It was the longest dance of Heather’s life. She could feel Gerry Stewart’s warm, beery breath on her face and neck and she was sure she could feel and hear his heart beating through his shirt every time he tried to press closer to her.
She didn’t know whether it was better when he was quiet, although the intensity of him almost frightened her. When he spoke, she had difficulty hearing him, and it meant he had to bend closer to her and almost touch her ear with his lips.
Eventually, the music stopped and as soon as it was decently possible, Heather extricated herself from Gerry’s arms. ‘Thank you,’ she heard herself say. ‘But now I need to go to the bathroom.’ And before he could stop her, she walked out of the room and up the stairs as quickly as her legs would carry her. She had hardly closed the bathroom door when she heard a loud rap on it. She took a long deep breath.
‘It’s me!’ Liz’s voice came from outside. ‘Are you all right?’
A cool wave of relief washed over her and she rushed to unlock the door.
Liz came in quickly, making sure she secured the door after her. ‘Are you all right?’ she repeated. ‘I could see your face when you were dancing, and I was worried sick about you.’
Heather nodded her head, sinking slightly inelegantly in her tight lace dress to sit on the side of the bath. Liz put the toilet seat down and sat on that. Normally, the two friends would have spent a good five minutes discussing the lovely wallpaper and the fancy towels, but under the circumstances they took in nothing of their surroundings.
‘Och, I suppose I’m OK,’ Heather said, with a quiver in her voice. ‘I just wish this night was ended and I was tucked up and fast asleep in bed.’
‘We haven’t long to go until the minibus comes,’ Liz said encouragingly, ‘just another hour or so.’ She paused. ‘My God – it’s ten to twelve! It’s nearly the New Year. We better get back downstairs.’
‘Look,’ Heather said, ‘you go on down and find Jim. Just give me a couple of minutes to wash my face and freshen up and then I’ll be down.’
‘Are you sure?’ Liz checked.
‘Positive,’ Heather said, giving her a reassuring smile.
It was strange. The night had been the most successful one in Kirsty’s singing career so far and yet she hardly felt a thing. She had imagined almost floating off the stage in a cloud of elation if she had ever got the sort of response from an audience she had got tonight.
And yet, here she was – half an hour into 1956 – standing in front of hundreds of strangers, bowing to their thunderous applause and whistles and calls for more songs. As she stood smiling and waving at the crowd, she was surprised to find that she was able to distance herself from the moment, thinking how very odd it was to feel so very, very calm in the face of such enormous appreciation.
She had never felt terribly nervous singing with the The Hi-Tones, but they were an easy band who sang in easy-to-please places. She had always learned her words and made sure she could hit the notes, but that had never been too difficult, for often the volume of the band and the crackly microphones had drowned her voice anyway.
She’d never worried too much, thinking that nobody would be too hard on her if she had the odd off-night. But thankfully, it had never happened. But she had quickly realised that the easy-going regime with the boys was all over. She was now singing to a different tune career-wise, and she was silly to think it would have been any different.
It had definitely been hard work over these last few weeks, getting ready for this big night – rushing out in the dark winter evenings to catch the bus into Wishaw for her singing lessons: all the hours practising her scales upstairs in her bedroom or lying in the bath; the time spent learning the words of the new songs, and then the evenings spent rehearsing them with the band.
But tonight she had reaped the rewards. The applause and the appreciative look in Larry Delaney’s eyes when he had come to wish her a happy new year and give her a glass of champagne proved it.
Heather came downstairs to find that everyone had assembled in the sitting-room and were now listening intently for the bells that signalled the end of the old year and the start of the new.
A figure moved out from the edge of the crowd towards her as soon as she came in. It was Mark McFarlane. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked in a low, concerned voice.
Heather nodded, embarrassed to look him straight in the face. ‘Yes, thanks. I feel terrible . . . this happening in your house. It nearly ruined your party.’
