I Must Confess

by Rupert Smith

  The big stranger descended the stairs, followed by a couple of friends, laughing and joking, obviously ‘high’ on the atmosphere of the night and the special magic of the club. I leaned forward on my stool and bingo! I was staring straight into his eyes. He didn’t come over right away; I think he was shy and uncertain of the ‘form’. He went with his friends to the other end of the bar, and bought drinks. Shortly, Tommy came over to us and whispered in Paul’s ear: ‘Gentleman down there wants to buy you a drink.’ We looked over, and there was one of the strangers – not the one I had noticed – waving and grinning at Paul, who slipped off his barstool and rolled up his T shirt to show off his tattoos to their best advantage. I lit a cigarette and sat alone.

  My patience was rewarded. After a few minutes I felt a gentle touch on my elbow and there at my side was the gentleman in the dinner jacket. ‘You look like you could do with a drink, young man,’ he half whispered. ‘What’ll it be?’ I asked for a rum and coke and watched as he pulled out a crisp new five pound note from his wallet to pay.

  Soon we were chatting away like old friends. He had a way of bringing me out, getting me to talk about things I’d never told even Phyllis before. My ambitions as an actor, my interest in rock & roll music, even my search for my ‘lost’ friend Nutter – it all came spilling out. (I omitted to tell him of my domestic problems.) He was a good listener, attentive, interested, inviting confidence. Drinks appeared as if by magic; I became animated, effusive, singing and reciting for all the world as if I was auditioning for a West End show. My new friend (I didn’t know his name yet) laughed at my jokes, applauded my songs and patted me on the back and the knee in mute encouragement.

  ‘So you want to get into showbiz, do you?’ he asked, after I had been rattling away uninterrupted for hours.

  ‘Oh yes, more than anything in the world.’ I blush now to think of how naïve and gushing I must have seemed – a young, untried talent taking its first breathless steps on the road to success.

  ‘Do you realize how much hard work is involved?’ he asked, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I’m ready to work for it,’ I said.

  ‘I do believe you are. You’ve got what it takes. You’re the most talented youngster I’ve met for a long time. Not since . . .’ He fumbled his words and was silent.

  I was intrigued. ‘You seem to know a lot about the business, er . . . What did you say your name was?’

  That was when he told me his name, who he was and what he did. I’m not the sort of person to drop names – and this is certainly not a ‘kiss and tell’ autobiography. Suffice to say, he was the manager of the biggest, most famous rock & roll band in the entire history of popular music. And he, HE!, was telling me that I was the most talented person he’d met since – well, we all know who.

  Here at last was my chance to learn something useful about my chosen profession. That’s how I’ve always regarded the celebrities that I’ve met – and over the years, I’ve met them all – as a golden opportunity to sit humbly at the feet of the immortals and learn. It would never have occurred to me that my new friend – I’ll just call him Brian – would ‘do’ anything for me. But if he’d only let me into his mind for a moment, that would be enough.

  Brian was forthright, almost stern, in his advice. If I was serious about the profession, he said, I should concentrate on music. That was the art form of the people, the future; theatre was a dead end. All the big stars of the future would be pop stars – bigger stars, he added, with a sweeping gesture that took in the portraits of Marilyn, Lana, even the Queen herself, than ‘all of these’. It was as if someone had read my mind. How could the theatre, that stuffy domain of old men like Phyllis, possibly touch the hearts of the real people? Surely the future was in the hands of the young, the boys who, like Nutter, had tasted life’s bitterness at an early age, who could put the twentieth-century blues to the beat of rock & roll. This was how Brian put it, and I heard every word. Goodbye Cleopatra, goodbye Cocteau, hello Top Twenty!

  But first, there were some hard lessons to learn. ‘You’re talented, Mark’, said Brian. ‘You belong on the stage. But you’ll never get anywhere looking like that.’ I was shocked! I thought of myself as a snappy dresser, and certainly I fitted in with the other young men in the club. It was the uniform of youth, a look that Nutter and I had developed: long hair greased up into a quiff, white T shirt, black leather jacket, jeans and work boots. But this wasn’t good enough for Brian. ‘You look like a hooligan,’ he said. ‘People don’t want greasy little oiks from the Dilly. They want a bit of style, a bit of class, a bit of tailoring. Suits and ties.’ He fingered a satin lapel. ‘Get your hair styled. Smart jackets cut short. Fitted trousers. Show off your bum, boy. That’s what they want.’ And he gave me a rough, appreciative squeeze. It was the best advice I ever received in my life.

