by A. J. Crofts
‘Did she ever come to visit? To see how I was getting on?’
‘No, I made her promise that she would stay away. I wanted you for my own. I didn’t want to share you with her. Did I do wrong?’
‘No, of course you didn’t.’
The whole sanctimonious bit was beginning to get on my nerves, but I could hardly say anything when the woman had given up so much in order to love me.
‘Have you met her?’ she asked.
‘Briefly. She’s pretty rough trade.’
‘She’s your mother, child, you must be respectful.’
That was about as much sugar as I could take in one go, so I gave her a hug and left to find my taxi driver, promising to come back soon. I gave her a new mobile phone I’d bought and made her promise to keep it out of Dad’s sight. At least now I could stay in touch with her again. Some of the local kids had gathered around the taxi by the time I got back there and the driver was looking nervous behind locked doors and tightly closed windows. He had given up even pretending to read his book and his eyes were rolling around all over the place. All credit to him for not just driving off and leaving me stranded.
‘Hey, you’re Steffi McBride,’ one of the girls said as I walked through them and the crowd parted respectfully. I remembered her as being a lot younger.
‘Hi, Tina,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Usual shit. Nothing changes. You doing more music?’
‘I don’t know. I’m pretty busy.’
‘You should do more music,’ she said, snapping her fingers appreciatively. ‘That telly stuff is crap. I’ve written some songs, you want to hear them?’
‘Sure.’
I leaned back against the car and the driver, sensing he was now safe, opened his window to listen to Tina’s rap. It wasn’t bad. There are so many people out there with a bit of talent who just need a break. If I hadn’t met Dora I would probably still have been in much the same place as these guys, just a few years older and a few years more disillusioned. Mind you, a group like this would have thought themselves way too cool to hang out with someone like me the way I was then, someone who actually quite liked school and didn’t mind going to work in hotel kitchens.
‘You want to text me those lyrics?’ I asked, giving her my number. ‘Maybe I can do something. No promises.’
‘Promises are all bullshit,’ she grinned. ‘I remember when you lived round here. You were always an odd one.’
‘She was the hot one,’ one of the brothers added.
‘How come you never told me that then?’ I teased and he looked bashful, which blew his tough-guy act.
‘You were with Pete,’ he said. ‘Pete had a lot of respect.’
‘Anyone hear from him now?’ I asked.
‘He’s around. They don’t come looking for him so much now. You want to see him? I can take you to him.’
‘Sure.’ I felt a tremor of excitement at the thought of seeing Pete again. I had no idea what sort of reception I would get.
A couple of the kids climbed into the car with me, the one in the front giving the driver instructions that took us down some streets even I had never been to before. Every house was boarded up, but they knew which boards to knock on to get a response. I waited in the car till Pete emerged, blinking in the light, and then climbed tentatively out.
He flashed a bright grin. ‘Hey, the Queen of the World has come slumming.’
‘Fuck off, Pete. You OK?’
‘Sure, yeah.’
I could see he was tripping. It felt oddly nostalgic to be with him like that. I felt like tearing his clothes off and licking him all over, but I knew it was too late for that. He was right in a way: I was slumming and there was no way I could have gone through those boarded windows into the darkness beyond like I would have done a few months before. I wasn’t part of that world any more and I felt a stab of sadness, because what had I replaced it with?
I was vaguely aware of a figure lurking in the background, but we had been talking for a few minutes before I realised he was filming. I guess I must have been tense anyway because this acted like a match to gunpowder and I went off like a rocket, screaming abuse. To his professional credit the guy kept the camera running as I charged towards him, even when I stabbed the toe of my boot into his shin and he started to crumple to the floor, the camera still pointing up at me, buzzing away, taking in the whole magnificence of my fury.
‘What the fuck are you doing, man?’ Pete asked, genuinely confused by my sudden burst of action.
‘I’m sick to death of these bastards,’ I screamed. ‘They follow me everywhere, poking their noses into every fucking corner of my life!’
‘Wow, babe!’ He put a steadying hand on my arm, pulling me back as I landed another kick. ‘That’s my film crew, man. They’re making a documentary about me and my music.’
I couldn’t believe it; the guy was still filming as he hauled himself back to his feet. He wasn’t even moaning or anything and I know for sure it must have hurt like fuck because I put my full weight into that kick and they were mean boots.
‘Ah, shit, Pete, you didn’t say.’
He was laughing.
‘It’s not fucking funny, Pete, I could have killed him.’
I was trying to apologise to the guy, trying to explain that I’d never done anything like that before in my life, but the camera was still running and I could imagine how pathetic and ridiculous I was sounding, so I gave up and retreated to the safety of the taxi while Pete and his team slunk back into the building to continue being filmed. It was only once we were well away from the area that I realised exactly what had happened. They were making a film about Pete to promote his music? How the fuck did that happen? Last time I’d heard he was a fucking fugitive from justice.
