All Tomorrow's Parties

by Nicole Fitton

  It was all a bit creepy; he’d have to sort it - but how? He’d kept the photos. Laine looked sublime: she was obviously not aware the photos had been taken. He had planned to tell her about them at the Hiroko but that evening had definitely not gone to plan. Maybe it was the guy from Italy, maybe he was looking for money, so why hadn’t he received any kind of blackmail note? Alarm bells were ringing quietly in the distance.

  Tony had organised the honeymoon – two weeks in Bermuda. He wanted them to be as far away from Europe as possible.

  It was all a honeymoon should be. Laine & Tony laughed much and drank often. They swam off boats they had hired and grilled fish (with some assistance of the head chef) on the beach. Long sunset walks made Laine feel melancholy. Tony knew there was still much unsaid but just held her hand as they walked in silence. He had asked once what she was looking so sad for. “Too much stuff in my head”, she’d replied, with a look of loss held within the fabric of her skin. He knew not to push it, and decided that he would wait for her to open up in her own time.

  Two weeks had passed quickly. Back in London the music industry was running at double speed, running to try and catch up with itself. 1983 was turning Vestal into a hit factory with practically every band having some level of chart success. This meant a lot of promo parties, press conferences, late nights and not much else.

  11

  They had been married for just under a year now. Their life was finally starting to find its rhythm. Seen as the dream couple, it was not unusual for Laine accompanied by Tony to attend a launch party with Vestal; they would then head off from there to another function Tony had to attend - say a playback party for a Chrysalis or EMI band. They were driven, hardworking people who had a passion for music.

  The weekends were filled with either gigs or catching up with friends. Ella had become a regular Saturday night feature at Chez Black, and whether listening to the latest Vestal offering or watching Bob’s Full House on TV they always enjoyed themselves, cheese and all. Tony was usually out on Saturday evenings. There was always some band or other wanting him to attend their gig. It had started to become a bit of a tradition for Ella and Laine to grab a couple of quick drinks at the Woo Woo Hut – a local Camden buzz bar - and then head back to Laine and Tony’s for more wine and a bit of a chat. The Woo Woo Hut was a five-minute walk from Delancey Street. Plenty of burgers and B52s with a spit-and-sawdust attitude. The wooden floor had soaked up a lifetime of alcoholic beverages, giving it a pot pourri scent of late nights and good times. The air hung heavy with smoke - Marlborough man had met Silk Cut girl and they had birthed a multitude of smokey children. Their little jaunt to the Woo Woo Hut had become so familiar to them that they had even named it their “Saturday Night Special”. After a couple of B52s and some rather salty peanuts they would head back to Delancey Street and over a few more glasses put the world to rights.

  “Do you miss him Laine?” Ella looked up from the table as she spoke, aware that she was on unchartered ground. It was a subject that was always present but never spoken of.

  “With every part of me, is the truth Ella.” Looking up from her glass, Laine caught Ella’s eye.

  Although spoken very matter-of-factly, the words seemed to hang in the air, as if waiting – now they were out there and had been given air to breathe, life was starting to form within them.

  “I don’t want to go there tonight, sorry Ella, fact is I can’t go there. I feel as if once I start talking about it I’ll never be able to stop, or I won’t want to stop.” Laine paused. She knew sooner or later it would all have to be laid bare, otherwise she would go truly insane.

  “All I can say is not a day passes….” Her voice had started to tremble and she felt suddenly cold, unable to think straight, confused by the swell of emotion and hurt. “It’s OK Laine, I understand”. Ella reached out and softly cupped Laine’s hand across the table.

  “What a year it’s been for you Laine Black - a total rollercoaster if ever there was one. I don’t mind telling you there were times I thought you wouldn’t make it through that black fog”.

