Lime Street Blues

by Maureen Lee

  The television on, she lounged on the settee and sipped the milk while she watched the news. In Bangladesh and Ethiopia, the people were starving. There was fighting in Angola, a civil war in the Lebanon, and the Khmer Rouge were still wreaking havoc in Cambodia. She got up and turned the set off. It was too depressing. Left with her own thoughts, her mind turned to Lachlan.

  Soon, the concert would end and the Survivors would go back to their hotel accompanied by the roadie, the driver, the sound men, a couple of bodyguards, a crowd of hangers on, many of them girls, and, inevitably, a few sensation-seeking actresses and models, women who’d achieved a modicum of fame from merely being pretty. A party would follow, Lachlan would take more speed to keep himself awake, and when the party was over he’d take a red devil to make him sleep, then speed again the next morning to enable him to wake up. He’d need more speed for tomorrow night’s concert, wherever that may be. Jeannie could understand that performing for three or more hours using a superhuman amount of energy required some sort of stimulant, but it didn’t mean she had to like it.

  ‘It’s not harmful,’ Lachlan insisted. ‘I won’t get hooked.’

  He was already hooked. At home, he needed downers and uppers to make him function. Jeannie no longer tried to make him stop. She’d learnt it was a waste of time.

  ‘Everyone does it,’ Lachlan said.

  ‘I know, but it doesn’t mean you have to.’ Some people took drugs to experiment with mind control, to find a reason for living, a reason for dying. Lachlan had never been a philosophical sort of person. He knew his reason for living, to make music. He took drugs for practical reasons and occasionally for pleasure. He’d tried to persuade her to take LSD. ‘Just once, babe. See what it’s like. It’s a great sensation. You feel as if there’s nothing on earth you can’t do.’

  ‘No, thank you, Lachlan,’ Jeannie said firmly. She occasionally smoked hash, but two puffs was her limit. The thought of messing about with her brain she found terrifying.

  Elaine, now a qualified psychiatrist and working in Broadgreen hospital in Liverpool, theorised that taking drugs to make the body work beyond its natural physical capacity could only do harm in the end. ‘It puts a strain on the heart. Lachlan’s thirty-three. You must stop him, Jeannie.’

  ‘I’ve tried, but he won’t listen.’

  She finished the milk, washed the cup, went upstairs and got ready for bed. She lay listening to the sound of the distant traffic in Old Brompton Road. London never slept. There would be traffic all night long. She heard Kevin and Sadie come in. They’d been to a book launch followed by a party. She had no idea why anyone would ask Kevin to a book launch, but he was a popular man these days, invited everywhere.

  Two years ago, Stella had divorced Fly, not because of the drugs, though they were bad enough, but the girls.

  ‘I’ve seen his photey in the paper, Jeannie, with some woman hanging on to his arm, always a blonde.’ Stella had come round to the house in Formby with her children, Samantha and Russell, to complain. Jeannie had seen the photographs in the tabloids too. So far, there’d been none of Lachlan.

  ‘I told him,’ Stella continued, ‘that I wasn’t interested in soiled goods. He swears that nothing happens, but can you believe that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was hard to believe that nothing happened when a crowd of women with sex on their minds mixed with a crowd of virile men high on drugs.

  ‘Anyroad, I’ve had enough,’ Stella said bluntly. ‘I’m divorcing Fly. I still love him to death, but I went to see a solicitor this morning. He can come and see the kids whenever he likes, but I want out. You’re lucky, Jeannie, not having kids. It’s easier breaking up when you haven’t got a family.’

  ‘It must be the only thing that it is.’ Jeannie’s voice was bleak and raw.

  ‘Oh, Christ, Jeannie! I’m sorry. I know how much you want kids. That was a dead stupid thing to say.’

  Now Jeannie lay in the McDowds’ guest room and wondered if she should have gone to the group’s hotel to see what was going on. If she found Lachlan with a girl, would she divorce him?

  Never! She loved him too much, but the love was based, at least partly, on knowing her love was wholeheartedly returned. She might feel different if she discovered he was being unfaithful.

  She slept fitfully and woke to another damp London morning. Downstairs, Sadie was floating about in a black chiffon negligee trimmed with swansdown, exuding clouds of expensive perfume, while Kevin’s increasingly corpulent body was clad in a paisley silk dressing gown. His Irish accent was as strong as ever when he wished her good morning.

