The Four of Us

by Margaret Pemberton

  She hadn’t understood his behaviour then, and she didn’t understand it now, because Francis had loved being part of the music business. As the limo pulled to a halt, she found herself hoping that he’d missed it so much he’d be on his knees, begging her to ditch Aled Carter so that their old business relationship could be renewed.

  And what of their other relationship? The one that no one knew about? What was going to happen to that once Geraldine and he were married?

  She got out of the limo, taking the envelope with her. Ever since her Hell’s Angels days she’d been promiscuous. If she wanted to sleep with someone she slept with them, whether or not she was in a relationship with them, or even likely to be in a relationship with them. Spending so much time with Francis had inevitably meant that there’d been occasions, usually when they were on an adrenalin high after a successful gig, when they’d fallen into bed together.

  It had been something neither of them had tortured themselves over. Francis always spoke of Geraldine as if she were, quite simply, his best friend, and they were marrying because it was something his father and her mother had planned for them since the cradle. ‘Geraldine loves Cedar Court passionately – far more passionately than anyone else I might marry ever would,’ he’d said. ‘What’s more, she’ll run the estate like clockwork, which is all to the good, because I’ve no interest in doing so.’

  Kiki, who hadn’t a romantic bone in her body, hadn’t been overly shocked at such a prosaic approach to marriage. If that was how Geraldine and Francis wanted to arrange things, it was fine by her – as was the great sex she and Francis enjoyed whenever there was no other outlet for post-concert adrenalin highs.

  The first thing she saw as she entered the flat was a large card propped on the telephone table on which was written: Welcome home! There’s a bottle of bubbly in the fridge and I’ve left the water heater on, so there’ll be lashings of bath water. I’ll be home as soon as poss. Love you. Primmie.

  Feeling immediately cheered, she tossed her beret on to the nearest chair and, leaving Albert to hump her luggage into the hall and to see himself out, she went into the bathroom and turned the hot tap full on.

  While the bath was filling, she went in search of the champagne. It was Louis Cristal. Mentally giving Primmie full marks, she opened it with expertise born of long practise then, the champagne bottle in one hand, a glass in the other, Aled’s envelope tucked beneath her arm, she went back into the bathroom.

  Half an hour later, soothed by champagne and deep, scented bathwater, she stretched a hand over the side of the bath and reached for the envelope. The sheet of paper inside was headed: Schedule Week Commencing 3rd May.

  Tuesday 5th

  1000 – Urgent meeting my office re material for new album.

  1300 – Lunch with Kit, Mr Chow’s.

  1500 – Interview with New Musical Express.

  1600 – Photo shoot.

  1800 – Rehearsal Top of the Pops.

  Wednesday 6th

  1000 – Meeting with producer Juke Box Jury.

  1300 – Lunch San Lorenzo with Dick Shields, EMI.

  1530 – Rehearsal with new session musicians.

  1900 – Top of the Pops.

  2200 – Party at Ad-Lib.

  Thursday 7th

  0800 – Meet with choreographer for Birmingham gig 29th.

  1000 – Meet re next month’s gigs in Milan, Pisa and Rome.

  1230 – Interview for TV World.

  1300 onwards – Song material discussion with Kit.

  1800 – Rehearsal with new session musicians.

  Friday 8th

  0830 – Flight to Newcastle. Tyne Tees TV.

  Saturday 9th

  0800 – Return London. Morning meet new album issue.

  At the bottom, by hand, was scrawled: Great offer star spot Saturday night TV Arthur Haynes Variety Show. Will talk asap.

  She dropped the schedule back on to the floor, ran the hot tap to heat the cooling water and closed her eyes. A variety show. A variety show? Was Aled mad? She was a rock singer, not a bland all-round family entertainer. What kind of a career path was he trying to push her down?

  The sound of the flat door slamming open and Primmie shouting ‘Welcome back!’ as she ran down the hall towards the bathroom banished Aled from her thoughts.

  The bathroom door crashed open and Kiki’s grin split her kittenish face in two. ‘I’m already halfway through the Louis Cristal,’ she said, raising her champagne glass. ‘Thanks for the thought, Prim. It was a lifesaver.’

