Murder Most Fab (26 page)

‘I’ve
got a vision, Cowboy,’ she said one day. ‘I really am an award-winning manager.
I’m going to have to put my commission up, I’m afraid. I’m worth twenty-five
per cent. And I mean of the gross, in case you’re wondering.’

When it came to my
interesting sex life, there was the occasional mishap but Catherine always
smoothed things over. One Saturday night I was pictured leaving Heaven
nightclub with a Puerto Rican hunk in a leather harness. Questions were asked;
she countered them with a fabricated kiss-and-tell from an air stewardess with
whom I had allegedly spent a steamy twenty minutes in the lavatory on a flight
to Berlin. I was an insatiable but considerate lover, the young lady told the
News
of the World
readers as she posed provocatively in underwear and jauntily
cocked airline cap. I couldn’t possibly be gay. ‘Johnny D is
all
man, I
can tell you,’ she was quoted as saying. There was a handsome fee for this
fictional take, and I divided the money with the air stewardess. She got some
cash, my reputation was restored, and everyone was happy.

The
next week Catherine ensured that Ruby and I were seen walking hand in hand
through St James’s Park, and an ‘insider’ said we were trying to work things
out.

In
truth, of course, I was reaping the rewards of my sexy celebrity status in the
gay clubs of London or wherever else I found myself. My sex drive was as
demanding as it had ever been, but men were the beneficiaries, not air
stewardesses. I needed the same sexual fixes as I had when I was for rent. I
was quite a catch before, but with the added aphrodisiac of fame I had the pick
of any nightclub or party. The more famous I became, the more cute boys were
queuing up for my attentions, and I wasn’t about to disappoint anyone.
Experienced as I was in such matters, I had the staying power and equipment to
satisfy more than one lucky lad per night.

It was
a dangerous game, perhaps, but I had little choice. I couldn’t come out without
risking everything — gay presenters were not as voguish then as they are today,
particularly for children’s shows — but I didn’t feel too threatened.
Kiss-and-tell stories were rare — too much was at stake for all parties — and
in the small gay community, the avaricious queen who sold his story of a
celebrity fuck was unlikely to get a pat on his perfectly toned back.

Even
so, in retrospect, I was a tad reckless. Dark rooms, drugs, orgies — I was no
stranger to any of them. In fact, I had a season ticket. I often turned up for
work trashed from the previous evening but hung-over sleepy eyes only enhanced
the come-to-bed subtext of my performance. I looked like I’d been having sex
all night long — and I had. But even if mine was the name on everyone’s lips, I
was ostensibly a children’s television presenter, so nothing could be too
overt.

Then,
at the Brit awards, Modesty’s people suddenly announced that I, and my roving
film crew, were to be whisked to the megastar’s inner sanctum for a very
exclusive interview.

‘Oh, my
God,’ said Catherine, uncharacteristically flustered. She looked stunning that
night, in a strapless red-silk number, and was drawing admiring glances. ‘This
is it. The big one! Get it right and you’re made for life. I’ll do the
introductions. Do you think she’d be amused if I “strike a pose” when I walk
in? Do you think it’s all right to look her in the eye?’

‘For
God’s sake, you don’t have to walk backwards,’ I snapped, wondering where I
could get a line of cocaine to buck myself up for this once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity. I didn’t have to kook far: Anita was loitering ten steps behind
me, her bag of goodies at the ready. I had never been star-struck before; my boy-next-door
manner had won over everyone from Diana Ross to Rick Astley. But Modesty was
the most famous pop superstar in the world — with a fearsome reputation: she
ate interviewers for breakfast.

Catherine
trotted along beside me importantly as we were led backstage, saying loudly,
‘I’m Johnny’s manager,’ whenever anyone caught her eye, but once we got closer
to the inner sanctum, her way was barred by several security men. Ten minutes
later the film crew and I were ushered into a muslin-draped igloo where Modesty
sat waiting, small and serene, perched on a high stool, beautifully lit from
behind.

‘Hi
there,’ she said, reaching for my hand. ‘I keep hearing about you wherever I go.’

‘You’re
not unknown in my circles, either. What is it you’re promoting today? Book, CD,
fashion range or perfume?’

‘I like
your approach. Very fresh. Very Barbara Walters but without the hairspray.
Have you been up all night being a bad boy?’

I had,
yes. With one of her backing singers I’d met at a party, and a Nigerian taxi driver.
The little devil had obviously told his boss about our free trip home to the
hotel and the marathon night of sex and drugs that followed. Modesty was
playing a game, letting me know that she was party to my secret.

‘Up
somewhere all night, yes. Now, enough about me. I suppose what my viewers want
to know is — what’s it like being Modesty?’

‘Oh,
it’s fun. But complicated sometimes.’

‘Do you
need to sack people every so often to assert your authority?’

‘Not
especially, no. But they have to understand that I live on planet Modesty.
That’s my choice. I employ some to ensure my bubble never bursts and others to
stop me taking myself too seriously. It’s a balancing act, that’s for sure.’

She was
warming to me, I thought. She understood my cynical line of questioning, my
lack of nerves, and was responding, I thought, honestly and intelligently. I’d
try to push things a bit further.

‘Lately
you seem to be getting involved in world matters —peace, famine, plights and
tragedies that beset the planet. Do you think that’s appropriate for a pop
star? Aren’t you just there to entertain?’

Modesty
pouted. ‘Such insolence! I shall have you horsewhipped!’