  The evening ended with a challenge. If I could show that I meant business, Brian would ‘see what he could do’ for me in terms of a band, a gig, even a record deal. ‘Everything’s there if you’ve got the guts to grab it,’ he said as we climbed the stairs together. ‘Show me what you’re made of and then we’ll talk.’ He stepped into a waiting car and disappeared.

  But how? How could I transform myself into a stylish, sophisticated star? That kind of look costs money, and money was the one thing I didn’t have. How many talented young people have foundered on those very rocks?

  I knew what I wanted and where to find it. So it was to west Soho that I bent my footsteps, seeking out the as yet obscure shops and ‘boutiques’ that would soon be the epicentre of a fashion revolution. Carnaby Street, Foubert’s Place and Broadwick Street were still just obscure names in the A to Z, waiting for the wave that would sweep them on to the shores of immortality. They were quiet streets in those days, with discreet shop windows displaying a few carefully chosen goods. Just across the road in Savile Row, tailors were turning out the formal styles that British men had worn for centuries; but here, in these unremarkable little streets, there was a European invasion going on. The cuts were French, Italian and modern.

  There was one shop I kept coming back to. It wasn’t the biggest or the flashiest – a less discerning shopper would have walked straight past it. It had a modest frontage, with one large circular vitrine. Behind that, beautifully framed and lovingly placed on a podium draped with black velvet, was a photograph of – me! Not me now, but the me I wanted to be: a young man with shaggy hair cut in a fringe, a sharp little round-collared buttoned-up shirt, a pearl grey jacket that barely came down to his waist, straight-legged tailored trousers that ended in pristine black boots. He stood – I stood – leaning against the bonnet of a sports car, his hips thrust towards the camera and a knowing look in his eye. I could have been looking in a mirror.

  I glanced around in search of further enlightenment, and found a discreet sign above the door: Homme. I wanted to burst in directly, scoop up armfuls of clothes and rush off to the nearest hairdresser. For a few days I dithered around deciding what to do, searching for cheap versions of the clothes I’d seen in the Homme window. But finally my patience snapped. There was nothing else for it, I had to go and try them on. After walking up and down the street half a dozen times, I entered Aladdin’s Cave.

  It was a dark interior, filled with racks and shelves that disappeared into the gloom. Here and there a little spotlight pierced the darkness to pick out one specially displayed item, accompanied by a neat handwritten label – in French: ‘La chemise, £10’, ‘Le pantalon, £15’. And in pride of place, ranged against one wall on a long table like an altar, a single pair of very brief white underpants: ‘Le caleçon, £5/10/-’.

  The bell above the door had rung musically when I entered the shop, and soon from a door behind the counter emerged a figure whom I took to be the proprietor. He was small – shorter than I am, and at first glance not very much older. But on closer inspection I saw that this was a gentleman well into his forties, if not fifties. All that could be done to skin to hal
t the ageing process by way of astringents, moisturizers and exfoliants had been lavished on his face, which gleamed where it caught the light. His neatly trimmed, dark brown beard and moustache outlined a shapely little pink mouth. And to top it all off, he had a luxuriant head of chestnut hair, full at the sides, on top and on the back – and most obviously a wig. He was eccentrically dressed: a long silk smoking jacket over an open white cotton shirt and (when he emerged from behind the counter), no trousers. His feet were encased in kid slippers.

  He nodded coolly at me as I browsed between his displays, watching me like a hawk. I was used to being looked at: my years in the theatre and, more recently, as an habitue of the club had accustomed me to appraising stares. But this was a new experience. It was not a friendly look, nor was it hostile. It was calculating, penetrating, as if this strange little man were assessing me for some secret purposes of his own. The situation would almost have been sinister, were it not for that wig.

  After two minutes of silent staring, he offered his assistance. ‘Can I help you with anything? Or are you just having a good look round?’ He had a beautiful speaking voice, the obvious product of theatrical background.