By the time I got back home that night I felt more depressed than I had ever felt before – which was pretty weird, really, considering how well most things in my life were going. There was a photographer lurking in the street outside who fired off at least fifty shots of me between the car and the front door. I said hi to him but he didn’t respond, just kept firing away. If he’d been halfway polite I might have invited him in for a drink, just to have some company for a while and maybe to make up for kicking the shit out of the other poor guy. Missed an opportunity there, silly sod. Probably could have made another ten grand out of a few shots of me at home.
Once I was inside I wasn’t sure what to do. I would have asked Gerry round, but I knew he was out working on a location shoot. I didn’t fancy getting drunk on my own.
I scrolled back through my phone to a message Quentin James had left me a week or so before, with Maggie’s address and number. I’d been pissed off when he sent it. I didn’t think it was any of his business to try to act the cupid in our mother–daughter horror story. But I hadn’t deleted it, so God knows what was going on in my subconscious. I thought about ringing to see if she was in but changed my mind. I slipped out the back door in case the photographer was still there, and went in search of another taxi.
Chapter Sixteen
The address was in Earl’s Court, an area of west London I wasn’t familiar with. It was a basement flat in an old red-brick building that must once have been quite grand, just behind the crowded, noisy main street. As I descended the steps into the damp shadow of the building a shiver ran right through me. It felt a bit like I was walking back into my own past, a time before I was even born. Very weird. I was tempted to turn and run and lose myself in the bustle and roar of the Earl’s Court Road, even after I’d knocked on the door. I forced myself to stay put and wait to see what was going to happen next.
I could see someone approaching through the frosted glass, but it was still a shock when the door jerked open and I saw her face. She looked like something from a horror movie. She must have been wearing a wig at Quentin’s office because her real hair was shorter and almost white. The hint of yellow could have been the last remnants of a blonde past, or could have been nicoti
ne staining. But more shocking than that was the state of her face. It looked like she’d been caught in a house fire, all the skin burned and sore, plasters everywhere. She was wearing dark glasses despite the fact that it was evening and the flat behind her was dimly lit.
‘Hi,’ I said, trying to recover my composure. ‘It’s Steffi.’
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’
She stood back to let me in. The smell of smoke and stale cooking was overpowering. The place was quite tidy and clean, but shabby, like nothing had been replaced or repaired or decorated in twenty years. She led me into a small sitting room next to the front door. There were bars over the window to deter intruders and a gas fire, which had added another smell to the stale air. There were photographs everywhere, most of them of her, some obviously studio portraits taken to try to get modelling or acting work, others snaps taken with people who had the look of celebrities, although I didn’t recognise any of them. It was shocking how much I looked like her when she was younger, except that she had dark hair and eyebrows, not like I’d imagined at all. It was like seeing myself dressed up for a part set in the 1970s or 1980s.
‘If I’d known you were coming I could have warned you,’ she said, gesturing at her face.
‘What happened?’
She laughed. ‘Nothing happened. Self-inflicted. Finest plastic surgeon in Harley Street, or so he tells me. I’m having a make-over. It’s part of Quentin’s plan to relaunch my career.’
‘A televised facelift?’
‘When I did the story I told him I needed enough money for a facelift and he said he could do better than that – said he could arrange for a documentary, which would mean I would get paid and they would pay all the expenses; plus I get the exposure on prime-time telly.’
It all sounded a bit desperate to me, but I didn’t say anything.
‘Hope it’s all right of me to pop in like this.’
‘Of course. I hoped you would.’
She didn’t ask me how I knew the address, so I guessed she must have known about Quentin texting me.
‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked.
The business of fetching ice and cutting slices of lemon filled the next few awkward minutes.
‘Has Quentin got any other plans for you, then?’ I asked, as the atmosphere became a little more comfortable.
‘Plenty. Listen, I know it looks like I’m cashing in on your success …’
I said nothing.
‘But you can see that things are pretty desperate. I don’t have many more chances to make it.’
‘He seems a bit of a sleazeball to me,’ I said.
‘I’ve met worse.’ She shrugged. ‘Hell, I’ve gone out with worse. Quentin and me, we go back a long way together. More than once he’s helped me raise money when it looked like I was just about to go under.’
‘You’ve sold stories through him before?’
‘Quentin knows where all the skeletons are hidden.’ She gave a throaty smoker’s laugh.
It seemed odd to think that a man like Quentin knew things about my past that I didn’t, like he was some spooky, all-knowing, behind-the-scenes manipulator – which, I guess, is exactly what he is.
‘How did you meet Dad?’ I asked. I’d read most of the story in the papers by then, but I needed something to talk about, and my experience had taught me that reporters didn’t always tell the whole story.
She took a long drink. ‘I was working in a place called Raymond’s Revue Bar. It was the best strip joint in London, probably in Europe, at the time – world famous. Big shows with costumes and proper choreography. Sometimes Raymond would introduce us to the punters after the show. Nothing was expected, unless you wanted to arrange it yourself. Your dad was there with a stag party. They were bloody drunk, but he was a good-looking guy and we sort of clicked.’
‘Did he tell you he was married?’
‘Not the sort of thing that would come up in conversation at a place like that.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ I knew I was in danger of coming across like someone’s disapproving maiden aunt.
