‘Yes. I think she’s actually very talented.’ He sat up. ‘But the pictures were strange. A lot of them depicted Robert, and seemed to have hidden messages in them.’
‘That is so weird.’
‘It looks like the event will double as a performance of some kind. We should go. I could ask Bonny if you can join me?’
‘Go together?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Okay. Only thing is, what if Wardner does show up? With his fans there, might they turn on you?’
Afterwards, Sam tore a panel from one of Elsa’s cardboard boxes and taped it over the shattered panel. Standing by the window, he turned his phone on. Almost immediately a message from her flashed up:
Hey. Didn’t want to get in the way of your fun night out. Malcolm asked me to meet some buyers who want to invest in the gallery. So staying at this exhibition in a hotel in Northumbria for a day or two. Got a rubbish signal. Will see you when I get back x
ROBERT WARDNER
The next memory is being back in England.
On a stiff bed, my body twisted into a weird position. A man in a woolly jumper asking me to sign a form.
I feel woozy and my bones ache. There’s this pain in my stomach that could get overpowering any second. An Indian nurse with a harelip standing just behind the man, saying ‘It doesn’t matter, we’ll have to do it without his consent.’ Closing my eyes and trying to sleep.
They eventually leave.
I open my eyes and try to focus on my surroundings.
I’m in a small room with many pipes on the wall, painted this queasy shade of green. I stand up. Though I’ve got no idea where I am, the muggy warmth of the place seems familiar. Familiar in my gut and bones.
I go outside, into an empty hallway. It’s like I’m sleepwalking. The hallway is lined with windows and I see that I’m one floor up. Outside, bare trees resist the hard London rain. I press myself up against the glass. Beyond that it’s more streets, winding on and on. I’m trapped on the edge of one of them.
I struggle to follow a train of thought. When I snatch at a thought it’s gone. People always seem to want something from me that’s overdue, but when I work out how to give it to them, they’re gone.
At first people don’t disturb me much, except to occasionally make me eat chicken soup. It always comes with a soft white roll and a smudged portion of Flora. I tell them I’m a vegetarian. But when one night I’m brought steak and chips, I devour it.
Coronation Street is playing on the TV in the dayroom and having eaten a square meal, the pictures on the screen make me feel alive again. I never thought that the sight of northern streets would make me feel invigorated, but it does. I suddenly miss the pub crowd at last orders, the shrill sound of the jukebox. The sense of claustrophobia that I finally kicked a hole in when I got a record deal.
Every afternoon a young bloke with a clipboard comes and knocks on my door, even if it’s open. He’s always out of breath, and I always wonder what the rush is. He wears a tight camel-coloured shirt and shiny trousers and he stammers when he talks. Every day he asks me questions. How did I get here, where do I live? Although I can never be bothered, and I just guess most of the answers, he always seems to have been expecting whatever I say.
One day the Indian nurse calls him out of the room and he leaves his clipboard on the table next to me, half-filled out. At the top of it are the words ‘Galveston Orientation and Amensia Test’.
Next to it I see someone has scribbled my name in thick pencil, and the words, ‘nervous breakdown causing prolonged disorientation. Head injury?’
I’d almost got myself in a routine by the time Frankie came to visit me. Some nights, while the TV buzzed and the rain hummed outside, I’d try to piece it all together and I’d feel this massive hollowness inside. I’d try to focus on it, and it would always come with Frankie’s face. I’ve got to call her, I’d think, but then I’d get too tired. I’d try to fight the tiredness, terrified that I might forget her.
I suspect that if Frankie had not visited me I would have eventually lost all sense of myself.
The African woman at reception had told me my wife was coming to see me tonight. She worked beneath a hoop of silver tinsel, reindeer antlers sat on top of hair. I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamt her telling me that though, so was surprised that evening to see Frankie standing at the front desk, talking to her.
I recognised her poise way before I recognised her face.
‘Jingle Bells’ was playing quietly on the record player. Frankie’s white skin shone against the shabby Christmas décor.
