A part of me was reassured that there would be a financial cushion while we continued our musical pursuits with another band, and, if all else failed, Ray, Phil, and I would have ‘casinos’ to fall back on. Thinking like that would have been pragmatic. But fuck, man, I was twenty years old, and I wanted to sprint across the tightrope without a safety net. To anyone else, it looked like I had a charmed life. I was on the cover of teen magazines, and Simon Dupree were playing loads of gigs for adoring fans. I was becoming a big international star, and my beautiful fiancée was planning this big Jewish wedding that was like something out of a fairy tale—and her parents were paying for it. Everyone was happy for me …except me.
During the last tour before the wedding, we were in Stockport in Northern England and I was warming up in the dressing room when, out of the blue, I started sweating profusely and my heart pounded like a jackhammer. I flashed right back to my dad coughing, struggling to breathe, and then dying right in front of me. I was terrified, and the fear made me feel sicker. The room was spinning around me as I collapsed in a chair and plopped my head into my hands. Ray ran and got me a glass of water, which I managed to gulp down. Someone else found a paper bag for me to breathe into, which didn’t help at all.
‘Derek, are you okay?’ asked Phil. ‘We have to do a show.’
I focused on being onstage and went through the set in my head, and that helped. I took deep breaths, in and out, in and out. After about an hour, my heartbeat slowed, and I felt okay again. What the hell was that about? I thought, right before we went onstage.
I played the concert and I was fine onstage, but when we finished I felt strange. I was wondering if I should see a doctor when I had a second attack. I gasped for breath, and my vision was clouded with dots like static on a TV screen. I was dizzy, so I lay down in bed and feared for my life. It was complete dread, and I didn’t know what I was afraid of, other than dying on tour. I prayed to whatever God might be out there to get me through. By the time I finally felt better, I had sweated clean through my sheets.
‘Is anything going on with you?’ asked the doctor I visited the next day. ‘Has anything changed in your life?’
‘Not that I know of,’ I said. ‘Why am I feeling like this?’
He asked me if I could think of anything coming up that I was worried about. And then it struck me. I was getting married in less than a week. I asked myself if I was getting cold feet and decided my feet were fine. I just couldn’t marry Jennie. But I had to. It was too late to cancel. Jennie’s family had already spent thousands of pounds on the venue, staff, catering, and flowers for the wedding of the century. Between 250 and 300 people were coming, including press from most major outlets. Everyone was finalizing their plans, and many people had already sent me gifts.
I called my sister, who I always went to when I needed life advice.
‘Are you okay, Derek?’ she asked.
‘No, not really,’ I replied. ‘Everyone is forcing me to get married. I don’t want to. I can’t go through with it. This is not going to work.’
‘You don’t have to do this,’ she calmly said. ‘If you think it’s a mistake, cancel the wedding. If you really don’t want to get married, it’s better to accept that now than regret it later.’
The next person I spoke to was my mother, and she was just as supportive as my sister. ‘If this is actually making you ill, Derek, then you’ve got to know in your heart that this is not the right thing to do,’ she said.
Everyone said they would support my decision, whatever it was. Phil made it clear that if I didn’t get married, we would all lose the financial stability Jennie’s parents could provide for us. But ultimately he said he didn’t want me to be stuck in an unhappy marriage.
The next day, I called Jennie’s father. I hadn’t even talked to Jennie, but my decision was made.
‘I’m sorry. I’m not going through with marrying your daughter,’ I told him. That’s when the bomb exploded. Harry screamed at me and told me I was horrible and ungrateful, and how dare I do this to his daughter. He said I didn’t deserve her and not to bother coming to him for help. He called me a failure and said I’d never make it in music. He shouted whatever he could that he thought would hurt me, and when he was out of insults he hung up.
I felt rotten and depressed. I wasn’t panicked anymore. I was empty.
A day or two later, I got together with Jennie to apologize and explained that I had gotten sick and I wasn’t ready to get married. She cried and told me she loved me. When she regained her composure, she asked me if I didn’t love her anymore.
‘It’s not that,’ I said. ‘I mean, I do love you. I’m just …I’m not ready. I don’t know why.’
While I took some time away from Jennie to figure out what was going on in my head, I was sluggish and depressed. I didn’t want to do anything with anybody, and I wasn’t thinking straight. The only time I was happy was when I was onstage. Our manager, Gerry, suggested I get out of Portsmouth and away from my routine.
‘Why don’t you stay with us in London for a couple of days?’
I thought about it for a minute and decided a new location might help me find a better headspace. Gerry lived in North Hampstead, London, with his wife, Lilian, who was a cellist and a very vocal presence. She was twenty years older than me, and to say she was not the most attractive person in the world was an understatement. On top of that, she was loud and had an opinion about everything. But I was grateful to her and her husband for putting me up while I figured things out.
That night, I woke up at about 2:30 in the morning to the sound of the door opening.
‘Who’s there?’ I whispered as a shadowy figure inched toward me. It was Lilian. She said she was checking in on me to see how I was doing, which is an odd thing to do after 2am. I assured her I was fine.
‘Okay, Derek. Well, if you need anything …anything at all, I’m here for you.’
The way she said ‘anything at all’ sounded like an invitation. Weird, but no big deal. ‘Uh, okay. I’m going back to sleep.’
‘Are you cold?’ she whispered. ‘It’s a big bed. I can slip in there with you if you like.’
My stomach leaped into my throat. That was definitely an invitation. Even if she’d been as beautiful as Brigitte Bardot, I wouldn’t have invited my manager’s wife into bed.
‘No, no. I’m okay,’ I said, trying to push down the waves of panic that were starting to rise. ‘I’m just tired. I’ll roll over and go back to sleep now. By myself. Good night.’
‘If you change your mind, I’m here for you.’ She walked to the side of the bed, leaned over, and put her palm on the edge of the mattress. ‘I know it can get lonely when you’re away from home.’
She stroked my cheek. I didn’t say a thing and prayed she wouldn’t move her hand anywhere else. I had to summon all my willpower not to scream. The next ten seconds seemed like ten minutes. I was sure she could hear my heart pounding, and I hoped she didn’t think I was getting excited. At last, she stood back up and left the room.
I packed that night to leave the next morning.
‘You know, Gerry,’ I said when he woke up and came downstairs, where I was waiting. ‘I’m feeling much better now. I just needed a good night’s rest. I have some things I need to do in Portsmouth, so I think I’ll head back. Thanks so much for the invitation. And be sure to thank Lilian for me as well.’
Before he had the chance to say anything, I bolted out of the house and caught the next train home. Fucking hell.
I talked to Jennie soon after, and we agreed to postpone our wedding indefinitely but not cancel it completely. We clung to the hope that I would get over my jitters and we could try again when I felt better and had more clarity. Though I didn’t know it at the time, it was a gentle way to say goodbye.