One Night Only
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‘We?’ said Natalia, all eagerness and enthusiasm, clutching her pen. ‘Is this something new for you, Helen?’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Helen, holding up her hands. ‘I can’t dance and have no intention of taking it up now. No, this is definitely Bon’s baby.’
‘Mine and Libby’s,’ Bon said. ‘Libby Sherwood, she’s my agent.’
There she was again.
‘So how long have you and Helen been together?’ Natalia asked.
Bon smiled. ‘Not long enough. Now I really have to go. I’ll give you a shout when food’s ready. You okay for drinks?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Helen.
‘Me too,’ said Natalia brightly, doing her little trick with the water bottle. Helen watched Natalia watch Bon cross the room and head back down the stairs.
After a second or two Natalia turned back to Helen and realised Helen had been watching her watching him. She bit her bottom lip and looked horribly self-conscious.
‘He seems very nice,’ Natalia said with feigned casualness, turning her attention quickly back to her notepad.
Helen laughed. ‘Oh, he is. And he has got the cutest arse, hasn’t he?’
Natalia turned pillar-box red and was about to protest.
‘It’s fine,’ said Helen with a smile. ‘You’re welcome to admire the scenery – lots of people do.’
Natalia’s colour deepened. ‘Where were we?’ she said, faffing around with her notebook and laptop in what appeared to be a show of regaining her composure.
‘My mother,’ suggested Helen helpfully.
‘Oh yes,’ said Natalia, with equal discomfort.
‘I’m not the only little girl whose mother walked out on her family.’
‘I know,’ said Natalia. ‘But it is something that a lot of people will be curious about. It must have had a profound effect on you. On your relationships; on your own views on children and families.’
‘I didn’t have children,’ said Helen briskly. ‘So it didn’t arise.’
‘Was that because of your mum?’ pressed Natalia.
Helen shook her head. ‘No, it hadn’t got anything to do with her. I suppose it must have had an effect, but I was open to the idea of having a family. I was just never with the right person at the right time.’ She paused. Natalia was scribbling away furiously. When Helen stopped she looked up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Natalia said. ‘You were saying?’
‘I suppose looking back if I had wanted them enough I would have had them, but it didn’t happen.’
‘It didn’t happen,’ she repeated.
‘No,’ said Helen. ‘There was always another job, another part, always something else coming along, and then it was just too late.’
‘And so you don’t think that was because of your mum?’
Helen shook her head. ‘No, quite the reverse; in some ways her leaving made me make more of my life. I probably took more chances, more risks, enjoyed all of life while it was there. Her going made me realise that nothing is as safe as it first appears. But it wasn’t just me, it affected my dad too, his work – his friends. I was very small when it happened, but I was old enough to know something was going on; old enough to miss her, but not old enough for anyone to explain it to me. In those days I’m not sure how much notice people took of children’s emotions. I think because children hadn’t got the words to express what they were feeling people just assumed they didn’t feel anything – although to be fair, no-one really talked about my mum once she was gone. No-one at all. It was like a door had opened up somewhere and she just walked through it. Some days I wonder if I imagined her and that perhaps she had never existed at all.’
‘Did you think she was dead?’ asked Natalia.
Helen watched the younger woman’s face carefully, wondering what it was that Roots had managed to uncover. Natalia’s body language gave nothing away.
‘I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. I still don’t have any idea what happened to her.’
‘It’s such an interesting thread. Weren’t you ever curious? I’m sure I would have been. Didn’t you try to find her?’
‘No,’ snapped Helen.
Natalia looked surprised. ‘What, never?’
‘Like I said, no one talked about her at home and back then I was powerless to look; looking or asking would have felt like I was betraying my dad. And what if me asking too many questions made him go away too? I remember reading in the Sunday papers about people losing their memories and wondered if that was what had happened to her and that maybe one day, some day she would remember us and just come home.
‘I had a lady to come in and sit with me if my dad was going to be late home from work. Mrs Eades. I didn’t like her very much and I was terrified that she might end up looking after me permanently if my dad didn’t come back – but no, I didn’t look, I didn’t ask.’
Helen glanced across; Natalia was busy making copious notes.
‘Please,’ she pressed, when Helen stopped speaking, ‘It’s really interesting.’
‘I did think when I was first on the TV that maybe my mum might show up then; you know: “Long-lost mother reunited with celebrity daughter”. It’s the kind of thing the tabloids have always loved. Real Max Clifford territory. But she didn’t.’