  “Thank God for Spandau Ballet!” slurred Laine, pouring out more Frascati – her wine of choice for the month of June. Spandau’s lyrics had been the subject of much debate earlier in the evening. The fact that Laine played their song “True” at least three times a day, much to the annoyance of her colleagues and her husband, was neither here nor there - Laine had come to the conclusion that “True” had been written whilst the composer was depressed…he had been in love and was now out of love – back to earth with a bump (“I bought a ticket to the world but now I’ve come back again”). She knew how this felt. She had also found it hard to write the next line, especially in her letters to John. Ella had insisted that the lyrics were in fact a made-up pile of nonsense: after all, who would be so pretentious as to name themselves after hangings in a Nazi Prison camp?

  “When will Tony be home?” asked Ella, reaching towards the fridge for another bottle of wine.

  They had encamped around the kitchen table, the open back door giving a glimpse of the warm June evening. Although close to the heart of Camden, Number 4 Delancey Street was relatively quiet. Most of the surrounding houses were used as offices by firms of solicitors or small businesses, so evenings and weekends were relatively peaceful.

  “Oh he’ll be back late, I’d imagine”, said Laine as she refilled their glasses.

  “It’s hard to believe you’re really married, Laine Black”, said Ella, changing the subject in the hope that the mood would lighten.

  “I know, sometimes it feels longer, I mean in a good way, and sometimes things happen and it seems like yesterday, it’s very profound. I’m sure you and Andy will be thinking about marriage soon El?” slurred Laine as the wine had now really taken hold.

  From the kitchen door they had a direct view through the hall to the front door. The letterbox had fluttered and a soft thud had resonated through to the back of the house where the girls were sitting.

  “Bloody hell your postman’s keen isn’t he?” laughed Ella, quickly avoiding the question. Both girls looked in the direction of the front door to see a large brown envelope sitting on the doormat.

  Laine laughed. “It’s probably some stoned courier who forgot to deliver a package here yesterday and is on his way to score so has dropped it off. Tony’s always getting stuff delivered here, although never had a Saturday night delivery before…” she said as she made her way merrily through the hall.

  Karenna had thought long and hard about how she could attempt to split up the happy couple. Prior to the wedding she had even thought about entering the church and objecting but had decided this was way too risky, no, she had to be clever about this. Tony was obviously blinded by Laine, so nothing she would say or do would make any difference. No, the answer lay with the whore. What she had witnessed in Italy kept tapping her on the shoulder; she had to get Laine to leave Tony.

  It had taken Laine a few moments to understand what her eyes were seeing. The envelope had been addressed to her. It contained photos, photos of her, photos of her and John - but how, where?

  “Ella!” screamed Laine.

  Ella had never heard such a primal cry. She imagined that a deer being chased by a wolf would make such a sound if it could. She could see Laine frozen to the spot by the front door.

  As she came alongside her friend her eyes glanced down at the photos Laine was holding. Her hand had such a tight grip on the edge of the photos that she could see the veins bulging on the top of her hand. The photo she saw looked like something out of one of those top-shelf mags. “Oh My God!” she gasped.

  The photo had captured Laine on all fours with John clearly entering her from behind, her full breasts hanging down towards the sand. Both were naked, but clearly on a beach and unaware of the photographer. It looked as if some sort of night vision technology had been used, as the images were very clear. It was the expression on both of their faces that told the true picture. If eve
r there was a look that could define love, here it was.

  Laine dropped the photos and ran upstairs to the bathroom. She couldn’t hold it in any longer and vomited directly onto the bathroom floor. She sank to her knees, her energy drained. Unable to fully understand what she had clearly seen, she began to sob. The sound that came out of her body was not known to Laine. It had its own pain entangled into hers. It was as though the fate of a million souls had rested with her and she had failed them. The sound had emanated from her pit of despair but as a magnet attracts so did Laine. Originating from the belly of many grieving souls, her cry was a bugle call sounding out – polarising common-felt misery – primitive and bare, it had cut through modern life and was a cry recognised by many. She was officially broken. She had been standing one-legged on a sixpence at the edge of the world. The coin had been tossed and she was now in free-fall.

