Chapter 28
‘So, Jukebox Jurors, take a listen to this. It’s the debut single by The Fishermen. It’s called “Can Someone Tell Me Where She’s Gone?” and it’s out for Christmas. Let’s hear it.’
Seven pairs of eyes stared nervously at the television screen as the sound of the new single came flooding through the small speaker.
‘Remember, lads, if they trash it, it doesn’t matter. There’ve been several huge number-one hits that have been voted a miss by the panel.’
Freddy’s words comforted no one in the room. Con held tightly to Sorcha’s hand. Lulu sat on Todd’s knee, her arms wound round his neck. Derek’s hand shook as he reached for his beer and there was even a trace of tension apparent on Ian’s face. They sat in silence as the record played.
‘No doubt about it, lads, whatever they say, it’s a bloody good song,’ murmured Freddy as the last strains disappeared and the camera swung back to David Jacobs.
‘Okay. There we are, panel. “Can Someone Tell Me Where She’s Gone?”, the debut single by The Fishermen. So, Jody, let’s hear what you have to say.’
‘Well . . .’ The established pop star twiddled with her pen on the table.
‘Get on with it,’ muttered Todd.
‘I loved it.’
‘Yes!’
‘Wow, man!’
‘Shh, you lot, let’s hear what she has to say.’ Freddy waved an arm to silence the room.
‘I liked the melody line, the lyrics, and from their photo, I think I might like the look of them as well,’ giggled the pop star.
‘Right then, on to you, Jimmy.’
‘Here goes,’ muttered Freddy. The record producer had a reputation for trashing seventy per cent of what was played.
‘Not bad, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. A bit run-of-the-mill. It might make the top thirty, as everyone likes a soppy record at Christmas, but’ – Jimmy shook his head – ‘if they do make it with this one, I reckon they’ll be a one-hit wonder. Nothing special.’
The air in the sitting room turned blue. Cushions were hurled at the screen.
‘And now you, John. What did you think of the song?’
The disc jockey nodded. ‘As usual, whatever Jimmy dislikes, I like. It’s a smashing record. I’ll certainly be giving it airtime over the next few weeks. I reckon The Fishermen will go far. They’re my tip for the top this week.’
Screams of delight resounded around the sitting room.
‘And Paul? What about you?’
‘Loved ’em.’
‘Way to go, boys,’ murmured Freddy.
‘So, let’s vote. A hit or a miss?’
The panel held up their cards. David Jacobs rang the bell to signal a hit.
‘Three hits and one miss for The Fishermen. Now then, we’ll move on to the new single by . . .’
Freddy stood up, switched the television off and turned to face the others.
‘Well, lads, Brad and I were in two minds as to whether we should release it to Juke Box Jury. It’s always a gamble, but if it pays off, it can give you a hell of a start.
’ He smiled at them benevolently. ‘You’re on your way, boys. ’
The telephone rang just as Sorcha had dribbled shampoo onto her hair.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she murmured, taking her head out of the kitchen sink and searching for the towel she thought she’d put on the drainer. It had fallen onto the floor. Bending down, she picked it up, wound it round her head turban-style and padded across the room to the telephone.
‘Yes?’ she said sharply.
‘Hello, darling, what’s wrong?’
‘Hello, Audrey. I’m sorry. It’s just that our phone never stops ringing these days.’
‘What it is to be popular, my dear.’
‘Well, it’s not me they want to speak to. It’s Con. I’ve no idea how half the journalists get this number.’
‘That’s the price of fame, my darling. Talking of which, I have some very good news for you. Can you stop by my office this afternoon for a chat?’
‘It would have to be quick, Audrey. Con’s record company are throwing a big party for the boys for getting to number two in the hit parade. We’ll know later today whether they’ve climbed to number one.’
‘Your chap is doing well, isn’t he? Even as a devotee of Beethoven, The Fishermen have managed to enter my consciousness. Married to your very own pop star, no less.’
‘If I ever see him again,’ murmured Sorcha. ‘He’s out from morning till night being famous.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about that. I have plenty to keep you busy, dear. See you later.’