  ‘It’s a pity you can’t come with us tonight, me darlin’ girl,’ he hollered. ‘If I’d known you’d be here, I’d’ve got an extra ticket.’ It was the opening night of The King and I.

  ‘I’m going on Saturday with Marcia and Zoe, aren’t I? We thought the Flower Girls should go to see Rita together, and Marcia’s only just had the baby. She didn’t think she could manage tonight.’ With this latest birth, Marcia was now the proud mother of five boys.

  ‘What’ll you do with yourself while we’re gone, luv?’ Sadie asked worriedly. ‘You’ll be all on your own.’

  ‘Stay in, read, have a nice rest. I have to go to the studio this morning to do some more of my album; it’ll be finished tomorrow. I’ll try to fit in some shopping. Christmas isn’t all that far off.’ She was quite looking forward to the day.

  ‘Our Sean’s arriving tomorrow,’ Sadie said. ‘He wanted to be here for Rita’s first night, but couldn’t make it.’

  ‘I know.’ Jeannie hadn’t discovered Sean was coming until she’d got to the McDowds’, otherwise she would have stayed in a hotel. She’d seen little of him since Marcia’s wedding and would have preferred them not to be under the same roof, even if only for a few days.

  Kevin announced he wouldn’t go into the office today, but would work from home. He picked up the phone and began to bellow instructions to his staff, while Sadie wandered off to have a bath. Jeannie left for M&M’s studio by the Embankment where the Flower Girls had auditioned for their first recording contract. The new album had eight numbers on each side, classic love songs such as ‘Embraceable You’ and ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’, each linked to the next by a few bars of a carol. She played another four songs to everyone’s satisfaction, including her own, then made her way back to Knightsbridge, where she decided to buy lunch rather than return to the cottage – Kevin would almost certainly have summoned a few members of staff to relay orders in person and she’d feel in the way.

  It was getting dark by the time she returned, laden with Christmas presents; a lovely fluffy hat, gloves and scarf set for Elaine, Barbie dolls for her half-sisters, a necklace for her mother. Sadie had had her hair set that afternoon and was wondering what to wear for the theatre.

  ‘I thought you’d bought a new dress specially for tonight?’ Jeannie said.

  ‘I’m not sure if I like it. It doesn’t go with me hair.’

  ‘You’d better make your mind up quick, woman,’ Kevin shouted as Sadie went upstairs. ‘The car’s coming for us at six o’clock. I’m off to have a bath. Jeannie! Help yourself to some champagne. I opened a bottle earlier.’

  Jeannie poured the champagne. Sadie came in a few minutes later in a slinky black dress that was too tight, too short, and showed far too much white bosom.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Sadie asked. ‘Is it too young for a woman of fifty-one?’

  ‘Well,’ Jeannie began cautiously, but Sadie got the message straight away.

  ‘I’ll take it back tomorrow and wear me green one. Ooh! Is that champagne?’ Her eyes lit up as she helped herself to a glass. ‘Me and Kevin have been drinking it all afternoon. It’s not every day your daughter stars in a West End show. Things have changed a bit, haven’t they, Jeannie, since you and me lived at the opposite ends of Disraeli Terrace?’

  ‘I’ll say!’

  ‘How are all your family, luv? I don’t often have time
to speak to you on your own.’

  ‘Dad’s in the same house. He’s seventy-three, very fit, and still works for Colonel Corbett, though only part-time. Mum, Alex, and their girls are fine, and Gerald loves being a journalist. He’s with the Record Mirror now, and married to a girl called Helen. They’ve got two children.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Sadie gave a little satisfied cluck. ‘And how about Max? Do you see much of him?’

  ‘Not all that much.’ Max still refused to set foot in Noah’s Ark. ‘He teaches History and Geography at a school in Childwall. His children live in America and he misses them badly, particularly Gareth. Mind you, we all miss Gareth. He was Mum’s first grandchild.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Sadie said sympathetically. She went all misty-eyed and was bemoaning her own lack of grandchildren, when Kevin yelled it was about time she got ready. ‘It takes you a couple of hours to get your bloody slap on.’

