Playing Around

by Gilda O'Neill

  ‘Because, Angela Knight, whenever I suggest you put on even a little tiny bit of make-up, or try and lend you a skirt or something, you say you don’t want to wind up looking like your mum.’

  ‘Who said I want to look like her? I just want to look, like I say, like a dolly bird.’

  Jackie pulled a face. ‘Blimey.’ Her mind began working overtime. It was obvious when she thought about it: Martin. Angie fancied Martin. But did he fancy Angie? She couldn’t imagine he would. She would have to investigate this one. ‘A dolly bird, eh?’

  Angie said nothing, she just fiddled with the buttons of her navy mac, the same mac she had worn almost every day since she had started work in the City a week after her fifteenth birthday.

  ‘Won the pools, has she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your nan. Giving you money.’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘And what’s your mum gonna say?’

  ‘She probably won’t even notice. So long as I don’t bother her.’

  Jackie narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s brought all this on?’

  Before Angie could think of a more convincing reason than: I thought your gorgeous brother actually fancied me; then I didn’t, but now I’m not so sure, but I think he just might, so I’d better tidy myself up a bit. Just in case. Or even a less pathetic reason than: I can’t bear being the object of my mum’s pity, and my mum’s boyfriend’s sneering, the District line train came into sight.

  Jackie elbowed her way forward to get a good spot at the front of the platform. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll get into Barking in time for the twenty past.’

  ‘Meet me later?’ Angie gasped, as she struggled through the other tardy, Monday-morning commuters. ‘To talk about it?’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you at the sandwich bar in Leadenhall Market just after one.’ Jackie spat the words through her teeth, as she glared a warning at a middle-aged man who thought he could get on the train before her.

  ‘Can’t we go to the Wimpy in Wentworth Street?’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  ‘Good, I’ve got to get a few bits for indoors.’

  ‘Your mum left the cupboard empty again?’

  She had, but Angie would never have said so. She didn’t like admitting how carelessly her mother treated her, not to other people. Not even to Jackie. It made Angie feel ashamed. But despite having to spend half her lunch hour doing food shopping, despite the crush on the train, and despite being late for work, Angie Knight was beaming with pleasure. She was going to be a dolly bird. And then Martin would really notice her.

  Well, maybe she shouldn’t quite jump the gun about Martin, maybe she had better wait and see, but he had definitely seemed interested in her.

  Definitely.

  ‘Martin.’

  At the sound of his name being called in that unmistakable accent, Martin knew it could be nobody but Jill Walker. He took a deep breath and turned round to look for her in the sea of students moving listlessly along the corridors to their morning lectures.

  She waved cheerily at him. ‘I’m glad I found you,’ she said, edging her way towards him. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

  She was puffing. She must have been rushing around the place. Looking for me.

  He grinned foolishly. ‘Well, here I am.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you that I’m going to see my personal tutor. This morning. To explain I’m behind, but I’m going to catch up. And I wanted to say thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being so nice to me.’ She cocked her head to one side and smiled. ‘I wondered if you’d let me say thank you properly. Wondered if you’d fancy coming round to the flat. On Saturday night. For something to eat.’

  Martin’s stomach did a back flip, just as if he was in an express lift that had screeched to a halt mid-way down a tower block. ‘That’d be great.’

  Great? It would be fantastic.

  Recalling what happened next – at least two hundred times that wonderful Monday morning – Martin couldn’t imagine that he would ever feel so elated again. Jill had smiled another one of those smiles, had raised herself up on her tip-toes, and had kissed him on the cheek. Just like that. In front of every one.

  ‘About seven?’

  He nodded dumbly.

  ‘See you later?’

  Martin nodded his head up and down again like a prize nit.

  ‘It’ll only be spaghetti bolognese and a bottle of Chianti,’ she called over her shoulder, as she hurried off along the corridor. ‘Will that do?’

  Again the moronic nodding. But Martin genuinely could think of nothing to say. Jill Walker had asked him round to her flat on Saturday night. For spaghetti and wine.

