I Must Confess

by Rupert Smith

  It felt wrong, strange, leaving the party and returning to my absurd home in Elephant and Castle. Nick put it so well when he dropped me off at the end of the street, just as a milk float was rattling past the sleeping houses.

  ‘You don’t belong here, Marc.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘This is no place for a star.’

  ‘But where can I go?’

  ‘We’ll have to see about that. Goodnight.’

  ‘Good morning, you mean!’

  He drove away, and I crept into the house, unwilling to wake Phyllis, who would undoubtedly rain on my parade.

  I slept through most of Saturday, and made myself as pleasant as possible to Phyllis as he passed me, wordlessly, in the kitchen or the hall. He was in one of his silent phases – preferable to his ranting, vindictive moods, but only just. I had no idea that these were the symptoms of a galloping mental illness about which I could do nothing. I went out that night with Nick and some friends, happy to escape from the stifling atmosphere at home. A storm was brewing; when would it break?

  It broke the next morning. I was rudely awakened from my beauty sleep when the door burst open and there stood Phyllis in his disgusting pyjamas, hair sticking up and his dentures not in yet. He threw something at me – a stack of newspapers, I discovered, as they hit me on the head and tumbled to the floor. I rubbed my eyes, hardly certain whether I wasn’t dreaming the whole ugly scene, and sat up. ‘Go away!’ I mumbled.

  ‘I will not go away until I’ve got an explanation! Look! Just look!’

  I picked up the nearest newspaper – the News o the World, Phyllis’s favourite weekend reading. ‘Well? Well? What have you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘What are you . . .’ I was about to protest. Then I saw. Splashed across the front page was a photograph from the party on Friday night: Janice with her skirt in the air while I sat at a table near by. Somehow the photographer (who should never have been allowed into the party in the first place) had caught me looking as if I was hopelessly drunk (I was simply tired after a hard day’s shoot) with my arm around one of the crew (a lighting technician who had been kind enough to ensure I looked my best all day). Taken out of context, the picture looked bad, very bad. And the copy that accompanied it was positively inflammatory. IRREGULAR HABITS OF THE REGULAR GUY it screamed in huge block capitals, before a catalogue of excesses that would have made me laugh under different circumstances.

  Move over Mick Jagger – this is the latest, lowest excess to which today’s teenage idols have stooped. NO! It isn’t a scene from a new dirty movie to come out of Soho – this is real life !

  At a West End party on Friday night model Marc LeJeune, star of the cereal ads, made merry with his co-star and wife-to-be Janice Jones to celebrate their first TV appearance.

  ‘Regular Guy’ Marc, 20, shared a joke and a drink with another bachelor friend while lovely Janice (38 – 24 – 36) entertained in her own special way ‘I’m so ashamed of my boy,’ said Marc’s mum earlier that day ‘Since he ran away from home he’s fallen in with a bad crowd. I’m so scared that he’ll end up hooked on drugs or worse.’

  ‘Marc’s a figurehead for tomorrow’s generation,’ said manager, boutique owner and ‘beefcake’ photographer Nick Nicholls. Looks like Marc needs an early night and a bowl of Bran Pops!

  Of course it was all lies. I knew that, my parents knew that, but how could Phyllis and the rest of the world be expected to know? I could imagine the scene at breakfast tables all over Britain as eager readers tutted and clucked over each salacious, mendacious detail. ‘And what do you think that’s going to do for sales of Bran Pops?’ asked Phyllis, his voice dripping with the most evil sarcasm. I hadn’t thought of that! The image of the nation’s healthiest breakfast cereal had been dragged into the gutter. I’d be sacked, even prosecuted. I’d never work again. I had to speak to Nick.

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous!’ he cooed as soon as he picked up the phone. ‘Couldn’t be better. Well done!’

  I pinched myself. Suddenly my world was upside down. Was everybody mad, or just me?

  ‘Have you seen the papers, Nick?’ It wasn’t just the News of the World. There were reports in practically all of them, written with varying degrees of bitchiness.

  ‘Of course I have! It’s fantastic.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I screamed sotto voce, unwilling that eavesdropping Phyllis should witness my discomfiture.

  ‘Now we’ve really made it. You’re big news. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing.’