‘Anyway, there was a chemistry and we got it together. He took precautions, but it must have ripped.’
That was more information than I needed, but I said nothing, taking a large swallow of gin while I absorbed the story so far.
‘Where did you go?’ I asked, not sure why I felt the need to know. ‘A hotel?’
‘Good God, no,’ she laughed again. ‘Neither of us could have afforded a hotel. He came back here.’
That was a shock. I was actually sitting in the flat where I had been conceived. She had been living in this hole for all those years; that was depressing.
‘So, it was just a one-night stand?’
‘Not exactly, but once he discovered I was pregnant he got all pious and Catholic on me. I would have had an abortion if he’d been willing to pay. Sorry,’ she said with a grimace, ‘but I would. He said that would be a sin, gave me the whole spiel; said he would bring you up himself. I didn’t think he was serious, I certainly didn’t think his wife would agree. When she did it seemed like the perfect answer.’
‘And they paid you?’
‘I had to live and I needed to stay healthy till you were born. Not a big demand for pregnant strippers.’
We sat in silence for a few minutes. It was a bit of a slap in the face to know your own mother would have got rid of you if she’d had her way, but the thought that Dad had wanted me so much he was actually willing to go to Mum and confess all made me feel quite tearful in a good way. He might be a moody, stubborn, violent old bastard who couldn’t hold his drink, but at least he’d wanted me. Mum must have wanted me too, otherwise she wouldn’t have been willing to treat me like one of hers for all those years. It’s funny the places where you can find a bit of consolation for life’s tougher blows, isn’t it?
‘How old was I when you handed me over?’
‘They took you away immediately. I never even saw you. All I knew was that you were a girl.’
‘And you never wanted to get in touch, find out how I was doing?’
‘Sometimes.’ She shrugged. ‘But I’d made a deal, promised not to. I even came over and sat outside your block once or twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, but you never came out while I was there. I sort of felt sure I would recognise you if you did. I was pretty busy after that, getting my career going again.’
Another silence fell as I tried to work out what I was feeling.
‘I read in The Stage that you’re nominated for a Bafta,’ she filled the silence. ‘That’s a hell of a good break.’
‘Yeah, thanks. There’s no chance I’ll get it. They must have been short of people to nominate this year.’
‘Don’t put yourself down, you’re a talented actress. It’s in your genes.’
‘Thanks,’ I said again, although I knew she was complimenting herself as much as me.
‘What will you wear?’
‘I don’t know. Everyone asks that.’
‘All the designers will be on to you, wanting to lend you stuff.’
‘Yeah, my agent has told me. I’m not really into all that. I like vintage. I’ll probably pick up something in Camden Market.’
‘You like vintage?’
‘Well, Oxfam mostly.’
‘Ever heard of a 1970s designer called Bill Gibb?’
‘No.’
‘Same period as Zandra Rhodes and that lot, but he died early. His stuff was always in Vogue; magical, beautiful designs. I modelled for him once.’
‘Yeah?’
‘At the Albert Hall. It was this huge charity production.’
Just remembering her glory days was making her sit up straighter, raising her chin and running her fingers through her sparse hair as if it were still beautiful.
‘I was dating this guy who was one of Bill’s backers. He gave me one of Bill’s originals, had it made to measure, real couture perfection. Everyone modelling that day w
as wearing their own Bill Gibb originals; all the most beautiful actresses and models and society girls. Everyone loved Bill, they were all happy to do it for him. It was a fabulous night.’
‘Pity you don’t still have it,’ I joked.
‘I do. Do you want to see it?’
‘That would be great.’ It was a relief to find something neutral to talk about.
She led me through into the bedroom, which was even darker than the sitting room. The unmade bed was a tousled mess of dark-red and black bedclothes; there were more pictures of her on the walls. In the corner of the room was a wicker peacock chair covered in leopardskin-print cushions. She saw me looking at it.
‘Biba. The whole flat was Biba once, but things get broken and wear out. There’s never been anything like it since.’
The air was clearer in there, as if she had a no-smoking rule in there at least. An ancient dark-wood wardrobe dominated one side of the room, covered in hangers and clothes. She lifted them off, throwing them on to the bed, so she could open one of the doors. Inside the rail was crowded but she seemed to know exactly what she was looking for and pulled out a dress in a plastic cover. She threw it on to the bed on top of everything else and directed the bedside light at it, as if arranging a spotlight on a stage, before unzipping the bag and lovingly lifting the gown free. I had been all set to make some polite comments but I actually gasped at the beauty of the gown that emerged. It had been stitched together with intricate layers of feathers and beads on a background of lace and silk. It was the sort of dress a little girl might imagine a fairy princess to wear. It was a fantasy.
‘It was the one that the press liked,’ she said wistfully. ‘We were on the front of all the papers the following day; even Twiggy didn’t get as many column inches. I’ll show you the cuttings.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I whispered, gently stroking the feathers as if they were still attached to a living creature. It seemed incredible that an object of such beauty and delicacy could be living in such a terrible, sad, shabby place, imprisoned in the dark when it should be out in the spotlight.