“Let’s take him to the Three Greyhounds,” said the first flyman.
James Flood, too, rose and reached for his hat. When Alex got back to Leeds, he too might start wearing a hat. “Are you coming or staying?” he asked Alex.
“I’ll stay here for a bit, if that’s all right,” said Alex, avoiding Mabel’s eye. Then boldly to Jenny, as the two flymen and James struggled to get Old Jakie up the stairs: “Can I buy you a drink, Miss Wise?”
Making a coarse guttural sound, the first flyman urged: “Get in there, son!”
“No, you can’t buy her a fucking drink, you’re not a member and anyway we’re closing as soon as she’s finished that brandy.”
“But I’m a member, Mabel, so if I order a drink and this young man gives me the money, that’s all nice and legal, now isn’t it?”
“You’ve had enough, Jen.”
“So what are you having?” asked Alex.
“We mustn’t make this a habit, darling, but I could murder a bottle of champagne,” said Jenny.
You stupid prat, Singer. No one to blame but yourself. Teach you to keep your gob shut in future. And he didn’t even like the stuff.
Mabel, with an unusual alacrity probably motivated by a suspicion that the self-blaming stupid prat might change his mind, dived into the fridge and produced a bottle of Moët something or other it was, which she displayed to Alex like a sommelier.
“Very nice,” said Alex, not knowing what else to say.
“That’ll be thirty pounds,” said Mabel. Christ on splintered crutches. He was going to be left with less than ten quid out of fifty and he’d only been in London a fookin hour, if that. Talk about see you coming. And even though Mabel hadn’t drawn the cork out of the bottle yet it was too late to get out of it now. Not that he really wanted to. In with a chance there, Alex, lad. Even if she’s old enough to be your granny.
Or was this fantasy? No, it was beginning to look as if it wasn’t.
For Mabel had no intention of drawing the cork. Pushing the bottle towards Jenny even as she closed a veined fist over Alex’s reluctantly proffered three ten-pound notes, Mabel said: “You can’t drink it here, though. I’m just about to lock up.”
And Jenny said: “Oh, do leave off, Mabel. I can’t take him back to Charing Cross Road before I even know his name, can I?”
“It’s Alex,” said Alex promptly. Now why did he wish he’d said, “It’s Dave”?
“Have I ever shagged you, Alex?” God almighty. They didn’t care what they came out with down here, did they?
Feeling himself blush — when had he last blushed? When he’d peed himself around age six, far as he could remember — Alex responded gauchely: “Not that I know of.”
“Believe me, honey, if we had ever got down to it, you sure would have remembered.” She did that in the dodgy Yankee accent he could remember her using in some ropy feature with Stewart Granger, was it?
“I’m sure I would.” Ingratiatingly to Mabeclass="underline" “Will you join us, Mabel?” For the idea of going straight round to Jenny’s place frankly terrified him. What if he couldn’t get it up? Not that he’d ever had problems in that direction, not many, anyway, and only when he was pissed, but this was a woman who muster had half the fookin film stars in England in her time, if not all of them.
“So how come you know my name?” asked Jenny coyly as Mabel, tacitly accepting his offer, pushed the bottle of champagne towards him. Oh shite, he’d never opened wunner these in his life.
“Have you got a corkscrew?” he asked. Jenny didn’t quite stifle a giggle. Mabel breathed up her nostrils and took charge of the bottle. Oh, so that was how you did it. He’d remember that, for when he treated Selby to her first bottle of champagne. No, second bottle — she’d had one offer that bastard who had picked up her and her mate Vicky and taken them into that Groucho Club.
“Isn’t he sweet?” purred Jenny. He blushed again.
“How come I know your name?” he reiterated brightly, to change the subject. “Seen you on the box, haven’t I?”
“Oh, yes, what in?”
“That loader shite you were in with James Mason, for openers,” hazarded Alex.
“I was in a lot of shite with James Mason. But are you sure you’re not mixing me up with Margaret Lockwood?”
Irony was not Alex’s strong suit. “No resemblance whatsoever, Jenny,” he said. “For one thing, you don’t have that black spot on your cheek. You know, like Indians or is it Pakis have?”
“It’s called a beauty spot, darling. And Maggy Lockwood was very beautiful.”
“So were you. Still are,” said Alex, with a clumsiness verging on the oafish. But Jenny smiled, if a little wistfully.
Emboldened by Jenny’s directness of manner, Alex felt encouraged to ask: “If it’s not a personal question, did you ever get to shag James Mason?”
“It is a personal question, and the answer is that never having written my memoirs I can’t possibly remember.”
“Maybe you’re in his memoirs,” said Alex gallantly.
“I am, since you ask.”
Rather cheekily, Alex said: “You used to be dead famous one time, didn’t you?”
“Less of the used to be,” said Mabel, pouring champagne. “She still gets asked for her autograph.”
“Even if they do think I’m Patricia Roc,” said Jenny ruefully.
“Who’s she?” asked Alex. His knowledge of old films was not comprehensive.
“Before your time, darling.” Tiring of her own past as a subject, Jenny turned to Mabel. “So when do you say your check-up is, Mabel?”
“For the third time of telling this very day, Jen, it’s first thing tomorrow morning. Now get these bubbles down you, then we can all fuck off home.”
“You finish it, Mabel, it doesn’t sit well on all that brandy.” Cheeky cow. Thirty quid down the drain. She might be a has-been, but she hadn’t lost her Lady Muck ways. Carried on as if ten-quid notes grew on trees.
He would have to get his hands on some dosh. What he would do, he would get his mum on the mobile and ask her to pay some money into his account, first thing. Yeh yeh yeh, but it wouldn’t clear in time, would it, and even when he’d tried to get an extra lousy tenner out of the hole in the wall earlier, it had come up “Insufficient Funds”. All right, so she could wire him some cash. How would she do that, then from a little squashed fly on the map like South Higginshaw? He had seen adverts for Western Union but how you went about wiring money he had not the first idea. Neither would his mum, that was for sure. So maybe one of his mates at the Metro had a mate living in London who would sub him a few quid. Fat chance. Oh, Christ. And where, anyway, was Selby?
“You don’t want any more champers, do you, Alan?”
“Alex.” No, pour it down the fookin sink.
“Alec” She sounded half pissed again. “Do you like Scotch? I think I’ve got half a bottle at home.”
It’s to be hoped so, luv, because here’s someone who won’t be buying half a bottle if you haven’t.
“Better than this muck we’re drinking, it gives me indigestion.” He ought to be eating something, but what they charged for food down here, Christ only knew. He shudder got more olives and crisps down him back at that Losers place.
“Come on, then, I’m only round the corner. Nighty night, Mabel, fingers crossed, hope all goes well.”
“So do I. And don’t you dare come back this side of tomorrow afternoon.”
She took Alex’s hand and led him to the stairs, or rather suffered him to lead her. The hand that squeezed his was soft. Probably she was only squeezing to lend herself support as she stumbled upstairs, but there was no doubt about it, she was definitely up for it. Fookin stroll on. He’d only been in London five minutes and already he’d scored. What a tale for the lads. “You’re not gunner believe this, but do you know who I got my leg across with down in London? Member that famous film star, Jenny Wise? Yes, you do, she was in a lotter crap with James Mason and all that lot …”