by Laura Wood
“Ouch,” Bernie exclaims, clapping a hand to his chest and swooning a little against his chair. “My poor wounded pride!”
“You know what I mean,” I snort.
But Caitlin has already moved on. “Now,” she says more loudly, turning back to the rest of the group, “what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”
A cheer goes up around the table. At that moment a friendly-looking man with sandy hair stops next to me and asks me to dance. I glance towards Caitlin.
“Go, go!” she exclaims. “In fact, I think I’ll join you, just as soon as I’ve had another drink.”
I sneak a look at Bernie and he nods encouragingly.
“Go on, little daisy,” he calls. “Show London what you’re made of. Enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, Lou.” Caitlin grabs my arm and looks up at me. “Dance! Enjoy yourself; that’s why we’re here, after all!”
My body hums with indecision. I look at Caitlin, who has already turned to make animated conversation with Patricia. I know that really there’s nothing more I can do. If Caitlin wants to open up to me, it will be in her own time – I can’t force her, but it’s hard to just walk away. A small, selfish voice in my head reminds me that this could be my only chance to experience dancing in a real London nightclub. What happened to grabbing everything the summer has to offer? The man by my side offers me his arm, and after another moment of hesitation I put my hand on his sleeve. I make my way over to the dance floor with my partner just as the band start playing a red-hot Charleston.
“I’m afraid I’m not the greatest dancer,” the sandy-haired man says, with a rueful grin. “I’m Joe, by the way.”
“Lou,” I say, shaking his outstretched hand. He is quite good-looking, I think, and he has a nice smile.
He isn’t kidding about the dancing, though. In the end we have a lot of fun, as I try to teach him some of the steps and correct his many, many toe-crushing mistakes.
The next song brings Caitlin screeching on to the dance floor. With her by my side I feel my euphoria grow. As Caitlin dances next to me, shouting along with the singer while the fringe on her gold dress shakes and trembles, I forget about worrying over her. In this moment she is simply a carefree, sparkling girl. Joe tries to keep up with us, as does the next man and the next after that, but no one can match our pace, no one is enjoying the music more than we are.
Finally, exhausted, we go back to our seats for a break. My brain feels slightly fuzzy around the edges, and everything has taken on the sort of soft candlelit glow that comes with an evening you know you’ll remember for the rest of your life.
When the barman delivers our drinks he also brings a silver platter of cold roast beef sandwiches. I reach for one, taking a big hungry bite.
“How did he know to bring these?” I ask, my mouth full. “I’m starving.”
Caitlin bursts out laughing. “It’s so they can serve the drinks,” she explains in a very patient voice. “The law is that they can serve alcohol until twelve-thirty, but only if they are selling food too.” She shrugs. “They usually just get left.”
I stop eating, feeling my face fall. “Oh.” I swallow. “So I shouldn’t be eating them?”
“Of course you should if you’re hungry,” she says. “In fact, I’ll join you.” And we sit, companionably chewing on our sandwiches. “You know,” she says, “these aren’t actually too bad. Who’d have thought you could actually eat the food. You see?” She wags her finger at me. “I learn something new from you every day.”
“Like you should eat the sandwiches that you’re paying for?” I ask.
Caitlin slips her arm around my shoulder and pulls me towards her, the top of her head resting against mine. “You’re my best friend, you know,” she says. “You’re the best one. Better than all these lot.” She gestures around the room at the animated crowd, her movements just a little unsteady.
“I’ve never had a best friend before,” I say. “Apart from Alice, I mean.” The thought that Caitlin Cardew would call me her best friend is dazzling. I wonder what that means to her; I wonder if things will still be the same between us after the summer is over. And I wonder why, if she really means it, she won’t trust me with whatever weight she is carrying.
Caitlin pouts. “I still haven’t met this Alice. I want to meet her!”
“You can’t meet Alice,” I reply quickly.
“Why not?” Caitlin demands.
I don’t know the answer to that. Or maybe I do, but I don’t want to say it. “Because you’ll like her better than me,” I say finally, and I am more than half serious. I pick up another sandwich.
