Murder Most Fab (33 page)

Before
long, the results of our hedonism began to show. Forever hung-over and tired, I
had long since stopped reading my scripts before a show. Sometimes it was as
much as I could do not to sound surprised when I read out the name of that
day’s guest from the autocue. My mumbling, bumbling interviews were shocking
and inept, but compulsive viewing nevertheless.

Elaine
Paige even asked me during her interview if I’d ‘been at the cooking sherry’.

‘Cooking
sherry? Fine Madeira wine, if you please,’ I retorted, to a good laugh.

It
wasn’t long before the papers cottoned to what was happening and printed
thrill stories about my show and my behaviour on it. They became more and more
outrageous, thus creating more stories. I was becoming the king of car-crash
telly and the more trashed I was the more my producers rubbed their hands. As
long as my viewing figures flourished, everyone was happy. Shots of vodka were
slipped to me during commercial breaks. I famously fell asleep while
interviewing some old slapper from
EastEnders
and was considered a
master of irony in the next day’s papers. Simply, I could do no wrong.

Once or
twice I told Catherine I thought I was cracking up. She stroked me under the
chin and said, ‘It’s all rock ‘n’ roll, Cowboy. You just need a line.’ She
laughed off articles in the
Daily Express
and the
Mail on Sunday
that
insinuated I was on a downward spiral. Photos of me looking wasted and much
older than my twenty-five years appeared in the tabloids.

Roy, my
driver, told me I needed a holiday. ‘You’re going at it all guns blazing, Sonny
Jim. That manager of yours is flogging you too hard and you’re going to be a
dead horse before long. Get yourself home, have a nice cup of tea and put your
feet up. No more nightclubs till four a.m. for a bit, eh?’

I was
grateful he was looking out for me, but only a week later Catherine got rid of
him. ‘He was fiddling the books. Claimed you kept him waiting outside the Savoy
for nine and a half hours,’ she declared. ‘I’ve got you an Addison Lee account
instead.’

Taxi
drivers, it turned out, were the real barometer of my celebrity standing. They
no longer told me how great I was and how I’d made their wives fall about
whenever I was on the telly. Instead they peered at me in the rear-view mirror,
then didn’t mince their words: ‘You’re losing the plot, mate, if you don’t mind
me saying. You want to stop burning the candle at both ends. You used to be a
good-looking bloke.’

One evening Catherine and
I were dining in the plush surroundings of a private members’ club called
Ambulance — appropriately enough — discussing my career. In fact, we talked of
little else, these days. I had no love life to speak of and couldn’t bring
myself to talk to her about Tim, who was more like a ghost in my life than a
lover.

We had
enjoyed several trips to the toilet and were cruising pleasantly on our usual
high of cocaine and champers when suddenly a familiar figure shuffled past our
table. I glanced at him, but 1 was used to avoiding the stares of people around
me — lest they catch my eye and engage me in conversation — so I looked away.
He had almost disappeared when I realized who I had just seen.

If I’d
been sober, I would never have shouted, ‘Sammy!’ but I did. I was sure he had
already spotted me — I was, after all, the talk of the restaurant.

He did
a badly acted double-take, then came back to our table. ‘JD, my dear! I didn’t
think you’d recognize me!’

‘Of
course I would. It hasn’t been that long. How are you doing, you old poofter?’
I asked boldly. He stood by my chair and I slapped the top of his expanded
tummy gently. We hadn’t met since Georgie’s funeral, and Sammy looked awkward
and a little upset. He was not the man I’d first met in Barnes those years ago —
he appeared older, sadder, and broken.

‘I’m
fine, thank you,’ he murmured.

‘You’ve
made it back from the Isle of Wight, then?’ I said, his awkwardness contagious.
‘Not everyone does, I hear.’

‘Oh,
yes,’ he said, ‘though I kept thinking I was going to fall off the edge.’

‘Did
you go back to Barnes?’

‘No, I
sold my flat. I’ve got a place in Hampstead now. Once Georgie was gone, I
couldn’t stay in the old place.’

‘Such a
tragedy,’ I said softly.

‘Yes.’

‘Lovely,
lovely man.’

‘What I
can’t understand,’ said Sammy, lowering his voice, ‘is why the police never
asked me who I thought was responsible. I know I was heavily sedated and
distraught with grief for some considerable time, but I always had my
suspicions, you know.’

‘What
were your thoughts on the matter?’ I asked, clutching my steak knife.

‘Well,
it’s too late now, isn’t it, dear? Case closed. Nobody in a position of
authority is interested in what I have to say.’

‘I am,’
I said, curious beyond words but trying to sound casual.

‘I’m
sure you’ve had enough upset to last you a lifetime,’ said Sammy, patting my
shoulder comfortingly, ‘what with poor Bernard and those awful Nicaraguan
ruffians you had to deal with. I really shouldn’t distress you any further by
bringing Georgie’s unsolved murder into the equation. I saw the pictures of you
in the paper at Bernard’s memorial service looking so dreadfully … upset. I
felt for you, dear boy, I really did. Let us change the subject.’ He looked
brightly about the table. ‘So thrilled for all your success. I always knew,
during your previous life, that you would make something of yourself one way or
the other. I said as much to Georgie. “By hook or by crook,” I said, “our JD — er,
Johnny — has an interesting future ahead of him.” Most fortuitous that Bernard
helped you on your way, but I could see you were going places.’

‘Could
you?’ I said politely. ‘And I do hope you have a new arrangement to take care
of your needs, these days.’

