Martin Edwards - I Remember You

Finbar’s good fortune might have been easier to bear had Melissa not been lovely enough to have her choice of men. At first glance, she resembled a sculpture rather than a living woman. Her skin seemed too pale, too flawless, to belong to a creature made of flesh and blood. Yet once or twice during the evening Harry had sensed a tremor running through her; he could only guess at the effort of will she must have made to suppress it.

What could be bothering her? The arson attack? Or was she more aware of her boyfriend’s philandering than she appeared? Finbar had said she had had trouble with nerves and looking at her, Harry was struck by the vulnerability of the thin body beneath the lycra dress, a fragility that put him in mind of a piece of porcelain. Melissa, he thought, might easily break. When he’d talked with her in the past, he’d gathered she saw Finbar as a challenge and wanted to persuade him to mend his errant ways. Mission impossible, of course; it would be easier to teach the Liver Birds to fly.

At long last the show drew to a close and the disc jockey who had been acting as compere proclaimed the scraggy teenager the winner, going on to introduce the man who would present the lad with his cheque. ‘Put your hands together for the gentleman responsible for the sponsorship of this fantastic evening’s entertainment. The managing director of Radio Liverpool — Mr Nick Folley!’

Taking the applause as no more than his due, Nick Folley strode on to the stage. His jowls had fleshed out and his wavy hair had thinned since his days as a rising star of local television; Harry could even discern, beneath the Italian suit, the beginnings of an executive paunch. For upwards of fifteen years Folley had been the golden boy of the Merseyside media, envied and disliked by many, but always a force to be reckoned with. It seemed that everything he touched made him money. And, for good measure, he was not only Melissa’s boss but had also, until recently, been her lover.

‘A boy from Bootle who wants to make the big time has three choices,’ he said into the microphone. ‘Music, football or comedy. Wayne here is tone deaf and has two left feet. Thank Heavens he’s a born funny man.’

He pumped the lad’s hand before turning to give the redhead a wink, self-satisfaction splashed over his face like ice cream. Harry had first seen that thick-lipped smirk on the small screen umpteen years ago when Folley’s duties included announcing the region’s weather. Even then, he could make a forecast of black ice on the M6 sound like a cause for self-congratulation.

Since then he had kept in the public eye, persistent as a piece of grit. A ‘leisure industry entrepreneur’, he called himself, which meant in his time he’d run a nightclub and a ritzy restaurant on the Albert Dock, besides owning a recording studio and a half share in the Sergeant Pepper theme park out in Southport. Time and again envious journalists scoffed at Folley’s Follies; yet, like a termagant wife, he always managed to have the last word.

As the lights dimmed and the winner of the contest disappeared in a crowd of jubilant family and friends, Folley kissed the redhead and she responded with enthusiasm. Harry knew media folk were demonstrative, but he guessed there was more between the couple than a mere working relationship. Interesting, he thought. And it might become explosive if Finbar, having taken up with Folley’s previous girlfriend, now developed too close an interest in the great man’s latest dolly bird. Folley was not a man to cross; his ferocious outbursts of temper were legendary. Years ago he’d famously punched a regional newscaster on screen. Nonetheless, he had managed to get his own contract renewed; the other man was rumoured to be selling second-hand cars somewhere in the Morecambe area these days.

‘I suppose we ought to mingle,’ said Melissa. ‘Show the Radio Liverpool flag.’

Harry gave a non-committal smile. After enduring Rosie and the juggling traffic warden, he felt a white flag would have been more appropriate.

While Finbar ordered drinks, Harry followed Melissa through the people converging on the bar, pushing past the giggly girls in Radio Liverpool sweatshirts who lavished promotional leaflets on anyone who wandered within reach of their outstretched hands. They headed towards the stage, where the musicians and engineers were packing their gear.

Melissa pointed to a handsome fair-haired man in his early to mid thirties, deep in conversation with a girl in a clinging mini-dress.

‘Look who’s there! Baz Gilbert. I’ll call him over and you can have a chance to rehearse for tomorrow’s broadcast.’

Baz was rubbing his hand over the girl’s rump and she seemed to be loving it. Her features were strong, although a diagonal scar running from the left side of her mouth to her chin robbed her of beauty. But the passion with which she gazed into Baz’s eyes was shameless.

‘Who’s the girl with him?’

‘Penny from Sales. She’s been crazy about Baz ever since she joined the station.’ Raising her voice, Melissa said, ‘Baz! Come and meet Harry Devlin. Your guest for tomorrow.’

Ten days earlier in the Dock Brief, Finbar had urged Harry to make a guest appearance on Radio Liverpool one morning. ‘No problem,’ he’d said. ‘Simply give me the word and I’ll ask Melissa to fix it. Baz Gilbert has the most listeners, more than ever since he gave up his late night show and moved to early mornings. You can review the newspapers, ask Baz to spin your favourite disc, give Crusoe and Devlin a plug. Go on, it’ll do your image a power of good. I’m on Pop In myself next week — same idea, spread the word about my business. The oxygen of publicity, to coin a phrase. You can’t beat it.’

Finbar was so sure he was bestowing a favour that Harry was tempted to act like a senile old judge asking what a compact disc was and demand, ‘Baz who?’ But he could hardly deny knowing the name. Baz Gilbert had done the rounds of the Merseyside media; after reporting on pop for the Daily Post and spending a couple of years with Radio City, he’d started a midnight phone-in programme on Radio Merseyside before moving back to the commercial side when Nick Folley had launched the city’s third station. Like Folley, he was a local personality.

The resemblance went no further. There was no hint of self-regard in Baz’s cool blue eyes or ironic smile. He didn’t brawl in public to boost his ratings, though the telephone callers to his show whose mouths were bigger than their brains might have preferred a punch in the stomach to one of his sardonic put-downs. Whereas Nick Folley’s aggression had fuelled a successful business career, Baz remained a nearly man. He would never be a fat cat or, Harry guessed, make it into national radio. Though he had a loyal following, after ten years on the Merseyside airwaves, he still earned his living by dedicating top ten songs to Toxteth’s teenage lovers and opening grocery stores in Garston.

Nodding to Melissa, Baz said, ‘Harry Devlin? Pleased to meet you. This is Penny Newland, a very good friend of mine.’

The girl said hello in a soft Irish accent and clutched at Baz’s hand, pushing it towards respectability.

The disc jockey turned to her. ‘Harry here is a lawyer in the city centre. He’s sacrificing a couple of billable hours to appear on the show in the morning.

‘Following in Finbar’s footsteps,’ said Melissa.

‘A hard act to follow. The guy’s such a good bullshitter, he almost had me investing in a tattoo. They certainly look good on the right body. You know Melissa’s fancy man, Harry?’

‘Actually Finbar introduced us,’ said Melissa, while the dark girl studied her fingernails. ‘Harry’s his brief.’

‘Did you hear him on air, Harry? The bugger caused a commotion when he changed his mind at the last minute about his favourite music. Mind you, he managed to twist my producer round his little finger.’