said. She brought him his pastry. He would crumble it and eat slowly, making it last. He kept food in his mouth to have something to chew.
Leech did business from the rear table in Mama Gina’s on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. His suit had no lapels, his shoes were shined to black mirrors. His hair just grew down over his ears. He wore midnight-black sunglasses and, a distinctive touch, a wide-brimmed hat. They called him ‘pilgrim’.
‘You’re No Good’ by the Swinging Blue Jeans came tinnily from the pink plastic radio.
Two girls ventured in and asked for him at the counter: Mama Gina nodded them towards him.
About fourteen: Jackie bands in their hair, white-cream dresses with cassata swirls of colour. Too close in age to be sisters. Best friends.
He took out his wallet.
‘We were told,’ the more intrepid girl began.
He opened his wallet. It was stuffed with tickets. The Searchers, Gerry & the Pacemakers, The Animals, Dusty Springfield.
‘Sold out for weeks, they said at the hall,’ the girl lamented.
The Beatles. This year, everyone wanted the Beatles.
‘Nothing is ever sold out.’
Nervous smiles.
He named a price. One girl gulped but the other opened a tiny handbag and took out a tinier purse. She unfolded notes and emptied small change on to the table.
‘Jan, where d’you get all that?’ her friend asked.
‘Mum.’
‘She know?’
Leech put two tickets on the table.
‘My pleasure, girls,’ he said.
CHELSEA, 1967
‘You live over the shop?’ Tamsin said. ‘It’s just a box.’
It was a room with a bed. Leech rarely slept.
The bass player and the drummer sat on the bed. Denny Wolfe, the lead guitarist, crouched by the cold grate. Leech and Tamsin stood by the open window. She was the singer.
‘Thought you’d have a flash pad,’ the drummer said. ‘You must be rakin’ it in downstairs.’
Downstairs was the original Derek’s. Leech started in the King’s Road selling militaria, then rented rack-space to local designers. This year, old curtains with armholes would sell as swinging London fashions. There were five Derek’s now, dotted over London.
‘Money is only a tool,’ he said.
The musicians grinned. Boyish in cavalry sideburns and bright shirts. They would have six Top Twenty hits but only Tamsin would have a real career after the break-up. The drummer, now rolling a thin joint, would overdose in a New York hotel within ten years. Wolfe would strike a separate Deal but see little profit from it. The others would fade away.
Leech had had the management contract drawn up. Wolfe made a great show of reading it.
‘What’s your company called?’ Tamsin asked. ‘Derek’s Discs?’
‘Real Records.’
The drummer snorted and lit up. After a heavy toke, he passed the joint to Wolfe. Smoke, odourless to Leech, drifted towards the window.
Leech took out a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum and made a token of offering it round. No one took him up. He unwrapped all five oblongs and put them in his mouth. The ball would last for months.
The girl watched him closely.
‘You must love that stuff?’
He shrugged. ‘Only way to shut me up.’
Tamsin would marry him and, after three years, walk out claiming never to have known him. By then, she would be an official living legend. And he would still be a coming man.
Now, her face unlined and angular she looked at him. The light from the window hit her face exactly as it would on the first LP cover. She would never stipple her blackheads, but would redefine the word ‘beautiful’.
She leaned over and gently removed his sunglasses. He didn’t blink as she looked into his eyes.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Do you have a pen?’
NORWOOD, 1972
‘This top’s too effing tight,’ the model complained, South London shrill, ‘pardon my French.’
Her name was Brenda but she called herself Brie. Blonde hair down to her waist, she knelt in six square-feet of sand. A blue space-hopper lay half-buried in front of a
Leech did business from the rear table in Mama Gina’s on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. His suit had no lapels, his shoes were shined to black mirrors. His hair just grew down over his ears. He wore midnight-black sunglasses and, a distinctive touch, a wide-brimmed hat. They called him ‘pilgrim’.
‘You’re No Good’ by the Swinging Blue Jeans came tinnily from the pink plastic radio.
Two girls ventured in and asked for him at the counter: Mama Gina nodded them towards him.
About fourteen: Jackie bands in their hair, white-cream dresses with cassata swirls of colour. Too close in age to be sisters. Best friends.
He took out his wallet.
‘We were told,’ the more intrepid girl began.
He opened his wallet. It was stuffed with tickets. The Searchers, Gerry & the Pacemakers, The Animals, Dusty Springfield.
‘Sold out for weeks, they said at the hall,’ the girl lamented.
The Beatles. This year, everyone wanted the Beatles.
‘Nothing is ever sold out.’
Nervous smiles.
He named a price. One girl gulped but the other opened a tiny handbag and took out a tinier purse. She unfolded notes and emptied small change on to the table.
‘Jan, where d’you get all that?’ her friend asked.
‘Mum.’
‘She know?’
Leech put two tickets on the table.
‘My pleasure, girls,’ he said.
CHELSEA, 1967
‘You live over the shop?’ Tamsin said. ‘It’s just a box.’
It was a room with a bed. Leech rarely slept.
The bass player and the drummer sat on the bed. Denny Wolfe, the lead guitarist, crouched by the cold grate. Leech and Tamsin stood by the open window. She was the singer.
‘Thought you’d have a flash pad,’ the drummer said. ‘You must be rakin’ it in downstairs.’
Downstairs was the original Derek’s. Leech started in the King’s Road selling militaria, then rented rack-space to local designers. This year, old curtains with armholes would sell as swinging London fashions. There were five Derek’s now, dotted over London.
‘Money is only a tool,’ he said.
The musicians grinned. Boyish in cavalry sideburns and bright shirts. They would have six Top Twenty hits but only Tamsin would have a real career after the break-up. The drummer, now rolling a thin joint, would overdose in a New York hotel within ten years. Wolfe would strike a separate Deal but see little profit from it. The others would fade away.
Leech had had the management contract drawn up. Wolfe made a great show of reading it.
‘What’s your company called?’ Tamsin asked. ‘Derek’s Discs?’
‘Real Records.’
The drummer snorted and lit up. After a heavy toke, he passed the joint to Wolfe. Smoke, odourless to Leech, drifted towards the window.
Leech took out a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum and made a token of offering it round. No one took him up. He unwrapped all five oblongs and put them in his mouth. The ball would last for months.
The girl watched him closely.
‘You must love that stuff?’
He shrugged. ‘Only way to shut me up.’
Tamsin would marry him and, after three years, walk out claiming never to have known him. By then, she would be an official living legend. And he would still be a coming man.
Now, her face unlined and angular she looked at him. The light from the window hit her face exactly as it would on the first LP cover. She would never stipple her blackheads, but would redefine the word ‘beautiful’.
She leaned over and gently removed his sunglasses. He didn’t blink as she looked into his eyes.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Do you have a pen?’
NORWOOD, 1972
‘This top’s too effing tight,’ the model complained, South London shrill, ‘pardon my French.’
Her name was Brenda but she called herself Brie. Blonde hair down to her waist, she knelt in six square-feet of sand. A blue space-hopper lay half-buried in front of a
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