At that moment Patricia comes swaying up to the table, one arm around the waist of a handsome boy not much older than me. He is looking very pleased with himself, as is Patricia. I wonder what her husband would think about it, but no one else seems worried.
“She’s eating the food!” Patricia exclaims, catching sight of me and falling into peals of laughter.
I roll my eyes. “Is it really so strange?” I ask. “You should have one. They’re good.”
Patricia laughs even harder at this, swiping at her eyes with her fingers and smudging her heavy make-up in the process. “Are we moving on soon, darling?” she says to Caitlin.
“Moving on?” I ask.
“Yes,” Caitlin sighs. “I told you. This place stops serving at twelve-thirty, which is any minute now. They’ve been raided too often. We have to go and find … alternative … entertainment.”
“Oh.” I nod, not completely sure what this alternative entertainment might be. But Caitlin is staring into space, with a look on her face that I can’t quite read.
“Caitlin?” Patricia asks again, momentarily removing her mouth from where it has been nuzzling her new friend’s neck.
“Yes,” Caitlin says, going very still. “Find Bernie, we’ll head to Al’s.”
“Al’s!” Patricia squeals. “Oh, darling, heaven! It’s been an age since we went there.”
“Yes.” Caitlin’s voice is dangerously quiet. “It has.” Her hands are clutching at the white tablecloth, and her knuckles turn white. Something about this decision has her shaken, but I have no idea what it is. I don’t know where or what Al’s is, or what to expect when we get there.
Patricia disappears, towing her young man behind her, and Caitlin catches a passing waiter by the elbow. “Two gin rickeys, please,” she says, and then she lingers, holding on to his arm for a little longer as he begins to pull away. “Heavy on the gin,” she adds.
“Is something wrong?” I ask as soon as the waiter vanishes.
Caitlin shakes her head. “It’s nothing,” she replies. “I’m just thirsty.” It is perhaps fortunate, then, that moments later the waiter reappears with our cocktails. I take mine and sip at it, wincing at how strong it is. Caitlin, on the other hand, lifts the glass to her mouth with a trembling hand and drinks the whole thing in one go. Then Patricia appears again, this time with Bernie in tow.
“I hear we’re going to Al’s?” Bernie says. “What a thrill. It’s really been too long.”
“Yes,” Caitlin says, getting unsteadily to her feet. “It has been too long, and Lou should see it.” She turns to smile brightly at me, but it seems as though her eyes aren’t quite focused on my face. “You’ll love it,” she finishes, clasping her hands in front of her.
“I’m happy to go wherever you like,” I say carefully. “What is Al’s? Is it another nightclub?” There’s something else going on here, but I don’t know what it is. If the thought of going to this Al’s place is upsetting her so much, then why has she decided we should go?
“Oh, yes,” Bernie drawls. “But it’s nothing like this place, I can assure you of that, my little snowdrop.”
Whenever Bernie refers to me as a daisy or a snowdrop or a buttercup, I know that it means that we are about to get up to no good. I think he quite likes the idea of shocking me, and I’m stubbornly determined not to let that happen. I pull my shoulders back. “Wel
l, then,” I say, “what are we waiting for? Let’s go.” Wherever Al’s is, perhaps it holds the answer to what is bothering Caitlin. I just hope that whatever is there won’t do any more damage.
“You heard the woman,” Caitlin says now. “Let’s go!” and she flings her arm out, gesturing towards the door, before setting out on a slightly unsteady path in that direction.
We tumble out of the club, laughing and rowdy. A row of photographers wait outside and at the first pop of a bulb Bernie steps neatly in front of Caitlin. These men must know Caitlin, must know about Robert’s deal, the one Bernie told me about, because they turn their cameras away from her and on to me. “Over here, love,” one man calls. “Give us a smile!”
I stand frozen as the flashes of light explode around me, leaving stars dancing in front of my eyes. “Save your film, gentlemen,” Bernie calls imperiously. “She’s nobody of interest to you.”
