I Must Confess

by Rupert Smith

  Phyllis was waiting for me when I got in. ‘Where have you been? Who have you been seeing? What’s happened to your hair? Where did you get those clothes? Why didn’t you call?’ It was an ugly scene, with Phyllis in tears begging me not to leave him; but finally he tired and I slipped off to my couch.

  I couldn’t sleep. For the first time since I’d arrived in London, I felt that I’d really arrived. Nick had invited me for dinner at the weekend, promising to introduce me to a group of friends, ‘all of them in the business’, who could do something for my career. I could hardly wait for Saturday to come.

  I was super-attentive to Phyllis for the rest of the week, only leaving home to buy food or take the old man for an airing around the block. I spruced up the house, cooked him nice meals, read to him and, of course, modelled for him. It was a pleasant few days – ‘Just as I’d always dreamed it would be, dear boy, if only you hadn’t gone and cut all your lovely hair off!’ Phyllis was happy, life was easy, and there was nothing to stop me from strolling out of the house on Saturday afternoon, leaving Phyllis contentedly dozing after a huge lunch and half a bottle of wine.

  I jumped on the underground and made my way straight to Holland Park, where Nick resided in a handsome mansion block, set well back from the noisy main roads on a pleasant garden square. He ushered me in and sat me down in one of the huge brown leather sofas that dominated the front room. All around me was evidence of Nick’s photographic sideline, boxes of prints, some of them even more artistic than those he’d shown me in the shop. ‘No time for browsing just now, young man,’ he said. ‘I want your undivided attention’ (he pronounced it the French way).

  ‘This is a very important evening for you. Do you understand? A very important evening.’ (As if I needed reminding!) ‘So no tantrums, no sulks, and definitely no rifling through the guests’ coat pockets while nobody’s looking. Do I make myself clear?’ I nodded. ‘There’s half a dozen very valued friends coming over tonight to have a look at you. I haven’t told them much, just that there’s a new project I’d like to interest them in. They’re investors, you see. People with capital and influence. People we most definitely do not want to piss off.’ Nick’s insults were just a way of showing affection.

  The plan was simple enough. The guests would arrive at seven to be served cocktails and food, Nick would tell them all about me and my talents, then I would be brought out, amid much fanfare, from a hiding place elsewhere in the flat. During the foregoing, I was to sit quietly and wait. Nick himself was going to ‘style’ me for the evening, ‘And I don’t want you looking a mess, so don’t fidget about.’

  And so I waited. Once Nick had dressed me, from the caleçon to the shine on my shoes, there was little for me to do but sit in his bedroom leafing through his extensive collection of art books. I could hear brief snatches of conversation, laughter, the sound of glasses and plates being laid out and taken away, but I was barred from the party. Once again I was the three-year-old child longing to join in with the grown-ups.

  But at last, well after ten o‘clock, my moment came. ‘We’re ready for you,’ said Nick, all businesslike as he made a few final adjustments to my hair and tie. ‘Now remember what I said. Don’t let me down.’ He stood back to survey his handiwork and looked pleased, if stern. ‘You’ll do very nicely indeed.’

  Nick preceded me into the drawing room and silenced his guests with a slight cough. ‘Messieurs,’ he began, ‘I’d like to introduce the young friend I mentioned this evening. Je vous présente . . . Mark.’ He opened wide the door and gestured me into the room. There was a sharp, collective intake of breath and then silence. Through the cigar smoke, through the glare of the lights that were shining in my eyes, I could vaguely make out a small crowd of faces, among them Brian, who winked and grinned when he caught my eye. ‘Walk up and down!’ hissed Nick in my ear, once the initial impression had registered. And so I paraded around the room as if I was on a Paris catwalk, stopping every so often to strike an attitude. The reaction was electrifying. Where there had been silence, there was suddenly a hubbub of voices. ‘Oh Nick! Oh la la! Oh, he’s divine! You’ve done it again! Where do you find them, you clever thing? Oh I can’t wait, I simply cannot wait to see the photographs!’

