‘I’ve got some whisky . . . and I think there’s some crème de menthe’ (Uncle Jack’s younger friends liked a drop of crème de menthe).
Jane didn’t especially want to go back to their freezing cold flat but she wasn’t too sure about the nightcap at his place either. What for?
‘There’s a taxi,’ said Suzy. It wasn’t a statement; it was an order.
‘I’ve got the car,’ trumped Michael, happily. The girls purred with surprise. He didn’t look much like a driver – but then it didn’t look much of a car. Uncle Jack’s finances had been stretched buying the flat, let alone the runabout to go with it, so he’d settled for a smart new Ford. He’d wanted red but red was Export Only for some peculiar reason – why? It was only paint, for God’s sake – so he settled for black with snazzy red seats.
‘Ooh!’ squeaked Suzy. ‘I’ve driven one of these. My uncle used to have one.’ Uncle. Like hell.
Woodrose became very panicky and started muttering about third party and no syncromesh.
‘What makes you think I can’t double declutch? Cheek. Daddy taught me. I can double declutch in my sleep – often do as a matter of fact.’
He was really panicking now but Suzy was already behind the wheel – first time she’d opened a car door for herself since she left school.
‘Have you passed your test?’
‘Oh don’t be such an old woman, Mikey.’
Had she passed her test? Unlikely. She might be all right with double declutching but she used far too much choke and her steering was terrifying. She blithely shot a red light crossing Oxford Street. Suzy carried on regardless, squealing with excitement, fag stuck jauntily between her smiling red lips. Her skirt had ridden high above her knees but Michael Woodrose was past caring. There was a horrible knot of fear in his stomach, a nasty, queasy feeling that dredged up blushing memories of long-forgotten boyhood crimes. Uncle Jack’s Ford Consul might not be much of a car but every Sunday he was in London he would be out with a chamois leather polishing the chrome trim, waxing the bodywork. One of his young friends had been sick in it once – having discovered (a bit late in the day) that red biddy and blue curaçao didn’t really mix. Uncle Jack had blown a fuse, obsessively rinsing and wiping the floor and clearing out all the crevices in the map pocket with an old toothbrush. God knew what he’d do if anyone scratched the paintwork.
‘This is it, on the corner.’
Suzy braked very abruptly, and stalled to a stop outside the mansion block, thoroughly exhilarated by her little spin.
‘That was fab, darling, I must get a car. How much are cars, darling?’
You could practically hear the tumblers working in that little tart’s brain of hers. Would the generous Mr Swan be good for a car as well as a flat?
‘I do wish we had a car. Maybe we should see about getting one. Can you drive, Janey?’
She thought of Uncle George teaching her to drive round the block in his old Austin.
‘Yes, actually.’
Well, if you called that driving she could bloody drive.
Michael Woodrose was back to normal now, able to appreciate Suzy’s stocking tops. Had she worn panties this evening? Jane wondered. Probably. It was a cheap Chinese, not a Mayfair flat after all.
Uncle Jack’s flat wasn’t too bad so long as Uncle Jack wasn’t actually in it. The old boy gave the place a rather snacky smell of pipe tobacco and hair oil and suits that were pressed but never cleaned but he hadn’t been up to town for nearly three weeks (up to his eyes in the January stock-take) and the whiff was starting to fade.
The phone was ringing as they came in.
‘No, Mr Woodrose is away. No. No. I’m his nephew. No. No, honestly. I really am his nephew.’
The girls sat at each end of the chesterfield while Michael poured two very large crème de menthes and a small whisky. He remembered now that you were supposed to get them to talk about themselves. They liked that, apparently.
‘So, er, what sort of modelling do you do?’
‘Lingerie mostly,’ lied Suzy.
This was just to get him at it, of course. She was breathing oddly so that her bust rose and fell.
‘We do quite a lot of double shots. One of us in the long line, the other in the strapless. We’re both sample size, you see. Both E cups.’
Michael had gone the colour of his tie.
‘And I do quite a bit of photographic work for lipsticks. Just my lips. Showing all the different colours.’
Jane couldn’t see her face down at the far end of the sofa but she could hear her backcombing her voice into the full Joan Greenwood, could practically hear her lips pouting for his kiss. He made a disgusting noise doing it. Like someone eating.
‘Don’t you think you ought to kiss poor Janey as well? Fair’s fair.’
Oh God. Still bright red and starting to sweat unpleasantly he turned to Jane and began kissing her. It was horrible. He hadn’t a clue what he was doing and his tongue kept flicking around the inside of her lips as if he’d lost something. He tasted of beer and whisky and that Chinese brown sauce but there was something else: the fresh, Polo-mint tang of Suzy’s liqueur mixed with the oily fragrance of her lipstick. That was quite nice. Jane hadn’t kissed that many boys – a few fumbles at the Locarno was about it. She’d had more practice with the back of her own hand. Suzy was probably a really good kisser so, although Jane didn’t fancy this berk in the slightest, she still wanted him to think she was sexy. Just as sexy as Suzy and so she kissed back, arching herself against him slightly, hoping to goodness he’d keep his hands to himself.
He was planning on one more kiss each – to get them both going – and then he would mould his hand around the outline of one of those firm young E cups. Then who knows what might happen? Was the bed made?
‘It’s been a super evening.’ Liar. Suzy had stood up and was checking her hair in the mirror over the fireplace. Thank God for that. He’d had his hot wet hand on Jane’s waist and you could practically smell his next move.
‘Yes, it was really delicious.’ Jane stood up too, leaving poor Michael Woodrose sat forlornly on the sofa wishing he’d made a grab earlier. Once you got them really worked up, they lost their inhibitions. He should have bought them wine at the restaurant. Fifteen bob a bottle was exorbitant but it would have been worth it. As it was, he’d have to work it off with his little photograph collection. Not the artistic ones this evening, he felt.
He hoped they’d just leave but Suzy stood there in her coat, expectantly. Surely they didn’t think he was going to drive them home? Of course they bloody did. It was only down the road, for God’s sake, and there were two of them. Selfish bitches. He’d have lost the urge by the time he got back. Glumly, he put on his coat.
‘It’s so kind of you to give us a lift.’
Michael Woodrose was hoping for a quick grope across the long front seat but Suzy put the tin hat on that by sliding into the back with Jane.
‘Home, James. And put the heater on, can’t you? It’s freezing in here.’
Only there wasn’t a heater. Uncle Jack had struggled to find the six hundred and sixty quid to buy the car in the first place, let alone unnecessary luxuries like radios and leather seats and heaters.
Suzy had decided against goodbye kisses. What kind of cheapskate ran a car with no heater in it?
‘Cheerio, darling. Dinner was scrummy.’ And she and Jane slipped from the car without even waiting for him to whizz round and open the door for them – not that he showed much sign of wanting to do this – and they were on the doorstep and in before he had a chance to ask for another date.
Chapter 15
Every woman who isn’t downright
deformed can approximate the
harmony that will pass for beauty.