  ‘I’d like to try a few things on, if I may,’ I replied, indicating a jacket, shirt and trousers that had caught my eye. He whipped out a tape measure from some fold of his deshabille and applied it to my physique with a practised ease. Drawers were opened, and from the fragrant lining paper there emerged the most beautiful clothes I had ever seen – my clothes, I felt, forgetting for one delicious moment the money problem. He ushered me towards a cubicle in the corner of the shop and discreetly drew the velvet curtain, waiting to witness my transformation. As I was half-way through my change, I remembered that I needed shoes. ‘Could I possibly try on a pair of those black boots as well, size seven?’ I asked, overlooking the fact that I was already stripped to my pants. He whisked across the shop and handed me the boots with, I thought, a slightly shaking hand.

  I finished dressing, revelling in these borrowed feathers that could never – could they? – be mine. Suddenly a thought came to me, as I remembered the dreadful state of my Y-fronts (underclothes I had brought with me from home, purchased by my mother). I had forgotten le caleçon. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I explained, ‘but I simply must try some on. Perhaps you could give me some advice on the best styles?’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ he replied. ‘Excuse me one moment while I fetch a special selection for you from the stock room.’ He disappeared.

  I don’t know what happened in the next few seconds, but suddenly I found myself running, running from the shop, bursting through the door and hurtling (as fast as the boots would allow) down the street. No sooner had I heard the shop bell jangle behind me than I collided with a crash into the arms of an oncoming stranger. Stranger? No! It was the manager from the shop. In one swift movement he grasped my wrist, twisted my arm behind me and marched me back indoors.

  Where before he had been all politeness and deference, now he was callous, insulting. ‘Come on, you little slag,’ he said, bustling me through the door (which he bolted behind him, turning the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’). ‘You didn’t really expect to get away with that one, did you? Do you think I was born yesterday?’ Suddenly I woke up as if from a horrible nightmare. I saw everything so clearly: my moment of temporary insanity, my flight from the shop, and the obvious fact that my captor had anticipated my exit by nipping straight through the basement door to apprehend me like a common thief. It was a terrible shock, and my knees gave way underneath me.

  ‘Where . . . where am I?’ I murmured as the shop span around me. ‘Have I had another of my fits?’ It wasn’t the first time I’d blacked out in a shop and come to with a cache of apparently stolen goods about my person. ‘Oh God, it’s getting worse and worse,’ I continued. ‘The doctors say that one day . . . one day . . . I’ll just never get better. They say that one day I might just . . . drop . . . down . . . dead!’ I could keep the emotion back no longer; tears brimmed over my eyes, down my cheeks and splashed on to my new jacket.

  My assailant was unmoved. ‘Spare me the amateur dramatics,’ he rasped, his voice very much more common now than the plummy tones in which he had first solicited my custom. ‘It’s all so bloody predictable. Although I like the terminal illness bit, that shows a spark of originality. So, what are we going to do? Shall I call the police straight away?’

  I realized that I was dealing with a hardboiled cynic. I might as well face the music. Brushing the tears from my eyes and pushing back my ruffled hair, I looked up at him from the kneeling position I had assumed when I first collapsed. He was hardly a threatening figure: his little white legs, hairy tummy (peeking through where his robe had parted) and most of all that wig made it impossible to fear him. And yet there was something imposing about him. Unlike Phyllis, whom I had long ago learned to ‘manage’, this was someone much, much stronger as a person. ‘I’m sorry,’ I breathed, looking up at him through wet lashes. My mouth was dry; I had to lick my lips to get the words out. ‘Please don’t call the police. I’ll do anything.’

  Anything?’

  ‘Yes, anything at all.’

  I could hear the cogs going round in his mind. But when he finally spoke, it was not at all what I had anticipated. ‘Perhaps we can do business, you and I. You’ve got guts. You’ve got looks too, the sort of looks they’d kill for. You’ve got the body. But have you got the mental capacity? I wonder if you’re as stupid as you seem?’

  That was provocative, certainly. ‘I know what you take me for,’ I began, ‘but I’ll have you know that I’m a singer with a band and I’ve got friends in very high places who will make damn well sure that nothing happens to me.’ I stood up and looked straight into his eyes. They were cold and expressionless. Or was that a tiny crease of amusement? Or just crow’s feet?

