Authors: Elizabeth Audrey Mills
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance
A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Andy was on it like a tiger, wrenching it
open, ready to bite off Winkler's head, but it was one of the stage hands. "Miss Bellini's
costumes," he announced, pointing to a trunk on the corridor floor beside him. Andy
thanked him and dragged it into the room. It provided the needed final seating for the six
of us - two on the only chairs provided, two back-to-back on the trunk, me perched on the
shelf that passed as a dressing table, and 'Legs' on the loo in the corner. We sat there in
silence, our mood soured.
"Believe it or not, Belinda, we've seen worse than this," said Andy.
"Hell yeah," added Marco. "What about that place in Southport?"
They all groaned, then laughed, and in seconds the room was filled with the noise of
I recognised him from his television appearances and album sleeves, in which he looked
perpetually young, but close up, in the flesh, was another matter. His lined face was
heavily caked with makeup, his hair clearly a wig. As soon as he entered the room, his
eyes fixed on me, looking me up and down, assessing me.
"Hey guys, welcome aboard," he gushed, his whiter-than-white, better-than-real, teeth
practically illuminating the room.
"Hi Tony," we all chimed, and Andy rose to greet him with a handshake.
"Yeah, hi," Fortinelli said, taking the hand absently, looking over Andy's shoulder at
me. "Hey little lady, I hear you have a hit record."
He had only been in the room for one minute, and in that short time had stripped me
with his eyes and insulted one of my friends. I decided I did not like him.
"It's a start," I replied, coldly.
He seemed not to notice, or perhaps didn't care. "Yeah, well, I just came to meet and
greet, as they say; haha. Bye for now." He flashed another gleaming smile, as sincere as a
politician, and was gone. It was as though we had been visited unexpectedly by a member
of royalty from a small and unknown principality.
The door closed and I looked around at the boys, who were studying my face with
amusement.
"Congratulations, you just met the star of our show," said Andy in a caricatured
American accent.
"Is he real?" I asked, still stunned at the man's arrogance. I knew a little about Tony
Fortinelli, from the newspapers. He rose to minor fame in the nineteen forties and fifties
by mimicking such real stars as Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra, but without their talent
or charisma. He chose the medium of jazz to disguise his lack of singing ability and,
against all odds, he even had a hit record.
"Oh yes," said Marco, wryly, he's real … a real arsehole."
"The thing is," Andy added, "he has endless belief in himself, and doesn't realise that
he's crap. Have you looked at the support acts on the posters?"
"Yes, but I hardly know any of the names. I assumed they are American artists who just
hadn't been promoted over here."
Andy shrugged. "They aren't even big over there. I mean, whoever heard of The
Majesterials? Or Buster Damone? The fact is that Tony can't stand competition, so he
surrounds himself with minor acts, so he can act Mister Big."
At that moment, there was another knock on the door and a voice called out "Sound
check in ten minutes, folks!"
Considering what I had been through, it's amazing how naive I still was in some ways.
Oh, I had learnt to put on a tough front, that was my defence against the world, but the
shell was thin.
The night after the first gig, I was asleep on the bus, but was wakened after only an hour
or so by the sound of voices and music. The noise became louder, preventing me from
returning to the sleep I had been enjoying, and eventually I got up to investigate.
As I pushed through the curtain into the lounge area, the sight that met my eyes hit me
like a physical punch to the stomach, and my mind was jolted into memories of the most
unpleasant kind.
The air was thick with the smoke of cannabis, and the floor was a tangled mass of naked
bodies. It was just like so many nights had been at The Bricklayers Arms, when that rat
Burroughs had held his orgies. The throbbing music, the overpowering smell of drugs,
perfume and sweaty bodies, grabbed at my insides, and I was suddenly, uncontrollably,
violently sick, able only to quickly turn my head and direct the flow into the sink of the
kitchenette.
As I wiped my face with a towel, I heard a young voice laugh, and saw a girl, no older
than fourteen, peel her skinny torso from the mass on the floor. "It'sss B'linder! You 'ad
too much to drink, sweetie?" She giggled, waving a splif in my direction. "'ere, 'ave a drag
of this."
Angrily I knocked her hand aside, my eyes scanning the squirming sea of flesh on the
floor and the couches. "What the hell is going on?" I demanded of everyone and no-one in
particular.
There was a splutter of amusement from the crowd, and Ray's head appeared with a pair
of slim arms wrapped around his neck. "Just an 'after-show' party, Belinda sweetheart;
we're entertaining a few fans. Come and join in, if you want."
For a moment, I couldn't speak, my mind was in turmoil. I wanted to scream at them:
You have no idea what this is doing to me!
But, of course, that was the point, they didn't
know. And much as I disapproved of what they were doing, I couldn't blame them for
what had happened to me in the past.
When I was finally able to put together a sentence, all I could say was: "I thought you
were part of the answer, but you're not! You're part of the problem," before flouncing off
back to my bunk. I was disgusted with them. They were married men. For all I knew, they
could have daughters the same age as those girls they were having sex with.