  Ella had taken a few deep breaths, picked up the photos and had to sit down. There were five photos in total, all 10 x 8, all black and white, all of Laine and John, most in compromising positions. Three looked as if they had been taken on the beach and two - and this was the shocker - two looked as though they had been taken in Laine’s bedroom at the apartment in Italy. If the photos had not held such a sinister meaning, they would have been quite beautiful, thought Ella. One of the pictures was of Laine and John asleep, Laine’s head resting on John’s shoulder, his arm cocooning her, the outline of her legs between the sheets clearly hitched up around his waist. The look of complete contentment that swept across their faces was simply beautiful.

  Shivers started to go down Ella’s spine. Whoever these were from wanted trouble: but who, who would be warped enough to spy on them on their holiday? And why now, why a year after the event? Ella knew herself well enough to know she would become like a dog with a bone, and for her sake as much as her friend’s she was determined to find out who was behind this. A thought entered her head and then disappeared before she had a chance to recognise it. She knew it had been important, but it had gone: she prayed it would come back again and this time stay longer. Ella knew she would need help to get to the bottom of this and she knew exactly who to turn to. Right now her focus had to be Laine. She hurried to the bathroom, finding Laine huddled in the corner, eyes closed, ashen. She looked as if her spirit had gone; a husk seemed to be all that remained. With a heavy realisation Ella remembered why today must have been chosen. Today was June 14th - the day Laine had miscarried, one year ago today.

  Tony had had an enjoyable night, he had been invited by EMI to see The Armoury Show – Richard Jobson’s new band - play at Heaven. Although not quite what he had been expecting, Tony had admired the rawness of their songs. Unlike Stuart Adamson’s Big Country (Jobson’s former Skids bandmate) these were not immediate pop songs. There was something vaguely Jim Kerr-esque about the vocals, which he quite liked. He made a mental note to get onto EMI on Monday about running a feature. He had gone to the post-show party at the Hippodrome and bumped into Karenna, but she wasn’t Karenna: it was as if she had been transformed. He had been accompanied by his friend and esteemed music writer Chris Kendrick: both of them had dated Karenna “ONCE!”

  “OK I know I’ve had a few beers”, shouted Tony over the loud music extending up from the dance floor, “but that looks like a really hot version of Karenna”. He pointed down the bar to where Karenna was standing.

  “It is”, said Chris, with an air of disbelief clearly in his voice

  “Bloody hell, she wasn’t that hot when I dated her”, he continued.

  Karenna had purposefully perched herself within spitting distance of the two men. She had over the last year formulated her plan of attack. Tony was for now out of bounds; that was not her reason for being there. There were many ways to skin a cat and this was her way. Her objective for tonight was Chris. Chris with his bleached blonde hair and hint of an Anglo-Welsh accent was her target. She knew he and Tony were best friends and held a lot of respect for each other as writers. She had once before had a date with Chris, but then she had seen that as a stepping stone to reach Tony so had not really bothered too much when he had not called her back. Now he was firmly in her in-tray. He would again be her stepping stone into Tony’s circle. She was willing to play the game for as long as it took. The ball had been set in motion earlier in the evening by playing postie: now it was time to have some fun.

  Karenna had put on some weight and now actually had some curves. Her small frame had been lengthened by 5- inch white stilettos, giving her legs length. Wearing the smallest black leather mini skirt she could find, she had left nothing to the imagination. Her hair, which had always been an issue, had been dyed and curled to perfection. She looked over towards Chris and Tony and smiled. They in turn had smiled back, and Chris had raised his glass. This was the beginning, she thought, and was ready to step things up.

  The sound of Frankie’s “Relax”, 12-inch mega-mix version, was reverberating up towards the bar area, a floor filler if ever there was one.

  “Well I may have me beer goggles on Tony but I’m gonna go for it, don’t wait up”, said Chris, patting Tony on the back.

  Tony watched his friend and smiled as he slowly swayed along the bar towards Karenna. Good on him, he deserves some fun. It was time I called it a night anyway, thought Tony, and with that he headed out onto Leicester Square to catch a cab.

