Chapter 32
‘Con, what exactly is this shit?’
Con looked up from his sheet music to see Todd glaring at him from the piano stool.
‘That “shit”, as you put it, is a song I wrote last week in support of the American vets.’
Todd stared at him. ‘And you seriously want The Fishermen to record it and put it on our new album?’
‘Yes. Why not? It has meaning, a message. I’d say it might make people stop and take notice of just exactly what is going on in this world.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Todd swept a hand through his hair.
‘Between you and Lulu, I’m getting no respite!
’ Todd played the opening bars of the song, before crashing his hands down on the piano to release a cacophony of discordant sounds.
‘I give up. Apart from the fact that the lyrics include four swear words, which means the song will be banned by every radio station and mainstream record shop the world over, there’s no frigging melody line, mate.
We’re a pop group, Con!’ Todd stood up. ‘We release records that kids like to dance to. I hardly think the line “the young ones die in their thousands, their red blood turning the fields to rust, the insects swarming in the dust” is going to light up a disco.’
Con reached for his packet of Embassy and lit a cigarette.
‘Todd, how many times have we had this conversation? What’s the point of our music and fame if we’re not using it to do some good? These soppy, meaningless love songs feather our own nest. But they don’t give anything back. We have the power to change the world for the better.’
Todd sighed and shook his head slowly. ‘Boy, have you changed. There’s me, happy to trot out pleasant ballads, grateful for my nice house and bulging bank balance . . . and there’s you, sticking two fingers up at all that.’
Con continued to smoke his cigarette silently.
Todd sighed. ‘I dunno, Con. I just think it’s a shame you seem to glean so little pleasure from your achievements. Just occasionally think back and remember how badly you wanted fame and fortune.’
Con still did not respond.
‘And there’s such a thing as abusing your position. Okay, so you’re a famous pop star, but you’re not a politician. You’re going to put a lot of noses out of joint, especially if you carry on so noisily about Ulster.’
‘I—’
Todd stretched his hands out. ‘Please, Con, spare me the political diatribe. I’ve heard it all before.
’ He crossed the room and took a seat on the green velvet sofa next to his writing partner.
‘Listen, I can understand your vehemence over the situation in Ireland. At least it’s part of who you are.
But it’s all these other causes that you seem to throw yourself into.
For example, the Vietnam War. I mean . .
. you’re not even American. Or Vietnamese!
The whole thing’s happening thousands of miles away and—’
‘Yes, and isn’t that just the attitude that stops anything changing? The “well, it’s not affecting me so I’ll ignore it” philosophy?’ Con stood up. ‘I’d say I’ve had enough for today. I’m going home.’
‘That’s right, Con. Walk out again. Jesus!
Just for once in your life try and remember your priorities.
We’re recording an album in a couple of months’ time.
At the moment we have two and a half songs.
Three and a half if you include the pile of shit you brought in this morning.
At this rate we won’t be bringing out an album at all, because frankly, I’ve just about had enough!
I’m trying to hold this band together while you run around playing Bolshie, and egging on my wife into the bargain.
In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve the concert in Central Park in a few weeks.
A quarter of a million people are going to turn up to see us and we haven’t even worked out a playing order.
Now that’s what I call letting people down, you—’
The door of the rehearsal room slammed behind Con.
‘—son of a bitch,’ murmured Todd to thin air. ‘Bugger it.’ Todd slid back down onto his piano stool and shook his head.
God, he was pissed off. Con was behaving like a complete arsehole, and had been for months now. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d sat down and really sparked off each other, as had been the case in the beginning.
Con and he had been labelled as the songwriting partnership of the decade.
In the early days of their success, they’d flown along.
Todd, with his eye for the commercial catchy melody, had been toned down by Con’s more serious lyrical approach.
They’d written some wonderful songs – songs that Con now trashed as ‘meaningless crap’.
They’d worked late into the night, stimulated and excited by the words and music they seemed capable of producing so easily.
But now the two of them were lucky if they could stick at it for more than a couple of hours. The rapport seemed to have disappeared. The pair were sailing off in opposite directions. Todd wondered if they would ever meet in the middle again.
Had the rot set in, as it had in so many other groups over the years? Everyone knew that the Con Daly and Todd Bradley partnership was the lifeblood of the band. If that continued to disintegrate at its present rate, then what future did The Fishermen have?
And then there was the Lulu problem.