  Jeannie was glad when it was six o’clock and the car arrived to take them to the theatre, Sadie encased in emerald green slipper satin and a white mink coat. She had more champagne – it would only go flat if it was left – and went upstairs to run a bath.

  It was cosy in the black marble bathroom with the buzz of traffic in the distance. Jeannie didn’t think Sadie would mind if she used some of her bubble bath. She relaxed and let her legs float in the scented water until it began to feel cold, then climbed out, washed her hair, and wrapped herself in the shell pink terry towelling robe that hung behind the door of her room – she presumed it was for the use of guests.

  Downstairs again, she poured the last of the champagne and looked through the McDowds’ book collection for something to read as she’d forgotten to buy something that afternoon. She found a romance that hopefully wouldn’t tax her rather muggy brain, and began to read, but all of a sudden, quite out of the blue, she was overwhelmed by a feeling of wretched loneliness. All over London people were enjoying themselves and here she was, stuck in a strange house on her own.

  She looked at the clock; five past eight. At the theatre, the curtain would have just gone up. Lachlan’s gig would have started. She tried to remember where he was playing tonight and thought it might be Brighton, but wasn’t sure. She wanted to see him, desperately wanted to see him. The awareness of how unsatisfactory their life had become struck her like a blow. He was away so much of the time and although she could have gone with him, a woman would have been out of place in such a male environment. Everyone would have had to watch what they said.

  I’ve never been able to compete with rock ’n’ roll, Jeannie thought sadly. It has always come first with Lachlan. She wished he were there to argue that it wasn’t the case, that he’d give it up tomorrow if it would make her happy. ‘Some hope,’ she sighed.

  Now he was abusing his body in order to play better, slowly killing himself. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of the robe. This was supposed to be a relaxing evening, not a morbid review of the state of her marriage.

  The doorbell went – it played the first seven notes of ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’ – and she went to answer it. She hoped it was someone she knew because she quite fancied company, but when she opened the door it was to the last person on earth she wanted to see.

  ‘I’ll just pay the taxi,’ said Sean McDowd. ‘I asked the driver to wait in case there was no one to let me in.’ He gave her the suggestion of a smile. ‘Hi, Jeannie. I didn’t expect to find you here.’

  There was something wrong. Sean could tell straight away, see the hurt in her eyes. Her mouth was downcast. At first he thought she’d dyed her hair, it looked darker, but then he realised it was wet. The ends were beginning to dry with a slight upward curl. He noticed everything about her; her bare feet, the sheen of her creamy legs, a gleam of moisture in the smooth hollow of her throat.

  ‘Why aren’t you at the theatre with Mam and Dad?’ he asked, setting his bag on the floor and removing the dark glasses that had enabled him to travel from New York to London without being recognised. He scorned minders and bodyguards, who would only have intruded into his solitary life.

  She explained she was in London to make an album and was going to the theatre on Saturday with Marcia and Zoe.

  ‘How’s Lachlan?’

  Her blue eyes clouded over. ‘Oh, he’s fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You’re early,’ she said. ‘Sadie wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.’

  ‘I was supposed to go somewhere tonight in New York, a dinner, but it was cancelled.’ The truth was he’d promised to attend a fund-raising event with his actress girlfriend, Melanie, but they’d had a blazing row. He wasn’t committed to the relationship, she’d complained, for a reason he couldn’t remember. Sean had shrugged and walked out, and caught the next plane to Heathrow. He just hoped Melanie would be gone from his apartment when he returned.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No, ta. Is that champagne you’re drinking?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s the last of the bottle.’

  ‘I’ll open more.’ Champagne seemed an appropriate drink after finding Jeannie Flowers alone in his parents’ house. There were usually a few bottles in the fridge.

  He opened the bottle in the kitchen. He wasn’t very good at it. There was a loud ‘pop’ and the cork thudded into the ceiling. ‘More?’ he asked when he went back.

  She wrinkled her nose and handed him her glass. ‘Why not!’

  Sean filled both their glasses. He contemplated sitting next to her on the settee, but reckoned she’d prefer he kept to an armchair. ‘Cheers!’ He sat down.

  ‘Cheers! Are you tired after your flight?’ She was trying to make conversation. She’d wait for a while before going up to bed, so it didn’t look rude. Jeannie Flowers would never deliberately hurt anyone’s feelings.