  Ella had stayed and waited for Tony to come home. She had persuaded Laine to take a sleeping tablet and go to bed.

  Ella was scared. She had seen her friend down, depressed

  even, but never this close to the edge. It was as though Laine had aged by about ten years during the course of the evening.

  There had been silence between the two women only broken by Ella’s direction and gentle coaxing. She had seen how close to the surface Laine’s grief at losing her child was, she had no idea things had been this raw. Poor Laine, how had she not seen it? She was meant to be her best friend.

  Ella knew she had to wait for Tony and sat in the living room. The room was very Laura Ashley - heavy dark florals and chintz in abundance. The room was lit by two large floor-based uplighters; Laine was in the midst of getting the rewiring done; none of the overhead lighting worked. The light from the uplighters gave the room a safe secure glow. The events of the evening had been harsh; the sitting room in its semi-ready state of repair was providing some much needed time for reflection. She made herself a coffee - who knew what time Tony would appear? The coffee would help her focus. Laine and Tony’s sitting room was beautiful, understated, unlike hers. A crystal vase sat on the bookshelf filled with white and red daisies. Laine had been moving on slowly in her own way: this was the first time Ella had ever seen anything other than roses in the house.

  Tears started to fall as if in slow motion, the salty waves crashing onto her white linen top. She loved her friend and would somehow get to the bottom of this. Strangely, what had happened tonight appeared to be a cry for help from two completely different people with completely separate needs and emotions. One she knew very well, and she reproached herself for not seeing Laine’s obvious agony. The other, unknown, hidden but somehow familiar. Who knew about Laine and John? And also about the miscarriage? And who cared enough to want to hurt Laine and why?

  Ella shuddered when she thought about it. Someone had been following them on holiday for God’s sake. Why? Had Tony got anything to do with this? No, she knew it would never be him, he worshipped the ground Laine walked on, so who? Maybe John’s crazy ex-wife? No, there is no way she could have known about the date of the miscarriage. John however, did, she thought sadly.

  On that final night in Italy when it seemed to Laine as if the world had broken in two and been flung into opposite directions, John had spoken with Ella. He had taken her into his confidence. She for her part had agreed to look after Laine once back in the UK. She knew he truly loved her friend. He had laid his heart open to Ella; Laine was his soul mate, he had wanted so much for his life not to

&n
bsp; be as screwed up as it was, but he had to do right by his girls and right by Laine. He loved her enough to let her go. When he got himself straight and had managed to pay off the debts that Kimberley had run up, he would come to the UK. In the meantime he would write to Ella every couple of months to see how Laine was doing and to let her know how things were going his end. Ella had believed he should write direct to Laine, that she would understand: she knew Laine loved him, she would wait until things were sorted out, she knew she would. He had argued fiercely that he had no right to ask that of her. Above anything else he wanted only good things for her, he wanted her to be happy. If she met someone else then he would be happy for her to be with him if she truly loved him. “Her life is precious, Ella, I have no right to take it and make it miserable, and that’s what I would do if I asked her to wait for me right now. I have no way of knowing how long it will take to get things straight. She will always be the greatest love of my life, whether she is with me or not. She is the me that’s missing, but that does not give me the right to be with her.” He had spoken from the heart.

  She had to respect his wishes. Ella had seen into the eye of John’s soul and it was crying. That night she had promised never to say a word to Laine.

  If she had realised then how painful things would be she would never have agreed to do it.

  She had had to tell him of Laine’s miscarriage and of her marriage to Tony. Each letter had taken her great strength. The ink had flowed softly over the fawn coloured paper, flowing as tears, tears she had been holding back as she tried so hard to detach herself from the words written. Miscarriage, marriage, love. She imagined John receiving these letters, eager with anticipation as he saw the airmail stickers and the delicate flow of Ella’s handwriting, then the gut-wrenching abyss that would follow the words she had written. She dared not imagine the damage her words had done to him.