I am torn between relief at the men turning away, and the hollow feeling that comes with the words “nobody of interest”. It’s another painful reminder that I don’t really belong here with these people. Bernie hails a cab while Patricia says goodnight to her new friend, winding herself around him like a boa constrictor going in for the kill. Caitlin leans against me, and although the night air is still quite warm, I can feel her trembling. After dragging the young man from Patricia’s clutches, the four of us pile into the back of a car, with Caitlin sitting on Bernie’s lap. She is as animated as I have ever seen her, rattling on as though she can’t bear to stop talking for even a second. Her cheeks are flushed, and she seems almost feverish, bouncing impatiently on Bernie’s knee as the car rumbles along.
When we pull over we are in a different part of town. The others spill out of the car and stand in the street while I clamber out behind them. I take a moment to look around me. This is definitely nothing like the other places I have been with Caitlin today. The road we are on is narrow and dingy. Tall buildings line the sides, looming over us and casting threatening shadows. I notice that several windows are boarded up, and apart from the four of us there seems to be no one else around. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I ask in a whisper, not wanting to disturb the dark stillness.
“Oh, this is the place, all right,” Caitlin says, and I think her voice sounds a little grim. “Come on,” she calls over her shoulder as she starts walking towards one of the closed-up-looking buildings.
When we reach it, I notice that there is a black iron staircase leading down to some sort of basement. The others charge down the steep steps and come to a halt at a green door. As usual, I am left trailing behind, looking nervously over my shoulder. I’m no longer sure that I know what is going on. This dingy street seems like an unnatural fit for Caitlin, Bernie and Patricia, who look as out of place as peacocks in all their finery, with the easy mantel of privilege draped around their shoulders. I realize with a start that tonight I am one of them as well. The gold embroidery on my dress glints in the muted glow of the street lamp, and only I know that I don’t belong in it – that I am only shamming – gold leaf, not solid gold.
Caitlin reaches up and pulls the bell beside the door, which swings open a few moments later, revealing a tall black woman in a green evening dress. She has glowing, amber eyes, and a slow smile spreads across her face.
“Well, well, well.” There is wryness in her voice, something a little taunting. “If it isn’t Lady Cardew.”
“Hello, Al.” Caitlin smiles up at her. “It’s been a long time.”
“It certainly has,” Al says, and the air seems charged with something that I don’t understand.
“Take pity on us, Al,” Bernie cries then, staggering forward. “We poor bored creatures are looking for some entertainment.”
“Is that so?” Al says, and her amazing eyes take each of us in. They come to rest, finally, on me. “Well, maybe I can help with that.” She opens the door further, and stands to one side.
Bernie glides in, followed by Patricia. Caitlin and I stand on the doorstep.
“Al,” Caitlin says brightly, “this is my friend Lou.”
“Al and Lou.” Al grins at me, and the grin scrunches up her nose a little. I like her at once. “We sound like a couple of real gentlemen, don’t we? Come on in, won’t you?”
I look at Caitlin, and she nods briskly, taking a deep breath as though steeling herself for something terrible. We step through the door. There isn’t a lot in the room – it is dark and dank with a couple of bits of rickety furniture. There is a small table pulled up beside a couple of chairs with a tea set on top of it. A shabby red curtain hangs against the wall in one corner. There is no sign of Bernie or Patricia, and I wonder briefly if they have simply disappeared, if this night is truly as unreal as it seems.
“Let’s go, shall we?” Al says, looking at Caitlin. “You remember the way?”
Caitlin pulls back the red curtain, revealing another door, and when she opens it the sound of music drifts up from the bottom of another flight of stairs. “Come on, Lou! Down the rabbit hole!” she calls over her shoulder.
The first thing I notice is the wall of heat and sound as we descend into the room below. It is like entering an engine room, and the air is thick and damp. The heat is sweltering, but the music is the thing that stops me in my tracks. It is amazing, and something about it is familiar.