‘And you’ll be happy to talk about all this on the show?’ asked Natalia.
Helen nodded, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Natalia scribbled something else on her pad. ‘So you thought that she was probably dead?’
‘Or that she had run off with someone, remarried and not told her new family about me and Dad; or that she’d emigrated or just plain didn’t care,’ said Helen, conscious of the crackle of emotion in her voice.
‘Didn’t you think about hiring someone? A detective or something?’ Natalia pressed, with a hint of accusation in her tone. ‘I don’t think I could have lived with not knowing, and you had the money –’
‘There is a lot more to my life than what happened to my mother. Not everything I’ve done is about her.’ Helen took a deep breath. ‘And it might seem like a hard thing for you to understand, Natalia, but no, I didn’t go looking for her. She rejected me once; I didn’t want to give her the chance to reject me again.’
Natalia winced. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ she said, before setting off on another tack. ‘One of the things that struck me when I was looking through the press cuttings and what we’ve got on file for you, is how little there is. There is a lot about your awards and TV roles but not very much about the woman behind the actress.’
‘I’ve always been very private.’
Natalia nodded and made a note. ‘Until now,’ she said, watching Helen intently.
‘That’s right.’ Helen said. ‘Until now.’
‘Can you tell me why that is?’
Helen looked her squarely in the eye. ‘Because you asked me – and to be honest I miss working on interesting projects with interesting people. I’m an actress. I want to work. I can’t skate, I hate ballroom dancing and I’m not cut out for roughing it in the jungle. So it’s this or –’
‘Celebrity Come Dine With Me?’ Natalia suggested helpfully. She pulled out a file. ‘Okay, so we’ve got some newspaper clippings, reviews and things which we’ll be using that I’d like you to take a look through. Oh and this –’ she handed Helen the photocopy of a page from the Billingsfield Echo. ‘I can’t make out the date,’ said Natalia. ‘We’ll probably need to chase that up, unless of course you can remember when it was? National talent competition, Carlton Rooms?’ She leaned across, reading over Helen’s shoulder. ‘March the something – no, it’s no good, I can’t make out the year. But here we are, look –’ she said, pointing to a grainy black and white photo of the contestants. ‘Local songbirds, Helen Redford and – hang on I’ve got a magnifying glass in my bag.’
‘Kate Monroe,’ said Helen, tipping the photocopy towards the light. ‘It was a Saturday – the 15th of March, and that was the first night we’d used our stage names; before that we used to be Helen Heel and Charlotte Johnson.’
THREE
Then
‘You’ll be fine, Helen,’ snapped Charlotte. ‘For God’s sake just stop worrying, will you, and pass me the eyeliner.’ Charlotte took it and then leant forward to dab concealer on her chin. ‘You know, the light in this room is terrible. You should really get his nibs to get you a lamp or something for this dressing table.’ She turned to face Helen. ‘So what do you think? Can you still see that spot?’ She tipped her chin up towards the light. ‘It looks like Vesuvius from where I’m sitting.’
‘That’s because you’re three inches away from it, anything that close up is bound to look big,’ said Helen, who was sitting on the end of the bed, struggling to do her makeup in a tiny hand mirror. She felt sick.
Charlotte was right, though, the light in the bedroom wasn’t good; but Helen was so full of nerves that she didn’t really care. Helen took a closer look at her reflection; she was so pale and drawn it looked as if she might be coming down with something. ‘And I’ve already told you, Charlotte, this is Harry’s bedroom. The light in here is nothing to do with me. All right?’
‘So you say,’ Charlotte teased. ‘Anyway, we could hardly get ready in your room, could we? It’s like a bloody shoebox in there. How on earth do you manage? There’s barely enough room for the bed. Where do you put all your clothes and shoes and things? It’s a good job you’re tidy; it wouldn’t suit me at all,’ Charlotte continued, turning her attention back to the mirror. ‘The whole place would be a tip in ten minutes. A bit like this place really,’ she giggled.
Helen looked round Harry’s bedroom; Charlotte was right. There were things everywhere – shoes all over the floor, clothes and makeup spilling out of the suitcase Charlotte had brought with her; their coats were slung on the bed along with their costumes and handbags. Harry’s bedroom looked like someone was running an impromptu jumble sale.
Getting ready for the show at Harry’s flat had been Charlotte’s idea.