All that night, whenever I finally drifted back into sleep, images reformed in my mind.
Cloudy images, from the Bricklayers Arms. Of distorted faces close to mine - men,
grunting, laughing, one after another, sex without feelings. Of music - loud, thumping,
piercing. Voices, a babble. Bodies - mine, others, tangled. Then I would wake again,
sweating and shaking, crying as the dreams slowly dissipated like wisps of smoke sucked
into the extractor fan.
When I was eventually wakened by the swaying of the bus as it set off at dawn, I
dragged myself from my bunk and into the wash room, unsteady from the movement of
the vehicle and lack of sleep, bumping from one wall to another. Inside, I locked the door
and stripped off my pyjamas, stepped into the shower, and ran the water lukewarm, to
stimulate my skin and tired brain.
When I emerged, there was still no sign of any of the guys. I dressed and made my way,
one handhold at a time, to the front. I noticed, as I passed through the lounge, that it had
all been cleaned up; there was no indication of what had taken place there a few hours
earlier.
Adrian, the driver, greeted me with a smile as I settled into the passenger seat. I
managed to return the smile, though my mind was in turmoil.
"Who cleared up the mess back there?" I asked after a while, inclining my head towards
the lounge, trying to shatter the persistent thoughts that were still teeming through my
mind.
He shrugged. "Me. The stink was awful, I couldn't face the drive with that in my
nostrils. There are some stains I can't shift. I will have to report it." He turned his head
from the road for a moment to fix me with a meaningful glare.
"Don't look at me," I said, defensively. "I spent the night in my bed. But you shouldn't
have to deal with stuff like that, it must have been disgusting. I will talk to the boys when
they finally surface."
"Ok," he grinned. "Thanks."
Ahead, the road rushed towards us around the next bend, then swished under our wheels
like a conveyor belt. The sun was just clearing the horizon off to our right, peering at us
through layers of grey cloud. We were already out of Blackpool and heading west,
towards Stoke-on-Trent and our next performance.
Nick was the first to emerge from the back of the bus. Weaving, hand-over-hand, to
stand, blinking in the watery daylight, in the gangway between the front seats.
"Morning," he mumbled.
"Morning," Adrian and I replied in unison, without enthusiasm.
When no further conversation seemed imminent, Nick shambled back to the lounge and
A little later, first Marco, then Benny, arrived, and eventually the others. The lounge
began to fill with a hum of subdued voices. Taking a deep breath, and with a little glance
at Adrian, I went back to join them.
I glared at each of them in turn, and they fell into silence. "Hung over?" I asked, acidly.
They all nodded.
Having reached that point, I wasn't sure I could go on. It was going to be one of the
hardest things I had ever done, and I baulked at the first word. With an effort, I began:
"I'm going to tell you guys something that I have never, ever, admitted to anyone. Not
because you deserve it, because, quite honestly, I am disappointed and disgusted in you
all."
Their heads came up in synchronisation, ready to protest, but I carried on, quickly. "But
I have to put it into words or it will eat at me until I go mad."
This had the desired effect, and they waited for me to continue. I told them about
Burroughs, about the drugs and the sex. Forming the words, opening up the memories,
was like inserting a knife into my own heart. They sat in respectful silence as I described,
as fully as I could, and with tears streaming down my face, the abuse I had suffered.
When I stopped, a silence fell over us, with nothing but the hum of the wheels and the
swishing of passing vehicles to prove that I had not become deaf. Slowly, as if under the
control of a single brain, which had compelled them all to hold their breath, they each
exhaled in a long sigh.
Ray rose, came over to my couch and sat beside me. When I looked into his eyes, they
were filled with remorse. "I'm so sorry, Belinda." It was all he could say. He took my
hands in his and squeezed them, then stood and walked, head down, towards the back of
the bus.
One by one, the others did the same, until I was left sitting alone.
Traditionally, minor performers open the show and the star appears last. It keeps the
fans in a state of expectation and builds the tension. As the unproven act, we were on
first, and I discovered that support acts often perform to half-empty theatres. Unoccupied
seats, especially in the front rows, awaited the arrival of fans of the star turn; they were
not interested in the unknowns preceding him. But we found, as the tour developed, that
many in the audiences had heard our record, and we enjoyed enthusiastic welcomes
wherever we performed, to such an extent that word seemed to go before us, and there
became fewer and fewer empty seats.
Those performances merge together in my mind. The memories are there, clear and
sharp, but the sequence is confused. From my diary I can trace from venue to venue, one
theatre after another, but what happened at one show sometimes seems to be crossreferenced to another. From Blackpool we went to Stoke-on-Trent, then Wolverhampton,
Birmingham and Sunderland. The layout of one place would differ a little from the others,
the stage may have been longer or deeper, or the auditorium may have been closer, but it
made little difference to us. We travelled, performed, slept, travelled and performed, until
it became hard to know where we were, and it is important to know what town you are in.
Part of the rapport with an audience comes from identifying with them - they love to hear
the name of their town, and if you can comment on some landmark or local celebrity you
become their friend, someone to be trusted, adored.
