The Overnight Fame of Steffi McBride

Chapter Twelve

Since I hardly got to see Mum any more, at least not for long enough periods to really confide anything to her, Dora had become like my confessor. She seemed to be endlessly patient, just lighting one cigarette after another and pouring the coffee as I told her all about everything that had happened at the Brits and my worries about how it was getting out of control.

     ‘Now Luke wants to go on tour and God knows what else,’ I gabbled, a bit hysterical really. ‘But I don’t know.’

     ‘The record company want you to do some songs on your own,’ she said, as casually as if she’d just remembered a phone message she’d taken for me.

     ‘You’re kidding.’ I felt a strange mixture of buzz and dread. ‘He’d do his f***ing nut if he knew that.’

     ‘You’re bigger than he is, Steff, and a better singer. Maybe he’s going to have to face up to that. Where would Cher be if she’d stuck with Sonny?’

     ‘Who?’

     ‘Exactly.’

     ‘How can I be bigger than Luke? What about the West End Boys and all those platinum records?’

     ‘That was then. Just because the group was big doesn’t mean he can be a star on his own. You’re the one everyone’s in love with now. And you’ve got a real talent. That’s why he needs to be part of a double act with you. He had his chance on his own and it didn’t work.’

     ‘He’s still famous,’ I protested a bit feebly.

     ‘Only because of the band. Your generation of girls will always remember because you were fans, but younger kids won’t have a clue who he is, any more than you could name the members of the Monkeys or the Bay City Rollers.’

     ‘Really? Jesus, if Luke ever thought that it would destroy him. Singing is his whole life. I’ve already insulted him by suggesting acting is superior in some way.’

     ‘He’s a big boy, now,’ Dora shrugged, ‘he knows how the business works. He’s got to accept it.’

      I couldn’t get my head round that; I mean, he’s Luke Lewis for God’s sake! To me he was always going to be a pop god. So I changed the subject. ‘You ever heard of someone called Quentin James?’

     ‘Of course, why?’

     ‘He said I should sell my story. Said he could make me a couple of million.’

     It was hard to believe I was even saying that. I mean, what sort of money is two million? It’s like gigantic wealth isn’t it, and I was bandying the figures about like I was talking about a couple of hundred quid? Everything was going so weird.

     ‘He probably could,’ Dora said in exactly the same matter of fact voice. ‘He’s very good at his job. All the editors take his calls and he’s set up most of the big deals in recent years. Everyone ends up in his office eventually.’

     That bloody sentence again!

     ‘Do you think I should do that?’ I asked.

     She paused for a moment to light a new cigarette and give herself time to think. She likes her dramatic pauses does Dora. ‘What you’ve got to ask yourself is do the real stars sell their stories? I mean the legends? Or is it just the little people? The big people may write their autobiographies, keeping control of every word that goes out, but do they actually go to the newspapers with their hands out for cash? Or do they retain their distance and their dignity? Apparently the royal family have a saying, “never apologise, never explain”, you could do worse than take a leaf out of their book. Doing a deal with Quentin is like selling your soul to the devil. Once you’ve sold your story to one paper, all the others will see it as an invitation to discredit you in any way they can to try to get a slice of the cake. They’ll make stuff up if necessary; just to get back at the paper you’ve done the deal with. At the moment you still have your integrity and dignity in tact. Is it worth two million to lose that?’