  Martin had never actually eaten spaghetti bolognese before, and he had certainly never had Chianti – it wasn’t the sort of thing they went in for round their house – but, more important, as far as Martin was concerned, was the fact that he had never had sex before either.

  As Sonia lowered herself on to Mikey, straddling him, with her skirt hitched up round her waist, she let out the gasp of pleasure that he had learned to expect from her when they ‘made love’, as Sonia insisted on calling it.

  They were in the back of David’s Jaguar, Mikey having suggested, with a wicked grin, that ‘doing it in the motor’ would be more fun than going to the hotel room that Sonia had booked for them. And Sonia had readily agreed.

  She’d do it anywhere. Mikey liked that about her.

  As she moved rhythmically up and down, her breath coming in short, increasingly loud gasps, Mikey closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, as he matched her movements, thrust for thrust.

  With a low moan and a shudder, Sonia threw back her head and burst into satisfied, happy laughter.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes, kissed him hard on the mouth, and wound her fingers roughly through his tight, black curly hair.

  ‘All right for you, girl?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we should see what you can do for me now.’

  Mikey tore open the buttons of her thin, lawn blouse and grabbed at her breast. Too far gone to protest, she laughed again as Mikey drove into her, and she bucked and reared like a liberated pony across his broad, muscled thighs.

  Unusually, she began to speak. ‘If only that pig …’

  Mikey pushed harder and faster, and her words were reduced to short, gasping bursts.

  ‘Could see … what we’re doing … to his precious … upholstery … It would be …’ She sank her nails into his back.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Knowing that the man on the other side of the door – Jeff, the head of security at the Canvas Club – was staring at him through the peephole, David Fuller smiled pleasantly. ‘Only me, Jeff. Let us in.’

  Puzzled as to what his boss was doing there so early, he immediately slid back the bolts to let him in. But before Jeff had a chance to realize what was going on, Bobby had slammed the door back on its hinges, trapping him against the black painted wall.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Bobby flatly. ‘Never saw you there.’ He ruffled the thick neck hair of the excited Alsatians, cooing gently at them, ‘Say hello to your Uncle Jeff,’ and shoved the door shut behind them with his foot.

  Jeff, six feet three of toned muscle, staggered away from the wall, trying to staunch the blood pouring from his nose with the back of his hand.

  ‘You’re not doing a very good job of that,’ David said, offering him the blue silk handkerchief from his top pocket. ‘Try this.’

  Jeff took it with a nod.

  ‘Now, let’s go through to the office. I’ve got a few questions about the books.’

  ‘So you reckon it’s Mikey Tilson taking the dough from the nightly cash collection?’

  ‘On my life, Dave. I wouldn’t cross you, you know that.’

  Bobby was standing with his back to the office door, with the dogs still straining on the
leads.

  ‘I’m not happy. You should have said something.’

  ‘I didn’t know nothing about it. I swear.’ Jeff examined the blue silk square for any signs of fresh blood. ‘I thought because he was working for you, he’d be kosher.’

  David considered for a moment. ‘Not a word to anyone. All right? I don’t want him getting wind of what we know, and going off on the trot.’

  ‘You can trust me, Dave. You know that, don’t you?’

  David didn’t answer him. He had other things on his mind. ‘I’ve decided to change things. Make them’, he paused, ‘more business-like.’ He recalled the words Peter Burman had used. ‘Diversify and that. I’ve been taking a bit of advice about expanding more in the property game.’ He paused again. ‘And a bit more on the import-export side. Distribution.’

  ‘But the Canvas is still a good earner. You always say so. Like the snooker clubs.’ Jeff didn’t like the sound of this. He didn’t fancy being put out of a job, especially not now his Jean had another baby on the way. It wasn’t so easy to get a job when most of the adverts said ‘no coloureds’, even the completely trashy jobs, never mind well-paid, responsible ones like this.