We both
laughed. Then she looked at me earnestly. ‘Listen, Johnny. I started out as an
ambitious dancer in New York. Things went well, then got better. I didn’t know
I was going to find myself in a position of great influence. What am I supposed
to do? Churn out disco hits and keep smiling? If I’m on a world tour,
performing to X million people, isn’t it a good opportunity to make a few
points about which I believe wholeheartedly? Where’s the harm in that?’

‘No
harm at all. I guess music’s the perfect medium.’

‘I
don’t know about perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot more effective than
politics seems to be. Sex would be too exhausting, as I’m sure you’d agree.’
She had laughter in her eyes.

‘You’re
a naughty Modesty,’ I said.

‘I like
you. Are you up for adoption?’

‘Sadly,
no. But you can always be my stalker if you want.’

She
gave a good, healthy belly-laugh, looked straight into the camera and said,
‘Johnny D is hot!’

‘Are
you flirting with me?’ I asked.

‘Flirting?’
said Modesty. ‘You’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever clapped eyes on! And
I’ve toured Brazil three times!’

‘I’m
glazing over, I’m afraid,’ I said as one of Modesty’s aides made vigorous
wind-it-up signals at me. ‘How much longer can you go on? Aren’t you worried
about becoming the Vera Lynn of pop?’

It was
unheard of for anyone to be so irreverent to one of the most famous superstars
of the day, but I felt I could get away with it.

‘I’d be
more than happy with such a title,’ she said. ‘Whoever the hell she is.’

The
aides were apoplectic now, insisting we finish the interview at once. Then she
grinned at me and said, ‘See ya, Johnny. It’s been fun.’

‘Bye,’
I said.

Outside,
Catherine grabbed me.

‘What
was she like? What was she like?’ she hissed. I shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. Nice.’

The interview was a coup
for me, the programme and the BBC. The clip of Modesty saying, ‘Johnny D is
hot!’ with her special brand of knowing sexiness was used to trail the show and
as a kind of visual jingle throughout the series. Well, you would, wouldn’t
you? My sex appeal and cool-dude status were confirmed. If Modesty had said it,
it must be true. The interview was declared one of the most revealing and
sensational things to come out of that year’s Brits. The press adored me. I
was, without a shadow of doubt, the man of the moment. I was all the rage.

The
only person who wasn’t hugely impressed was my mother. Without a television and
never reading the papers, she had no inkling of just how famous I’d become. She
did notice that everyone in the village was being a lot nicer to her, all of a
sudden, and asking when I might come to visit, but she couldn’t fathom why.

I
didn’t let on to her the extent of my transformation. I wanted to keep one
little part of my life untouched by the excitement and madness that had
engulfed the rest.

One night I was out on the
town with a popular girl band of the time (five Liverpudlians called Rough,
riding the crest of their success and on the hunt for Premier Division
footballers before the moment passed). We were roped off from the hoi polloi so
that we didn’t have to sulky ourselves with them but could enjoy our drugs and
champagne in peace. Peace of a sort —Rough squealed and squawked and made
raucous jokes as they got drunker and drunker while I smiled but wondered if
there wasn’t more fun to be had on the other side of the red velvet rope.

Then,
to my astonishment, I saw a face I recognized. A man was talking to the burly
bouncer guarding the VIP section, gesturing towards our table. He was handsome
with short blonde hair. He was wearing — unusually for the kind of nightclub we
were in — a suit of a distinctly Savile Row cut.

My
heart began pounding and my palms were damp. ‘Oh, my God,’ I breathed. ‘Tim!’

“Oo?’
said Kelly, the thinnest member of Rough.

‘Excuse
me, girls. I’ve just seen someone I know.’

‘Hurry
back, Johnny,’ shrieked Sabine, the classy one. ‘I can’t drink all this champers
on me own. I’ll fart like a rhino!’

I
ignored them and hurried over.

‘Do you
know this gentleman?’ asked the bouncer.

‘Hello,
Johnny,’ Tim said, with a sweet smile, as though we’d last seen each other the
other day, not five years before. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’
I turned to the bouncer. ‘Yes, he’s a friend of mine. Please let him in.’

Once he
was on the right side of the rope, we stood awkwardly in front of each other.

‘Nice
to see you, mate,’ said Tim, giving me a manly pat on the shoulder. ‘Life’s
been good to you, I gather.’

His
straight-boy mannerisms annoyed me at some level, but seeing him rendered me speechless.
Tim was really here, within reach.

He must
have realized I couldn’t answer him and had the social grace to witter on while
I gathered my thoughts.

‘I saw
you on television the other day and the paper was full of pictures of you at
the Brits. You’ve come a long way from gardening at Thornchurch! Who’d have
thought it, eh?’

‘Yes,
well. I go with the flow, you know me.’

Just
then a drunken member of Rough barged between us. ‘Johnny, love, is this bloke
getting on your tits?’ She looked Tim up and down. ‘Leave him alone, will ya,
love? He’s just having a quiet bevy. He’s sick of being pestered by the likes
of you.’

‘It’s
all right, Lucy, we’re old friends,’ I said. ‘Go and join the others and I’ll
see you in a bit.’

‘I’m
not Lucy. I’m Tammy, actually,’ she said, offended, and staggered off.

‘You’re
public property now, I suppose,’ said Tim, a trifle sadly. ‘I’d better leave
you to your celebrity friends. Nice to see you again. ‘He signalled to the
bouncer to let him back into the riff-raff area.

Suddenly
aware that the man I had thought about every night for the last five years was
turning his back on me again, I boldly took hold of his arm. ‘No, you don’t,’ I
said. ‘We need to catch up.’