by Maeve Haran
‘Can I take your coat?’ he asked Fabia when she accepted the champagne. ‘It looks very expensive.’
To anyone else this might have been crass but Stuart had judged Fabia perfectly. ‘It was,’ she replied proudly. ‘It is Arctic fox and they are an endangered species.’
Suze spluttered into her champagne. ‘Highly endangered with her around.’
Fabia allowed her coat to be removed, strode to the front and placed herself at the most prominent table while Roxanne shrugged in embarrassment and retreated to chat with Izzy.
At last she removed her sunglasses and Stella saw that the once-beautiful face was surprisingly lined and the red from her lipstick had trickled into the runnels above her top lip. It gave her the air of a vaguely melting waxwork. Stella was surprised she hadn’t gone in for plastic surgery. She hardly looked the type to have scruples about it. Maybe she couldn’t find anyone to pay for it.
Intrigued, Stella studied her more closely. The ankle boots she wore, clearly designer, were scuffed and down at heel. Maybe Fabia, so glossy at first glance, was finding it hard to keep up appearances. Debora was clearly right about Roxy being her insurance policy and her pension.
Yet how could such a sweet girl have fallen for a grizzled, if charming, over-sixty-year-old like Cameron? Clearly it must be connected with Roxy’s insecure upbringing. Stella had a sudden flash of what she would have had to endure with someone like Fabia as a parent, dragged about from man to man and hotel to hotel, never putting down roots or having a proper home. She could see how, at least for a while, Cameron, with his fame and money, not to mention his occasional twinkly charm, could offer an attractive alternative. Equally clearly, the illusion hadn’t lasted long.
The door of the Artists’ Bar opened and Duncan Miller appeared. Before Stella had the chance to thank him for the champagne he began to speak in a quiet but urgent voice.
‘Stella, could you spare me a moment? Vivienne, could you come too?’
Stella put down her drink and followed him out of the bar, leaving Fabia looking outraged not to be included.
‘Sorry to interrupt your fun,’ he expanded once they were in the corridor. ‘Debora says can you go and get the Deathbed Reviver? It’s in the Airstream. It’s parked just behind here. Vivienne will show you. Here are the keys.’ He tossed them over to her.
‘But why? What’s the problem? The show starts in half an hour.’
Once they were in the corridor where no one else could hear, he told her. ‘Thank God for support bands. It’s Cameron. Debora and I just found him lying in a pile of cheap beer cans. He’s out cold.’
Eight
————
Stella and Vivienne raced to the car park and opened up the Airstream. The Deathbed Reviver was just inside the door. Debora seemed so well prepared that Stella wondered if this had happened before.
They shoved the throw from the sofa over it and ran back to the venue. ‘If we bump into anyone, we’ll just have to say it’s for my friend Suze who’s just out from hospital. She won’t mind.’
Vivienne led her back through winding corridors and up via a lift for band equipment to the dressing-room area.
Cameron’s backing band stood around looking deeply pissed off while Debora, Duncan and a doctor gathered round Cameron.
‘He’s already puked about twenty-five times, so that has to be good,’ Debora greeted them with her usual amazing calm. ‘Bring it over and we’ll hook it up.’
‘Wha’ the fuck?’ demanded Cameron, trying unsuccessfully to get to his feet.
‘It’s OK, Cam,’ soothed Debora. ‘It’s just a drip of Dioralyte, like when you get the shits. It helps you recover quicker.’
‘Where’s that triple espresso?’ the doctor demanded. ‘It’s easier with smack addicts; at least you can give them a shot to revive them. Bloody alcohol. It’s a menace.’
‘Can’t you just cancel the show?’ Stella asked Duncan. ‘Say he’s got a bad throat and get them to come back another day?’
Duncan shook his head. ‘Apart from the complexity there are too many “bad throats” in this business. The twitterati and music press would have a field day, which is what Cam was nervous about in the first place. We’ve got to sober him up.’
They stood silently as the saline and electrolytes flooded into Cameron’s bloodstream. The doctor produced a vial of anti-nausea medicine and vitamin B12 and injected them into Cameron’s arm, finishing up with a large dose of painkillers.