  ‘The snooker clubs I’m not so thrilled with any more, but you’re right about the Canvas, Jeff. Clubs like this are getting a lot of very nice publicity at the minute.’ David thought about the photographs in the Sunday papers of celebrities having a good time in West End night spots, including a few in his very own Canvas Club. That sort of publicity never did a business any harm. Who knows, maybe they’d have some of the nobs favouring the place. They seemed to spend as much time in night-clubs as rock-and-roll stars nowadays, and to use plenty of the merchandise he was about to get into in an even bigger way. ‘And that’s why I ain’t going to let some two-bob little tool like Mikey Tilson go spoiling things.’

  He wiped the back of his hand roughly across his mouth as he pictured punching Mikey Tilson’s grinning, stupid, face to a pulp. ‘Hold back five per cent of the takings, Jeff. That’s what I reckon that arsehole’s been pocketing every night. Let’s see him get a bit worried. See what he does.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jeff dabbed gingerly at his nose. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Be all right to handle this by yourself? Or shall I send Mad Albert round for back-up? He’s due out soon, and I can easily get cover for him on his usual debt-collecting if you reckon you need him.’

  ‘No, Dave. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good man, Jeff.’

  ‘No offence about the bloody hooter, eh, mate?’ Bobby held out his hand. Jeff shook it. He and Bobby both knew he was only following David Fuller’s orders. And that he would have been very silly not to.

  ‘This week’s really going to drag, Jack. I don’t know if I can wait till Saturday.’

  Jackie, her arm linked through Angie’s, jerked her friend to a rough halt, saving her from the 145 bus en route to the Heathway.

  ‘I know you’re excited, Ange, but pull yourself together. You nearly got us killed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack, I’m just really excited.’

  ‘Angie, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to wish I’d never bothered getting you that bloody appointment. It’s all I’ve had out of you all the way home. You’re only going to the sodding hairdresser’s.’

  ‘I know, but Michaelton’s.’

  ‘Let’s just hope they do a better job on you than his barber did on him.’ Jackie raised her chin to indicate the man standing outside Spicer’s the greengrocer’s, on the other side of Gale Street. He was in his thirties and was dressed in the drapes and brothel creepers that had once been favoured by the Teddy Boys. Stuck like a butterfly on a pin for the past ten years in the style of his youth, his hair was slicked and greased, moulded into an extravagant, gravity-defying quiff.

  Jackie and Angie looked at each other and collapsed into giggles.

  ‘How embarrassing,’ snorted Jackie. ‘What a prize twerp.’

  ‘Yeah, what a twit,’ agreed Angie, but as soon as she’d said it she felt guilty. Angie knew what it was like to look stupid, to be an object of derision.

  It hurt.

  Angie pushed open the front door with her shoulder – her mum never bothered to lock it – and hauled the two bags of groceries through to the kitchen. It had been a real rush at lunchtime. But she knew that if she didn’t get some shopping in, they’d have nothing.

  It was in a complete mess: an ashtray full of fag-ends on the table, a sink full of dishes, and a puddle of partly dissolved instant-coffee grains spreading out over the stainless steel draining board.

  ‘Angie? Is that you?’ a voice called from upstairs.

  Angie stared up at the ceiling. She was getting ready early tonight, must be going to the West End. ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Bring me up a cup of tea, there’s a good girl.’

  Angie made the tea and took it upstairs, all the while planning what she was going to say.

  ‘You’re still in bed,’ she began as she put the mug on the bedside cabinet.

  ‘I know.’ Vi exhaled a long, lazy plume of smoke. ‘I looked in that mirror this morning and knew that I’d been letting things get to me. I looked worn out. So I decided to catch up on a bit of beauty sleep. To have a little rest.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette and sipped at her tea. ‘I won’t be wanting too much to eat just now, I’m going out with Chas later. A couple of poached eggs on toast’ll do.’

  Angie stood there, staring at her mother with her hair rollers bristling from under the pink chiffon scarf and the remnants of yesterday’s make-up streaked round her eyes. She looked a real state.

  ‘And have a little tidy up downstairs, Ange. I don’t want Chas coming round and seeing all that mess.’