‘Anyway, it’s your fault we’re here. I thought that we were going to get ready at your house,’ said Helen, rolling on a slick of lip gloss. ‘That’s what your dad said when he came into the shop yesterday. He said he’d come into town and pick me up if there wasn’t a bus.’
‘I know,’ said Charlotte. ‘There’s a lot more room at my place obviously, but Harry’s flat is so much nearer to the Carlton Rooms.’
‘Your dad told me he was going to drive us in.’
‘Yes, all right, Helen, don’t keep on about it. I know what my dad said, okay? But he can be so bossy and so narrow-minded, interfering all the time – and yes, I know he’s on my side and everything, but he’s just so over-protective. This is better; we can please ourselves here. He’s really getting on my nerves.’ Charlotte screwed up her face and dropped straight into a cruel impersonation of her father. ‘Don’t do this, don’t say that, don’t you sign anything, not so much as an autograph without me reading it first, do you hear, Charlie? It’s for your own good, young lady He treats me like I’m a complete idiot. He nearly had fifty fits when he saw the costumes I’d had made for tonight. Too short. Too low. Too clingy. God only knows what he is going to be like when I finally get discovered, or come to that when I go off to teacher training in September.’
‘You’re still going, then?’ said Helen, concentrating her efforts on finishing off her mascara.
‘Oh yes,’ said Charlotte, sagely. ‘Finish my A levels and then on to teacher training, unless of course I get discovered in the meantime. Teaching will give me something to fall back on if the singing doesn’t pan out. I’m not totally daft despite what my dad thinks. And anyway, it’s more fun being here; I wanted to see where you and Harry lived. You two, all tucked up in your little love nest,’ she continued in the same teasing voice.
Before Helen could reply there was a sharp knock on the door.
‘God, that made me jump,’ gasped Charlotte with a nervous giggle. ‘Good job I wasn’t doing my eyeliner.’ And then she called out, ‘Hello, who is it?’
Helen rolled her eyes. ‘It’s Harry, who else is it going to be? It’s his flat. Can you just pass me a tissue?’
‘Could be the press, dahling,’ said Charlotte, striking a pose and putting on a big starry voice as she handed Helen a box of Kleenex. ‘Or maybe it’s TV people, wanting to come in and do an interview with the next big thing.’
‘Things,’ corrected Helen, sitting down alongside Charlotte on the dressing-table stool so that she could see herself in the big mirror. ‘Shift up a bit, will you. There are two of us, remember?’
‘I meant collectively, you and me, we are the next big thing. I keep thinking that that is what we should call ourselves: ‘The Next Big Thing’. It sounds good, don’t you think? Although ‘Wild Birds’ has got a nice ring to it too. Sort of sexy and cheeky and a bit risqué. I’m glad I thought of it – it’s good, memorable; even if I do say so myself.’
Harry knocked again.
‘Hang on a minute,’ called Charlotte. ‘We just want to get ourselves decent.’ She leaned forward again to brush away a speck of something on her cheek. ‘He’s keen. You did drop the music off, didn’t you?’
‘I’ve already told you. Yes. I did it during my lunch break yesterday. Front office, Mr Tully, just like you said. He said that we need to be there for a run-through and a sound check by half past five.’ As she spoke Helen glanced at the clock; time was getting on. ‘We should really let Harry in, see what he wants. We need to be going soon.’
‘Sound checks. That sounds as if we’ve already arrived, doesn’t it?’ Charlotte said approvingly. ‘You know we should have brought some wine or something to drink while we were getting ready, maybe splashed out and bought a bottle of champagne, like real pop stars do. So –’ she said, pointing with her makeup brush to the palette on the dressing table. ‘Do you think I should go with the blue glitter eye shadow or purple?’
Through the door Harry shouted, ‘Are you decent in there yet?’
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. ‘Depends what you mean, really, doesn’t it?’ she called. And then she glanced at Helen. ‘Are you and him –’ She nodded towards the double bed that dominated the tiny bedroom and which was currently strewn with Charlotte and Helen’s clothes. ‘You know.’
Helen reddened furiously. ‘No. God, no,’ she protested. ‘No, it’s not like that at all. I’m just living here because –’ she hesitated, not wanting to get into any long conversations about the state of her home life, ‘because, it’s easier for everyone, that’s all. And convenient. You know what the buses are like out our way. Five minutes’ walk from here and I’m slap-bang in the middle of town. That’s all.’
