It Was Only Ever You (18 page)

In any case, Sheila didn’t know, or care, who ran this place. All she knew was that the guy up on stage had some talent. With a voice like that he could conquer the world. Hell, with a voice like that, she could conquer the world. She had to find a way of getting hold of him.

I
GNATIUS
‘I
GGY
’ Morrow was something of a legend. Despite rumours to the contrary, he did actually exist. The Irishman owned thirty-three dance halls across Ireland and Britain as well as the US. Other ballroom owners were astonished that he managed to juggle all of these venues. Dance halls, they all knew, were a hands-on business. The owner needed to be on site to make sure that nobody was pilfering from the till or slacking. Iggy’s trick for keeping absolute control over his empire was a combination of well-paid, loyal managers and eccentric unpredictability. Nobody in the world knew where Ignatius Morrow was at any given time. One day he could be in Manchester, the next, Boston. Unmarried, he had no fixed abode, keeping hotel suites in his favourite cities and living out of a suitcase. He might swoop down on one of his businesses at any time without warning. This kept his managers on their toes and his staff on red alert at all times. In addition to owning the venues, Iggy also managed and promoted most of the bands that played in them. He looked after them too. Unlike many of the ruthless managers who kept their bands on a meagre salary and milked everything from record sales to door takings, Iggy shared his good fortune and rewarded his bands with a percentage. He got rich – they got rich.

Everyone knew the rules. Managers had absolute autonomy. If there was a problem, they had to sort it out themselves. But whenever Iggy arrived, everything had to be tip-top, from the ladies’ bathrooms to detailed records of bar takings. One night, legend had it, he walked into a dance hall in Liverpool, sacked everyone on the spot, and had the place open again three days later with entirely new staff and management. Nobody knew whether it was because the place was badly run, or because Iggy was keen to make a point. It worked.

Iggy’s other obsession was the music. It had to be excellent. All managers had to stick to his rigorous booking schedule for his bands. Showbands were the future of the dance-hall scene, he believed. They could make records as well as draw crowds and the two fed off each other. Iggy kept his resident bands employed, partly out of loyalty, but mostly to fill in the spaces until he had enough showbands to move around his venues permanently. Resident bands were a thing of the past, although a lot of other dance halls kept them on for ease. Iggy was not afraid of a challenge and it kept him on the move.

Apart from the managers and bands, few of Iggy’s staff knew what he looked like. At forty, Iggy was tall and thin, with an angular face and an attentive expression that made him appear curiously bird-like. He was not a man that one would pick out for his good looks. However, once you knew who he was, you would never forget him. As a punter in a crowd, he was invisible. As Iggy Morrow, music millionaire, he was memorable. Aware of this, Iggy was protective over his love life. Early marriage to a glamorous but avaricious English bunny-girl in his twenties had cured him of all idealism about romance. Money and business was his mistress. When Iggy needed female company, he could be a gentleman, but essentially, he was a loner. If you didn’t know him and you found yourself standing next to him in a bus queue, you might think twice about starting a conversation.

Which was why he was very surprised when the woman standing next to him, near the exit of the Emerald, turned and asked, ‘Excuse me – do you know where the manager’s office is?’

He looked at her, somewhat taken aback at being spoken to in his own club.

The manager, Gerry, didn’t even know he was in yet. This was obvious, because the place was a shambles. Iggy had been horrified to see that gobshite drummer, Leo, murdering ‘Love Me Tender’. Now some kid had wandered up from behind the bar and was on stage singing ‘Rock Around the Clock’. At least he was doing a decent job of it, the crowd were all up dancing, but hell, he wasn’t even wearing proper stage attire. This was just not good enough.

‘No idea,’ he said adding, rather abruptly. ‘What do you want the manager for?’

Sheila smiled inwardly. Her gut was telling her this guy was the manager. No drink? He certainly wasn’t on a night out. And only a manager would look that anxious and defensive in a place of entertainment. Although, she thought, he should be defensive given the mess he was making of this place.

‘I just wanted to congratulate him on the music tonight.’ She took a drag from her cigarette and looked him straight in the eye. ‘And the service at the bar was excellent.’

His face hardened. He was mad as hell, and not bothering to hide it either. He looked kind of mean. She liked that. He also looked like he might explode at her any minute and she liked that too. Suddenly, Sheila remembered herself.

She wasn’t here to antagonize the manager. She was here to try and cajole a novice singer out of him.

