The caller switched to German. ‘This is Enok Andersen calling from West Berlin.’
Andersen was the Danish accountant who managed Walli’s father’s factory. Walli recalled a bald man with glasses and a ballpoint pen in the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘All your family are well, but I am the bringer of disappointing news. Karolin and Alice have been refused permission to emigrate.’
Walli felt as if he had been punched. He sat down heavily. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘What reason?’
‘The government of East Germany do not give reasons for their decisions. However, a Stasi man visited the house – Hans Hoffmann, whom you know.’
‘A jackal.’
‘He told the family that none of them would ever get permission to emigrate or travel to the West.’
Walli covered his eyes with his hand. ‘Never?’
‘That’s what he said. Your father asked me to convey this to you. I’m very sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is there any message I can give your family? I cross to East Berlin once a week still.’
‘Say I love them all, please.’ Walli choked up.
‘Very well.’
Walli swallowed. ‘And say that I will see them all again one day. I feel sure of it.’
‘I’ll tell them that. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’ Walli hung up, feeling desolate.
After a minute he picked up his guitar and played a minor chord. Music was consoling. It was abstract, just notes and their relationships. There were no spies, no traitors, no policemen, no walls. He sang: ‘I miss you, Alice . . .’
*
Dave was glad to see his sister again. He met her outside the office of her agency, International Stars. Evie was wearing a purple bowler hat. She said: ‘Home is pretty dull without you.’
‘Nobody has rows with Dad?’ said Dave with a grin.
‘He’s so busy, since Labour won the election. He’s in the Cabinet now.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m doing a new film.’
‘Congratulations!’
‘But you fired your manager.’
‘Eric felt Plum Nellie was a one-hit wonder. But we haven’t given up. However, we must get some more gigs. All we’ve got in the diary is a few nights at the Jump Club, and that won’t even pay the rent.’
‘I can’t promise that International Stars will take you on,’ Evie said. ‘They agreed to talk to you, that’s all.’
‘I know.’ But agents did not meet people just to blow them off, Dave figured. And clearly the agency wanted to be nice to Evie Williams, the hottest young actress in London. So he had high hopes.
They went inside. The place was different from Eric Chapman’s office. The receptionist was not chewing gum. There were no trophies on the lobby walls, just some tasteful watercolours. It was classy, though not very rock and roll.
They did not have to wait. The receptionist took them into the office of Mark Batchelor, a tall man in his twenties wearing a shirt with a fashionable tab collar and a knitted tie. His secretary brought coffee on a tray. ‘We love Evie, and we’d like to help her brother,’ Batchelor said when the initial pleasantries were out of the way. ‘But I’m not sure we can. “Shake, Rattle and Roll” has damaged Plum Nellie.’
Dave said: ‘I don’t disagree, but tell me exactly what you mean.’
‘If I may be frank . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Dave, thinking how different this was from a conversation with Eric Chapman.
‘You look like an average pop group who had the good luck to get your hands on a Hank Remington song. People think the song was great, not you. We live in a small world – a few record companies, a handful of tour promoters, two television shows – and everyone thinks the same. I can’t sell you to any of them.’
Dave swallowed. He had not expected Batchelor to be this candid. He tried not to show his disappointment. ‘We were lucky to get a Hank Remington song,’ he admitted. ‘But we’re not an average pop group. We have a first-class rhythm section and a virtuoso lead guitarist, and we look good, too.’
‘Then you have to prove to people that you’re not one-hit wonders.’
‘I know. But with no recording contract and no big gigs I’m not sure how we do that.’
‘You need another great song. Can you get another from Hank Remington?’
Dave shook his head. ‘Hank doesn’t write songs for other people. “Love Is It” was a one-off, a ballad that the Kords didn’t want to record.’
‘Perhaps he could write another ballad.’ Batchelor spread his hands in a who-knows gesture. ‘I’m not creative, that’s why I’m an agent, but I know enough to realize that Hank is a prodigy.’
‘Well . . .’ Dave looked at Evie. ‘I suppose I could ask him.’
Batchelor said breezily: ‘What harm could it do?’
Evie shrugged. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said.
‘All right, then,’ said Dave.
Batchelor stood up and put out his hand to shake. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
As they left the building, Dave said to Evie: ‘Can we go and see Hank now?’
‘I’ve got some shopping to do,’ Evie said. ‘I told him I’d see him tonight.’
‘This is really important, Evie. My whole life is in ruins.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘My car’s around the corner.’
They drove to Chelsea in Evie’s Sunbeam Alpine. Dave chewed his lip. Batchelor had done him the favour of being brutally honest. But Batchelor did not believe in Plum Nellie’s talent – just Hank Remington’s. All the same, if Dave could get just one more good song from Hank, the group would be back on course.
What was he going to say?
Hi, Hank, got any more ballads? That was too casual.
Hank, I’m in a fix. Too needy.
Our record company made a real mistake releasing ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’. But we could rescue the situation – with a little help from you. Dave did not like any of these approaches, mainly because he hated to beg.
But he would do it.
Hank had an apartment by the river. Evie led the way into a big old house and up in a creaking elevator. She spent most nights here now. She opened the apartment door with her own key. ‘Hank!’ she called out. ‘It’s only me.’
Dave walked in behind her. There was a hallway with a splashy modern painting. They passed a gleaming kitchen and looked into a living room with a grand piano. No one was there.
‘He’s out,’ Dave said despondently.
Evie said: ‘He might be taking an afternoon nap.’
Another door opened, and Hank emerged from what was obviously the bedroom, pulling his jeans on. He closed the door behind him. ‘Hello, love,’ he said. ‘I was in bed. Hello, Dave, what are you doing here?’
‘Evie brought me to ask you a really big favour,’ said Dave.
‘Yeah,’ said Hank, looking at Evie. ‘I was expecting you later.’
‘Dave couldn’t wait.’
Dave said: ‘We need a new song.’
‘It’s not a good time, Dave,’ said Hank. Dave expected him to explain, but he did not.
Evie said: ‘Hank, is something wrong?’
‘Yeah, actually,’ said Hank.
Dave was startled. No one ever answered ‘Yes’ to that question.
Evie’s feminine intuition was far ahead of Dave. ‘Is there someone in the bedroom?’
‘I’m sorry, love,’ said Hank. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back.’
At that point the bedroom door opened and Anna Murray came out.
Dave’s mouth fell open in shock. Jasper’s sister had been in bed with Evie’s boyfriend!
Anna was fully dressed in business clothes, including stockings and high heels, but her hair was mussed and her jacket buttons were misaligned. She did not speak and avoided meeting anyone’s eye. She went into the living room and came back out carrying a briefcase. She went to the apartment door, lifted a coat off the hook, and went out without speaking a word.
Hank said: ‘She came round to talk about my autobiography, and one thing led to another . . .’
Evie was crying. ‘Hank, how could you?’
‘I didn’t plan it,’ he said. ‘It just happened.’
‘I thought you loved me.’
‘I did. I do. This was just . . .’
‘Just what?’
Hank looked to Dave for support. ‘There are some temptations a man can’t resist.’
Dave thought of Mickie McFee, and nodded.