There was so much she desperately wanted to see: Buckingham Palace, for a start, then Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, the famous shops on Oxford Street, and of course the Royal Albert Hall, where she knew the Philharmonic often gave afternoon recitals. She couldn’t think of anything more romantic than exploring the city with Andy, and so what if there had been this one little misunderstanding about when and where he was supposed to collect her when she arrived? It was something they’d probably giggle at later on.
‘Here you go then, love,’ the taxi driver said through the glass grille. ‘Adelphi Hotel.’
Violet looked out the car window and recoiled in shock.
‘There must be some mistake,’ she said, horrified. ‘This can’t possibly be the right address. Kindly check again, please. I want the Adelphi Hotel in Hammersmith.’
‘And this is it, love. That’s six shillings and thruppence, please.’
Violet paid, took her little overnight bag, and looked aghast at the Adelphi Hotel. For starters, even referring to it as a hotel was a stretch. This place was more of a cheap, grubby boarding house – the type of place where a young lady like Violet would never dream of entering, never mind actually staying. In disbelief, she walked up the steps to the entrance door and on through the poky little reception area, where a lad of about sixteen was behind the desk, smoking and reading the paper. The whole appearance of the place was filthy, and the stench of greasy food mixed with damp was almost sick-making.
‘I’m here to see Mr Andy McKim,’ she told him.
The kid never even looked up at her. ‘He’s that bloke with the band, yeah?’
‘Correct,’ said Violet, relieved that at least she was on the right track. ‘Can you kindly tell him I’m here, please. I’ve come a very long way to see him. And then I’d like a strong cup of tea, please. You can serve it to me in your dining room. If indeed, you have one.’
At that, the kid looked up from his paper. ‘Where do you think you are anyway, love? Windsor Castle? If you want tea, there’s a café down the road. And if you’re looking for that bloke from the band, what’s his name . . .’
‘Andy McKim,’ Violet snapped.
‘Chances are they’re rehearsing at the Odeon. From what I heard, those tossers need all the rehearsal they can get.’
Violet was astonished and didn’t reward his rudeness by even thanking him. Instead she went straight back onto the street outside and asked directions to the Odeon theatre. Thankfully, a kindly nanny wheeling a pram happened to be walking in the same direction and explained to her where to go. The first person in London, Violet thought, who’d actually been polite to her.
As it happened, the Odeon was just a short walk away, and at the sight of it, her spirits began to lift. This was a proper theatre, with ushers and a box office and lovely red carpet and a gorgeous gilt bar area just inside the doors. Outside there were huge posters advertising Gerry and the Pacemakers, the lead act for the night, with The Moptops featured as supporting artists in very, very small print underneath them. There was a comedy double act on before them, then a ventriloquist and then, last but not least, Andy and his band.
A smiling lady at the box office told Violet they were carrying out sound checks onstage, but that she was welcome to go backstage if she liked, to try and find Andy. Violet was then shown through a green baize door that said: Stage Personnel Only. She went through, still clutching her overnight bag and feeling like a complete bag of nerves.
This was most definitely not the romantic reunion she’d planned with Andy. Still though, she thought, steeling her nerve as she made her way down a cold, concrete corridor, this was showbiz, and if she wanted to be the girlfriend of a famous musician, then this was the price you paid. Tonight was a huge break for the band, with the A&R man from Decca coming to see them, she reminded herself. Was it any wonder if Andy was a bit distracted?
He certainly appeared more than distracted when she finally found the right dressing-room door, deep in the bowels of the theatre, following the sound of guitars tuning up and the huge clouds of cigarette smoke wafting from under the door.
She knocked, waited for a response and, when there was none, just walked in unannounced. And there he was – Andy. With three other lads about his own age, who she assumed were his fellow bandmates, surrounded by a cluster of incredibly louche-looking girls, none of whom seemed the slightest bit interested to see this exhausted-looking Irish girl, overnight bag in hand, standing in the doorway and wondering what the hell was going on.
