Short story

A lifetime fan, Wendy is determined to get her idol’s autograph

Aforlorn group of fans stood beneath the orange glow of the solitary street lamp. A steady stream of water dripped on to the pavement from a leaky gutter above the rear door of the little theatre. Undeterred, the devoted band kept up its vigil. Surely their idol would make an appearance soon? “Please don’t disappoint us,” Wendy implored silently. She had been in this same situation once before. How long ago had that been? Fifty years at least? Of course, there were fewer fans here this time round. Suddenly, the stage door rattled and then he appeared. With a black fedora pulled low over his face, he might not have been recognised in the gloom but the little crowd knew at once it was Clay Silverman and surged forward. Holding a large silver umbrella over his client’s head, the star’s agent barged a path through the small gathering, “Let us through, please! Mr Silverman won’t be signing any autographs tonight.” The two men strode swiftly towards the waiting limo, leaving the bunch of disappointed fans in their wake. A few resolute souls tried to follow, but they fell back when it became clear that the man was determined to protect the singer from the hoi-polloi at all costs.

‘I saw you when you came here last time, back in ‘63. At Heathrow airport. I got almost within touching distance. You never came back after that tour’

Frustrated and soaking wet, people began to drift away, but Wendy was made of sterner stuff. She had waited more than half a century to meet her teenage idol and was not about to give up now. Bracing herself against the rain, she set off in pursuit of her quarry. It had been very different back in the Sixties when Clay was at the height of his fame. Wendy was a young teenager when the American singer had set out to conquer Europe and England had been his first stop. She’d been one of the thousands of screaming girls at his arrival at Heathrow airport. Not satisfied with being just part of the crowd, Wendy and a couple of friends had hatched a plan to get closer to their dreamboat. Guessing that he wouldn’t be leaving the airport via the normal route, they had latched on to the press entourage and, following a group of photographers, found themselves in the corridor where Clay and his retinue were being shepherded to safety. And that was as far as they got. While her two friends were being apprehended by security guards Wendy, clutching her autograph book, found herself face-to-face with the star. Bemused by the fuss, he removed his dark glasses and smiled. Their eyes met and Wendy’s heart melted. “Come on, young lady, time to go home.” The security guards bundled the three girls briskly out of the terminal building, but Wendy didn’t care – she had shared that brief, special moment with her hero. Now, after 50 years of devotion, she felt she was owed something more tangible than just a look and a smile. Tonight she was determined to leave with a permanent souvenir. Apart from the long black limo with darkened windows, the car park was deserted. Wendy got there just as the two men reached their vehicle. “Mr Silverman!” she called. “Clay!” The man in the fedora looked up, but was quickly ushered into the back of the car. “Get in, Clay. I’ll deal with this.” “Gus, it’s an old lady all on her own. What harm can she do?” “Just get in the car.” “For Pete’s sake, Gus, just give her a break.”

While the ageing star reluctantly did as he was told, his agent moved round to the driver’s side and opened the door. Glancing down, he exclaimed angrily: “Oh, heck!” “What’s the problem, Gus?” “The front tyre’s flat.” “We have a spare, don’t we?” “Sure, but I’ve never changed a tyre in my life. I’ll have to get the maintenance guy from the theatre.” Throwing the silver brolly into the car, he locked the doors, turned to Wendy and barked: “Go home now, lady. Keep the doors locked, Clay!” Wendy watched him jog away towards the theatre. The rain had found its way under her hood and trickled coldly down her back. “It’s OK. He’s gone. You might as well get in.” Clay Silverman was holding the car door open. Their eyes met and Wendy was once more a dumbstruck schoolgirl. “Up to you, sweetheart. But you’ll catch a chill if you stay out there any longer.” Wendy promptly slid into the back seat, saying: “I don’t think your friend likes me.” “Gus is OK. Just over-protective.” Wendy couldn’t believe she was actually sitting next to her lifetime idol. Despite a few wrinkles round his eyes and hair greying at the temples, he still cut a handsome figure. The passing years might not have been kind to his career, but his looks hadn’t suffered. “Disappointed now you’ve gotten a closer look?” “No! Not at all.” An awkward silence fell. “So what can I do for you, lady? You want me to sign something?” “Er… yes, please.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen and a soggy autograph book. Clay struggled to write something legible on the damp paper. “Who shall I say it’s for?” “Wendy – my name is Wendy.” “OK, Wendy. There you go.” She told him: “I saw you when you came here last time, back in ‘63. At Heathrow airport. Your security guards were a bit slow off the mark and I got almost within touching distance. You never came back after that tour.” “Well, I’m sure you know the story. Five marriages, four divorces, a problem with booze. By the time I’d sorted myself out I wasn’t playing the big venues any more.” “I’ve always been a huge fan. You would still have been a big success over here.” “Well, I guess we’ll never know.” Another silence. Wendy broke it reluctantly. “I’d best be going. I mustn’t miss the last train and we’ll both be in trouble if your minder finds you let me into the car.” “Don’t worry about Gus.” “Well… goodbye then.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek as she stepped out of the limo. Wendy turned and said: “Oh, by the way, tell Gus not to worry about changing the wheel. It just needs pumping up. I only let a little bit of air out of the tyre.” She heard Clay chuckling as she hurried away. She caught the train with a minute to spare. Back home in her bedroom, Wendy opened her autograph book and gazed at the smudged signature. Not quite the perfect souvenir, but at least she’d had her special moment with Clay Silverman at last – and noone could take that away from her. She placed the precious book to dry out on her bedside table. And next to it, with due reverence, she placed the silver brolly that Clay had insisted she took to keep off the rain.