Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  Georgia giggled. ‘Does it work?’

  ‘Rarely, they usually go so chilly on me I have to leave,’ he pulled a woebegone face.

  ‘Oh Rod,’ she was really laughing now. ‘I’m glad you came round, you’ve made me feel much happier.’

  ‘Well, take Ian’s old shirt off,’ he said as he made coffee. ‘Put something snazzy on and we’ll go and see a film. Regret’s a mug’s game.’

  Delivery vans woke her early on Monday morning. She got out of bed and put the kettle on, but only then did she realize she had no milk left.

  Slipping on a pair of jeans, and the first sweater that came to hand, she ran down the stairs.

  There was a cold, crisp autumn feeling in the air. Even though the sun was shining it was too low in the sky to reach her side of the street as it did in the summer.

  ‘Good morning Georgia.’

  She stopped and looked around. The market men were always calling out to her. But this voice didn’t belong to a cockney barrow boy.

  Two men were pushing their way through the stalls towards her. Both had cameras slung round their necks, but she didn’t make the connection immediately.

  ‘Good morning,’ she replied, aware several stallholders had stopped work to watch. ‘How do you know my name?’

  One was in his thirties, neatly-combed brown hair, wearing a tweed jacket, a pleasant open face that invited trust. The other was older, fat-faced and balding, wearing a beige three-quarter-length raincoat.

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know your record reached number forty on Saturday?’ the younger one said, smiling as though amused by her surprise. ‘Surely we aren’t the first reporters to track you down?’ As he spoke he lifted his camera and took a picture of her.

  ‘Yes. No,’ she was flustered, aware her hair was uncombed and her sweater had a hole in the elbow. ‘I mean, yes you are the first, and no I didn’t know it had reached the charts.’

  ‘They reckon it could be number one in a couple of weeks,’ the older man said. ‘It could topple the Beatles. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Thrilled.’ She didn’t actually feel anything, in fact she was sure it was some kind of hoax. If she’d known they were hanging around her door she wouldn’t have come out at all. ‘What paper are you from?’

  ‘The Mirror,’ the older man’s hand shot forward to grasp hers. ‘Dave Barnet’s the name, could I buy you some breakfast and have a little chat?’

  The younger man lifted his camera again, she turned to him waving her hand to stop him, suddenly anxious.

  ‘Couldn’t you have phoned or something? Are you from the Mirror too?’

  ‘No, I’m from the Evening News,’ the younger put down his camera and advanced on her. ‘Giles Went-worth. I tried to telephone yesterday, but you aren’t on the phone here. This must be just a temporary place?’

  He was gazing around the market, noting the pile of empty boxes and refuse by her door. His tone was warm, yet she bristled at the implication behind his words.

  ‘No,’ she said, running her hand through her hair, wondering if she should be charming, or send them away quickly. ‘I like it here. It’s where I belong.’

  ‘You were born here then?’ the older man chimed in.

  ‘No, in the East End.’ She saw the pit yawning before her. She would have to get a grip on herself, make a sensible background for herself before she said something she might regret later. ‘Now look, I’m surprised and flattered by your interest,’ she batted her eyelashes at the younger reporter. ‘But it’s too early for questions or pictures. I haven’t even had a cup of tea yet this morning. Why don’t you phone my manager Max Menzies and he’ll arrange a proper interview?’

  The market men were getting really interested now. They pressed in closer and from out of their depths came ribald comments and encouragement.

  ‘Give ’em a song Georgia!’

  ‘Tell ’em ’ow hard you’ve worked love!’

  ‘They seem to be your friends,’ Giles Wentworth looked almost nervous at the crowd gathering around him. ‘Could you pose with them for me?’

  She never knew whose arms came up and lifted her off her feet, one moment she was vertical, the next horizontal lying in the men’s arms supported by four of them.

  A click of the shutter, someone tickled her and another picture caught her laughing.

  ‘Just tell me Georgia,’ the older man moved closer as the men released her. ‘Is “No Time” in memory of Ian and Alan?’