‘Oh,
yes, darling. A Bulgarian. I don’t think he’s illegal but he certainly ought to
be, if you catch my drift. He lives in, as a matter of fact. I’ve never felt
happy sleeping alone after what happened to Georgie. The middle of the night,
you see, when it happened. Could have been either of us …’ He trailed off,
then dabbed his eyes with the napkin. ‘I really must be going. I’ve been dining
with friends but it’s well past my bedtime, and Big Boy, as I call him, will be
wondering where I am. Good evening. Lovely to encounter you again so
unexpectedly. Nice to meet you, Miss …?‘

‘Catherine
Baxter,’ said Catherine, without a smile. ‘Likewise.’

‘Shall
we meet up some time, Sammy?’ I asked. ‘Talk about old times?’

‘Oh, JD
— I don’t know. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge, hasn’t there?
Perhaps we should leave things as they are.’

I was
taken aback. Not many people turned down an opportunity to spend time with me.
‘All right, then,’ I said, a touch coolly.

‘Goodbye,
dear. Take care.’ Sammy wandered off.

‘Well,’
I said to Catherine, ‘there’s a turn-up for the books.’

‘He
doesn’t look as well as he did at the funeral, does he?’ said Catherine,
pushing her lips into a thoughtful pout. ‘Time hasn’t been kind.’

‘Perhaps
it was my fault,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t the same after Georgie went.’

Catherine
was plainly exasperated. ‘Change the record, darling! How many times do I have
to say it? The old queen was dying anyway. Now, let’s change the subject. I’ve
had some new contracts through and various financial papers from the accountant.
It’s coming up to the end of the tax year and he’s had some ideas about how you
could limit your liability. There are various investments and trusts …

I found
business talk desperately boring and let it wash over me while Catherine
produced bits of paper for me to sign. My mind was fixed on Sammy and what he’d
meant by saying he had his own ideas about who’d killed Georgie. He’d never
given me the slightest inkling that he suspected anyone and that worried me,
though I wasn’t sure why.

‘Well
done, Cowboy,’ said Catherine, when I’d signed the final document she’d put in
front of me. ‘Now, business over, let’s go and celebrate. Anywhere you fancy?’

I felt
jaded. I remembered what Roy had said about going home to a cup of tea and an
early night. Maybe I should try it. I knew that heterosexuals often stayed in
for whole evenings. Apparently they ate food covered with breadcrumbs and
watched programmes about hospitals. Imagine.

‘You
disappoint me,’ Catherine said, after I’d told her I thought I’d go home. ‘Never
mind. I’m up for it on my own. See you later.’

Back home, I found the
unaccustomed silence strange. When Catherine was here, the television was
usually blaring, so she could shout obscenities at the people she considered my
rivals.

I
wandered about, thinking of Sammy and Georgie, feeling very alone. I wished Tim
would call me. If I ever felt the need of a booty call, it was now — not so I
could get some release but so that I could feel his familiar arms, smell the
warm, sweet scent of his hair and relish the deep rumble of his voice. The
phone rang. I leapt to answer it. Had he psychically picked up my signal and
called me? Perhaps Sophie was out of town and we could meet at one of our
favourite places. Oh, I did hope so …

‘Hello?’
I said.

‘I
would like to speak to my grandson — Johnny,’ said a haughty voice, with only a
slight crack of age in its timbre.

‘Grandma
Rita?’

‘Is
that you, Johnny?’

‘It
certainly is.’ My grandma Rita! To my great shame, I hadn’t been in touch with
her for a very long time. She seemed part of a different, distant life and I
gave her barely a thought from one month to another. She had written to me when
I became famous to say that she was pleased I had found success and that she’d
always known that the Lewisham School of Musical Theatre would come good for me
in the end, even if I had spent several years working for charity. ‘Grandma,
I’m so sorry I haven’t been to see you for so long.’

‘Don’t
worry, my boy. I understand. You’re young, you’re riding the crest of a wave.
You haven’t got time to think about an old woman, and why should you? But I do
want to ask you a favour. I’d like you to come to Blackheath. Would you do
that?’

‘Of
course!’ It was on the up of my tongue to ask her to phone Catherine’s
assistant, who managed my diary, and get her to find a window, but I brought
myself up just in time. ‘When?’

‘As
soon as you can. How about tomorrow?’

Something
in her tone worried me. She sounded vulnerable, slightly shaky, and that wasn’t
like Grandma Rita.

‘Of
course I can, Grandma. I’d love to see you.’

‘Good,’
she said. ‘It’s boiled eggs and anchovies for lunch. Come at one.’

Her phone
went down.

I
stared at mine, contemplating it in the silence of the flat. Why, in all these
years, had I never had time for Grandma Rita? I had always seemed to be so
terribly busy, and going Out to Blackheath had seemed impossible, just too
difficult to fit into my diary. Couldn’t I have put aside half a day a month to
visit my wise, wonderful grandmother? Living with Catherine, guilt wasn’t often
allowed a look-in, but now it trailed over me like cold seaweed. The hours,
days and weeks I’d spent coked up and drunk, dancing, flirting and fucking strangers
…

Grandma
Rita was almost my only family and I’d never bothered to go and see her. I’d
only been back to Kent a handful of times — I’d always told myself I was too
busy (as usual) and that my mother should come to London if she wanted to see
me, forgetting how much she hated leaving her home and how much she loathed the
city.

I’ll do
better, I resolved. I’ll go and see Grandma Rita tomorrow, then every month
from now on. I’ll take her and Mother away on holiday. We’ll have Christmas
together. I’ll become a grandson and son they’ll be proud of.