‘Yes, bye-bye, Audrey.’
‘Bye, darling.’
Sorcha put the telephone down and went back to the kitchen sink.
The December day was freezing and her skin had turned goose-pimply in her bra and knickers.
Hurriedly she washed her hair, pulled on Con’s thick terry-towelling robe and put the kettle on to boil.
She made herself a cup of coffee, then settled in an armchair by the gas fire to warm herself up.
The past two months had flown. Sorcha could hardly believe it was Christmas in three days’ time.
Since the start of Brad’s marketing campaign and the release of ‘Can Someone Tell Me Where She’s Gone?
’, Sorcha had hardly seen Con. The band had spent three weeks on the road doing a whistle-stop tour of the country, performing their new single in as many clubs as Freddy could book them into.
Once back in London, and with the track rising up the charts, it seemed every music publication, radio station and TV chat show host wanted to interview The Fishermen.
Even though Con was exhausted, he looked happier than Sorcha had ever seen him. She was thrilled for him and the rest of the band, although she’d be glad when tonight was over and they could settle down to the quiet Christmas they’d planned.
‘No parties, no people, just you and me, my darling,’ Con had whispered to her last night after they’d made love.
‘I can’t wait. I miss you,’ she’d whispered.
If Audrey had good news for her, then they might have a lot to celebrate.
Sorcha turned around and saw the condensation dripping down the window. She stuck her finger in it and drew a small heart with her initial on one end of an arrow and Con’s on the other.
‘How far we’ve come, Con, how far we’ve come.’
Helen arrived home at half past four. Tonight was very important and she wanted plenty of time to get ready.
She ran a bath and put her plastic cap on to protect her freshly styled hair. Submersed in the hot water, Helen lay staring at the ceiling, trying to relax. Just the thought of tonight sent her pulse racing.
She had made sure that her presence at the party would come as a total surprise to Con.
On the couple of occasions he and The Fishermen had been in Metropolitan’s offices, she had made herself scarce.
It was only last week that she’d ordered the new headed business stationery with her name in print in the bottom right-hand corner: ‘Helen McCarthy, Director.’
She yawned as the water began to calm her. Beneath the nervous energy, Helen knew she was physically and mentally drained. For the past twelve weeks she’d been putting in sixteen-hour days. Work was a balm. It stopped her from dwelling on Tony and the terrible thing that had happened to him.
The story of his murder had been in all the newspapers.
Detective Inspector Garratt had appeared on television appealing for anyone to come forward with information about the killing.
She’d called Samantha, her friend from college, to find out when the funeral was taking place.
Samantha had told her that it was to be a quiet, family-only affair.
Nevertheless, she’d sent flowers to the church and later visited his grave to say her own private goodbye.
As far as Helen knew, the crime was as yet unsolved.
She’d spent night after night lying awake pondering on who could have done such a thing.
She wondered how the other lady in Tony’s life was feeling and was almost comforted by the thought that there was someone else who was probably missing Tony as much as she was.
‘Oh, Tony, Tony,’ she murmured as she began to soap herself. If she hadn’t been so busy at Metropolitan, Helen honestly thought she may have gone mad.
During the day, she’d worked away quietly in the small upstairs cubbyhole that she proudly called her office.
Nick Rogers, Brad’s accountant friend, had been a great help in showing her the financial ropes.
Together, they had paid off the outstanding bills, brought the accounts up to date and put the company back on track.
In the evenings, Helen had concentrated on getting to know the music business. When she was not attending gigs, she was at home listening to records and reading every publication she could get her hands on.
Helen towelled herself dry. Still in her plastic cap, she sat down in front of the dressing-table mirror and began to apply her make-up.
She had put a lot of thought into what she should wear for The Fishermen’s party.
In the end, she had found a wonderful trouser suit in blue lurex that suited her colouring and showed off her cleavage.
Forty-five minutes later, she was ready to leave. She checked her reflection in the mirror and gave a satisfied smile.
A power in the music business, someone to be reckoned with. That was what she wanted. If she couldn’t have love, power made a suitable substitute.