Goodnight Steve McQueen by Louise Wener Page A

look like I’ve just had my hair cut by someone called Giovanni. It’s gone all high. I have dome-head. I have third-degree hat hair and I haven’t even been wearing a hat.
    “Hi,” I say, trying to pat my hair down with the heel of my hand, ‘my name’s Danny McQueen.”
    “YOU WHAT!?”
    “Danny McQueen.”
    “You’ll have to speak up! Hold on, I’ll just take you outside.”
    There’s a tremendous amount of noise on the other end of the line: drums and guitars and piercing feedback squalls and a thin, reedy voice darting in and out of range through the middle of it. It sounds like the tour manager is standing dead centre on the main stage at Glastonbury. And then it all goes quiet.
    “Right then… who did you say you were?”
    “Danny McQueen. I’m an old school-friend of Ike’s. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”
    “Yeah, he’s right next door. In the rehearsal room. I’ll just see if he wants to speak to you… Hey, Nathan, tell Ike there’s someone called Sammy McQueen on the phone for him, will you…”
    “Danny… not Sammy…”
    He isn’t listening. I hear a door open and the music turns from a dull pulse back to a violent, cacophonous wave. Someone is shouting above the noise. I hear the band stop playing. I feel a bit anxious. He probably won’t even remember who I am.
    “Sammy?”
    “No, no, it’s Danny… Danny McQueen.”

9O
    He pauses for a second. I’m not sure if this is because he can’t place me or because he’s just trying to make me think that he can’t.
    “Moony?”
    “Em… yeah…”
    “Moony… Moony McQueen … no shit… how you doing?”
    “Fine… fine,” I say. “What about you, though. Looks like you’ve finally cracked it.”
    “Yeah, well… you know… success brings its own hassles.”
    What a twat. What an almighty twat.
    “So what are you up to these days, Moony… ?”
    “Well, I’m still playing in the band… we’re called Dakota now.”
    “You’ve got a band?
    “Yeah… you know I have… I’ve always been in a band … I—’
    “Oh yeah, right, right, I remember, you used to play the guitar or something?”
    “Yes… look, Ike, I know this is out of the blue and you probably have a lot of people asking you for favours and stuff these days but ..
    .”
    “Yeah, I do … everyone I’ve ever said more than two words to in my life is suddenly crawling out of the woodwork and claiming to be my best-ever friend.”
    “Well… I’m sure… but the thing is I was wondering if—’
    “Hey, why don’t we catch up for a drink?”
    “Sure,” I say, surprised. “I mean, that would be great but I think LA might be a bit far to go for a pint of lager.”
    “No, I’m in London… King’s Cross. We’re rehearsing here while we do all of our European promotion. We’re finishing up about four. You should pop down and say hello.”
    I look at my watch. It’s almost 3.30. No time to change out of my Pixies T-shirt or to get the half-pound of scented wax out of my bouffant. Vince had better appreciate this.
    This is unlike any rehearsal room I’ve ever been in. It’s huge. It’s got a reception. It’s got a receptionz’s?. It’s got windows and daylight and cheese plants and chairs and a polished wooden floor with spotlights running right through the middle of it. The receptionist clocks my hair as I walk in and stifles a smirk. She looks like she works for Razzle on her days off: dark brown hair bleached with an Addam’s Family streak and a Barbara Windsor bosom that spills over the top of her blouse as she speaks.
    “Can I help you?” she says, twirling her pen lid round her collagen.
    “Yeah,” I say, “I’m here to see Ike Kavanagh… from Scarface.”
    “One moment, I’ll just phone down to the studio and let his tour manager know that you’re here… Hi, yes, this is Kelly from reception, I’ve got someone here to see Ike.”
    This isn’t right.