  And I couldn’t wait to see my photograph either – plastered across billboards 20 feet high in Leicester Square!

  The rest of the evening was a great success. As the guests settled down, I was introduced to each – charming, professional men, of a class I had never met before, easy in their manners, clearly used to money and to the best that money could buy. And they, in return, were enchanted by me. One or two of the older guests – older even than Phyllis – took the opportunity of Nick’s temporary absence from the room to offer me a luxury hotel for the evening or a trip to the countryside, ‘Just us for the weekend, don’t you see?’, before Nick unceremoniously cut in and hustled them out of the flat.

  When the last guest had gone, I expected – I don’t know – congratulations, kisses, a celebratory bottle of champagne or a pair of cufflinks. But not from Nick; he was never big with the gestures. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do,’ he said as I stood poised to accept his thanks. ‘No time to lose, no time to lose.’ Finally, after he’d dashed around the flat removing empty glasses and clearing ashtrays, he saw me standing forlorn in the doorway. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Get yourself a drink from the kitchen. Now let’s get down to business.’

  The ‘business’ that Nick had in mind was my first professional modelling assignment. Not allowing for the fact that I might be tired after such an arduous evening, Nick led me downstairs to ‘the studio’, a converted guest room in which he had erected a small ’throne’, a selection of backdrops and an impressive array of cameras, lights and tripods. ‘Hop up,’ he said, even curter than usual, and began fiddling with his equipment. With the flick of a switch, a row of arc lamps above my head came on, then a pair of blindingly bright lights ranged on stands on either side of me. With a ‘whoomph!’ Nick tested out his flash; I was blinded, and staggered a little on my platform. ‘You’ll have to get used to this,’ he said. ‘You’re going to spend a significant amount of your life in front of the camera.’ How right he was – and how little he really knew about my future!

  At first I felt strange, yet aroused. I loved the way Nick disappeared behind the lens, the way he jumped up to ‘pose’ me, handling me as if I were nothing more than a piece of animated sculpture. But I was stiff, awkward, uncertain. Gradually, however, my inhibitions slipped away. I grew to love the camera – and it’s been the one great love of my life ever since that strange night in Nick Nicholls’s shabby little studio.

  We shot many rolls of film – images that would become icons for a generation. No other pictures capture so perfectly the impatience, the arrogance of youth. There I stand in my new clothes, a faraway look in my eyes, a slight sneer around the mouth . . . I knew so little of the world, but expected so much. And while I relaxed in front of the camera, the effect on Nick was nothing short of a complete metamorphosis. The curt, rude manner was abandoned, and suddenly there emerged a warm, seductive personality, a flatterer who could get the very best out of his model. I forgot his strange appearance, his many unpleasantnesses – and, to tell you the truth, I actually began to find him attractive.

  We carried on taking pictures well into the night, and by the small hours of the morning I had given my all. Finally Nick switched off the lights. The spell was broken, and he was once again a prickly little man with a beard and a wig. I picked up my clothes from where they had been flung around the studio, folded them neatly and trotted off for the sleep of exhaustion.

  From that night on, my life was no longer my own. I was public property – as I’ve remained to this day. In the morning Nick presented me with a set of five glossy enlargements that would do nicely for ‘front of house’. The rest of the pictures, he said, he’d be developing and ‘sending out’ over the next few days. I was as pleased as Punch, and even mor
e excited when Nick instructed me to report back on Monday afternoon to begin ‘rehearsals’.

  ‘What for? A show? What kind of show?’

  ‘Wait and see, child. Wait and see. Now go home to mother.’ He patted me on my behind (an irritating habit that he would sometimes do in company) and saw me off the premises.

  I couldn’t help thinking about Nutter. He was the one who’d left home with his guitar slung over his shoulder, on his way to become a star. And who had got there first?

  For the rest of the weekend, I was in a frenzy of preparations. The show that I envisaged was a rock & roll spectacular, drawing fully on my theatrical background. I was the first artist in the field to blend those two areas – rock & roll and theatre – although others would come along ten years later and lay claim to the idea. As with so many things, I was too far ahead of my time.