Lulu and he had married four years ago, just before they’d flown to the States to support The Trojans. The two of them had had a great party of a wedding, inviting friends new and old and being mobbed as they emerged from Chelsea registry office.
Over the next couple of years, Lulu’s career as an actress had really started to flourish. She’d done a new play in the West End for which she’d received an award and serious critical acclaim. It had felt then that the couple were unstoppable. What had happened since?
Lulu had followed Con’s lead and embraced the political scene, becoming more and more involved in what Todd saw as hopeless, pointless causes.
Instead of enjoying their dual success, she was always rushing around trying to save the world and sometimes bringing her smelly, unkempt fellow activists into their lovely Chelsea home.
In the past few months, Todd had seen less and less of her. She seemed to spend more time with Con and Sorcha in Hampstead than she did at home.
They’d not had sex for over a month.
Yesterday, he’d tried and she’d refused him. They’d had a huge argument and she’d stormed off. He didn’t know where she was now, but that wasn’t unusual these days.
Was she having an affair with Con?
It was a thought that had to be contemplated, considering the amount of time they spent together and their shared interests.
God, he loved her. Difficult, spoilt and selfish as she was, he worshipped the ground she walked on.
Todd wondered what Sorcha thought of her husband’s close relationship with his wife. The last couple of times he’d seen her, Sorcha had looked completely miserable.
Maybe he should give her a ring and suggest they meet up to discuss their respective partners. At any rate, the situation could not be allowed to continue. Todd was watching his marriage disintegrate. Something had to be done and fast.
The door of the recording studio opened silently. Todd turned around at the sound of footsteps behind him.
‘Hello, Derek, what brings you here?’
Derek still looked like a teenager pretending to be a grown man, even in his smart designer suit.
‘Hi, I was just passing on my way to lunch. I thought I’d drop in. Where’s Con? I thought the two of you were working together today.’
‘We were, but . . .’ Todd shrugged. ‘We took an early lunch.’
‘Oh.’ Derek fidgeted nervously.
‘What?’
‘It’s just that . . . I’ve written a song. I want you to listen to it. I . . . I’d like it to go on the new album. I think it’s about time one of my compositions made it to vinyl.’
‘Have you got the music with you? At the moment, Noddy could write for the album and I’d be grateful,’ Todd quipped. Then, seeing the look on Derek’s face, he checked himself. ‘Sorry, mate, only teasing. Let’s have a look.’
Derek pulled out some sheets of music from his jacket pocket and handed them to Todd. He unfolded them and placed them on the piano.
‘I know you think I can’t write songs for toffee, but I showed some of my stuff to a producer last week and he said he liked it. I’m fed up with you and Con taking the piss and if you don’t want this song, then I’ll give it to someone who does.’
Derek stood there like a petulant little boy, his bottom lip quivering.
Todd was in no mood for another set-to. He held up his hands. ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry, Derek. Let’s see what we’ve got. I’ll play, you sing.’
The song was a gentle ballad, nothing special, but a definite improvement on anything Derek had composed before.
‘Well,’ Todd said, handing the music back to Derek, ‘I think it’s got possibilities.’
‘I think it’s pretty good as it is,’ Derek said stubbornly. ‘What needs changing?’
‘Well, nothing major. We need to perk up the chorus, write some orchestrations for it, et cetera.’
‘I think it’s just as good as “Can Someone Tell Me Where She’s Gone?”. It’s only because it’s my song that you’re being so snotty about it.’
‘Look, mate, I’m not being snotty at all. I really do think the song has potential. Let me show it to Con and see what he thinks.’
‘I don’t care what Con thinks. I want the song on the album.’
‘Okay, okay. What’s it called by the way?’
‘“Peggy”. It’s just called “Peggy”.’
Todd raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Of course.’ This was the icing on the cake. ‘Well, that’s me for the day. Are you rushing straight off or can you join me for some liquid refreshment at the Dog and Gun round the corner?’
Derek checked his Rolex. ‘I’ve got twenty minutes before I meet her.’
‘Good man.’ Todd stood up. ‘Who’s “her”?’ he asked as he flicked off the light switch. The two of them left the studio and walked up the steps into the heart of Soho.
‘Oh, some model I met at a club the other day.’ They walked companionably along the busy street.
‘Do you think you’ll ever fall in love and settle down, Derek? All these gorgeous women that seem to pass through your bed. Have you never thought of marriage?’
Derek turned to look at Todd.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘once. But never again.’