10 #3
‘Oh yes. I have gathered as many clips of the band playing as I can find. There aren’t that many, sadly.
Television programmes back then were very lax about keeping their recordings.
Some got recorded over just to save money, even!
’ she said scornfully. ‘Others were just chucked out.’ She tossed her head angrily.
‘Can you imagine the short-sightedness of it?’
‘Yes, I’d heard that,’ Lyssa said mildly. ‘Didn’t they lose whole episodes of really iconic things. Like The Goon Show and Steptoe and Son, was it, and things like that?’
Jennifer shrugged, clearly not caring that examples of Peter Sellers or Spike Milligan’s comedic genius and that of their fellow Goons had been lost to posterity.
‘I’d be very grateful if you could let me have digital copies of what you have,’ she said, keeping her eyes firmly on the prize.
‘Describing their performances and featuring some still photographs from them would make a good focal point for some of the chapters in the book,’ she added.
She was now completely convinced that this rather uptight woman would leap at the chance to have her father’s achievements lauded to a whole new generation.
And she was not wrong.
‘I can do that,’ Jennifer agreed eagerly, then added sharply, ‘but I want to read your manuscript before it goes to print.’
Lyssa felt herself stiffen at this instantly and told herself to calm down.
‘Oh, I’m afraid that would have to depend on my client,’ she said, as calmly as she could manage.
‘The focus of my biography, Wild Thing, isn’t the Lucky Cuckoos, as your mother must have told you, but rather Amelia Montrose. ’
Instantly, Jennifer’s face froze and became a shade paler. ‘Her! Why her? She was nothing,’ she hissed.
Lyssa shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
She had not expected such a venomous response, and she suddenly became aware that she was alone, in her flat, with a woman of very uncertain temperament.
What was more, she had to wonder why Monica hadn’t told her daughter that the proposed biography was about Amelia and not the band.
Had she just not thought to mention it – or had she deliberately held back that information?
Now she came to think of it, hadn’t Monica seemed to become rather indifferent when mentioning her daughter?
Aware that Jennifer was now glaring at her, waiting for an explanation, Lyssa snapped her attention back to the here and now.
‘My client is a relative of hers,’ she began to explain, careful to keep her own tone neutral and calm.
The last thing she wanted was to escalate the tension she could now feel emanating from her unexpected visitor.
‘She feels that the press at the time gave her a very hard time, and that the subsequent image of her has always been very one-sided and biased. She thinks . . .’
But Lyssa didn’t get the chance to finish. Jennifer was already rising to her feet and snatching up her handbag and slinging it angrily over her shoulder.
‘I have no interest in a book that sets about glorifying the likes of her,’ she snapped and headed for the door.
Lyssa shot up and overtook her, managing to get to the door first and open it for her. ‘I’m so sorry you weren’t aware of the nature of my book,’ she said quickly. ‘I assumed your mother would have . . .’
‘My mother is a disgrace,’ Jennifer said stiffly, pausing at the now open door to stare at Lyssa balefully.
‘She drinks, and she remarried someone so mediocre that my poor father must be turning in his grave. Worse, she feels no loyalty towards him, which is why I’ve taken over managing his legacy. ’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Lyssa tried again, but the older woman had already brushed past her and stepped out into the hall.
There, she suddenly spun around and levelled a fulminating glare at Lyssa. ‘I warn you, if you publish anything libellous about my father, I’ll sue you, your client and your publisher.’
And with that parting shot, and with her colour high, she marched off down the hall and headed for the stairs.
Lyssa turned back into her flat, shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her heart thumping in her chest.
‘Phew!’ she said and tried to see the funny side of it.
In her career, she’d had a few humdingers of an interview with various people, and emotions could sometimes get the better of them.
This was not surprising when people were talking to her about the death of someone they’d loved, for instance.
And one of her clients, who’d wanted her to write the memoir of her husband who’d died in the Falklands, had been so upset, she’d cried at practically every session.
So, this latest episode wasn’t that bad, not on the scale of things.
Nevertheless, there had been something . . . unbalanced . . . in Jennifer Joiner’s manner that left her feeling unnerved. Talk about a woman with a Daddy fixation ramped up to the max!