‘Hey Vi,’ Andy said lazily, as every eye swivelled her way. ‘What are you doing here?’
What are you doing here? she thought furiously. Did he really just say that? As if she lived down the road; as if her being there was absolutely no big deal?
‘Who’s the chick in the suit?’ one of his bandmates said.
‘She looks like a nun!’
‘Did someone let a nun in here? How are you doing, Sister Mary Margaret? Come to try and make us all say a decade of the rosary, then?’
Violet wanted to snap the faces off the lot of them – most of all, Andy.
I’m here because of you, she wanted to bark at him. Why else would I be here? And what kind of a welcome do you suppose this is? What sort of a gentleman dares to treat his girlfriend like this?
But Andy correctly read the shock on her face, because a minute later, he was up on his feet and hugging her tightly, just like he should have done more than two hours ago at the airport. He smelled most peculiar, though, Violet thought. There was a pungent stink from his clothes, his words were slurred, and his eyes were glassy and very strange-looking.
‘Come here to me, love,’ he said in that adorable Scouse accent, as she dropped her suitcase and fell into his chest. ‘Good to see you. I’m a bit surprised to see you, but it’s a nice surprise. Come on and meet the band.’
He introduced her as a ‘friend’ from Dublin to the lead singer, the drummer and the bass guitarist, and Violet heard them snigger as she shook each hand formally, just like she’d been trained to do. Not one of them stood to greet her, which she thought unfathomably rude.
‘Posh bird, isn’t she?’ said the drummer, who had ginger hair and who was called Dave, speaking about Violet as if she weren’t even present.
It wasn’t just his rudeness that bothered her, though. Lounging around the dressing room in various states of undress and bare feet were three other girls, who completely ignored Violet. Not only that, but they all seemed to be smoking the same cigarette, passing it around, inhaling deeply and only taking one puff each. Such bizarre behaviour, she thought.
Violet was never one to be easily intimidated, but suddenly she felt like a middle-aged frump in her high-buttoned tweed suit, which had seemed so elegant at the airport earlier. Now it felt overly stiff and formal and rigid beside these girls in their Mary Quant mini dresses. One of them looked a bit like a tousle-haired Brigitte Bardot as she paraded around in a black lace slip and introduced herself as Melody, which struck Violet as quite the most ridiculous name she’d ever heard.
Melody seemed particularly proprietorial over Andy, who flopped back down onto the sofa beside her and took a drag from the same single cigarette the others were all sharing. Violet most definitely did not like the intimate way that this ridiculous, half-dressed Melody was behaving around Andy. She was giggling stupidly at something inane he’d said and even had her hand on his knee at one point.
‘Shouldn’t you all be rehearsing?’ Violet piped up, unable to take another second in this grotty, smoky room with everyone ignoring her. ‘Tonight is meant to be a big break for the band. Surely you ought to be practising?’
‘Yeah, lads,’ Dave, the ginger-haired drummer said, in a put-on, high falsetto, wagging his finger mockingly. ‘Listen to Sister Mary Margaret. Do what she says or you’ll all get detention.’
‘Bit strict, your bird, isn’t she, Andy? Where’d you meet her, then – prison?’
‘Just chill,
Vi,’ Andy slurred at her, as Melody snuggled even closer to him. ‘It’s groovy here. Plenty of time for that later.’
‘Well, seeing as how I’m not interrupting rehearsals,’ Violet said crisply, ‘in that case I should very much like a cup of tea, please. And then, Andy, perhaps we might do some sightseeing?’
At that, the others all fell around laughing, but for the life of her, Violet entirely failed to see the joke.
*
The concert was awful.
Violet went to watch on her own, as none of the other girls showed the remotest interest in the fact that there was an actual performance happening. She had to pay for her own ticket and sat at the back, where there were a frightening number of empty seats. There was one solitary gentleman in a suit in the same row as her, who could well have been the A&R man from Decca that the band had been out to impress. However, this particular gentleman left after The Moptops played about three songs and didn’t look impressed at all.