  ‘Gosh, but it’s good to have you home, Kiki!’ Primmie fell on her knees beside the bath, radiant faced. ‘The flat was quiet as a tomb without you!’

  Kiki gave her a damp, loving kiss on the cheek.

  ‘It’s good to be home, Prim. Australia was exhausting. When we weren’t performing we were travelling God alone knows how many miles to wherever it was we were performing next. The road crew were a nightmare and I haven’t had a day to myself since I left England. What’s been happening here? Any news of when Geraldine is back? How’s Artemis? When I left she said she was hoping to become pregnant. Has she?’

  ‘Geraldine will be back by Saturday. We all have dress fittings for the wedding Saturday afternoon. As for Artemis …’ There was no longer a beaming smile on her face. ‘Artemis isn’t pregnant.’

  She rested her arms on the edge of the bath. ‘And she’s not going to become pregnant, either.’

  Kiki’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Rupert is sterile. He had mumps as an adult and there’s no question of Artemis being able to have a baby.’

  Sending scented bubbles surging, Kiki pushed herself sharply upright. ‘Then why was Artemis so full of how she wanted a baby straight away? That’s why she’s no longer interested in modelling, isn’t it? Because she wanted to fall pregnant as soon as possible? Didn’t she realize what his having had mumps as an adult could mean?’

  Primmie’s face was grave, her eyes troubled. ‘He didn’t tell her, Kiki. Not until a few days ago.’

  Kiki opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. At her second attempt, she said, ‘What a bastard! What an absolute, utter bastard!’

  It was so true that Primmie had nothing to say. At last she said, scraping round for a mitigating circumstance, ‘Perhaps Rupert didn’t tell her before they were married in case Artemis would no longer want to marry him and he was frightened of losing her.’

  Kiki slid back down in the bath again, bubbles rippling up round her shoulders. ‘That doesn’t make things better, Primmie. It makes things worse. It means he was deliberately deceptive – and deceptive about something he must have known would be whackingly important to Artemis. It’s not as if she’s one of life’s career girls, is it? The modelling was just something very Chelsea set for her to do until she married.’

  This again was so true that Primmie again remained silent. Kiki put her champagne glass down on the edge of the bath, swirled the water and the bubbles round with her hand and then said meditatively, ‘Do you think she’ll leave him because of it? She could work as a model again and move back in with us – it is her flat, after all.’

  Aware that it was possibly a scenario that Kiki, who had always thought Rupert Gower an upper-class wanker, would like to see happen, Primmie said, ‘Artemis won’t leave him. She’s in love with him – and if she begins to believe that he didn’t tell her before they were married because he was terrified of losing her, she’ll forgive him absolutely.’

  ‘But at the moment she’s grief stricken about it. Right?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Primmie said, remembering the way Artemis had cried and cried and cried. ‘She’s devastated. She’s heartbroken about not having children. I don’t think she’s ever going to get over it.’

  ‘And you, Primmie? What about your love life? What’s happening there?’

  Primmie flushed, wishing with all her heart that Simon had telephoned Kiki with the news of their pending engagement. Knowing it would be out of
order for her to say anything until Simon had had the chance to break the news to Kiki himself, she said, ‘My love life is wonderful, but I can’t talk about it just yet. Maybe in another couple of days …’

  Kiki eyed her in amusement. That Primmie had had a secret relationship ever since her early days at BBDO was something she had cottoned on to long ago. As Primmie wasn’t secretive by nature, the only conclusion she’d been able to come to was that the guy in question was married. And, if the flush of excitement in Primmie’s cheeks was anything to go by, wasn’t going to be married for too much longer.

  ‘Is he older than you?’ she asked, voicing another long-held suspicion.

  Primmie’s flush deepened. ‘He’s forty-three,’ she said and then, as if terrified of giving away any more, she stood up, saying, ‘Shall I put some pasta on? You must be starving.’

  ‘Pasta would be super – and don’t worry about the age difference between you and your bloke, Primmie. As long as he makes you happy, go for it!’

  ‘Thanks, Kiki.’ Primmie paused at the bathroom door and shot her a blinding smile. ‘I’m going to.’