  She was flustered. She should have thought all this out before. One wrong statement now and she could be damned forever.

  ‘Not exactly, though the words came to me after their funeral.’ Was that the right thing to say? She hadn’t wanted anyone to dwell on Ian and Alan’s death, and after the evening with Max she felt she’d betrayed Ian.

  ‘You were in love with Ian McShane,’ the younger man said. It wasn’t a question, more a statement he wanted confirmed. ‘It must have been a terrible blow?’

  ‘The worst kind,’ Georgia felt tears rise in her eyes. ‘But you must excuse me now. I’ve got an appointment later on this morning.’

  An hour later as she showered and washed her hair, the significance of the two reporters sank in. This was what she could expect now, people popping up at all times, trying to catch her unawares. Even though she didn’t want to see Max, she had to. Like Rod said, regrets were a mug’s game!

  ‘Why did you run out on me?’ Max sat at his desk twiddling a paperclip. Thick dark stubble covered his lower face. If he wasn’t wearing a different suit and tie she would have thought he hadn’t been home since the party.

  Rod had made her feel better yesterday. The news of the record making the charts suggested at last things were about to blast off. She had to find the right words, make Max realize that Saturday night was something behind them both.

  ‘It was all a mistake,’ Georgia blushed, it sounded so cruel. ‘Someone slipped something in my drink.’

  To her surprise Max grinned, showing his white even teeth.

  ‘Well, that’s a flattering thing to say. I take it you mean letting me make love to you was the mistake, not walking out the door?’

  For a second she thought Max was relieved at her attitude, that he’d thought it over and decided it was a non-starter.

  ‘I shouldn’t have let it happen,’ she hung her head. ‘You’re married and my manager, you’re even old enough to be my father. It would be best if we buried and forgot it.’

  ‘You don’t claim it was rape then?’

  Georgia’s eyes flew wide open, she stiffened visibly.

  ‘What did I say?’ Max got up and came round the desk towards her.

  ‘N – nothing,’ she stammered.

  Max shook his head, a faint glimpse of amusement in his eyes. He perched on the desk just inches from her, staring at her hard.

  ‘I can’t forget,’ he said softly. ‘You can play hard to get if you like. The terrified virgin if that’s how you feel. But I know you enjoyed it, whether or not someone slipped something in your drink. I know I’m too old for you, but there’s always been a spark of something between us, even you can’t deny that.’

  ‘All right, maybe there was,’ Georgia looked up defiantly. ‘But it’s something I don’t want to repeat. If it had been right I would have been happy about it. All I feel now is misery and shame.’

  ‘You certainly know how to flatter a guy,’ Max folded his arms, his mouth turning down at the corners. ‘I can’t say I won’t try again because I want you Georgia, any way, any how. But if you want breathing space, you’ve got it. Can I be fairer than that?’

  ‘I want Saturday night to be wiped from your memory and mine,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I want us back where we were, business only. If you can’t handle that then I’m sorry.’

  She couldn’t look up at him. She knew he was hurt, yet if he felt so badly why didn’t he come round to her flat the next day, or even ask how she got home?

  �
��Is this all you came here for?’ his tone was icy now, and she remembered all those secretaries and office girls who’d been sacked once he’d lost interest in them.

  ‘Not exactly.’ She had to remember he needed her. She must be adult even if she felt like weeping inside. He wasn’t going to grind her down like he did everyone else who crossed him. ‘There were two reporters outside my door this morning. They said the record’s at number forty. I thought we ought to talk about both things.’

  ‘Did you now,’ Max sneered, not even a flicker of affection in his eyes. ‘I suppose you realized the old man has some uses?’

  ‘Fuck off Max,’ she snapped, getting to her feet. ‘I’ve done my best to be straight with you. If you don’t want to be my manager then I’ll find someone else. Don’t try and make me crawl to you, because I’ll start to hate you.’

  He caught hold of her wrist, digging his fingernails into her flesh.

  ‘Getting a bit above ourselves?’ he hissed. His breath stank of cigars and uncleaned teeth. Georgia recoiled in disgust.