  Angie swallowed hard. ‘Shall I do the eggs before I do yesterday’s washing-up? Or shall I clear up the front room first?’

  ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, Angela.’

  ‘Mum, I’ve been working all day. And I even had to find time to do the rotten shopping, because you said you were busy.’

  ‘You kids, nowadays,’ sighed Violet, dramatically. ‘You have it all too easy.’

  Angie’s mouth dropped open. She never usually confronted her mother about her demands, but then she at least usually got herself out of bed and dressed, even put the washing-up in to soak, and managed to drop a bit of washing round the launderette for a service wash. But this was ridiculous. And after what she’d heard her saying to Chas …

  Angie steeled herself. ‘Mum, I can’t do everything any more. No. I don’t mean I can’t. I mean I won’t. I’m fed up with it all.’

  Violet’s green eyes blazed with anger. ‘Are you answering me back?’

  ‘No, it’s just—’

  ‘Don’t you get saucy with me. You’re always the same when you’ve been round your bloody nan’s. She puts ideas in your head. Interfering old cow.’ Vi lit another cigarette. ‘Treat you, did she?’ she asked casually, picking a strand of tobacco off her tongue.

  ‘No,’ lied Angie, pulling down her sleeve to cover her new watch. ‘I wouldn’t let her.’

  From her mother’s scornful expression, Angie could see that Vi thought her daughter was little more than a fool. ‘Just get down those stairs before I lose my temper,’ she said wearily. ‘Go on. Get the hoover out. I’ll be down in a bit.’

  Course you will, thought Angie as she ran down the stairs, the tears welling up in her eyes, as soon as I’ve done everything, that’s when you’ll be down.

  Angie really had had enough. Wait till Saturday. Then she’d show her. She’d show everyone. She was going to change herself. Change her life. She’d show her what it was like to have to do things for herself. She’d show Jackie that she could be just as interested in what she looked like. And she’d prove to Martin that she was a whole lot more than just a little squirt.

  Chapter 3

  ‘ANGIE, IF YOU don’t get yourself in there. This minute. I’m going to start screa
ming.’

  Angie, wide-eyed with fear, stared at her friend, knowing she was easily capable of doing something as embarrassing as screeching out loud in public, but still unable to force herself to go through the door and into the seriously posh-looking interior. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I told you, it’s only a bloody hairdresser’s.’

  ‘But look at them.’ Angie jabbed her thumb at the stylish young women sitting on the other side of the huge plate-glass window. ‘And look at me.’

  Jackie shrugged. ‘You look all right.’

  ‘I’d have looked a sight better, if you’d have got up in time and helped me get ready, like you said you would.’

  ‘It’s too late to worry about that now. Let’s just get in there and get on with it.’

  As Jackie urged her friend forward, herding her like a sheep reluctant to enter the dip, a petite, expensively dressed blonde in her thirties pushed straight past them, pulling off her linen coat as though she was in a hurry to be dealt with.

  ‘See,’ hissed Angie. ‘She’s like something out of a magazine.’

  ‘A ten-year-old magazine,’ sneered Jackie, giving Angie a shove. ‘Now just get in there.’

  As Jackie corralled her friend between her and the desk, she leaned forward – she hoped, casually – to listen to what the heavily made-up receptionist was saying to the haughty-looking blonde. It needed a bit of effort, as she was competing with the salon’s sound system that was belting out Sandie Shaw’s ‘Long Live Love’.

  ‘Welcome to Michaelton’s,’ she made out the receptionist growling, in a not altogether perfected version of the Mockney accent that had become quite the thing amongst nice young ladies from the Home Counties. ‘I’m Dusty. Do you have an appointment?’

  Angie, Jackie and ‘Dusty’ watched – respectively alarmed, fascinated and bored – as the woman’s smile slipped from her lips as fast as raspberry sauce dripping off a 99 cornet in a summer heatwave and was replaced with a hard-faced scowl.

  ‘Are you a Saturday girl?’

  Dusty studied her blue-painted nails. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I see. That’s why you don’t know me.’