‘That isn’t how it looks from where I’m standing. Come on, Helen, don’t be so coy; you can tell me,’ purred Charlotte conspiratorially. ‘Harry follows you around like a dog and he can’t take his eyes off you, you know that. Although personally I’ve always seen him more as Buttons than Prince Charming. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s sweet – but he’s a bit wet, isn’t he?’
Helen glared at her. ‘No he isn’t,’ she said. ‘Harry’s really kind.’
‘Well, you would know,’ purred Charlotte. ‘You’d have to be blind not to notice how much he fancies you. What do you want? A neon sign? Him down on one knee? A nice fat diamond? Oh my God, is that what you’re hanging out for?’ She laughed. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re saving yourself till you’re married?’
‘No, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Helen more forcefully, feeling her face redden under Charlotte’s scrutiny. ‘I mean, I like Harry, but not like that. He’s a friend – a really good friend.’
‘So you say. If that’s true why are you blushing?’
To try and divert Charlotte’s attention Helen nodded towards the little pots on the dressing table. ‘I’d go with the blue if I were you. The purple makes you look like you’ve got a black eye.’
‘Oh, bugger the eye shadow. I want to talk about Harry. He’s not that bad a catch when you look at it, he’s quite nice looking – he’s got his own flat, own car, and his dad’s got his own business. You could do a lot, lot worse, you know,’ whispered Charlotte. ‘I’d be in there if I were you.’
‘Stop it,’ hissed Helen. ‘He’ll hear you.’
Right on cue Harry shouted through the door, ‘Look, I don’t want to rush you in there, ladies, but we really need to be leaving in about fifteen minutes if you want to be there by half past. It’s going to be busy in town and I’ll need to find somewhere to park.’
Charlotte glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, come on, don’t be such an old woman, Harry,’ she shouted back. ‘I reckon if we leave in half an hour we’ll have plenty of time. Why don’t you come in?’ She gave Helen a long sly wink. ‘Keep us company. Help Helen fill in these entry forms.’
A split second later Harry peered around the door, grinning like a loon, his expression a subtle mixture of nervousness and expectation. ‘Hi, how’s it all going in here?’ he asked. ‘You all ready, are you?’
Charlotte gave him the full benefit of her come and get me smile while peering up at him sexily from under her long sooty black lashes. ‘Why don’t you come on in and judge for yourself, Harry,’ she purred. ‘What do you think?’ She batted her lashes like a film star.
Harry blushed scarlet. ‘Lovely, really lovely,’ he stammered. ‘You both look amazing.’
Helen groaned and looked away. The two of them were still in their dressing gowns. In Charlotte’s case a skimpy, bright, red, silky, kung-fu, just-above-the-knee number that left very little to the imagination; and in Helen’s, a long tartan one that she had bought from a charity shop on the walk home from work, when she realised that she couldn’t wander about in her nightie with Harry around. As it was he still went bright crimson as soon as she opened her bedroom door in the mornings, and he’d been so kind to her that she didn’t want to cause him any more problems.
‘I’m very glad that we meet with your approval,’ Charlotte purred, pulling out a fold of papers from her handbag. ‘Have you got a pen on you?’
Helen knew from experience that Harry was the kind of young man who always had a pen to hand. He tapped the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘What colour do you want?’
Charlotte waved the words away. ‘We don’t mind what colour it is; the thing is, Harry, as you can see we’re both really busy. We were hoping you’d fill in our entry forms for us, weren’t we, Helen? While we finish getting ready.’
Helen looked up at him and smiled warmly. Harry’s father, Helen’s boss at the toy shop where she worked, had given her and Harry the afternoon off for all this. Harry grinned self-consciously and hastily turned his attention to the papers he’d been given. ‘So what do you want me to do?’ He said.
‘We were supposed to fill them in when we went for the auditions,’ said Charlotte, her gaze wandering back to her own reflection as she set about finishing off her makeup. ‘But we didn’t go because my dad knows the people at the Carlton Rooms and they said we didn’t need to audition, but we really need all that stuff done before the show tonight. And you seem like the natural choice; Helen said you’re really good at that sort of thing. You know, like organising and giving Helen a helping hand with things.’
Harry reddened furiously.
Helen shot her a look. Charlotte winked. ‘So can you do it?’
Harry flicked through the forms, while Charlotte patted her nose with a powder puff and then sat back, turning her head left and right to admire the overall effect. ‘So, what do you think? Perfect or what?’ she asked, striking a pose.
Harry, oblivious, was concentrating on the entry form. He glanced up at Helen and frowned. ‘I’m not sure about all this,’ he began.