  ‘So you’re a singer, are you? Well, well, well. I wondered if you might be. A singer. Hmmmm.’ He walked around me, pondering. ‘What kind of songs, exactly?’

  ‘Pop songs. Rock & roll. Rhythm and blues.’

  ‘Why don’t you sing me one?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of your repertoire. One that you perform with your – what was it? Your band?’

  ‘I can’t sing just like that, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. And I don’t suppose the band can play. And I don’t suppose your friends in high places can really do very much to keep you out of borstal, can they?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘That’s just it, I think I do. What a shame. I thought for a moment that there was more to you than meets the eye. But it’s all skin-deep, isn’t it? Pity. If you weren’t so incredibly stupid I might think that you had a future.’

  I was shocked by this rough handling, but at the same time exhilarated. Here was a man who saw me not as a plaything, who wasn’t blinded by my talent or my looks, but who spoke to me as one professional to another. ‘All right,’ I admitted, ‘so I tried to steal from you.’ It was what he wanted to hear, even if it wasn’t true. ‘So, I’m a petty thief, a criminal, if that’s the way you want it. Go ahead and call the police. Let them take me away. It’s what I deserve.’ I was warming to my theme. He began to look at me with a little more interest.

  ‘But can you blame a starving man for stealing a crust of bread? I’m like that man. I’d do anything I need to do to get my career off the ground. And if that means breaking the law, that’s a price I’m willing to pay. I need those clothes because I’ve got an audition. I’ve got no money. So what can I do? Would you really expect me to put the law before my career? Well I’m sorry, but that’s something I just can’t do.’

  ‘I see.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘Well, thank you.’ More silence. Then he laughed, rubbed his hands together and fished around inside his gown for a pair of glasses.

  ‘Okay, this is the deal. You want to work; I’ll help you. As for the c
lothes . . .’ I prepared to say farewell to my beautiful new wardrobe‘ . . . You can keep them. But you’ll have to earn them.’ I was too dazed to understand, and stood there like a goldfish with my mouth gaping. ‘Hello? Yes? Anyone at home? Is it a deal?’

  I shook myself into full consciousness. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Now, what’s your name? I’m Nick Nicholls.’

  ‘Mark Young.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ He extended a white, manicured hand which I shook with genuine warmth and gratitude. ‘You saw the picture in the window? I took that photograph. It’s a sideline of mine: photography, journalism, public relations – all part of the package. Now, this is where you come in. I’m looking for a new face. The face of the future. The boy you saw in that photograph is done, finished, disparu, fini.’ He snapped his fingers and stamped a little foot.

  ‘So, you get your clothes and you keep your reputation intact, and I get your exclusive services as a model for my clothes and my shop. And if it works out in front of the camera, you’ll get a nice glossy portfolio of ten by eights to take round to all those booking agents and managers that are interested in you and your . . . band, was it?’

  I blushed and stuck my hands in my pockets.

  ‘That is not how we want the Homme man to look, thank you very much,’ snapped Nick, leaning forward to yank my hands out of my pockets and gently cuffing me under the chin. ‘And we have to do something about that horrible, hid-ee-ous hair. What do you say?’

  Was this destiny? Or was I selling my soul to the devil? For what? A set of fancy clothes and the promise of publicity? Under the circumstances, I had little choice.

  When I finally emerged from Homme it was nearly midnight. I had learned a lot more about Nick Nicholls and his plans for me – plans that had been waiting for just the right person to come along. I learned, among other things, that Nick was a close personal friend of Brian. ‘We’re all club members, dear,’ he told me, before recounting tales of the parties that he’d attended at Brian’s home. I learned that Nick was a man of genuine vision, who could spot talent a mile off. ‘I’ve picked up some pretty rough diamonds in my time,’ he said, ‘but I can always see the sparkle, however deep the shit.’ I saw a selection of his photography – brilliant, innovative work that captured the very spirit of sixties youth, light years removed from Phyllis’s effete doodlings. Some of it was highly experimental, daring material. ‘My private work for special clients,’ he explained, hoping that I’d agree to model for him. I also left the shop with a new haircut (executed by Nick as I sat swathed in a dust sheet) and taxi fare in my pocket.