Free Trio by Cath Staincliffe Page B

who they had seen and what, if anything, had been agreed. She often had to pester Roger to find out. And catch him straight after an act had left. He was irritatingly absent-minded.
    Roger invited her to one of his parties. He had a huge house near Hampstead Heath and he boasted that the parties went on all weekend, day and night. He paid for caterers and cleaners and even people to serve drinks. With all that, Joan couldn’t see why on earth he bothered with his little record label.
    When she got there she didn’t know what to do with herself. She smoked too much and drank too much and found herself outside by the terrace being sick behind a hydrangea bush. She fell asleep there. The cold woke her and she went exploring. The house was huge and, with music blaring from all corners and psychedelic lighting, she felt like she’d walked into someone’s bad dream. People were petting on the stairs and dancing in one room to a live group who were hopelessly off key. Everyone seemed to be smoking reefers or popping pills. She opened one door and was shocked to see a bed covered with naked people. Not just one couple but several. A sea of breasts and pubic hair. A man’s willy. She shut the door hurriedly, her cheeks aflame. She felt uncomfortable and walked home.
    When Roger had his next party she wondered whether to go or not but he told her there were some business contacts there he wanted her to meet. He introduced her to Lena. Lena was working in Soho, singing in a nightclub not far from the office. Although her English was very good she had a thick German accent and Joan had to concentrate hard to make out the sense. She was talking about Roger and how he had promised her some sort of record deal. They hoped to make a record soon.
    ‘Have you written it?’ Joan asked.
    ‘No,’ Lena threw back her head and laughed. She had bronze skin and her hair was streaked with gold and honey. She had very pale grey eyes. Joan thought she could have been a model or a film star if the singing didn’t work out.
    ‘Roger is the writer,’ Lena said.
    Joan pulled a face.
    ‘You think it’s a problem? No good?’
    Joan shrugged. ‘You’d be better off doing it yourself.’
    ‘No. I can sing, but writing? Pouff!’ she waved her hands in dismissal. ‘What is wrong with Roger doing it?’
    ‘First of all, it’ll take him forever, and then it will be . . .’ she leaned close and enunciated carefully, ‘dull, square, boring.’ She had heard his songs and tried to think of comments that wouldn’t get her sacked.
    ‘Joan, you write me a song.’
    ‘But I’ve never . . .’
    ‘If you don’t, I’ll have to do Roger’s. Please?’
    ‘He wouldn’t like it.’
    ‘We’ll pick a name for you, he won’t know.’ Lena was animated, her face alight with the plan. ‘What would you like to be called?’
    ‘I can’t . . .’ She protested.
    ‘Joan –’ Lena grabbed her hands – ‘my friend, please. Just try, promise you’ll try.’ She stared at Joan, an open look to her, eyes dancing, a smile stretching her lips. ‘Please?’
    ‘I’ll try. But it might be rubbish.’
    ‘You’ll try?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Lena pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. Joan laughed with surprise.
    ‘And what name?’
    The question blew Joan straight back to St Ann’s, to the registrar documenting the birth. And what name? Laboriously writing with a thick fountain pen. Her name and address, a careful line across the section for the father’s details, and then, pen poised, he turned his shiny round face to her and peered over his glasses. And what name? Nearly two years ago now.
    ‘Joan?’ Lena nudged her elbow. ‘You OK?’
    ‘Day dreaming,’ she said. ‘I’ll think of something.’ And she tried to force her smile into her eyes too.
     
    Lilian
    ‘And this is Pamela,’ Peter announced, lifting up the carrycot. ‘Pamela Mary Gough.’
    ‘She’s tiny,’ his mother observed. She sounded pleasant enough but Lilian noticed