While we were in Hull, a new top twenty was released, and 'Paddington Nights' rose to
number eleven. On the strength of that, Jenny got us on Ready Steady Go, which entailed
a dash to London to mime to the record in the ITV studios, then immediately back on the
bus to get to Brighton for that night's gig. We were so tired from late nights and constant
travel that we slept on the coach all the way to Brighton.
As a result of our growing success and popularity with the audiences, we were moved
up one place, from opening the show to second on. The Majesterials were clearly put out
at being moved down, and I saw much arm waving and angry pacing as they remonstrated
with the manager, but with no success.
As they stamped past me on their way back to the dressing room, they glared at me as
though I had said something to cast doubt on their parentage.
After Brighton, we hit Plymouth, then Manchester, Liverpool and Sheffield. Mostly
single shows, but occasionally with a second night.
On the day we travelled southwards to Southend-on-Sea, another new chart put the
Dave Clark Five into the number one spot with 'Glad All Over', and 'Paddington Nights'
reached number six. Joy for us, but misery for Buster Damone, whose place we took at
last-but-one in the running, immediately before Fortinelli came on.
London: full circle for us, as we returned to our home base for the last three nights of
the tour - ironically, the circle was to close on us.
The first show was at the Dominion, where we were greeted enthusiastically when the
compère announced us. As we left the stage, however, Tony Fortinelli was waiting in the
wings to be called, and he told me to stay, proclaiming that he wanted me to sing a duet
with him.
My heart sank. I had listened to his previous performances with amazement from the
wings; he was frequently drunk on stage, his timing was terrible, and he often forgot the
words. As he spoke to me then, waves of alcohol fumes were propelled from his mouth
into my face, making me gasp for air.
I heard the compère shout his name, and saw him switch on the fake, toothy smile, just
before emerging from the wings to the adulation of his fans.
"Thank you, thank you lovely people," he said into his hand mic. "It's really won'erful to
be back in your lovely city of Lon-don."
He waited, smiling and waving, for the cheers and clapping to die down.
"Now, you just saw our young rising star, Belinda Bellini - isn't she great?"
The crowd applauded spontaneously with yells and whistles, but I could see him
encouraging them with his hands, as though they wouldn't be doing it without his
prompting.
He cut in on their cheering, unwilling to let it go on too long. "Let's bring her back, shall
we?" As the audience went wild, he turned to the wings where I was waiting, and gestured
for me to join him.
"Now I have to tell you good people," he announced, as I walked out to stand beside
him, "that our Belinda's first ever record has climbed to number six in the chart this very
day. How about that?" Again, he was flapping his hands, pretending to whip them up.
They didn't need it, they were going wild without any help from him.
He put his arm around my shoulder, and his body odour nearly knocked me out. In a
voice that implied he was offering me riches beyond measure, he asked if I would like to
join him in singing 'Forever tomorrow', his well-known hit single. Of course I smiled and
agreed. I could hardly decline, in front of his fan club, could I?
From the start, it was as bad as I feared it would be. His band played the short
instrumental introduction, but he missed his cue and started late. However, they were
professionals, experienced at covering for his inadequacies, so they quickly compensated,
and the moment passed almost unnoticed. Worse for me was that, throughout the song,
his voice constantly wandered off-key; it was as though he had no idea of the correct
notes to go with the words. I couldn't tell what note he would be hitting (or missing) next,
and it was quite impossible for me to take his lead in order to harmonise with him. All I
could do was to pitch myself with the band and sing the right note, hoping he would home
in on my voice. Though it only lasted about three minutes, it felt like an eternity as I
battled on, trying to look as though I was enjoying myself.
When, gratefully, the song finally ended, and we bowed to the cheering audience,
smiling and waving, I thought my ordeal was over, but he had another surprise for me.
Off mic, he leaned over and said "You were flat!"
Shocked, I looked at his face. The smile for the crowd never left his lips - it was fixed,
like the painted mouth of a clown - but the tone of his voice had been mean.
After a moment of stunned amazement, I angrily retorted: "It wasn't me that was flat,
you old fraud, it was you."
We finished bowing and waving, and he roughly took my arm to lead me off the stage,
the smile for the audience still unwavering, but his fingers dug into the soft flesh of my
upper arm.
"Just take a look at the posters as you leave, little girl, and see who is the star here," he
grunted. "You may have a top ten record, but it takes years of experience to get where I
am. If I say you were flat, then you were flat."
As we reached the wings, I shook my arm free to wave once more to the cheering fans,
then raised my microphone to my mouth and switched it on. "You may have been around
a long time, Mister Fortinelli," I snapped for everyone to hear, "and you may once have
been able to sing - I wouldn't know, I wasn't even born then - but you can't now." I turned
my back on him and marched off to my dressing room.
That was the end of my tour. As I sat fuming, wiping off my stage paint alone in the
dressing room - the guys had already cleared up and returned to the bus - Fortinelli's
manager barged in and informed me that I was no longer part of the show.
"His loss, not mine," I shouted to the closing door.