‘Joy says they’re having risotto for lunch today.’
‘Wossat?’
‘Some Italian thing: bits of chicken cooked with mushrooms. And Rice.’ It was murder keeping a straight face.
And, right on cue, Doreen would wrinkle her nose and shake her head and say the magic words. You got double points if she followed it up with ‘never have liked rice’. Jane had been ahead for months until Uncle George invented a Chinese bloke at work who brought in his own lunch. Kenneth and June didn’t even know they were playing – they never listened to Doreen anyway.
‘Well. Do you?’ persisted Johnny.
‘Do I what?’
‘Like Italian food?’
She couldn’t very well say no.
‘Mmm.’
‘Well there’s a nice little place down in Soho that’s open for supper on Sundays. What do you say?’
Alarm bells rang loud in Jane’s head. When you meet someone nice it can be tempting to rush your fences. Resist. Besides which, ‘little place in Soho’ sounded like the kind of dive Tony had in mind.
‘This evening?’
‘Not on your life!’ A frantic whisper from the kitchen.
‘I’m afraid I can’t manage tonight.’
‘How did I guess?’ He sounded disappointed. Not just at not seeing her but as if he knew the rules too, and was sick of playing by them. ‘What about tomorrow, then?’
Strictly speaking Monday was off-limits as well but she didn’t want to risk waiting too long.
‘Can we go dancing?’ She tried to make her voice as velvety and seductive as his.
‘Sure we can go dancing. I’ll pick you up at eight. What’s your address?’
She looked in panic at the bare floorboards of the hall, the stained and peeling wallpaper, the chipped yellowed paint. ‘No, er, no. Don’t do that. This will sound silly but we’re moving tomorrow. It’s Curzon Street somewhere but I don’t know the exact address.’
‘Curzon Street? Very smart.’
They agreed that he’d ring the flat on Monday evening after work and get the new address from Lorna. She wanted to stay talking but there was nothing else to say and she was starting to feel rather cold, standing there in her open kimono.
She was still leaning against the wall, half-naked, when Suzy emerged from the kitchen.
‘Look at you! Was that lover-boy?’
‘He’s taking me out to dinner tomorrow night.’
Suzy always played by the rules. ‘You should make them wait a bit longer than that, girl. Oh my God, you aren’t going to let him pick you up here, are you?’
Suzy obviously didn’t mind about how squalid the flat was so long as no one else saw it. She had already hatched plans to get the dress rail and packing cases down to the street so that Henry’s man wouldn’t need to see inside.
‘Don’t worry. He’s going to call and get the new address. Failing that, I’m supposed to meet him at Isola Bella or somewhere.’
‘Very nice. Do you like Italian?’
‘I don’t know. I know how you’re supposed to eat spaghetti. Sort of. But I’ve never actually had any.’ Oh God. The look on her face. Smug little bitch.
‘Not to worry. We’ll make some for you to practise with later on.’ Suzy sat on the edge of the wonky sofa and began rubbing Nulon into her toes – Minutes invested in foot care are minutes well spent. ‘Now then. Are you definitely moving to Curzon Street with me or not?’
‘Definitely. Only goodness knows what my poor aunt will say.’
In fact she knew bloody well what Doreen would say. That Suzy was a jumped-up little tart setting herself up as mistress to some dirty old man cheating on his wife. Fortunately no one else could hear Doreen.
‘Why don’t you go and tell your aunt all about it over Sunday lunch and pick up whatever you need?’
Suzy probably imagined Sunday lunch as a roast. Bone china. Two kinds of potatoes. Gravy boat. Custard. Napkin rings. Not tinned red salmon and dried peas.
‘Have you got a lot of clobber?’
‘Not much worth bringing. A couple of quite nice skirts and twinsets and a few papers and things, I suppose.’ Quite a lot of papers actually.
Chapter 12
Anger, spite and bad nerves are the
sworn enemies of a pretty face.
Next thing Jane knew she was at the bus stop at Oxford Circus rigged out in a rather smart black and red reversible swing coat – three-quarter-length sleeves, Persian lamb collar. Suzy had also lent her a matching toque, long black kid gloves and a pair of black patent-leather kinky boots. The effect was slightly spoiled by the huge canvas holdall that Suzy used to cart her things to modelling jobs. She’d just missed a bus but her wait was rewarded with a few passing wolf whistles (to suddenly find yourself whistle-worthy is a wonderful moment) and a lost American tourist who was trying to find his way back to the Ritz and hadn’t they met at the New York Athletic Club and was she free for lunch?
The bus flew through the empty Sunday streets and within the hour Jane was walking along Pamfield Avenue wondering what she was going to say to Doreen. Mrs Grant from next door was out walking her matted little dog (she called it a springer spaniel but there was a lot more to it than that). Mrs Grant gave Jane a very funny look. When she got to number sixty-three, she realised why.
All her clothes, all her shoes, all her books, her poodle-patterned rug and her foreign dolly collection were in a great big heap in the front garden. Propped up against the house wall (in case it rained) was a manila envelope untidily stuffed with birth certificate, post office savings book, the dog-eared photos of her mother and all her National Insurance gubbins. Inside it lurked another, smaller envelope where she had hidden the cards for poor Mary Jane Deeks who hadn’t lived to see her sixteenth birthday but got a National Insurance number anyway.
On top of the lot was Jane’s red leatherette overnight case. Uncle George had bought this for her for Christmas. He knew she’d always wanted one. Doreen had gone completely spare. Overnight case! Overnight where? Stuck-up cow. Doreen hated the natty red suitcase with its pink moiré silk lining, its frilly inside pocket, its elasticated loops for dinky little bottles of shampoo and face cream. The whole world of friends and parties and spare bedrooms and weekends away and travelling alarm clocks and baby-doll pyjamas conjured up by that ducky little bag made sad, fat, old Doreen quiver with envy and rage.
Jane rapped the knocker good and loud – Doreen’s moods didn’t matter any more. June opened the door the four inches allowed by the security chain. Doreen had got George to put this on after a man selling vacuum cleaners had managed to get his foot in the door and given her the full sales pitch and his entire war record before she could get rid of him.
June had a very serious face on but she was obviously thrilled to bits at all the drama.
‘Auntie says you’re not to be let in.’
‘I don’t want to come in.’ She said it loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. She jerked her head at the heap of her possessions. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’
‘You weren’t at Joy’s house last night at all. Joy phoned here this morning wanting you to go round. Auntie says you’re a Dirty Little Stop-out and I’m to have your room.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath. She’s not your mother, remember. She’ll give the big room to Ken or Georgette, you wait and see.’ The upstairs curtains had all been taken down and you could hear the scrape of beds and wardrobes and the sound of Doreen shouting instructions as she carried out one of her big furniture shuffles. She didn’t do any of the lifting herself (not with her Trouble) but poor Uncle George and Kenneth would be made to ‘see what it looks like over by the window’, toddling wardrobes backwards and forwards while Doreen stood with her head on one side before deciding that she preferred it the way it was and tutting about dust as if one of them had put it there.