‘With luck that should revive an elephant,’ he said as he rolled back his sleeves.
Cameron caught sight of Stella sitting next to his couch and reached out his hand. ‘Stella, you came. You know this concert is for you.’
‘I don’t care if it’s for Joan of Arc,’ Duncan commented brusquely. ‘Just get the fuck up, Cameron, or I’m resigning.’
Cameron sat up slowly.
‘Have some more coffee.’ Debora handed him another cup.
‘Hey, Debs,’ he replied. ‘What would I do without you?’
He looked around in wonder at how and why all these people were gathered round him. ‘I’m sorry, everyone, I just wasn’t sure I could do it.’ He smiled magnanimously. ‘Now I think I can. I know I can.’
The band exchanged weary smiles.
‘How long till we’re on?’
‘Fifteen minutes. Watch him, all of you. Don’t even let him go to the bog on his own.’
‘Duncan . . .’ There was a world of reproach in his voice. ‘Would I?’
‘Yes. Remember your dad and the white spirit. Have you got any more booze hidden anywhere? Test those water bottles, Deb.’
‘Nothing.’
Cameron smiled beatifically.
‘What’s that?’ Duncan indicated a small bottle marked ‘Dunlop 654 Guitar Polish’.
‘Since when have you ever polished your guitar? Hand it over.’
Reluctantly, Cameron passed him the bottle. Duncan sniffed it. ‘It smells like bloody absinthe!’
‘Nothing wrong with the green fairy. Natural product. Only the finest wormwood.’
‘The only natural product you’re getting is water.’
There was a warning knock on the door. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Is everyone sure of the running order?’
They nodded. ‘One thing,’ Steve, the drummer, hesitated. ‘Cam says we shouldn’t play “Don’t Leave Me” and save it for the encore. Won’t that seem like a wedding without a fucking bridegroom?’
Duncan thought about it. ‘No, it’ll be OK. Go out on a high. Thank God he did a sound check earlier.’
They headed off towards the stage.
Debora momentarily seemed to sag. ‘I’d forgotten what it was like. Someone’s going to have to keep him on the straight and narrow and I suspect it won’t be Roxy. Has she arrived?’
‘Yes.’ Stella grinned at Debora. ‘And Fabia too. Wearing half the world’s Arctic foxes.’
The Artists’ Bar was even more crowded by the time they got back there. Fabia, still in prime position at the front, was surrounded by an admiring audience of two – Matthew and Bernie. Matthew, she noted, was eagerly refilling Fabia’s glass with more champagne.
‘How did you get here so quickly?’ Stella asked her husband.
‘I got a text from Cameron asking me to pick Bernie up in a cab. Apparently it’s important he’s here, for some reason,’ Matthew explained stiffly, eager to make it obvious he hadn’t come for her sake.
‘That was nice of him.’
‘Have some champagne,’ Stuart rescued her. ‘Problem solved?’
Debora smiled round at the box. ‘If it isn’t, you’ll soon know about it.’
A roar silenced any further questioning. The roadie was on stage checking the band’s equipment. The audience began to pound their feet and clap slowly in anticipation of the big moment.
The bass guitarist walked on, smiling broadly, followed by the keyboard player, sax and two backing singers. Next came the dr
ummer and finally the man himself.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced a disembodied voice, ‘I give you the voice that breaks hearts and shatters glasses . . . Cameron Keene!’
To a storm of applause, Cameron, in black shirt and black 501s, and his trademark cowboy boots, sauntered on stage with a huge smile on his face and all the confidence that took six shots of liquor to achieve.
‘Are you happy to be here?’ he shouted to the audience. Ignoring the murmurs of assent he shouted again, this time louder, ‘Are you happy to be here?’
This time the response was a roar.
He grabbed the microphone and began to walk up and down at the front of the stage. ‘Before we start, there’s one person I’d like to dedicate this concert to, someone who helped to make me the person I am . . .’
In the bar all eyes turned to Stella, especially Fabia’s. Even Duncan, who had slipped in to join them, fixed his gaze on her face.