  I spent hours on end practising songs and routines in the front room of the flat, imagining myself on the stage of the Marquee or the 100 Club, or any of the other ‘gigs’ that were springing up all over London. I imagined the screaming fans, the popping flashbulbs, the raw energy of my performance. In reality, the only audience I had was Phyllis, who was anything but appreciative of my efforts. He regularly interrupted rehearsals with his screaming temper, complaining that I was neglecting my household duties, threatening me with eviction. But I didn’t care. What was my home, my security, compared to my future? Finally I had my routine all worked out. I’d start with ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ as a nod to my ‘roots’, then I’d go through an R&B medley, a selection of favourite songs from the movies (‘The Girl Can’t Help It’, ‘Anyone Here for Love?’, ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’) before the climax, a ‘ spine-tingling rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’. It was a twenty-minute slot – perfect for top billing on one of the spectacular rock & roll revues that were then touring the country.

  When I arrived at Holland Park on Monday morning, I was abuzz with creative energy. Nick was more brisk and businesslike than ever. ‘Now, do you want the good news or the good news?’ he snapped. What could he mean?

  ‘Sit down and concentrate. First of all, I’ve got you a show. No, I said sit down! It’s an important showcase for you, with all the most important agents and critics in town. Investors, boy, investors. Thanks to your friend and mine,’ (here he winked) ‘we’ve got a nice little bit of money behind us for this particular extravaganza.’ So, Brian had been as good as his word! He’d booked me into a top-line cabaret venue – where? The Talk of the Town?

  ‘Remember, this is a private affair. We’re not ready to go public yet. You’ve got to learn how to handle an audience in an intimate setting before you get out there on the bigger stages.’

  Maybe it was one of the cabaret clubs of Mayfair, Chelsea? I begged Nick to tell me where I was to make my debut.

  ‘La Bohème.’

  La Bohème! I was outraged – that dump where I had spent so many fruitless hours propping up the bar talking to losers like one-eyed Paul and drunken Charlie! But gradually Nick brought me round.

  ‘Think about it for a minute. It’s a place you feel relaxed in. It’s the perfect size – intimate, full of atmosphere. And it’s discreet.’ Also, as I discovered, it was on friendly terms with the local constabulary and therefore less prone to raids. All this was kept from me at the time.

  Perhaps it was destiny that brought me back to La Bohème. Was it not there, after all, that I’d first met Brian? Wasn’t it there that Marilyn herself had seemed to greet me from the walls, as if to say in her unforgettable, breathy voice, ‘Welcome home, baby . . .’ ? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that La Bohème was the only possible venue for my first, ‘secret’ live appearance. I cheered up immediately.

  But there was another surprise that would cheer me up even more. Nick took me into his study – a labyrinth of filing cabinets, dusty box files and bureaux with secret compartments – and presented me with a fat brown envelope. ‘Your first instalment.’ I tore it open and inside were four five-pound notes – more money than I’d had in my life. Only a few days after my first modelling session, and the rewards were pouring in already. At last I was a professional!

  I started telling Nick about my plans for the act. I was just launching into the first verse of ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ and doing my best Elvis impersonation when Nick raised a commanding hand. I ‘dried’ completely. ‘Ab-so-lu-ment no. No, no, no! That sort of thing won’t do at all.’ I didn’t understand: wasn’t I supposed to be launching myself as a pop star? But Nick had other ideas, new ideas. I, he said, was aiming myself at a different market – a more ‘adult’ market, who wanted solid show business values. I mentioned to him that I had a selection of songs from the movies in my repertoire, and was about to give him my up-tempo rendition of ‘Diamonds’. But Nick silenced me again and handed me a short typewritten list.

  The Street Where You Live (My Fair Lady)

  I’ve Never Been in Love Before (Guys and Dolls)

  Maria (West Side Story)

  It’s De-lightful

  Not the sort of material I had envisaged at all! I respected Nick’s judgement, but I was hurt that so little interest had been shown in my work. It was then that I learned one of my hardest lessons in the school of show business: you’ve got to give the people what they want because at the end of the day it’s the public that comes first. I’ve kept that lesson close to my heart for the rest of my life.