  ‘I learned that from you,’ she snapped. ‘Now either we talk about what we say to the press or I go out and say whatever I feel like. It’s up to you!’

  He dropped her wrist immediately, stood up and backed away, returning to his seat behind his desk. She could see a vein throbbing in his forehead and she guessed he was trying to control himself.

  ‘Let’s pretend Saturday night ended with the gig at the Scene,’ he said slowly, looking down at his big hands clenched on his blotter in front of him. ‘I won’t bring it up again, I’m just your manager.’

  It was a hollow victory to see him like this. Part of her wanted to rush round the desk and hug him, to reassure him he wasn’t old and ugly, that he would always have a place in her life. But she didn’t dare. Max would take it as a sign of weakness.

  ‘So is it true? The record is number forty?’ she said, sitting down again.

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed deeply, as if struggling to control conflicting emotions. ‘I heard last night, and came over to your place to celebrate with you. But you were out.’

  ‘I see.’ She wasn’t going to apologize, or explain where she was. ‘I take it you found someone else to celebrate with?’

  He half smiled then, rubbing one hand round his bristly chin.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Well I suggest you get in that bathroom and shave.’ Her tone was brisk and unsympathetic. ‘I’ll sit here and write a profile of myself while you’re gone.’

  Max looked at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. It echoed round the big office, shaking the framed photographs of Bill Hayley and Jerry Lee Lewis.

  Georgia was stunned, but at least his laughter was better than morbid self-pity.

  ‘You can be a right little bitch sometimes,’ he said, still spluttering with laughter. ‘But you’ve certainly got a head on your shoulders.’ He pushed a sheet of paper towards her and his gold pen. ‘When I’ve made myself presentable we’ll talk photographs and press releases. You’ll need new clothes and somewhere better to live. Berwick Street might have been handy when your face was just another pretty unknown one. But by the time the Evening News has printed something tonight you’ll have fans and weirdos camping on your doorstep. With you alone at night in that house, anything could happen.’

  Max stayed in the bathroom for over half an hour. When he came back into the office he found Georgia resting her head on folded arms on his desk. The litter bin beside her was piled up high with screwed up pieces of paper.

  ‘Have you done it?’ He came round behind the desk and looked down at what she’d written.

  ‘You’ve said nothing about yourself!’ he exclaimed. ‘Orphaned during the war. Left school without any qualifications, spent some time as a machinist before getting a first chance to sing at the Acropolis club in Greek Street.’ He flung the paper down angrily. ‘You’ll have to come up with a bit more meat than that!’

  ‘There is nothing else,’ she grinned up at him. ‘We’ll just have to be mysterious.’

  Max sat down heavily on his chair, loosening his tie and undoing his top button, a waft of Moustache aftershave reached Georgia’s nose.

  ‘I wish I could believe you,’ his eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘What is it you’re hiding?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Georgia stood up and stalked across the office to the window, keeping her back to him. ‘I just don’t think my childhood can possibly interest anyone. Who cares anyway what school I went to, or whether I was happy. It’s now that counts. Let them ask me what I’m interested in, what books I’ve read, or who influenced me. That’s enough for any fan surely?’

  ‘Just think, Rod,’ Georgia said later that evening as together they pored over a copy of the Evening News, in the dressing-room at the Marquee. ‘In a couple of weeks we might be eating at the Ritz!’

  Max’s phone had rung constantly all day with press wanting to know more about her. The paper in front of them proved the public was hungry for information.

  She liked the picture of her in the arms of the stallholders in Berwick Street, but she wasn’t exactly sure about the rest.

  ‘Berwick Street beauty tipped for the top,’ was the headline.

  ‘Georgia James races up the charts with her record “No Time”. Two years ago Georgia was selling frocks in Berwick Street on a market stall, now she’s on her way to stardom with a heart-stopping ballad written by herself and her band Samson. Two of the boys in the band died in a fire earlier this year and the song is dedicated to their memory.’