  Slowly, patiently, Nick explained himself. The reporters-invited by him, of course – had been fully briefed to expect a story. Nick had even fed them lines – ‘irregular habits’ was his work, I discovered. And why? For publicity. ‘Everybody loves the Regular Guy,’ he said, ‘but he’s a bit tame, a bit squeaky clean. People don’t want their heroes to be too perfect these days. They like a bit of excitement. And that is exactly what we’re going to give them.’

  Nick was a PR genius. While other managers would do everything in their power to keep their clients out of the Sunday papers, Nick was doing his utmost to get me in. And if that meant that I was portrayed as a tearaway, a bad boy, who was I to complain ? It never did James Dean or Marlon Brando any harm. Suddenly I was Britain’s answer to Rebel Without a Cause (sweet irony!) and The Wild One, the first homegrown rock & roll rebel icon.

  Phyllis, however, was unimpressed when I explained that my tabloid coverage was part of a carefully orchestrated PR campaign. ‘I won’t have it, do you hear me?’ he hissed. ‘Any more trouble and you’re out. And don’t try to wheedle your way out of this one. I mean it. You’ve let me down, Mark. You’ve let me down very badly indeed.’ Phyllis rushed from the room in tears. I couldn’t be bothered to follow him, my head was still spinning. But I knew he was serious. Phyllis wasn’t one to make idle threats, at least not in his sane, lucid interludes. I had come to depend on him as a rock of stability amidst the madness and glamour of my new life. I had also been delighted to discover that he had made me his legal heir.

  But what could I do? The work was flooding in: interviews, personal appearances, photo calls soon became a matter of course. And each occasion was attended by an ever-increasing horde of screaming female fans. My biggest ‘gig’ that summer was opening a shopping mall, the first of its kind to be built in Britain, situated just across the road from Phyllis’s flat, in the heart of the Elephant and Castle. It was a symbol of all that was bright and new in London, rising above the dingy streets like a giant temple of consumerism.

  A limousine collected me from Phyllis’s house and drove a few times round the block before depositing me at the entrance to the mall. Traffic came to a standstill, teenagers rushed and screamed and grabbed, cameras clicked and whirred. We were even on the news. I cut a ribbon, kissed Janice (bad-tempered, as she’d been kept away from the bottle all day), signed a few autographs then made my escape in a waiting getaway vehicle. Little did the thousands of fans realize that ‘home’ was only just round the corner!

  They found out soon enough, though. One day I was shocked to find a group of three girls sitting on our doorstep. I assumed that they were local kids until they started screaming ‘Marc! Marc!’ every time I went near the window. Within a week there were regularly twenty or thirty fans cluttering up the narrow street. Phyllis was horrified and called the police, who arrived with journalists. The resultant coverage in the South London Press ensured that dozens more fans arrived every day. Soon we were under siege, requiring a strong-arm escort to and from the front door. Phyllis stopped leaving the house and stayed mostly in his bedroom. Fans scaled the wall and set up camp in the garden. And with each new excess, Nick was ready with a story for the papers.

  Poor Phyllis, the pressure was beginning to tell. I didn’t realize that he had a weak heart, and that more than anything he needed peace, quiet and constant nursing. If I’d known how my fame was hurrying him to his grave, I would have moved heaven and earth to
help him. But brave Phyllis suffered in silence.

  Nick was right about one thing: there’s no such thing as bad publicity. After the shock of my News of the World exposure, I entered a new league of stardom. It was the kids who put me there, but it was the press who nurtured me. Soon I was the darling of the teen magazines, and my face was plastered over every bedroom wall in the country. They loved me, my wholesome, outdoorsy image with its spicy hint of naughtiness, my will-they-won’t-they relationship with Janice, my readiness to give them a quote on any and every subject under the sun. Nick brilliantly placed me at the very heart of the teenage revolution, creating a buzz that the magazines lapped up. He issued press releases that were reprinted almost word for word in a dozen syndicated titles. ‘Man of the world Marc loves dancing, shopping and long drives in the country,’ ran one of his more memorable efforts.