Cameron paused, looked down at the audience then up for maximum effect. ‘My father, Billy Keene!’
There was a gasp from Suze. Debora just shook her head.
‘Yes,’ Duncan broke the silence. ‘Here’s to Billy Keene, the man who couldn’t tell paint stripper from vodka. He’s certainly made Cam the man he is today. I’d like to add another toast. To Stella, who welcomed us all back into her life. I hope you’re not regretting it after today.’
Stella raised her glass at the assembled gathering, her dignity restored, and began to laugh, struck by the ridiculousness of expecting to have a concert dedicated to her at sixty-four, as if she were some medieval lady hoping to give a knight her colours, when both the knight and the lady in question were almost in their dotage.
‘Nonsense,’ and as she said it, she realized she actually believed it, ‘Matthew and I haven’t had such fun in years.’
They settled on their stools and began to watch the show. All the seats in the balcony were full, the aisles even had one or two wheelchairs – another comment on the reality of age – and the standing-only space below the stage was packed as well.
‘Every seat sold,’ Duncan explained. ‘Cam will be on at me about why we didn’t book a bigger venue. This is perfect, iconic, efficient and the music press can see it’s overflowing. The ideal kick-off to the tour.’
Stella studied Cameron. It was as though he was born to be on stage. He came alive under the spotlight, all vestiges of the unreliable, semi-alcoholic sexagenarian disappearing in a puff of dry ice as soon as he walked on. This audience, leaning forward eagerly, reliving their youth as they sang along, would have been stunned to know that half an hour ago he had been lying in a drunken stupor.
How joyous and amazing the power of music was. Just listening to the songs they had first heard all those years ago transported the audience back to their youth as no other experience could. Maybe, like Stella, they were all thinking about the passage of life, the choices they’d made, the decisions taken or not taken. Or just remembering what an amazing moment they’d experienced when being young was suddenly exciting, heady, dangerous and wonderful. When you could put flowers in your hair, wear ludicrous loon pants, dress up in silks and velvets, and terrify the older generation with your careless insouciance and lack of respect for anything they stood for.
She looked around at her family. Jesse and Dora stared at the stage, entranced by Cameron’s rambling yet wonderfully witty introductions.
‘Almost as long as the songs are,’ Duncan commented.
Fabia, seated cosily next to Matthew, was scanning the audience for anyone worthy of note and shrugging dismissively that they were ordinary fans. Even Izzy, despite the proximity of her new idol Roxy, was watching with fascination.
‘Gran,’ she asked to raucous laughter from Suze, ‘is that really the old man who’s been staying in your driveway?’
‘He is not an old man!’ Fabia corrected crossly while Roxy, Stella noted, just laughed and nodded her head.
And it was an amazing transformation. For ninety solid minutes Cameron rocked his audience at ear-splitting maximum decibels. ‘It’s amazing he hasn’t gone deaf,’ Suze commented, covering her ears.
On the vast space beneath the bar they bopped and jiggled and tapped their feet, roaring applause at the end of each number, savouring every moment as the atmospheric blue spotlights raked the audience, pausing occasionally to pinpoint a pair who danced away, unconscious of their surroundings, abandoned to the music as if they really were young again.
As the concert neared its end Stella became aware of a restlessness in the auditorium. Couples looked at each other anxiously, a few people shrugged and looked at their watches. One or two even started to leave like at a football game when your team’s losing.
All at once the show was over and Cameron thanked everyone for coming and abruptly left the stage without playing the one number they all really wanted to hear.
The sense of disappointment hung in the air like fog hiding the sunshine. Cheated of the reason a lot of them had come, they began to stomp on the floor and catcall, not entirely favourably.
‘Oh dear, he’s losing them.’ Stella bit her lip anxiously.
‘Don’t worry,’ Duncan reassured, ‘Cam’s a sly old beast. It’s all showmanship.’
And then he was back on stage and straight into ‘Don’t Leave Me in the Morning’, while all around the venue people jumped from their seats and looked deep into each other’s eyes, suddenly nineteen again, roaring their approval.
Listening to the song live, at maximum volume, was an extraordinary sensation. The raw longing and fear of rejection, the cruel one-sidedness of love, the desperate need to believe, united the entire room in exquisitely painful memory.
