He had come back to the empty flat, knowing it would be empty but not expecting all those reminders. Torn up letters that he pieced together and then wished he hadn’t. Two or three unsigned contracts for shows in Birmingham and Leeds. The remnants of two boxes of milk chocolates. Panties and a bra on the tatty washing-line in the bathroom. Unwashed dishes and glasses in the sink. A membership card for a Soho Club. A pile of Melody Makers and an old copy of Stage. The bullfight poster, hung slantwise on the wall from a single pin. Make-up and cosmetics on the bedside table and a pad with two scrawled telephone numbers. And everywhere the stench of men and lust.
He had picked up the mail and gone out for breakfast at the Coffee Shop in King’s Road. He opened the envelopes one by one as he sipped his coffee. The electricity bill, a come-on for Time-Life books, a statement from the bank showing a credit balance of £341.73 to the account of J. B. and T. M. MacKay. A note from his mother pointing out that she had warned him even before the marriage, etc., etc. There were two letters for Tammy and a card calling her for audition at a theatre in Portsmouth. And there was a letter from their solicitor asking him to make an appointment to see him as soon as possible.
Back at the flat he phoned John Davies, who could see him at noon.
There were Audubon rose prints instead of the usual hunting scenes in the solicitor’s waiting-room. They had picked John Davies when they were first married because he had showbiz experience. But showbiz clients were often divorce clients later and John Davies helped clear up the mess.
He’d only had to wait a few minutes before the door opened and John Davies waved him into his office. When they were both settled on their respective sides of the teak desk, it was John Davies who led off.
“You know, Jimmy, that it’s one of my duties as an officer of the Court to do my best to effect a reconciliation of the parties to a divorce. Some solicitors don’t even go through the motions, but I do. Especially when I know both of them, and am fond of them. So let me say now that I have tried. And I’ve failed.”
“What did Tammy say?”
“Well, I wasn’t even sure that she was listening, but I made one mild criticism of you and she jumped right down my throat. Normally by the time it’s got to me it’s cat and dog stuff and all I can do is stop them from actual violence. With you and Tammy that doesn’t apply. All I can do is help cut out as much pain as possible.”
“I guess the pain’s all mine, John.”
“I don’t think so. You pay for this sort of thing one way or another. Most people say that it must be six of one and half a dozen of the other. It seldom is. But the problem is that the one who takes it most seriously is the one who gets hurt first.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, the one who goes off with somebody else has got their little prize already wrapped and delivered. If the other one hasn’t done a damn thing, he or she feels that it’s all mighty unfair, which it is. And if that one happens to be a man he fights all along the line about money, children, blame, the whole bag of tricks that the law allows. So I need to find out if I can carry on for you both or not. It’s positively frowned on by the law. But sometimes it can help.”
“There are no children, John, and Tammy’s the one with the money.”
Davies looked at MacKay’s face for long moments before he spoke again.
“If you cared to make a fight of it, Jimmy, you could probably put her career back to square one.”
“Why should I?”
Davies shrugged. “Hurt feelings, anger, pride, revenge. We could give it all a high moral tone, of course. It wouldn’t have to look so crude.”
“I love Tammy, John. I don’t love what she does, but I wouldn’t do her harm.”
“Would you do her good?”
“In what way?”
“You haven’t lived apart for two years, so there has to be a matrimonial offence thrown in.”
“So?”
“They’ve all been hers and the showbiz press and the nationals would make a meal of it.”
“You mean you want me to sleep with someone?”
“Paula Manning volunteered.”
“Jesus. What bastards they all are. Surely it must have been possible to make it in show business without screwing with everyone in sight.”
“You can if the talent’s big enough right from the start.”
“Wasn’t Tammy’s?”
John Davies’ eyes were watching his face.
“I guess not, Jimmy. Not if you’re in a hurry, anyway.”
“How much does Tammy make now?”
Davies pursed his lips. “It ought to be confidential. She makes five hundred a week on her present contract. In five weeks’ time her new contract doubles that. What made you ask?”
“I wondered if it was worth it for her.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
John Davies leaned back in his chair, moving aside a pile of papers. Then he looked up at MacKay.
“Have you got a girl, Jimmy?”
“No. Tammy was my girl.”
“Can I say something? Something you might find offensive?”
“Go ahead.”
“When I first met you and Tammy, about a year before you were married, I could have forecast that this would happen. If it hadn’t been for one thing.”
“What was that?”
“Tammy was every man’s dream girl. The golden girl we all fantasize about. But even then you could see the ambition, the determination to make it in showbiz. I thought it might survive because you were a good-looking man. An attractive man with charm. But I didn’t know one vital thing.”
“What was that?”
“I took it for granted that when Tammy gave what we call ‘management privileges’