  ‘Shit,’ Rod exploded. ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘I didn’t exactly,’ Georgia said. ‘Neither did I say I sold dresses.’

  Maybe the article was corny. Yet she couldn’t help raise a smile about her love for Soho and the market.

  ‘They’ve made me sound like a cockney sparrow,’ she giggled. ‘Look at what Bert in the café said!’

  ‘“She’s got a knockout voice. Of course she’ll go all the way to the top, we never doubted it round here. She’s a lovely girl and we’re all very proud of her,”’ she read, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘Bless him.’

  That night people were turned away from the Marquee. Inside it was packed so tight with fans the temperature rose to the nineties. No dancing for the fans now, just pressed up together, hundreds of people clamouring to see her, prepared to face the discomfort just to hear her before she moved on to bigger venues.

  The next day it was the Mirror’s turn, taking it a stage further with pictures of her against piles of fruit, her door in the background. Another one of her on stage in Miriam’s old white dress, belting out a song, head thrown back, hair like a storm.

  They re-capped on the tragedy of Ian and Alan’s death and the star-studded benefit concert that followed it.

  ‘No time’, seemed almost prophetic now. There was no time to visit her old friends, no time to catch her breath. She had caught the public’s imagination and as the week passed, so the record flew up the charts.

  Menzies Enterprises was besieged with callers. Club owners wanted to book the band while they could still afford them. Magazines wanted profiles. Radio and television producers offered guest appearances and fans stood outside hoping for a glimpse of her.

  But to Georgia it became real when people turned to stare at her in the street and bolder ones came up to her and asked outright for her autograph.

  Two days after the reporters found her home, Georgia was whisked off by Max to The Sunderland, a small hotel close to Sloane Square, leaving most of her belongings behind in Berwick Street.

  ‘We’ll carry on paying the rent,’ Max said as he closed the door behind them. ‘Let the public think you’re still here for the time being.’

  No more long hours of lying in bed catching up from the gig the night before. No afternoons spent wandering around new towns or listening to records with the boys. Max would ring first thing in the morning to arrange her day, every minute
planned to give her the maximum publicity.

  Whether she was buying clothes, or eating a meal, somehow the press were always there. Cameras zooming in on her, microphones poised to catch even the most trivial of remarks. She had to learn to think before speaking, to keep her guard up at all times.

  It was exciting, yet frightening. Like that drug, it distorted her feelings, one moment she was high as a kite, the next strangely alone.

  Max was in his element as ‘No Time’ approached number one. He didn’t miss a trick. Sending men ahead to gigs to erect crash barriers for crowd control, creating mass hysteria himself. Press releases were timed to keep her image high, and almost every day there was a picture of her in one of the papers.

  At each performance the crowds got steadily larger. Queues stretched down the roads outside for hours before, and as she arrived in a limousine with blacked out windows the fans would surge forward, hands reaching out to touch her.

  Georgia was amused yet frightened by Max’s ploys. She understood that he had to promote her with everything within his power to make sure he got a return on his investment, but there was something vaguely dishonest about the flashy way he approached it.

  Once it had been hard to get him to watch an entire set, but now he never missed one. He strutted around in his expensive clothes and gold jewellery, opening magnums of champagne. He ordered people around as if he were the star, with a retinue of vacant-looking girls posing as personal assistants clinging to him.

  Suddenly everything had to be the best. A luxury coach, to get the band to gigs. A couple of tough-looking men to act as ‘minders.’ A permanent photographer. Hairdresser and make-up artist. Public relations girls, a woman to look after their stage clothes, and roadies to unload and set up the equipment. Hotels were booked for them, dinners, parties and press conferences. It was a circus, with Max as the ringmaster. He didn’t consult the band about anything. But who was paying for it all?

  The big black Daimler cruised almost silently down the Strand. Georgia wriggled forward in her seat, her heart thumping with excitement.

  Just three hours ago she had heard ‘No Time’ was finally at number one, pushing the Beatles off their perch. Tonight she was going to a party at London’s Savoy Hotel, where she was to be the guest of honour.