The kid was singing ‘Danny Boy’.

‘Well,’ she said, softening her tone, ‘whoever does run this place has certainly got a nose for talent.’

‘You think?’ Iggy said, absent-mindedly, looking around for Gerry. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, abruptly. Sheila’s eyes narrowed as she watched him walk over to the bar.

So he wasn’t the manager after all. Could this possibly be Iggy Morrow himself?

There was only one way to find out. Sheila followed him to the bar, keeping a few feet behind so she couldn’t be seen. Sheila had a crazy idea. As she watched the frightened collapse of Gerry, Sheila saw that she was right. They had words; Sheila knew what they were as surely as if she had said them herself.

‘Get this sorted then meet me in the office.’

She followed him again, towards the black, felted door that led to a small corridor with two doors marked ‘Dressing Room’ and ‘Office’.

Sheila took a deep breath before knocking. Iggy Morrow. She smiled to herself. This was some turn-up.

‘Mr Morrow?’

The door opened so suddenly that she almost punched his nose with her still raised hand. ‘Get in here,’ he said. ‘Who the hell are you? Are you a bloody journalist?’

‘No,’ she said, surprised to find herself even able to speak in the face of such unprompted fury.

‘But then how the hell do you know who I am?’

‘I guessed.’ Her usual wry, clever caution seemed to have deserted her. He asked questions, she answered them. That was the way this was going.

‘What do you mean, you guessed?’

‘I saw the way you were talking to the bar manager so I guessed you were the owner of the place and also...’ Why was she being so... so... submissive to this odious man?

‘Plus you look like the owner.’

She could not imagine a legendary Irish music magnate looking like anything else. He looked powerful. Whatever that looked like. His clothes were modest, this scruffy office even more so. But his face had a cold, determined edge to it. She was in the presence of a man with absolutely nothing to prove and yet she could see in his eyes that somehow he still believed he had everything to fight for.

‘If you’re not a journalist, then who the hell are you? And what do you want?’

‘I want the boy on stage,’ Sheila said.

Iggy raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Sheila saw a trace of amusement cross his face.

She allowed herself a small smile.

‘I’m a music manager,’ she explained. She knew she was pushing it a bit, but hell, she was here now. She may as well go for it. She held out her hand. ‘Sheila Klein.’

He took it reluctantly. Sheila had met some strange men in her time but he was one seriously charmless character.

‘I am interested in taking him on.’

If she was a music manager, she wasn’t a big one because Iggy had never heard of her. Probably just chancing her arm. The business was full of fly-by-nights these days. People trying to make a quick buck off the back of other people’s talent. But he had never seen a woman claiming to be a music manager before. Iggy was curious.

‘What’s so special about the kid?’

He watched her face closely as she answered and realized that he didn’t really care about the lad. He was enjoying looking at her, watching the way her broad, full-lipped mouth pursed before she spoke.

‘Well, he’s got talent...’ she said. Her eyes narrowed as she continued, ‘His voice certainly has range, which means he can do rock and roll but he can also own a ballad. He’s good-looking, that’s a bonus...’

Iggy felt a flicker of jealousy that surprised him. She was hard, she seemed cold, but Iggy felt strangely comforted by her. As if she were a weaker version of himself. Weaker and yet, on some deep level, she frightened him a little.

‘There is just something about him that would really add to my stable of talent,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye, privately praying that he would not ask her about the other acts.

He didn’t, but Iggy knew damn well she was a novice. Only the desperate or the naïve would come knocking on his door like that, talking bullshit about the kid owning a ballad. He had no doubt that she wanted to be a manager and he could also see that she had no idea of what that meant. She thought she was tough but she wasn’t.

‘So?’ she said. ‘Are you going to let me take this boy on for you? Or with you? Can we do a deal? What do I have to do to persuade you to talk to me?’

‘I’m afraid it’s out of the question.’

‘But—’

‘I’m afraid it my business policy, Miss Klein, not to form partnerships with anyone, and, as you said yourself, the kid has got far too much potential to let go.’

‘Who is he?’ she asked. ‘The kid? What’s his name?’ He could see she was furious. Those dark eyes were flashing fire at him.

‘That is beside the point...’

‘You don’t even know his name,’ she said. ‘Some manager you are, Mr... Mr Morrow.’