  ‘No, but I resent losing five hours of me life. But then I’ll make them up when I go back, so what’s the difference?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ she agreed.

  The last time they’d been alone together he’d kissed her. Sean had thought about that kiss many times over the intervening years. How ironic it was, that a single kiss should stick in his mind, yet since then he must have made love to at least a hundred other women. It was just that the other women didn’t hold a candle to Jeannie. She was superior in every possible way. For as long as he could remember, she had been his idea of absolute perfection. He looked at her furtively. She was staring moodily into the glass, her mind elsewhere, not on him.

  Sean knew that Lachlan wasn’t fine. He’d become a junkie, not yet a hopeless case, but he would be soon if he didn’t lay off the dope. Perhaps that was why Jeannie looked so miserable, why there was hurt in her eyes. He wanted to take her in his arms and make her better, stroke her soft cheeks, kiss her ears, her eyes, and feel her lashes flutter against his lips. He wondered if she was wearing anything underneath the pink robe and imagined sliding his hand inside and cupping her breast, squeezing it, gently, rubbing her nipple with his thumb. The nipple would be like the centre of a flower, a rose.

  He thought of something to say that would grab her attention and hoped she wouldn’t be annoyed. ‘What happened to the kids you were going to have?’ he asked. She’d wanted them soon, he remembered her saying. That had been eight years ago and she would be thirty in December. ‘A boy and a girl, I think you said.’

  She gave him a look of such anguish, he felt ashamed. ‘Things don’t always go according to plan,’ she said dully. He could have sworn she stifled a sob.

  There was silence for a long while, but it was probably only seconds. During the silence, Sean could feel the tension in the air. He could actually hear it, a dull, repetitive throbbing. Perhaps it was his heart. Or Jeannie’s heart. Or both their hearts beating together.

  Sean stood and put the champagne carefully on the hearth, hardly touched. He could no longer help himself. He sat beside Jeannie and slipped the robe off her shoulders, then buried his head in
the creamy flesh, sliding his lips along its smoothness. She was wearing nothing underneath. The robe fell back further, exposing her breasts, like two flowers, as he’d thought. He bent his head and sucked greedily. Jeannie groaned, made to push him away, but instead collapsed against the back of the settee. Sean undid the robe and still she made no protest. He touched her naked body reverently until, to his intense joy, she began to respond, arching against him, gasping with delight when he slid the flat of his hand down her stomach and between her soft thighs.

  While he removed his clothes, she lay, watching him, her blue eyes hazy with desire as she waited for him to take her.

  At long last Jeannie Flowers was his.

  Sadie found Jeannie’s note when she came down very late next morning. It was by the kettle, her first port of call.

  Dear Sadie and Kevin,

  I apologise for being rude, but didn’t want to wake you. I had a phone call last night from my mother. She’s not very well and Alex has had to go away. As soon as I finish in the studio, I shall race up to Liverpool to make sure she’s all right, then return to London on Saturday to see The King and I. I’ll buy the papers to read the reviews, but I don’t doubt Rita gave a fantastic performance.

  Thanks for having me.

  Jeannie.

  When Sean heard, he was disappointed, but not terribly surprised.

  Lachlan came back to Noah’s Ark the week after Jeannie’s stay in London, the Survivors’ tour over. There wouldn’t be another till the New Year, though they had a few gigs before Christmas. They were going to Eastern Europe next summer, he announced. He’d hardly been back an hour, after having had a shower and allowed Jeannie to tug a comb through his long tangle of hair, before disappearing into the studio wearing old jeans and his favourite blue sweater that she’d given up trying to repair. ‘To start on some new material, babe,’ he said.

  Jeannie detested being called ‘babe’. It had started at the same time as he’d got the earring and the tattoo. She waited a further hour, then grabbed a coat, left the house, and walked down to the shore. The tide was coming in and she watched the River Mersey lap busily to and fro at her feet, leaving behind a scum of froth that sank slowly into the sand. There wasn’t another person in sight, not surprising on such a dismal October afternoon that was rapidly growing dark. The sky was a dirty grey and clouds were banked like a row of black, sinister hills on the horizon. She shuddered, pulled up her collar, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and wished she’d brought a scarf and gloves.