‘How about you read out the questions and we’ll answer them?’ Helen said quietly. ‘I mean it’s not like it’s an exam or anything.’
Harry nodded. ‘Okay. Fair enough.’
At the dressing table Charlotte was adding a great gash of bright orange lipstick. ‘Uhuh, and then we better get a move on or we’ll be late, won’t we Harry,’ she said, heavy on the sarcasm. ‘How old are you?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, whoever signs those has got to be over twenty-one.’
‘I’m twenty-two, nearly twenty-three,’ said Harry.
‘That’s okay then. So what’s the first question?’
‘Name of the act?’
‘Well, that’s easy enough, we’re the Wild Birds,’ said Charlotte with a grin. ‘Wild by name and wild by nature, isn’t that right, Helen?’
This time it was Helen who blushed.
Dutifully Harry wrote it in. ‘And what type of act are you?’
‘We’re singers,’ said Helen.
‘Female vocalists,’ corrected Charlotte. ‘We’re an all girl duo, and we’re really good. I mean you’ve heard us, Harry? We’re bloody brilliant, aren’t we? They’re going to love us tonight, I know it.’
Harry laughed and then bit down thoughtfully on the end of his biro; there was obviously no section set aside for boasting.
‘They want to know what kind of material you do. You know, like what sort of songs you sing?’ he continued, still reading.
‘Carly Simon, Roberta Flack.’
‘Simon and Garfunkel,’ added Helen.
‘Uhuh, okay,’ he said, while still writing, ‘And your names –’
‘Wait,’ snapped Charlotte, holding up her hand to stop him. ‘Before you write anything down, let me think about that.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Helen. ‘What is there to think about?’ She turned back to Harry. ‘Helen Heel and Charlotte Johnson.’
‘Whoa there, just hang on a minute, don’t write anything yet,’ said Charlotte before Harry had a chance to put pen to paper. ‘This is our big chance, our big moment. We could get discovered tonight, Helen. Do you want to be plain old Helen Heel for the rest of your life? Good old down-at-heel?’
Helen felt a tiny residual prickle of pain and indignation at the old playground insult.
‘Well, do you?’ repeated Charlotte, more forcefully. ‘Because I sure as hell know I don’t. I don’t want to be Johnny Johnson’s little Charlie, the girl who should have been a boy, Daddy’s little girl, forever. I want to be somebody, not just Charlotte Johnson. Helen Heel and Charlotte Johnson. It makes us sound so ordinary. And we’re not ordinary.’ She struck a pose and then grinned. ‘Well, at least, I’m not. How about Kate Monroe and Helen Hepburn?’
Helen laughed. ‘Where on earth did that come from?’ she said.
‘I’ve been thinking about it for while now,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s time we reinvented ourselves.’
‘Oh, Charlotte,’ Helen said.
But Harry didn’t laugh – instead he nodded. ‘You know, Charlotte, you’re right, that’s not such a bad idea. You should really have a stage name. Kate Monroe, that sounds lovely.’ To her surprise Helen felt a tiny prickle of envy. ‘I’m not so sure about Helen Hepburn though,’ he continued. ‘How about Hemingway? Helen Hemingway, that sounds really classy.’
Both girls shook their heads.
‘Too long for the billboards,’ said Charlotte. ‘And it’s way too fussy. People won’t know how to spell it. No, we need something catchy and memorable.’
‘Hang on a minute then,’ said Harry, picking up the evening paper from the bedside table.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Helen. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re looking at births, deaths and marriages?’
Harry laughed. ‘No, I just thought I’d see what was on at the Odeon.’
‘You planning a trip to the pictures?’ asked Helen incredulously.
‘Don’t be daft. I was just thinking we could look to see what’s on and who’s in it; see if any of the names go with Helen.’
‘I’m not sure I even like Helen, not really,’ Helen began, not that either Harry or Charlotte were taking any notice of her.
‘How about Helen McQueen?’ said Charlotte, reading over Harry’s shoulder and pointing. ‘Oh or how about Helen Brando, or Helen Eastwood?’
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘You need to take this seriously. We’ve only got another ten minutes and then we really have to be going or we’re not going to be there in time for the run-through.’
If Charlotte had any other opinion about how much time it would take to get to the theatre, this time she kept it to herself, and instead she took a long hard look at the cinema programme. ‘Okay. There we are. I’ve got it. The Sting. Helen Redford or Helen Newman. What do you reckon?’