  The next morning as Kiki backed her oyster-pink Mini Cooper out of the flat’s communal underground garage she was still seethingly angry at the thought of Artemis’s heartache. She’d realized when Artemis and Rupert had first become a couple that Rupert had little knowledge of the real Artemis. He’d fallen in love with a soignée, beautiful, blue-eyed blonde, who sexually had played very hard to get and whose outward demeanour was the last thing in cool, sophisticated chic.

  In reality, of course, the cool, sophisticated chic was merely a façade learned at modelling school behind which Artemis skilfully hid her many insecurities. Rupert thought he had netted himself a model destined to become as well known as Twiggy or Jean Shrimpton – models as famous as the pop stars and actors they associated with. Instead, he had netted someone who, now she had gained impeccable social standing, was totally uninterested in being anything other than an indulged wife and a doting mother.

  Right from the very beginning it hadn’t been a marriage made in heaven. Now it seemed a marriage destined for disaster.

  She pulled out into the busy traffic of Kensington High Street, the sun roof open. Denied the pleasure of speeding she turned on the eight-track tape player that took up most of the dashboard, and the sound of Little Richard giving vent to ‘Baby Face’, blasted from the speakers. As pedestrians turned their heads to see just where the cacophony of noise was coming from, Kiki grinned. Where rock was concerned, the old numbers were the best. She just had to convince Aled Carter of it.

  ‘You’re not listening, Kiki.’ Aled Carter, short, fat and full of frenetic energy, stubbed a cigar out in a giant glass ashtray and sent his swivel-chair revolving, as if doing so would give him time to control his temper. When he was again facing her, he slapped a hand down on his oversized desk. ‘A star appearance on Saturday night TV is a gift. It’s absolutely non-negotiable. And you should be on your knees thanking me for it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. Variety shows are crap TV and The Arthur Haynes Show is barely one up from the Black and White Minstrels.’

  Mutinously she stood at the far side of his desk. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans tucked into lizard-skin boots and a T-shirt covered in royal-blue sequins. Her lipstick was sporting pink, her eyeliner jade, her eye shadow fuchsia.

  The rainbow of colours left Aled unimpressed. He tightened his lips and breathed in hard. ‘Don’t push me, Kiki. You’re not a big enough star – and you never will be if you don’t start doing as you’re told. I indulged you in holding off recording an album until you had enough Lane/Grant material to go into a studio with, even though it caused havoc with your recording contract. Now you’re telling me there is no material – and not likely to be until some unspecified date. You’ve only had two hit records, Kiki. They were big, but not so big they won’t swiftly be forgotten if an album isn’t released pretty damn quick. I’ve been busy liaising with Kit, putting together a package I think we can go with.’

  With pudgy fingers, he held a sheet of paper towards her. ‘Cast your eye over the songwriters and here’s a tape. Eight of the tracks are brand new. The rest are covers. And this is the way it’s gotta be, Kiki. Lane/Grant tracks are gonna have to be for album two.’ He paused and then said meaningfully; ‘That is if there is an album two.’

  Not remotely unnerved, Kiki handed him back his typewritten list, slid the tape into her back pocket and eyeballed him stonily. ‘You haven’t come up with one decent name.’

  ‘Whom were you hoping for?’ he shot back sarcastically. ‘Burt Bacharach and Hal David?’

  ‘Maybe. At the very least Carol King or Don Black.’

  He breathed in hard. ‘The day will come, Kiki, but it isn’t today.’ As if the subject had been satisfactorily resolved, he spun his chair round again and this time, when again facing her, said, ‘As for The Arthur Haynes Show. You’ll do it. The exposure is huge.’

  With rare self-control, she remained silent, knowing that argument would be a complete waste of time.

  He wasn’t fooled into thinking that she was now seeing things from his point of view. ‘Rock stars have a short shelf-life,’ he said bluntly. ‘All-round family entertainers stay the course. Don’t be your own worst enemy, Kiki. Don’t think you know best where your career is concerned, because you don’t.’

  She gave an ungracious lift of her shoulders. Choosing to take it to mean she was now OK with things he flashed his teeth in what passed for a smile. ‘And your one o’clock lunch date with Kit is off. He has summer flu.’