Even Violet had to admit, with her classical training, that their sheer lack of musicianship was woeful. Andy could at least sing and play, but the others were shockingly untalented. Had any one of them ever had a music lesson in their life, she wondered? They were out of tune, off-key and the only time the audience perked up a little was when the band performed a cover version of ‘She Loves You’ by The Beatles. Even the ventriloquist received a warmer response than The Moptops did.
The show perked up considerably in the second half when Gerry and the Pacemakers came on and belted out hit after hit, starting with ‘Ferry Across the Mersey’, a song Violet loved. This, it was painfully clear to see, was a well-rehearsed, slick, professional band, who took a show like this in their stride. A world away from the lazy amateurism of The Moptops.
*
After the concert, the band all drifted off to a Hammersmith pub close by called the Old City Arms. The bad news was that those awful, clinging girls who’d been in their dressing room earlier were still very much present. Melody was hovering like a limpet around Andy, and Violet was starting to lose her patience.
How dare these awful people write me off as some kind of nun, who’s just a ‘friend’ of Andy’s, she thought crossly. She’d show them – and when she finally had Andy on her own, then he’d get a right piece of her mind for treating her like this. Andy, however, seemed to have finally found his manners by the time they arrived at the pub, and even slipped his arm around Violet’s waist as she queued to buy drinks for them both.
‘Thanks for coming to the show, Vi,’ he said appreciatively. ‘And thanks for the drink, love. I could murder a pint.’
There was no question of him paying: it was as if the thought never even crossed his mind.
‘You didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me in the dressing room earlier,’ Violet retorted. ‘And I’ve travelled such a long way, you know.’
‘Oh, that was just the dope talking, that’s all.’ He shrugged, although Violet hadn’t a clue what he meant.
‘Did you enjoy the show, Sister Mary Margaret?’ Dave asked her cheekily, sidling up beside them. ‘And I’ll have a pint too, if you’re buying.’
Violet had never had to buy a round of drinks in the whole course of her life, but she gamely peeled off a pound note from the wad she had in her purse and handed it over.
‘Don’t mind him, Vi,’ Andy said, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘He’s only jealous because I’ve pulled such a posh bird.’
There were so many presumptions in that sentence, Violet didn’t know where to start. No young lady would ever allow herself to be referred to as a ‘bird’, for starters, but somehow, as the drinks went in and as the night went on, Andy seemed to grow more and more affectionate towards her.
‘So, did you enjoy our set then?’ he asked her much later on in the night, when Violet had had a total of three Babychams and was feeling a little more relaxed and calm, especially now that Andy was beginning to pay her a bit of attention. The only annoyance was that ridiculous Melody and her cohorts were still clustered around the table with them – absolutely no budging them.
‘Very much so,’ Violet lied. ‘But if you don’t mind, Andy, I’ve had an exhaustive day and I should very much like to go back to the hotel now.’
‘You’ve pulled then, Andy,’ the lead singer jeered as Violet got her coat and Andy stood up to take her to the hotel. ‘Or is Sister Mary one of those edge-of-the-bed virgins?’
‘She looks like a bit of a tease, Andy,’ Melody said drunkenly. ‘Wouldn’t waste my time if I were you.’
Violet flushed red, utterly mortified, but she didn’t lower herself to respond. Instead, with a determined glance down at Melody, she linked Andy’s arm, went back to that stinking hovel of a hotel, tripped up the ragged carpet with him and slammed the bedroom door firmly shut behind the two of them.
Edge-of-the-bed virgin indeed.
Emily
Finally, after the longest drought on record, an unexpected bit of good fortune entered the life of Emily Dunne of number eighty-one Primrose Square. Leon called her bright and early the following morning with news.
‘I’d a passenger in the back of me cab there last night,’ he told her, as the sound of an early morning DJ on his car radio blared away in the background.