As an insult it was pretty weak, and inaccurate. It had been stupid of her to come in here and chase down the singer, especially with a man like this. She turned away and said, ‘I won’t say it was a pleasure meeting you, and the best of luck with your nameless singer. I won’t be looking out for him because I expect he’ll be disappearing without a trace under your careless hand. Good evening!’

She opened the door to go but to her absolute astonishment, Iggy said, ‘Would you join me for supper?’ adding, as an afterthought, ‘Please?’

She looked at the inscrutable face of a man who was used to getting what he wanted, and found herself considering the offer for one second.

‘Mr Morrow,’ she said, smiling charmingly at him, ‘I’m afraid it is my business policy not to have supper with people that I don’t like.’

Then she gave the door a good slam behind her.

I
T
WAS
Patrick who finally broke the kiss, saying, ‘I’d better get back to work.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Myrtle will be wondering where I am.’

She did not give a jot for Myrtle. She could have stood there kissing him all night. Before they parted, Patrick took her hand and said, ‘Thank you.’

She did not know whether he was thanking her for putting him on stage or for the kiss, or perhaps a combination of both. Stupidly, she wished he had said something else. Something that might give her a reason to change her whole life; to give up her fiancé and a secure future for an entirely insecure and barely formed dream.

For the rest of the evening, Ava watched him as he worked the bar under Gerry’s watchful eye. She knew he would not be able to escape before the end of his shift, but nonetheless she sat in her regular booth to the left of the dance floor willing him to seek her out again. She refused several dances that night until Myrtle began to suspect something was up.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, knowing that she didn’t sound fine at all.

‘I think you’re up to something.’

Ava smiled casually, and said unconvincingly, ‘What would I be up to?’

Myrtle stared at her and smiled. Ava could not help a small smile back.

‘Were you canoodling with that singer backstage?’

‘I most certainly was not!’

‘I thought so. He’s not a bad-looking buck...’

‘Seriously, Myrtle, I would never do anything like that.’

Myrtle raised her eyebrows, and then shrugged her shoulders.

It was a small denial, but Ava felt bad lying to her friend. Myrtle kissed lots of boys, but then, she was not engaged to be married. Ava had only ever kissed Dermot. She was more afraid that Myrtle would encourage her than judge her. Ava was afraid of what she might do with her friend’s backing.

Myrtle looked up and waved across the floor.

‘Oh look – here’s your favourite jiver... Hey! Niall!’ She nudged Ava. ‘Your brother-in-law-to-be – maybe Dermot sent him to keep an eye on you...’

The mention of Dermot’s name sent a shiver through Ava.

She picked up her purse and said, ‘You’re right – there is something wrong with me. I don’t feel at all well. I’m going to head home.’

*

In the days after it happened, Ava kept going over the kiss in her mind. She was angry with herself, barely able to admit that she had, in fact, not just allowed, or even encouraged, but rather had invited Patrick to kiss her. It was a terrible thing to have done. She was engaged to another man, a good man, and the man her family wanted her to marry. It was a terrible sin against her parents and God and even, surely, herself, to be kissed by another man. Not just kissed, but to feel such a fiery passion for him. And yet, no matter how much she prayed and asked God’s forgiveness, no matter how angry and upset she imagined her parents would be if she called off her engagement, she could not make herself wish that it hadn’t happened.

She was regretful, of course she was, but she was not remorseful. When Patrick Murphy kissed Ava, her whole body had come alive. More than that, she had felt a searing, absolute joy being in his arms. A belonging, a feeling of righteous pleasure that was the opposite of sin. They were meant to be together. For the time they were kissing, behind the stage of the Emerald Ballroom, shielded from the world by a navy velvet curtain, Ava felt as if she was, finally, in the place she had always wanted to be. There was no rhyme or reason for this, why she should want to be making love with a strange- looking Irish boy who tended bar and sang, rather than the kind lawyer to whom she was engaged, but that made the feelings she had for him all the more magical. The truth was, kissing Patrick had felt completely different to kissing Dermot. ‘God makes his magic in the heart,’ the Irish nun had taught them in convent school, ‘and the devil makes his magic in the body.’ She had felt the devil’s magic when she was with Dermot, sometimes longing that he would touch her more intimately when they kissed. With Patrick her body was on fire and it ached with sweetness, a longing that was close to pain for the rest of that night. However, it was the craving in her heart, the fear that she might never be with him again, that was causing her almost unbearable pain.