She was wearing a grey mackintosh and holding a small purse, shiny as a coin. I remembered that in times of stress she often held it close to her like a child’s rag. Despite what I’ve put her through, she’s blossomed, I thought.
The receptionist was looking for my file in the stack in front of her. As I made my way closer to Frankie she turned. A lock of her long hair, darker than before, hid the bottom half of her face.
I heard her say to the receptionist ‘Don’t worry about it. He’s here.’ But she put her head down and squeezed the purse.
We stood opposite one another. She pulled the purse around and lifted her chin high, and it stopped me from speaking. She wasn’t meeting my eye. I remembered how fine her features were.
‘Where do we go then?’ she asked, to no one in particular. The receptionist got to her feet.
‘You’ll have to use Mr Wardner’s room if you want any privacy, darling,’ she said.
‘Sounds good,’ I whispered.
I caught a glimpse of my robe, my slender legs, my pale white hands. Gripping the mike, they always looked more muscular.
As I looked for her approval I saw that her eyes had moistened. I grabbed her hand and to my surprise, after a moment of hesitating, she allowed it to fit gently inside mine. Small and quivering.
I led her to my room. The stooped, unshaven man and the refined, slender woman. He was no longer a pop star, in his pomp and glory, pulling her around backstage and she was no longer a nervous girl pretending to be worldly. She was everything I’d hoped she would become.
As soon as the door shut behind us she opened her mouth. But to my surprise no words came out. It was just this blank gasp. Her painted hand went to her forehead. ‘Robert,’ she said, firmly. Summoning up my courage I moved to take her in my arms. My trembling, dry hands trying to find the blend of softness and bone that secretly defined her to me.
Frankie allowed herself to be held, allowed herself to shimmer in my hands. But something was retained. She stayed stiff, distant. As I parted from her she kissed my cheek, and I felt a moist patch left there by her eyes. When I looked at her again, the air was sucked out of my lungs.
It’s too late, I thought. This is just a sympathy call. Because she’s a good person, who I once, almost, deserved. Until I abandoned her, because I couldn’t handle my own failure. Going off to hide with weird Greek women who need something I can’t give. Wandering round cities, sleeping rough while she was at home waiting for me. Just wanting everything to be alright again.
With tears smearing her mascara, she was more devastating than even I had remembered.
‘This is my room then,’ I said, with no idea of where to begin.
She looked around for a moment, and then up to the ceiling. ‘You got back to England alright?’
‘Yes.’ I had committed to sitting in the chair while she stayed stood against the door. But it seemed a long way away, and it took me ages to settle into. I realized how daft that dynamic was, and leant forward towards her. Tried to compose myself, be manly. Yet whenever she looked at me she seemed overcome with emotion.
‘How have you been?’
She laughed, and looked away. ‘I’ve been…’ she smiled, and very slowly made her way over to the chair at my side. ‘I’ve been worried sick, Rob.’
She took my hand. I was relieved to see that it had almost completely stopped shaking. ‘I’m so glad to s
ee you’re okay,’ she urged, her voice faltering. ‘But, Robert, I will never understand why you felt you had to run away from me like that.’
I looked down at the floor. Suddenly I was jolted from the fog that had clouded my brain for so long. I felt clear and composed. That single emotion she provoked was a powerful, guiding force.
It cut through everything.
‘It was all I could do to try and stay sane. But you deserved much better. I wish I hadn’t left.’
She offered a bruised smile.
‘You were with another woman, weren’t you?’
‘Not like that. It was a friend.’
‘That singer?’
‘Yeah.’
She shook her head. With the pristine glow of her makeup she was too immaculate.
‘So what’s she got that I haven’t?’
‘Nothing. It was just, she’s in the same game as me.’
‘You’re not in that game any more. So I guess you don’t need her now?’
‘It wasn’t like that. After a bit, she didn’t want me to go. I started to think she didn’t want me going back to you, that she’d begun to want us to be more than friends. That was when she overstepped the mark.’
‘What happened?’
‘I had to get her out of my life. Fast. I knew I couldn’t do anything that would end it with us.’