The room we are in isn’t huge, but there must be over fifty people down here. This crowd is certainly more eclectic than the one we have just left. There are still a few of the monied types about – though they are definitely from the younger end of that crowd – but there are also a lot of people who aren’t wearing Madame Carradice’s finest creations or expensive jewellery. People from all walks of life are here, coming together to hear the incredible music filling the air, a diverse collage of city life, about as far away from Penlyn as it’s possible to imagine. There is a blue haze of smoke and the room is dim, lit mostly by candles stuffed into the tops of old whisky bottles.
Hardly anyone is sitting in the seats that line the sides of the room, clustered around small tables. Instead they are dancing, leaning towards the music like plants towards sunlight.
I look at the stage and feel a jolt of surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me…” I begin, turning to look at Caitlin, but she is frozen, pale and trembling, her eyes locked on the band. Or, more accurately, on one particular member of the band. I turn back to the stage.
The man who is singing and playing the piano looks up, and catches my eye. It is Lucky. A smile of recognition touches his lips, and then his eyes move past me. Something in his face changes. Twirling around, I realize that he and Caitlin have locked eyes, and although he is still playing the piano without missing a note, his movements seem almost mechanical. It feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room as the two of them stare and stare at each other. Suddenly, I know whose voice I overheard in the orchard that night. Then he looks away and goes back to playing as if nothing has happened.
Caitlin, on the other hand, looks as if she is about to fall down. “Let’s sit,” I say quickly, guiding her to one of the seats and pushing her down into it with as much gentleness as I can manage.
She slumps back, looking dazed and trembling for a moment, and I don’t know what to do. Finally, she turns to me, her face pale but composed. “Well,” she says matter-of-factly, “I’ve seen him now. That’s the worst of it over.”
“Lucky,” I say, not bothering to pretend to be ignorant over who she is talking about. I am shocked by the revelation. I have seen enough of Caitlin’s world to know that Lucky’s position would be enough to keep them apart, but the colour of his skin is of course the even bigger barrier. In a world so ruled by appearances, one where Caitlin obsesses over every detail of her life being approved by an audience of strangers, it would be impossible.
“His name is actually Freddy,” she says softly now, “but everyone calls him Lucky. It’s a silly name.” She laughs without humour. “It doesn’t even mak
e any sense. He’s not lucky. He can’t gamble at all because his luck is so terrible, everyone knows that.” She is rambling, her hands playing with the fringe on her dress.
“When did you last see each other?” I ask, puzzled. “Was it that night at the Cornwall house?”
“Yes,” Caitlin says weakly. “Five weeks and four days ago.” She adds after a pause, “I can probably tell you the hours too.” That laugh again, dry, hollow, with nothing like the runaway glee her laughter usually contains. It makes sense now that I think about it, watching Caitlin wind herself tighter and tighter over that time.
“What happened?” I ask, but a shadow appears over the table.
“Thought you might be needing this.” Al has arrived, holding a tumbler full of whisky.
“Thank you,” Caitlin says gratefully, taking a long drink.
“I didn’t know if you’d like anything?” Al asks, turning to me.
“I’m fine, thank you.” I shake my head. She gives Caitlin another long, assessing look.
“Better bring the bottle, Al,” Caitlin says ruefully. Al hovers for a moment as if uncertain, and Caitlin scuffles in her purse, pulling out a wad of banknotes and pushing them into Al’s hand. “Please,” she adds.
Al presses her lips together and then nods, moving on to speak to someone else who is calling her name.
Caitlin closes her eyes, but some of her colour is coming back, and she is clutching that glass of whisky to her chest like it is a lifebelt. It is then that the music stops. I feel Caitlin stiffen beside me.
Lucky stands up to speak and the room falls silent. “We’re going to take a ten-minute break,” he says, and the crowd shout out in dismay. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “After that we’ll be right back.” He is smiling, charismatic; he gives nothing away. The band begin clearing off the stage and people are slapping them on the back, pressing drinks into their hands.
Caitlin is clutching at my arm. “Oh!” she hisses. “Is he coming over? I can’t look.” And she has swung round to face me, her eyes turned firmly away from the stage.