Stella found herself glancing at Jesse, who was just entering into this tunnel of unavoidable suffering himself, and found Duncan’s eyes on her. He must, she supposed, be wondering what she was feeling now, listening to the song she’d inspired so long ago.
The slightly shocking truth was that she felt nothing at all. It was all so many years ago and she had no real complaints with her life. She could hardly persuade herself that she and Matthew were soulmates, but wasn’t that an illusion, a romantic cliché that had nothing to do with real life?
Cameron and his band played one more track and the show was over, ending on an uproarious high.
Stella watched the auditorium empty. Cameron had done it. He had given the audience what it wanted. A brief moment to forget rheumatism, divorce, loneliness, whether or not your children were happy, and how long you might still have on this earth, and recapture the joy and pain of being young when everything was still ahead of you.
‘What happens next?’ she asked Duncan.
‘Another ten minutes and we can go down. The venue lays on food and drink so that the rock god that is Cameron Keene or Elton John or Mick Jagger can eat here and wait till the public and press have safely dispersed outside. Are you all right?’ he added in a low voice as she looked for her handbag. ‘I suspect he meant to dedicate it to you and got sidetracked. Cameron is supremely unaware of other people’s feelings. I suspect he finds it a very useful quality.’
‘Why would I expect him to? It would have felt really strange.’
‘Where is Cameron?’ Fabia interrupted with a sweep of fox fur that knocked over three champagne glasses. To Stella’s amusement, Fabia didn’t even turn. Some minion could sweep it up. ‘I am sure he is longing to see his wife.’ She dismissed Matthew, who had been helping her on with her coat, and grabbed Roxy, who looked distinctly underwhelmed. ‘Come on, Roxanne, let’s go and find your husband.’
‘By the way,’ Duncan thanked Stella quietly, ‘thank you for not telling anyone what happened earlier.’
‘Does it happen often?’
‘Only on first nights. Cameron needs to be loved. He’s fine once he knows he’s still got it. It can be quite wearing.’
‘Why do you stay with him?’ she asked curiously. ‘Not for the money, surely? Debora t
ells me you’ve made Cameron a rich man.’ Suddenly she realized how rude and intrusive this must sound. ‘Sorry, don’t answer that.’
Duncan smiled. ‘For the fun, I suppose. My other interests are rather dull.’
‘Not golf?’
‘Redistribution of wealth. I make money and spread it about.’
‘And Cameron benefits?’
‘Him and some rather more deserving causes.’
‘Speaking of deserving causes, do you think Cameron really will do a concert for Camley?’
They had started to follow Vivienne out of the bar and downstairs. ‘Absolutely. Can I come round tomorrow and check your garden? Then Cameron and his vehicle will be out of your hair at last.’
Stella smiled. ‘Do you know, I’ll probably miss him.’
‘And I won’t have any more excuses for dropping round.’
‘Do you need an excuse?’ she asked, surprised. ‘You’re always welcome.’
Duncan stopped suddenly in the corridor with all the guests and staff swirling around them. ‘Am I really?’
‘Yes, of course. Any time at all. Just give me a call.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
The stage was now completely clear of all the band’s equipment and a delicious buffet from the local Greek restaurant had been laid out – octopus salad, spicy meatballs, hummus, taramasalata, black olives with their skin wrinkled like an old Greek lady’s, cheese pastries, slow-cooked aubergine and warmed pitta bread.
‘Thank God the wine’s not Greek too,’ Suze said, pouring them both a glass.
‘You’re out of touch, Suze,’ Stella laughed. ‘It was only terrible when we were students and could only afford that awful stuff that tasted like Dettol.’ They clinked their glasses.
Now that the show was over the excitement and the relief were palpable. Everyone talked a little too loud and drank too fast. Dora was in a little group with Roxy and the adoring Izzy, Emma and Stuart seemed to have made it up over the meze. Bernie had struck up enthusiastic conversation with Cameron’s bass player and Fabia had discarded the Arctic fox to reveal a black bodycon dress of eye-popping obviousness.