  ‘Has the table been cancelled?’

  ‘No. Not yet. Why?’

  ‘Because I haven’t seen my father in over three months and if Kit’s cancelled I might as well meet up with him, instead.’

  She swung out of the office, knowing she was doing so for what was near to the last time. Aled might genuinely believe he knew what was best for her, but lightweight songs and variety shows were not the way she wanted to go – and that meant that he and she were going to have to split up.

  ‘Bye, Kiki,’ Aled’s secretary said to her as she marched through reception.

  Kiki raised a hand in response and seconds later was in the street. Quite simply, she didn’t have to put up with all the shit Aled was dishing out. He hadn’t been responsible for the success of her first two records. Francis had been managing her when she’d achieved her breakthrough successes. All Aled had done was to capitalize on the success she and Francis had achieved – if sending her off to Australia for two months and thinking that getting her a spot on The Arthur Haynes Show could be called capitalizing.

  Knowing what it was she was going to do the instant Francis returned to London, she didn’t head immediately for her parked Mini, but for the nearest phone box.

  ‘I’m back, Simon,’ she was saying three minutes later. ‘How do you fancy lunch at Mr Chow’s?’

  A group of American tourists descended on her as she walked across the pavement towards the restaurant.

  ‘Kiki! Kiki!‘ they whooped, surrounding her in a flurry of excitement, searching in pockets and bags for something she could autograph.

  She obliged them with gusto, seeing, with a real buzz, that her father was approaching down the street and was witnessing the adulation she was receiving.

  He hung back until her fans finally allowed her to continue across the pavement.

  ‘My goodness, does that sort of thing happen often?’ he asked as they walked into the restaurant together.

  ‘Fairly,’ she said, trying to sound cool about it and not give away the thrill it had given her for him to see her in pop star mode.

  Once they were seated at a table, he said, ‘How was Australia? Did you get to see much of it?’

  ‘I saw dusty small-town airports, dusty dressing rooms and scores of hotel bedrooms that all looked the same,’ she said, doing a recce of the restaurant. ‘I didn’t have a day off – or not one
when I wasn’t travelling from one town to another – in the entire two months I was there. The road crew were hell and the weather was worse. I don’t like sun, not day in and day out with temperatures zooming off the scale.’

  ‘Oh!’ he looked disconcerted.

  He also, she noticed, looked very out of place in Mr Chow’s. He was wearing grey flannels and a tweed jacket with elbow patches. As he pushed a lock of floppy fair hair away from his forehead, she found herself looking for signs of grey. There weren’t any, and neither was he going bald. If only he didn’t dress like an old fogey he would still, she thought, be passably attractive.

  ‘So when did you arrive back?’ he was saying. ‘Yesterday?’

  She nodded, still recce-ing the room. Dudley Moore was seated with a young woman at a nearby table but, as she didn’t know him, there was no kudos to be gained from his proximity. An agent she knew slightly was having lunch. He caught her eye, briefly acknowledging her presence. It wasn’t quite the in-crowd atmosphere her ego needed. Then the door opened and Davy Jones of The Monkees breezed in, Peter Tork, Mike Nesmith and Micky Dolenz behind him.

  She’d been on the same bill with them at a concert at Wembley Arena and, as heads turned and the atmosphere at their presence became electric, she simply made eye contact with Davy and enjoyed the next few minutes with almost orgasmic pleasure.

  ‘Kiki!’ Davy hollered, ignoring the head-waiter, who had rushed towards him, and heading straight towards her table. ‘How was Aussieland? Great to see you. Now you’re back we’ll have to meet up. We’re staying at the Savoy and heading back to the States in a week.’

  Every eye in the room was on them, as well it might be. The Monkees’last album had sold over three million copies. They were as big as the Beatles. Bigger than the Rolling Stones. What was more, they were greeting her as a fellow performer and her father was there to see it. It was a high better than anything she’d ever experienced on cocaine or LSD.

  When the mini-reunion was over and the headwaiter had steered Davy, Peter, Mike and Micky to a reserved table at the back of the room, Simon said bemusedly, ‘Who are they?’