  And so I threw myself into my new routine body and soul. Fortunately, I had no need of singing lessons, being blessed with a fine, expressive tenor voice that had a pleasing ‘untrained’ quality about it. And I was quick to pick up the routines that Nick taught me to go with the songs. Hadn’t I been dancing in public since the age of three?

  As the date for my debut approached, I was brimming with excitement. Even Phyllis was showing an interest ‘in the theatrical possibilities of cabaret’. There was only one fly in the ointment: an empty feeling that nagged away inside me, a hunger that no amount of praise could satisfy. Lying awake one night, I realized what it was: I couldn’t enjoy my triumph to the full unless Nutter was there to witness it.

  Hadn’t we dreamed, all those years ago, of stardom? Hadn’t we whiled away those afternoons in his bedroom, those long happy nights under canvas on our never-to-be-forgotten summer holiday, planning our careers, promising that we’d always be there for each other? And now here I was, on the brink of success, without my oldest friend beside me. I promised myself that I would move heaven and earth to get Nutter to the show.

  But where was he? I’d heard nothing of him since we parted (barely friends) on the station platform. I swallowed my pride, and penned a letter to Sue. I was friendly, forgiving, unwilling to rake up a bitter past. Others might have vowed never to speak to Sue or Nutter again, but I have always believed in giving people a second chance. I told her about my new life in London, my career as a model-singer-actor, my forthcoming residency at one of the West End’s most exclusive supper clubs. I sketched for her the kind of circles I was moving in – the parties, the dinners, the air of wealth and sophistication – I even hinted at the identity of my close personal friend Brian. And I invited her to be my guest on my opening night, a privilege of which even suburban Sue can’t have missed the significance. A few days later I received a reply, and, to my delight, she agreed to come – on condition that her brother could chaperone her in London. Bingo!

  She also said that she looked forward to seeing Mr and Mrs Young at the club. I wrote a hasty note back explaining that my parents were sadly unable to attend as they were currently travelling through Italy.

  Show time finally arrived. I was sick with nerves. Normally I breeze on stage without a care in the world – if I’m happy with my vehicle. But that night my instincts were warning me of something. I should have listened to them.

  La Bohème was packed, mostly with Nick’s investor friends, including Brian and a gang of his hangers-on, and kindly Phyllis, uncomfortable a
mong this fast crowd. Where were the journalists from the ‘fan’ magazines that Nick had promised me? What was I doing performing to this gang of corpses when everything in me was reaching out to youth, youth, youth? As I scanned the crowd from my ‘dressing room’ (in reality the seldom-used ladies’ toilet), I was relieved that Sue and Nutter had broken their promise to come.

  Then they walked in the door. I wanted to run. Nick pushed me on to the stage.

  The moment the spotlight hit me, I went into my routine, but I was an automaton, without passion. I aimed at a spot somewhere just above the bar, determined not to make eye contact with anyone – particularly not with Nutter. After the first verse of ‘The Street Where You Live’ I began to feel better: the music was working its magic. Jim, the house pianist, winked at me, and I gave just a little bit more.

  By the end of the song, I was actually having fun. My voice had warmed up, and the audience liked me – there was a discreet jostling at the front of the stage which, given the average age of the crowd, was the equivalent of teenybop hysteria. The next song was one of my favourites from Guys and Dolls, Sky Masterson’s soaring ballad ‘I’ve Never Been In Love Before’, just the sort of number that I could really ‘put across’. I shut my eyes and thought of Marlon Brando in the film, I thought of Nutter in the audience – that was enough. As I hit the high notes on ‘But this is wiiiiiine that’s all too strange and strong/I’m full of foolish song/And out my song must pour’, I was in another world. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I coolly made a note of another important lesson: if you give, give, give yourself to an audience, you can rise above even the most unpromising circumstances.