table, in the back room, because the Maitre d’ knew Ann, not on account of Craig’s reservation. In fact, Henri merely gave Craig a lofty glance. He just beamed at Ann, touching her arm possessively as he guided her proudly past all the other diners, knowing they had spotted Madeleine Raleigh, something of a rock and roll Greta Garbo to the cognoscenti, who were well represented here tonight.
It was a buoyant occasion, with someone from each table in the small room knowing Ann and recognizing Madeleine, with a wave or a greeting. Others were peers of Craig, development types and hot young agents, so the table repartee was barbed and humorous. Food took second place as Ann noticed how many times short-term absentee diners came back from the bathroom together with that icy glow.
It surprised her that so many people were still doing cocaine. She really thought in her high-minded way that once she’d given it the bye-bye everybody else must have. Or should, judging by some of her old mates here tonight, where the cutting edge was showing a bit too close to the throat.
Most of them had been to see Swindon tonight, some in the private room with him. But Ann knew enough of the diners had seen Swindon hanging out with them at the Bowl, so she was quite pleased to relax and show off a bit. Instead of feeling regretful and ironic, it was easier to just enjoy being promoted back to her former popularity for the evening. It was a full hour or more before Ann and Madeleine could talk to each other.
***
“So what happened to that great career of yours, Ann? Last I heard you’d shipped out to L.A. with a bunch of glam stars under your arm.”
“Ah. Was it a career? I never intended it to be, just doing a great job for a good salary, enjoying life and every adventure I could say yes to. But that was in London, after my poor old hubby died and I discovered the glories of independence. In Hollywood, when I settled here, it was suddenly serious. Deadly. I used to wake up every morning, pre-dawn of course, with a feeling of deep dread in my solar plexus. Well, to cut it fairly short, I got lured into a studio production company just at the moment when I was ready to gi
ve up being an agent-nanny defender of my territory.” She drained her glass.
“The jungle was getting to me, not my kind of lifestyle at all. It was less a creative management kind of role and more like world war three, where I had to be constantly on alert to hold on to my successful clients, rather than just getting them great jobs, doing my all and having a life. And the clients couldn’t be trusted, they enjoyed being seduced by killer shark agents, and I got more anxious and insecure. I knew it was a loser’s game, on my own, without a big agency to bite back.”
“And did you do the studio thing?”
“Oh God, yes, it was worse. I hadn’t counted on the jealousy. Then through a power fluke I became a studio executive, and I could feel the loathing, more from inside the studio than outside. I was given a rare push up the ladder, and secret enemies were rampant, the toadies, attentive while you’re up and willing you to go down. I received all the champagne, flowers, invitations to just everything, and tried to do a good job. I’ve never read so much—book manuscripts in boxes, and scripts, piles of them all over the bed, everywhere.”
“Anything good?”
“Yes. We bought one, and it was mutilated into a piece of mediocrity. Don’t let me stay on the subject, it was one disaster after another. I’d never had the training for that kind of backstabbing. I made all the wrong moves, picked controversial or argumentative projects to back, got elbowed out of the good ones. It’s not self-pity, honestly, these were skilled professionals at the game. I was outspoken and naïve about the consequences, terrible combination. My hectic business days in London seemed by comparison like a duchess giving tea parties. But we got so much done then, we were still achievers. And our crowd made some miraculous films.”
“Yes, it was a bit late for you to change your personality, not counting the years of course, just your accumulated experience.”
“Well, both, I don’t mind. I was always older than the artists and younger than the executives. I felt it was time to honor my own self. Acknowledge the fact that there were surely other more rewarding things to do with my life than trying to compete with these kamikaze masters. I had no idea what, having been in the entertainment biz for so many years. When I reached my explosion point, after a couple of years in the studio, and that embarrassingly bad movie on my résumé, I felt like I’d been banished from my own garden.”
“What a horrible thought.”
“Yes, my show business playground was suddenly packed with obnoxious kids playing for power and perks. I had to force myself to leave a familiar life that I loved, just to get away from them, and wander off to some unknown wilderness.”
“Boy, I hope you’re writing all this down. So you quit?”
“One morning I’d been crying after my producer finished yelling at me—someone’s pulling my chain, he kept saying—I just got into my little AMC Pacer and drove off the lot for the last time. I felt like we were flying away, the relief and freedom were so immediate.”
“I heard you got fired,” said Craig, who had ingeniously drifted back to their conversation when his ears picked up a few key words.
“I’m sure you did. You heard it from the school of thought which advocates simple solutions like that. The rumor crowd. Someone said on TV that gossip is the official sport of the industry, and sex is the official hobby. No, I didn’t get fired, they didn’t have time and I didn’t have anything to get fired from, thanks to timid lawyers. I looked at the state of the nation and I abdicated.”
Madeleine turned to stare mockingly at Craig. “See? You’re meeting all the queens tonight.”
Ann’s face lost the strained look and creased up into merry laughter. She nudged Craig affectionately.
“We warned you what our table talk would be like. Now it’s her turn, so, Madeleine, while I was being so damn successful what were you doing and where?”
“Funny. I was thinking that your years at the top were no better than mine at the bottom. It’s all school, isn’t it? Some of mine is not fit for young ears,” laughed Madeleine, tweaking Craig’s nearest lobe. “It’s a lot about bad things like drugs, which are so trendy now it’s a joke. When I was a junkie I was automatically an outcast. Now junkies are in an all-star cast of tabloid drama for the masses. Fortunately I did it all after the baby was born, and thanks to my dear old mum, my daughter grew up without seeing me at my bloody worst.”
