by Mia Dolan
‘The dress is lovely. You’re right there, darling. No comparison to the lovely thing it’s covering though.’
The blush was threatening again, but she held it off. The shop assistants got ten per cent commission on everything they sold. This dress was expensive – very expensive – and Joanna needed a new winter coat.
‘Do you think it’s right for your date?’ she asked him courteously.
He rubbed at his chin with thumb and forefinger and tilted his head this way and that as he circled her. She attempted to turn round with him, but once he was behind her he placed his hands on her shoulders. It was obvious he wanted her to stand still.
‘Oh, I think so.’
What was he waiting for? He liked the dress and it seemed it was the right size for his girlfriend. Marcie found herself getting nervous.
‘Would you like me to wrap it up for you?’
He opened his mouth to answer when the shop door opened and someone else entered. She glimpsed another young man, though this one was not so dramatically dressed. Her first impression was of someone ordinary and slightly scruffy in Levis and brown suede jacket. He looked vaguely familiar, but her glance didn’t linger.
Her customer was reaching for a pair of white boots – Marcie’s favourite items. She’d once had a cheap pair herself but they’d worn out ages ago. These were far more expensive, made in France and what was more, they looked it.
‘I think these to go with it,’ he said placing the boots against the dress. ‘What size are you?’
‘Five.’
‘Try them on.’
Marcie’s blonde hair swung forwards hiding her face as she sat down and pulled them on. She became aware that the second young man had joined the one with the peacock feathers in his hat.
‘Will you stop messing around here? We’ve got things to do.’ The young man who had only just entered sounded surly and impatient.
The wearer of the black hat with peacock feathers kept his eyes firmly on Marcie. ‘Stay cool. I’m not messing about. I think I’m in love.’
The second young man seemed a little familiar but she couldn’t quite place him. She saw him toss his head. ‘Christ! That’s the fourth this week.’
The man with the feathers in his hat prevented her from studying the newcomer.
‘I hope I haven’t been too much bother, darling, you know, having you try stuff on and all that.’
‘Not at all,’ she said. She blushed. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. ‘You’ve made my day. We never see men who dress as fashionably as women. I think you’re what they used to call a dandy.’
‘Yeah,’ grumbled the new arrival. ‘Straight out of a bloody comic strip.’
‘Excuse my mate,’ said the first man. ‘He’s got a complex.’
‘Oh!’ Marcie didn’t care about their banter. She had Joanna’s new coat to consider.
The man with the feathers in his hat flapped a hand as though he were batting a ball.
‘I think the boots and the dress go well together. Wrap them up will you?’
She went back into the cubicle and changed back into her own clothes. In her head she was counting how much commission she’d made – certainly enough to buy Joanna a new winter coat and perhaps even new shoes.
‘That’s seventy-five pounds altogether,’ she told him feeling very happy with herself.
‘That’s fine.’ He nodded but did not attempt to pay her.
She decided that was OK. She would wrap the merchandise and then he would pay her.
‘Great,’ he said when she tried to hand him the large carrier bag containing the dress and the box containing the boots.
‘Right. That’s seventy-five pounds,’ she restated.
‘Great.’
He made no move to give her any money. She was beginning to get nervous.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I know it’s a lot of money, but I’m sure your date will be really pleased with what you’ve bought her.’
‘Would you be?’
His tone and the look in his eyes took her off guard. While wearing the dress and boots she’d felt envious of the girl they were being bought for.
‘If I was her, I would be pleased,’ she responded.
‘Then take them. They’re yours, but on one condition.’
She was young and new to the city, but she guessed where this was going even before he propositioned her.
‘Go on,’ she said, apprehensive at what he was going to suggest.
‘You can be my date. Seven thirty. I’ll pick you up.’
‘For Christ’s sake! We have to go. The old man will be waiting for us.’
In the heat of the moment she’d almost forgotten the other young man. He’d been pacing up and down between the rails with a sour look on his face.
Marcie held out her hand.
‘The money,’ she said, in response to his quizzical grin.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t need to pay.’