‘Och, don’t worry about it,’ he told her. He nodded over towards the window. ‘Jim spoke to me, then he went over and had a word with that Gerry fellow. They were outside for a good while and he seems to have managed to calm him down a bit.’
‘Good,’ Heather said, looking relieved. She touched Mark on the arm. ‘You go back to your sister and friends – I’m fine, honestly.’
When the bells rang out the room erupted into a big cheer and then everyone gathered into a wide circle to sing Auld Lang Syne. At one point Heather made herself look across the room and there was Gerry looking straight back at her. He was in between Liz and Jim, linking hands with them both and singing.
For an instant, Heather felt she was looking at an old photograph – a photograph that had been torn and damaged, a photograph with a person missing from it. And that person was Heather Grace.
Just a few months ago it would have been the four of them laughing and happy. Jim and Liz, Gerry and Heather. And she would have preferred it if her feelings hadn’t changed towards him, because up until recently he had been a decent, dependable fellow. But her feelings had changed. And there was not one single thing she could do about it. It suddenly made her feel frightened and uncertain of the future.
What if she always ended up feeling like this? What if she always went off the boyfriends she once had liked and fancied?
Heather told herself not to be so silly, that it was much better to be on your own than to be with somebody you no longer fancied or felt you had anything in common with. Imagine being married to someone like that. And yet Heather knew there must be countless people going out with or married to people they no longer loved or found attractive. She knew that from her own short experience with Gerry and she knew that she could never go out with anyone like Mark McFarlane.
Being stuck with someone you didn’t love or fancy for life was like a death sentence. Heather gave a tiny shudder at the thought. She was still young and had plenty of time to worry about such things. She could still meet someone.
And yet as she looked around her now at the couples all kissing and cuddling and wishing each other a happy new year, she wondered what if she didn’t meet someone ever again? What if she ended up alone?
Kirsty was relaxing in the dressing-room with a Coca-Cola, waiting for Larry to take her home. The tall thin glass of champagne sat neglected beside a vase of seasonal red flowers with huge leaves. Kirsty had only taken two mouthfuls from it, terrified in case it might have a peculiar effect on her and loosen her tongue – and that she would start saying all those embarrassing things to Larry Delaney again. She couldn’t possibly take that chance.
Besides, the champagne didn’t have quite the sweet fizzy taste that the Babycham did, and she was quite disappointed at the bitter dry taste it had. If Kirsty was asked which she preferred, she decided she’d have to be truthful and say she far preferred the cheaper drink.
She was just contemplating how often things you looked forward to in life were disappointing when you actually experienced them, when a knock came on the dressing-room door.
‘Come in!’ she called in a cheery manner, presuming it was one of the band members heading off, or someone bringing her another drink, as she had already turned down several drinks sent through to the dressing-room for her tonight.
The door opened and, to Kirsty’s enormous surprise, in walked Larry’s friend, Fiona McCluskey, and a slightly younger dark-haired woman who looked very like her. They were both dresse
d very glamorously, Fiona draped in the rows of pearls she seemed to favour and the other woman in lots of sparkly jewellery.
Kirsty sat bolt upright in her chair, a feeling of foreboding about her. She’d had no idea that this old friend of Larry’s was in the audience, but then she’d hardly seen any of the people who were at the show due to the subdued lighting.
‘I hope you don’t mind us barging in, dear,’ Fiona said, her eyes wide and bright, ‘but I just had to come and say how wonderful your singing was and how much we absolutely loved it.’ She paused. ‘Larry certainly got it right on this occasion.’
Kirsty stood up now, not quite sure what to do with herself. She linked her hands together, resting them on her flat stomach. ‘Thank you, that was very kind of you,’ she said, her voice sounding strangely formal to her own ears. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it . . .’
‘Your voice is really excellent,’ the other woman said, sounding sincere enough, but there was something in her tone that made Kirsty feel very wary.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Fiona said now, laughing and not sounding really sorry at all. ‘How very rude of me – I haven’t introduced you.’ She turned towards her companion. ‘This is my sister, Helen, who is actually a professional singer.’