Madeleine yanked the bottle out of its bucket and filled Ann’s glass then hers. Craig declined.
“My short sad marriage to Sir Timothy, lost soul, gave my daughter a name, gave me some borrowed dignity while shopping, and sent me off into a deeper abyss than my tragic drug crash after breaking up with Pete. I also scribbled down every one of my desperate thoughts in the form of poetry, now song lyrics. Then the cruel treatment I handed out to myself brought my voice down to this weird something which seems to hit the right nerve with the kids. You’ll hear it all on my next CD. I should have called it Croaking the Wisdom. They’re starting to promote it now.”
“Yeah, it’s called ‘Yes She’s Still Here’. I heard the single on KCRW last week, I loved it,” said Craig. Far from irritation at being pushed around by these two women, Craig was showing an interest. It was that internal development boy instinct, Ann supposed.
“Ah, thank you. Good news. The title song’s the only one I borrowed, answering the question before it gets asked. Like, ‘Madeleine Raleigh! Didn’t she die?’ Corny but couldn’t resist it. All the other songs I wrote. I’m proud of them, truthfully. I’m entitled to a bit of self-patting on the back because I see it as a triumph over where I was for years and years.
“There was another husband in there somewhere, also dead now, and a few well-chosen lovers. Chosen for their ability to fail me. There were three small movies I made even smaller with my crushing presence, one of which you got me, and the last one I got kicked out of. I made a couple of concert comebacks after I got off drugs, but that required a lot of drinking, then of course it was back to the drugs in the wake of my embarrassing performances.”
“Yes, I saw you once. At the Hollywood Palace. You were wearing a very crumpled black pantsuit. No blouse. There was a large safety pin doing a bad job of concealing that excessive cleavage from your fans in the balcony.”
“Christ, yes, a vivid reminder. I can take it. When you’re a junkie you don’t have much time to think about clothes. Or anything really. Just how and when and how much you can score. It’s a full time job being on the shit. Recovery, more than ten years later, is a glorious thing. But I still like a few glasses of wine when the company’s good. I don’t drink on my own any more. I bought a Champion Juicer. I think I turned my skin quite orange from carrots at the beginning.”
“Takes dedication. I did the clean-out too. Let’s not talk about colonics.”
“Let’s not. Shouldn’t we be off to that club of yours?”
“Just about perfect timing,” said Ann, noticing that their host had already paid the check with his credit card. “You’re coming too, aren’t you, Craig? There’s plenty of people watching there. It’s a late night crowd.”
CHAPTER 5
Club Lingerie, Hollywood
Parking was a challenge but Ann had been club-hopping for a long time around L.A. so she knew a few tricks, and on the three-block walk to the club they were able to observe some intriguing sights as groups of young people strolled alongside them on their way to the small front door only faintly illuminated by a subtle curly overhead neon sign.
Madeleine and Craig stood by and watched Ann magically weave their way in, with a quick check and a nod at the front desk, jumping the line, greeting a few people around her, and ending with them all being firmly stamped on the back of the hand with a small purple emblem. She was not only a regular but press, so she had privilege, playing it with modesty and easy friendliness.
“Hi Rage,” said Ann to the tall cadaverous young man who controlled the door into the club. His face was a white powdery mask dramatized by
a column of coal black hair rising like a crown above the heavily made up eyes. He bent down to kiss her affectionately on the cheek, and she casually introduced her friends. “This is Madeleine, and Craig. Full house?”
“As ever. It’s the break before the main band comes on.”
When they walked into the club only Ann was casual about the sight before them. It was packed wall to wall with people, not one of whom looked at all ordinary. The look was definitely punk but with dozens of variations, the girls were very young, mostly wearing black, there were teenage Dracula widows, red lipped angels with Nazi insignia, one with an SS cap worn with a comic tilt, skinny orphan wraiths, plump beauties showing pearly white skin through skimpy black lace bodices, there was green hair, purple hair, bright yellow streaks, and not one copy cat.
Craig’s eyes had popped open to full extent and a leery smile was getting ever wider as he turned his head to take it all in. He was getting no reactions from his stares, only a sophisticated boredom, or an insolent stare-down. But amongst the crowd there was a vital and infectious camaraderie. It was as if this were home to the city’s drop-outs, abandoned waifs, pirates, punks and lost souls, the look was moody but the underlying feeling was happy and expectant.
The canned music was hot, comfortably loud, and growing anticipation spread through the crowd as a handful of black-dressed roadies prepared the small stage, set against a plain brick wall, with slow but pleasantly involved concentration.
“Man,” said Madeleine in Ann’s ear, with a big grin. “This place is loaded.”
“Yeah, quite an atmosphere, isn’t it? This is the club scene, L.A. style. It’s happening all over town. These kids have got it all worked out. They’ve invented themselves. Wait till you hear some of their names. See that girl over there with the cornrow do? That’s Tequila. Tequila Mockingbird. And if you look around you’ll see a nice-looking boy with really blue hair, he’s Reuben Blue. He makes a monthly magazine for the scene, called ‘Scratch’, stapled pages full of Xeroxed polaroid pictures of these characters, it’s fun. He chronicles every event, show, party, and it’s making stars of all these characters. Hollywood can get stuffed outside of this world.”
The Acid King Page 2