An awkward customer! This was certainly something Marcie did not need. She fervently wished for Carol to come back from the chemist’s and April to come back from the cloakroom.
‘If you don’t pay I’ll call the police,’ she said, jutting her chin out and holding her head slightly to one side. ‘I mean it,’ she added.
He rested his elbows on the countertop and looked at her.
‘I do not believe that a sweet little girl like you would have me arrested.’
‘Well, I will,’ she retorted, unable now to stop her face from reddening.
‘For Christ’s sake! Put the girl out of her misery. She just bloody works here.’ The other young man sounded impatient.
‘That’s right. I just work here,’ she said in a very precise manner. ‘No money. No goods.’ She swung the carrier bag behind her back, holding it there with one hand while holding out the other hand for payment.
The customer used two fingers to jab the rim of his hat sending it back a little on his head. A mischievous smile played around an expressive mouth that promised to be velvet against bare flesh. She found herself wondering how often those lips kissed and how many girls they’d kissed. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Girls followed pop groups in droves. And were willing to give up more than kisses she reminded herself. She blushed at the thought of them kissing her own lips.
‘I’m not paying,’ he said in the same precise manner she’d used, though she detected a twinkle in his eyes. He was making fun of her. The illusion of somebody different had turned sour. She wasn’t having anyone making fun of her.
She shrugged. ‘Fine. I’ll put these things back into stock.’
‘There’s no need.’
The door jangled open just as she began carrying out her threat. April was back from having a fag and popping a pill.
Marcie stated her case. ‘This gentleman doesn’t want to pay. He’s being a nuisance. I think we should call for the police.’
At first she didn’t cotton on to the expression on April’s face – until she blurted, ‘Roberto! Darling! Fab to see you! Love the gear! Especially the feathers!’
After tweaking the feathers, she ran her hands down the front of his plum-coloured velvet jacket. She was all over him.
‘Roberto! Darling, this jacket is F.A.B. Did you get it at Sergeant Pepper’s?’
Marcie didn’t hear his reply. Face red with embarrassment she was too busy looking from one young man to the other, trying to work out exactly what was going on here. She’d certainly seen the second young man before, though not the first, except …
She recalled Gabriella’s collection of silver-framed photographs and instantly knew.
‘The young lady doesn’t understand,’ said Roberto. ‘She doesn’t know who I am and that it’s compulsory that she comes out on a date with me. I chose the clothes for her. I think she’ll look great in them. Don’t you?’
‘If Marcie doesn’t want to go with you, I will,’ said April.
‘Sorry, darling.’ Roberto t
ickled her chin as though she were a silly child. ‘Well, Marcie is going out with me tonight.’
He was smiling at her in a self-assured way that was both annoying and alluring.
‘I’ve heard all about you, Marcie Brooks. I heard you were a right little corker. Your father told me so. We can put the date on hold. I know you can’t make it tonight because your old man’s taking you out. The truth is, my little sparrow, that my mother said you needed some decent clothes to go out in. She suggested I chose for you. My mother knows I have very good taste.’
Marcie’s jaw dropped. She eyed the carrier bag and the box she’d placed within it. The string handles of the carrier bit into her fingers. ‘These are for me?’
‘Your father would want you to look fab to the power of four.’
She decided his terminology matched his outfit; it was way out, modern and meant to impress.
‘You are Nicholas Roberto Camilleri?’ She felt embarrassed that she sounded so awestruck, but she couldn’t help it.
He nodded. ‘Yep!’
He had a straight nose, high cheekbones and an arrogant set to his chin. This was a man who was sure of himself, sure of his allure and not likely to take no for an answer.
‘We’re all off out tonight. Call it the firm’s party,’ Roberto said to her. ‘So in a way it is a date; except that we’ll all be there along with your old man. Great stuff, huh?’
He smelled good, a subtle mixture of fresh maleness, expensive aftershave and a hint of the outside freshening the inside.
‘Roberto! Time we were off.’
The guy in the brown suede coat was leaning on a clothes rail and looking totally disinterested.