‘And that’s the news?’ Emily said groggily, half asleep and still in bed. Unsurprisingly, given that it was still only eight in the morning. ‘That’s what you rang to tell me? You’re a taxi driver, Leon. No offence or anything, but it would probably be more newsworthy if you woke me to say you had no one in the taxi all night.’
‘Shut up and listen, will you?’ came the gruff reply. ‘I was out at the airport, and this one gets into the back of me cab, real businesswoman type, well dressed, with a posh accent, just like you. Mind you, she’d a bit more manners than you, but otherwise, you know what I’m getting at.’
‘Go on,’ said Emily, still too half asleep to take offence.
‘Anyway, your woman was well pissed off because she’d just flown back from London, only her flight was delayed till about eleven last night, and she needed to get back to her husband and kids. “Work trip, was it?” I said to her, and she says yes. Turns out she’s the chief buyer for Flynn’s Stores. That’s every Flynn shop throughout the country. All twenty-nine of them.’
‘Great,’ Emily yawned. ‘Fantastic. Well worth you waking me up for. Can I go back to sleep now?’
‘Jesus, have you no patience?’ said Leon. ‘So she tells me they’re seriously understaffed, and that if she had more reliable ground staff to lean on, she wouldn’t have to do so much travelling away from her family. “Well you know, that’s very interesting,” I says to her. “Because I’ve a friend who’s job-hunting at the minute and she might be just what you’re looking for.” ’
At that, Emily woke up properly.
‘So, the upshot of it is,’ Leon went on, ‘is that this manager one, she’s like the vice head of knickers or some shite like that—’
‘I’m quite sure that’s not her real title,’ Emily interrupted.
‘Anyway, she says you’re to be at their head office this morning at ten a.m. for an interview. Nothing special, now, this is probably only a job on the shop floor, but . . .’
He didn’t even have to finish the sentence. In a heartbeat, Emily had sprung up out of bed and was already on her way to the shower.
‘Leon?’ she said cheekily, grabbing a towel on her way. ‘Did I ever tell you that I really do love you? In spite of the fact that you’re a grumpy old fuck?’
There was no sign of Violet up and about before she left the house, so Emily left a quick, scribbled note on the kitchen table for her.
You know the way you’re always telling me to find gainful employment? Guess what? Am halfway there!
*
Flynn’s Stores were a huge, family-owned homeware department store with branches like tentacles that spread over locations everywhere. They were known for mid-pr
iced quality home furnishings, drapery and clothes, and even though Emily knew she’d be lucky to end up cleaning loos for them, she still gave the interview her very best shot.
Turned out the lady Leon had driven home the previous night was called Julie Flynn, executive chairwoman at Flynn’s, and in yet another miracle, she and Emily actually clicked during the interview. Emily talked about the designers the company were using for their kitchenware and how wildly popular they were. She spoke knowledgeably, referencing the influence of the Bauhaus Movement and a few art deco designers she was a fan of – and for her part, Julie seemed impressed.
‘I’m particularly glad you like the Karen Jones designs we’re working with,’ she told Emily, ‘because we plan on expanding that range considerably in the near future.’
‘The sky’s the limit,’ Emily chatted away, thinking that this was not just the easiest, but also one of the nicest interviews she’d ever sat through. ‘Tea towels, bathroom mats – I’d start low-budget, if I were you, then gradually introduce a higher spec in your soft furnishings range – maybe even in the same design.’
Julie nodded along, and when the interview came to an end, offered Emily a job on the spot.
‘Now, it’s nothing special,’ she stressed. ‘You’d start on the shop floor, and that’s tough work, let me tell you. But I will keep an eye on you, and maybe down the line, you and me can talk. Can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’
‘Thank you,’ Emily said, trying to hide the huge wave of relief and shock that washed over her at Julie’s words. She shook her hand warmly. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘You’ve got a real friend in Leon,’ Julie said.
‘He’s been very good to me,’ Emily replied. Then, in the interests of truth and honesty, she put all her cards out on the table. ‘He’s my AA sponsor,’ she added. ‘I was a patient at—’
The Women of Primrose Square Page 26