  Only 18, he’s already travelled across four continents, and is now living in London where he’s working on his first record album. ‘London’s the place for me!’ says cheeky Marc, whose French father was a war hero. ‘Everything I love is right here!’ Does he mean blonde bombshell Janice Jones, co-star and constant companion ? Baby-faced Marc won’t tell. ‘I’m not ready to settle down yet,’ he says, lighting a cigarette. ‘There’s so many things I want to do.’

  It rattled on in the same vein for 1500 words. In another feature, Janice was ‘interviewed’ (via Nick) about her health and beauty secrets.’ “I only eat fruit and drink water before six o’clock in the evening,” says Janice, a trained dancer. “I keep in shape with a daily exercise programme. It’s all about toning and stretching!” she smiles.’ Ironic, considering this was a woman who kept her figure by swallowing two ‘black bombers’ every morning and sticking her fingers down her throat after every meal.

  I’ve always believed in giving credit where it’s due, and I have to say that I might not have become famous quite so soon had it not been for the tireless efforts of Nick Nicholls. What was it that drove him on ? Was he experiencing the thrill of success vicariously, through me ? Was he simply a consummate professional, content with his ‘cut’ of my income and the satisfaction of a job well done ? Or was there a more sinister side to his interest in my career ? Only time would tell.

  And time was the one thing that was in short supply. As 1965 rolled into 1966, I was working every second of every day. There was no time for relaxation. Even the parties were work, making sure that I was seen in the right places with the right people. And what people! A few snapshots from that time: drinking champagne from Dusty Springfield’s shoe after we’d danced the can-can down Oxford Street; hosting a party for George Best (who briefly dated Janice) at the Kensington Roof Gardens (I never knew George well, but I became very close with a member of the England World Cup squad); crashing the Top of the Pops backstage party and posing for photographs with Jimmy Savile, both of us puffing on a cigar; being chatted up by a humble, self-effacing young American who introduced himself only as Warren. And everywhere I went, the fans came too.

  For the second Bran Pops campaign, we decided on a whole new image for the Regular Guy and his girl. It was 1966, that strange, transitional year between ‘mod’ and’ ‘hippy’ styles, when the clean-cut looks that I’d created only a year before were being replaced by something looser and more flamboyant. The tailored, pegged pants and sharp jackets of yesterday were giving way to brightly coloured ‘flares’ and puff-sleeved shirts, accessorized with flowing scarves and chunky jewellery. Nick and I spent night after night literally at the drawing board, sketching out the cuts and lines of a revolution in male fashion. Even my haircut changed. The deep-fringed, pudding-bowl style that Nick had given me was ‘out’; now I wore it parted at the side, flowing down over one eye and curling well over my collar at the back. And for the creation of this new look I was introduced to the most famous hair salon in London – in the world – a name that is synonymous with sixties styling.

  Willy Frizz, society crimper, ruled over the world of hair from his fashionable King’s Road salon. Here you got not only the best coiffure but also the best gossip in town, rationed out by the eccentric Willy himself. Of all the characters I had met so far in my odyssey through London, Willy Frizz was the wildest – a ‘screaming queen’ we’d have called him in those days, whose mannerisms and outrageous vocabulary made Phyllis, even Nick, look ‘butch’ in comparison. His Francophilia, too, was considerably more pronounced than Nick’s. ‘Oh, mon trésor!’ he screamed when I first stepped into his salon. ‘Just wait till I get my hands on your cheveux!’ He wore his own grey hair in a trademark teased tangle – an ‘afro’. Silk shirts in daring hues – tangerine, plum, lime – were undone to the belly button. A record-player in the corner of the salon blasted out Willy’s favourite records, everything from Motown to Mahler (the outcome of one’s hairdo depended greatly on Willy’s current choice of music). And in Willy’s, drugs were the norm. The man himself gobbled back ‘pep pills’, ‘diet pills’ and ‘downers’ like sweets, handed them to clients or accepted them in payment. When I think of Willy Frizz’s legendary salon, I remember the blaring music and the sound of pills rattling across the floor as another handful was shaken into his screeching mouth.