She looks up.
‘I don’t know what sort of logic that is, Robert.’
‘I know.’
‘Bonny really isn’t happy about it. Says she put you two in touch. She feels a bit betrayed that the girl kept you hidden from her.’
‘I just wanted to get my head right.’
She looked at me, but seemed to decide to leave it.
‘I know you did,’ she said, and she held my other hand.
‘I’ll get better,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there for you again. I can do it. They can’t keep me in here forever.’
Gradually, I felt her begin to tremble again.
9
As Sam ascended the escalators at Liverpool Street Station he couldn’t find the hopeful, enthusiastic woman he’d met amongst the crowd before him. Until he realized that Camille was the woman in the black pleated leather dress. It clung to her taut torso, ending in a hard collar. With the glossy, shining material and her bright red lips she looked like the exotic hostess of a Berlin nightclub.
‘Like the jacket, Mr Pop Star,’ she said as he kissed her cheek. Her red nails flashed up to grasp his shoulder, her leather clinging momentarily to his. ‘You look sharp.’
Sam felt embarrassed by his tattered leather jacket, bought years ago to mimic the one Wardner had once worn on Top Of The Pops. Not the night to wear it, he thought.
‘There’s quite a crowd gathering outside the venue. There’s rumours that some of the band are going to play. Even that Wardner will sing for the first time since he vanished.’
The gallery was only a short walk through Spitalfield market, where stalls were now packing up for the day. Chic shop assistants, with Fred Perry shirts and neon hair, snapped chairs and tables shut around them. Sam felt in no mood to rush, walking beside this vision. ‘You mean I’m about to be confronted with a legion of National Grid fans?’ he asked.
She smiled, slowly. ‘Well wouldn’t you expect that? I suppose that the fans don’t normally get the chance to meet up. Why so scared?’
‘I’m not scared.’
‘Come on,’ she said.
Camille had been right. The gallery, on the side of the market facing the street, looked as if it had rarely contained more than a couple of fashionable passers-by. But tonight the whole lane was full of fans. An intense pantomime of fur-lined leather jackets. They all had darkened eyes, eyes that seemed to have a hunger behind them. Borne out of the private convulsions only secret passions can provoke.
Many of them were teenagers, unborn when Wardner manhandled Julio Iglesias. Latex clung to young thighs, and hairspray wafted. Many were clad in box-fresh National Grid t-shirts. Sam had seen them sold at the station. They seemed a world away from that lone Top Of The Pops performance, with its ludicrous anger and odd foam pillars.
‘You’re a fan of the band too,’ she said.
‘I certainly was,’ Sam answered. ‘Hard to be as devoted when my home’s getting gradually broken into, though.’
Camille took his hand. He held it gently, cherishing the contact. ‘Have HMV just brought out a range of National Grid t-shirts?’
‘It was Topshop,’ Camille whispered, her red lips hidden behind her hand.
A couple of the more glamorous fans parted for Camille as they opened the glass door. Sam thought he saw a glimpse of Vicente, the producer, dressed in an all-white suit and brandishing a cane. Inside were the more seasoned gallery dwellers, in blazers and pashminas, surprised and frightened by this new influx. Behind the building crowd, on a small raised platform, was a makeshift stage. A keyboard, microphone stand and black guitar were visible.
Camille was taken aback by the artwork. ‘My god, this is going to cause a sensation.’
‘Exactly what their manager would want,’ he replied.
True to form, Bonny, in a pinstriped navy suit, was surrounded by a swarm of journalists.
‘So these pictures tell us how Wardner vanished, then?’ one journalist asked, putting a microphone onto Bonny.
‘Well, clearly, they are meant to capture my sympathy for his plight,’ she said. ‘Robert felt driven out of the world by commercial pressure. These pictures show his moment of liberation.’
‘What do you say to the criticisms that you are using Robert’s dark past to further your own career?’ One journalist had clearly not done his homework on her.