Still trying to shake off her unsteadiness, she returned slowly to the sofa, paused the recording and listened back to it.
There were one or two comments in there that she’d have liked to have included.
The image of a doting teenage daughter surrounded by posters of her recently deceased rock-star father was heartbreakingly poignant, for instance, and would be bound to resonate with her readers.
But she would never dream of including them without Jennifer’s permission, naturally.
And somehow, she didn’t think that would be forthcoming now.
She sighed heavily. Given that someone had just threatened possible legal action against the book, she supposed she’d better inform Elizabeth of the latest developments.
With another sigh, she set about doing just that.
She only hoped that her client wouldn’t question her competence or professionalism and blame her for the way things had turned out.
Elizabeth was scanning the mock-ups of an interior that she was designing for a fashion shop in Marlow when her mobile rang. She didn’t often answer phone calls when working, but recognising Alyssa Moore’s number, she hit the green button at once and put the phone to her ear.
‘Lyssa! How are things going?’ she asked brightly.
‘Funny you should ask me that,’ Lyssa replied with a wry grin. ‘I’ve run into a bit of a drama, as it happens.’
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, her eyes widening slightly as Lyssa related her run-in with Jennifer Joiner.
‘Good grief!’ she said with a laugh, when the writer had finished her tale of woe. ‘It all sounds rather bizarre. And as for letting her see the manuscript and giving her approval before publication, she must be out of her mind!’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Lyssa said dryly.
‘I was feeling wrong-footed right from the start by the way she just turned up, and it all went quickly downhill from there. I tried to turn it around, and it all seemed to be going well enough, I suppose, until she learned that the book wasn’t about her father’s band, so much as about Amelia.
And it was as if a switch just flipped in her head. ’
‘Ah.’ Elizabeth nodded sagely. ‘I suppose that makes some sort of sense, at least. I read your account of the interview with her mother last night, and if even half of what she said about Monty and her toxic relationship with Racey Joiner is right, no wonder Racey’s daughter saw red.
She must have grown up thinking of poor Monty as the wicked witch of the west, trying to rob her father of his rightful place in the band. ’
‘Yes, I agree,’ Lyssa said. ‘I was a little surprised by her vehemence, even so. It was really over the top.’
‘She sounds to me like she’s got some kind of father fixation.’
Over the line, she heard the writer sigh softly. ‘Maybe. I’m just worried that, with her being so hostile to us, we might be losing a much-needed source of information.’
Elizabeth scowled, as this hadn’t yet occurred to her. ‘Damn – you’re right. What do you suggest?’
‘I thought I’d better phone Monica,’ Lyssa said. ‘When I initially talked to her, I got the feeling that she was trying to tell me something about her daughter. I think I know now what it was.’
‘That she’s bonkers, you mean?’ Elizabeth drawled.
She heard Lyssa laugh slightly. ‘No – not quite that. But I do think I need to do some damage limitation. And talking to Monica, before Jennifer has the chance to poison her against us, is our best shot. The last thing we need is for Monica to dry up on us as well.’
‘Good idea,’ Elizabeth agreed, staring thoughtfully at a colour chart.
‘And don’t forget to ask her if she has anything of Racey’s that we can use – old letters, journals, that type of thing, that can bolster our case that Monty wrote the lyrics for those songs.
On the record label, it only credits Glen as being the songwriter.
Racey’s daughter might think she’s carrying the torch forward for her father and has her hands on all the keepsakes and what have you, but in my experience, the wife knows where all the bodies are buried.
If Racey complained to anyone about Monty, it will have been to her. ’
‘Well, if it turns out that you’re right about Monty contributing to the songwriting, I doubt Racey would have admitted as much – even to Monica,’ Lyssa objected. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted to say anything good about her.’
‘Oh, I doubt he would have said anything complimentary,’ Elizabeth agreed with a laugh. ‘But he might have written something about her “interfering” or “bothering Glen with her stupid ideas”, or “trying to force her poetry on him”, or whatever. Don’t you think?’
‘Perhaps,’ Lyssa said doubtfully. ‘Anyway, I’d better get on and phone Monica. Keep your fingers crossed for me.’
‘You bet,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And good luck.’
She shut off the phone and put it down on her desk, her face thoughtful.