  I met many stars at Willy’s. Everybody who was anybody was trimmed and teased in his Chelsea hair headquarters. Pop stars rubbed shoulders with royalty, criminals chatted to ballerinas. It was a magnet for journalists, who would try almost any ruse to get an appointment; Willy had an uncanny sixth sense for snoopers and would unceremoniously chuck them out. Only the crème de la crème of the press were welcomed. One such was a gossip columnist who had a brush with fame back in the sixties (readers with long memories may remember the name Paul ‘Pinky’ Stevens, whose daily column for the London Evening News practically set the city’s agenda at the time). Since those heady days, Pinky has sunk into deep obscurity (his was not a lasting talent), but in 1966 he was the golden boy of the British press, and I was happy enough to be on easy terms with him as we sat under the driers at Willy’s. He was an attractive, easy-going personality (I thought) – but more of Pinky Stevens later.

  After my first appointment at Willy’s, I returned home pleased as Punch with my new look. But a terrible shock awaited me. I hadn’t been back to the flat for a few days – parties, appointments and dates had kept me on the go for over seventy-two hours. During that time, Phyllis had taken a turn for the worse. Dozens of fans were surrounding the house (I signed autographs and kissed a few cheeks as I arrived), making it impossible for Phyllis to leave; in fact, he’d barricaded himself in the kitchen. When I breezed into the house shouting a jaunty ‘hello!’, the first thing I noticed was the smell. This led me to the kitchen, where I found the old man naked and filthy, crouched under the table clutching a carving knife. When he saw me he cowered and whimpered, making feeble passes with the blade. ‘No one home! No one home!’ he jabbered. ‘They want to kill me!’

  ‘Who wants to kill you?’ I asked, gently taking him by the wrist and disarming him.

  ‘All of them! But I won’t die! I won’t die!’ He shrieked with laughter, muttered something incomprehensible and then suddenly stopped, his eyes glazed over, staring into space. As I led him to the bathroom, I noticed two empty bottles of gin shoved rudely into the bin.

  After a dreadful hour, I had Phyllis clean and tucked up in bed. He slept peacefully, seemingly unaware of his recent outburst. The fans were happy enough to disperse when I asked them nicely; I suspected, however, that they had taunted poor Phyllis cruelly. For the first time, I realized that my beloved guardian was sick, possibly near death. How much had he suffered, quiet and alone, while I was out enjoying myself? How could I make amends for the terrible humiliations he’d undergone? I called in the doctor, and prepared myself for bad news. Phyllis was suffering from acute depression, I learned, and anxiety attacks associated with cardiac arrhythmia. Too much stress, or a sudden shock, could send him into permanent dementia or even kill him outright.

 
; The situation was aggravated when, a couple of days later, our household was increased by the addition of a bull terrier bitch puppy, a gift from Nick (‘dogs are quite de rigueur’ he told me, and he was right; the waiting room at Willy’s often resembled the champion’s ring at Crufts). Little Sugar (as I named her after one of my favourite Marilyn roles) was as good as gold with me, but she hated Phyllis. She worried at him, barked and even bit him, and seemed to reserve her toilet-training ‘accidents’ for those moments when Phyllis was sure to step in it.

  I had to do something to make it up to Phyllis. After all, I owed him everything. He’d been the spark that ignited my talent. He’d taken me in when my parents threw me out. And for all our differences, he’d been my best friend. And what had I given him in return? Nothing but heartache.

  I knew that what he wanted more than anything was for us to live together ‘as friends’ – that was his oft-repeated dream. And now that his life and sanity were slipping away from him, there was less chance that he would ever see that dream come true. What could I do but ensure that the old man enjoyed a taste of happiness before he . . . It was too awful to think of. I decided to devote my energies to giving Phyllis the time of his life.

  When he’d recovered from that terrible episode with the carving knife, I spent many a spare moment casually chatting with him as he lay in bed resting. I’d bring him snacks and cups of tea or drinks, then I’d lounge on his bed in my bathrobe, talking about old times. I started modelling for him again; it was so wonderful to see his long-dormant artistic genius flaring back into life as he posed me first as a martyred saint (bound to the bedstead), then as a revelling satyr. I allowed him intimacies – kisses, caresses and more – that he had never dared to ask for before. Phyllis blossomed under my care. The colour returned to his cheeks as he flushed with excitement, but I had to be so careful that he didn’t fatally ‘overdo’ it during one of our jolly afternoon romps.