Kirsty wasn’t a bit surprised they were sisters as there was a strong resemblance, not like her and Heather. Both these women had dark, blackish hair with olive skin and high cheekbones. Fiona was slim, bordering on thin; her sister was slim but more curvaceous. ‘Oh, really?’ she asked. ‘And what kind of singing do you do?’
‘Light opera and the better class of musicals,’ Helen said in a clipped tone. ‘I travelled abroad quite a bit with it – but I’ve more or less given it up. Much too time-consuming.’ She smiled at Kirsty now. ‘There’s better ways to enjoy life than singing for your supper.’
Kirsty nodded, not quite knowing what to say next. She had never met anyone before who had been in proper musicals or who sang opera professionally. She knew a few girls and a fellow who were in an operatic society in Hamilton, but that was only amateur. She decided it was best to keep quiet rather than speak up and show her ignorance.
‘We were just admiring your dress,’ Fiona said, moving closer to have a really good look at it. ‘Do you mind me being awfully cheeky and asking where you bought it from?’
Kirsty suddenly felt very uneasy. What should she say? Should she just come straight out with the truth or try to bluff it? Should she pretend that the dress was her own? By the looks of their own dresses and jewellery, these women were obviously the type of people who could easily afford to buy a dress like this and would know all the shops and designers.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘Larry organised the dress for me.’ She managed a little smile. ‘I hadn’t much time to go out and buy a suitable dress, so I asked his advice and he brought this out for me.’
‘How very, very helpful of him,’ Fiona said, glancing at her sister. There was a pause, then she turned to look at Kirsty with narrowed eyes. ‘This dress came from Fraser’s in Glasgow, and Larry Delaney actually picked it for Helen.’
Kirsty stared at both women, not quite sure if she’d understood. The red flush started to announce itself on her chest and throat as it always did at the worst possible time. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly feeling tight. ‘Are you saying that this dress belongs to you?’ she asked Helen, her voice a little croaky now.
‘I am,’ Helen said quietly, but there was no accusation in her tone or attitude. She didn’t look happy but she wasn’t blaming Kirsty in any way. ‘And no doubt he produced some others for you? A black lace dress, a green satin?’ She went on to describe several of the dresses that Larry had loaned her.
Kirsty slowly nodded her head. There was no point in denying it. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Larry loaned me a few . . . he said to pick which one I’d like for tonight.’ She halted. ‘I’d no idea who they belonged to. I thought maybe Larry kept a stock of them for any of his stage acts.’
‘You’re not too far off the mark,’ Fiona told her, with a slight sneer in her tone. ‘But no doubt you’ll learn. The longer you know Larry, the more you’ll find there is to know about him.’
‘Like what?’ Kirsty asked, suddenly wanting to hear more. She wanted to hear the very worst about him now, so that she knew exactly what she was dealing with.
The dressing-room door opened and Larry Delaney walked in. He halted when he saw Kirsty’s visitors, obviously taken aback to find them in chatting to her.
‘Fiona . . . Helen . . .’ he said, coming towards them. He stopped a few feet away from the sisters, not wishing them a happy new year as Kirsty had expected him to do. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’
‘Oh, I think you’ve done enough for us already,’ Fiona told him with a throaty laugh and eyebrows raised in a knowing manner. She put her arm through her sister’s. ‘We must get back – we have important people waiting for us.’
‘Helen?’ Larry asked as they swept past him. ‘How is David?’
‘Marvellous!’ Helen said in an airy, light way.
‘It’s been quite a while,’ he said, following them towards the door. ‘I’d really like to see him again soon . . .’
Fiona opened the door and let her sister out first. Then, without a backward glance, she closed the door tightly behind her.
The noise of the door closing was still an echo in the silence of the large dressing-room as Larry came back towards Kirsty, distractedly running a hand through his perfect hair.
‘What exactly did they want?’ he asked her, his eyes narrowed in thought.