Her eyes flashed. ‘Tell me, darling, have you never heard of post-structuralism? Were you there at the moment that every news story you reported on broke? Are you trying to tell me you’ve never reproduced anything, just constantly created thrilling content? I’ve made a living nurturing talent, appreciating it. Not bitching at people who do something with it.’
A few fans cheered.
Another journalist piped up, an older man with a more languorous tone. ‘Is it true this is just a part of Robert’s publicity campaign for their next release?’
‘Oh no,’ Bonny said. ‘This stage set just fell out of the sky and we thought we might as well use them for a knees up. Look, I am happy to answer sensible questions, but I won’t be answering any on Robert’s behalf. You will have to put them to him.’
‘And will he be appearing tonight?’
At the moment this question was asked, Sam became conscious of fans in two black leather jackets craning in behind him. They creaked in anticipation.
‘There will be a performance from members of The National Grid,’ Bonny said. ‘And the more astute amongst you will have noticed the stage behind me. And afterwards, Theo will be DJing.’
‘Is it true that this is going to be the first set by The National Grid in twenty five years?’ one asked.
‘Wardner’s coming tonight,’ a voice behind Sam said. ‘There’s no way a microphone would be set up if he wasn’t.’
‘No, Robert Wardner will not be performing this evening,’ Bonny announced.
‘Is he scared he’ll be arrested?’ someone shouted.
Bonny ignored the question. ‘However, other members of the original line-up will.’
‘Does that having anything to do with this new book about Wardner, Miss Crawford?’ the older journalist asked.
Bonny looked straight at Sam. ‘Samuel’s book about the band has my full endorsement,’ she said.
‘But not Robert’s, evidently,’ one fan hissed.
‘Sam,’ Bonny said, taking the crook of his arm. ‘Stick around for the after party. I have something for you. Or perhaps I should I say, someone.’
Suddenly, tightly-packed elbows started to grow restless and someone screamed. ‘It’s Theo!’
‘I see,’ a tall fan with a quiff intoned. ‘It�
��s Theo and his band performing. Hardly a National Grid reunion.’
‘Well, Wardner’s too scared to come,’ his partner said.
‘I wonder who could possibly have scared him off?’
Sam tried to see through the bodies.
‘You’re the journalist who’s been trying to track down Wardner, aren’t you?’ the man said. ‘Behind that awful book?’
Sam looked urgently for the right person to address.
‘No one’s scaring anyone off,’ Bonny said. ‘Theo’s going to be performing songs from the album.’
‘No one’s going to be singing Wardner’s parts, are they?’ the man asked.
‘No,’ Bonny said. ‘Theo is going to be performing his parts, along with the original keyboardist. The rest, including Wardner’s voice, will come from pre-recordings.’
‘National Grid karaoke!’ the female fan cried.
‘This is a disgrace,’ another wailed.
Consternation turned quickly to excitement as Sam recognised Theo’s shark-like grin in the crowd. Fans cornered him from all sides, waving CD’s and pens. ‘You want me to sign your cleavage?’ he said, to a fan. ‘It was Camus paperbacks in my day.’
The slender creature of the night Sam remembered from their glory days had morphed into a committed decadent. Theo was a skinny scarecrow made of shredded leather, crinkled eyeliner and chipped nail varnish. There was an element of Keith Richards about him. Fans pushed objects into his hands and grappled to ruffle his hair. ‘Can you get Robert to perform again?’ one asked.
‘I can do very little, but music can do everything,’ he answered. Bonny grasped his arm and pushed him to the stage.
‘Who wants to hear some National Grid?’ he boomed, into the mike.
A huge cheer filled the gallery. Bodies surged forward.
‘Is he going to sing?’ someone asked. ‘God help us!’
Sam picked his way through the crowd, to Camille. ‘I’m glad we didn’t miss this,’ she said.
‘It’s all a bit second-hand, don’t you think?’
‘Sure, but don’t take it all so seriously!’
‘If only Wardner would turn up.’
‘Can you imagine if he did? He’d be crushed in seconds! Far better to stoke the excitement, for the big comeback.’
How I Left the National Grid Page 10