Kirsty was silent for a moment, debating what to say. ‘They said they came in to tell me how much they enjoyed my performance . . .’
‘And?’ He looked at her now, waiting. He obviously knew they had said far more than that.
Kirsty shrugged, hating the thought of saying something that would insult or anger him, something that might hurt him. Then, she suddenly decided that he had had no difficulty whatsoever in telling her how things were last week. When it had come to telling the truth Larry Delaney had not held back one single inch. He had not considered how hurt she had felt.
Why should she care about him?
Kirsty looked up at him now, her eyes steely blue. ‘Fiona McCluskey’s sister said that the dress I’m wearing belongs to her. She said all the dresses you gave me were hers.’ Then for good measure she added, ‘She could describe every one of them.’
The hand came down now to cover his mouth. He moved his head from side to side and gave a weary sigh. ‘Not again,’ he said quietly, more to himself than Kirsty. ‘You’d think they’d have better things to concentrate on than muck-raking about me. And this is neither the time nor the place for them to be doing it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kirsty asked, curious now.
‘Helen and I had business dealings a few years ago. It didn’t work out for a variety of reasons and she’s never forgotten about it – or forgiven me.’ He looked at Kirsty now. ‘There were other people involved and it was a lot more complicated than a few dresses she left behind.’ He pressed his forefinger in the middle of his chest. ‘A few very expensive dresses that I paid for.’
‘So you don’t get on with them?’ Kirsty stated, rather unnecessarily.
‘Well,’ he said, smiling wryly, ‘I suppose that’s one way of describing it.’ He turned towards the door. ‘I’ll just have a last word with the hotel manager about these other bookings and then we’ll head off.’
‘Larry . . .’ Kirsty said, suddenly realising that she didn’t want this personal conversation to end quite so abruptly. There was so little about him that she really knew, and she wanted to get every bit of information out of him while he was in this more open, communicative mood. She told herself she was no longer interested in him from a romantic point of view, but she just wanted to know the kind of man she was dealing with on a business level. ‘Were you just acquainted with Helen McCluskey on
a business basis?’ She took a chance now. ‘Both her and her sister gave the impression that there was more to it . . .’
‘They would,’ he said in a flat voice, his fingers clasping the door handle.
She hesitated before asking one final question – then she went for it. He could only tell her to mind her own business. ‘Who’s David? You mentioned him the last time we met Fiona McCluskey as well.’
There was a silence. Kirsty held her breath, thinking that this was the sort of silence that people often described as deafening. She wondered if she had gone too far.
Eventually, Larry Delaney turned back round to face her. ‘David,’ he said in a quiet, grim voice, ‘is my son.’ There was another smaller silence. ‘Helen McCluskey and I have a son together.’
When Jim came rushing in to say the minibus was waiting outside for them, Heather heaved a sigh of relief. It was quarter past one, which wasn’t bad for New Year. She pulled her coat on now, which she had been holding beside her for the last ten minutes, and then she lifted her bag.
It was a pity the way the evening had turned from being so pleasant to suddenly being so awkward. It was a pity Gerry Stewart had ruined it by turning up. Thankfully, he seemed to have totally quietened down after the bells signalling New Year. He had come over to give her a kiss and wish her all the best for the next year, but he hadn’t made the fuss she had been dreading. He had gone back to chat to Jim and a few fellows in the hall, and a while later when she went through to dance with some boy from Hamilton, she saw him sitting in a chair. It dawned on her then that he was now very drunk and sleepy, and hopefully incapable of causing any more trouble. Several times already she had witnessed Jim trying to wake him up, and presumably he’d have to do that now to get him in the minibus home.
‘You ready?’ Liz said, smiling but looking a little tired around the eyes. The party hadn’t turned out as well as she had hoped for either. Not for a last New Year as a single girl. Jim had been back and forward between her and Gerry – his loyalties totally divided between best friend and fiancée.
The Grace Girls Page 30