The young man in glasses.
There was no time to say anything to the young man she’d seen in Victor Camilleri’s apartment.
Roberto tilted her chin slightly and kissed her lips.
‘Ciao!’ he said on his way out and waved. The young man named Michael never said a word.
Marcie stood staring long after the door was closed. It was as though they’d been visited by a whirlwind that had rushed through, done its damage and passed on to pastures new.
‘Wow,’ said April. Her blue eyes were wide with outright envy. ‘Wow! Aren’t you the lucky one! The Camilleris footing the bill for new togs. And Roberto Camilleri doing the choosing. Wow! If that doesn’t beat it all!’
Her eyes reflected Marcie’s own amazement.
‘That’s three wows,’ said Marcie, determined to play it down, opening the bag and peering in. Should she accept the gifts or not?
‘You’re not going to refuse a date with him, are you?’
‘You heard him. It’s a family thing. My father invited me.’
‘That’s tonight. What about tomorrow night?’
‘Is he in a pop group?’
April shook her head. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘But he does work for a living – sorry – no need to answer that. He obviously must if that plum-coloured jacket is anything to go by.’
April popped a sliver of Wrigley’s chewing gum into her mouth. ‘He works for his father of course,’ she explained as she started to chew. ‘The Camilleris all stick together. It’s a family business. Remember?’
The shop had gone quiet. The two girls went behind the counter where the till was and the tube of Smarties that really were Smarties – a little sugarcoated chocolate to keep up their energy. Marcie took the carrier bag behind the counter, placing it down next to her leg. She couldn’t help staring at it. These were expensive clothes, the most expensive she’d ever owned.
‘It was kind of him.’
‘Lucky you!’ April pouted her baby-pink lips. ‘Wish he’d invited me out. So? Will you go?’
Marcie smiled. It was a long time since she’d gone out on a date. Johnnie had been her last date, the one and only boy she’d ever properly dated.
‘I suppose I will. He seems nice enough.’ The truth was that she was bubbling with excitement.
‘Nice? I don’t know about nice,’ warned April. ‘Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile, his hand up your skirt before you’d even noticed it was on your knee!’
‘How do you know?’
April shrugged nonchalantly. ‘How do you think I know? A girl has only one asset to make her way with in this world. The Camilleris can open doors for me. It pays to keep on the right side of them.’
‘He’ll take us to nightclubs and introduce us to people. I’ll tell you this, Marcie, it’s better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.’
Marcie could have been struck dumb. She could have blurted out that they were nothing short of prostitutes – that’s if she was getting the right drift on what they were saying. The last thing she wanted to do was to upset anyone, so she steered the conversation elsewhere.
‘I thought their son was named Nicholas?’
‘Nicholas Roberto. Still, what’s in a name? You’ve struck gold there, girl. Enjoy it while it lasts and get what you can off him.’
Carol asked what they were laughing about when she came back from the cloakroom. The two girls told her. Like April, Carol issued a warning.
‘Don’t get involved with Roberto. He eats women for breakfast.’
‘And Michael?’
April made a face. ‘He’s got a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. That’s what comes of being the second son.’
Marcie frowned. ‘I thought the Camilleris had only one son?’
‘They have,’ said April. ‘But two different mothers. Victor Camilleri likes to play the field. That’s where his son gets it from.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I shall just have to wait my turn.’
‘Me too,’ said Carol. ‘Whatever he wanted me to do I would do.’
April agreed with her. ‘That’s the only way a girl can get the good things in life. We all know that.’
Marcie laughed. She presumed they were joking – until she saw their serious expressions. Her laughter was brought up short.
‘You’d do anything for a fur coat or a pair of shoes?’
April laughed.
Carol handed her a chocolate caramel.
Marcie looked at the caramel and accusingly at Carol. ‘I thought you went out to buy something in the chemist’s?’
Carol winked. ‘I needed a pick-me-up. The sweet shop was nearer.’
Flowers arrived the next day. They were sitting in a vase on her table in the sewing room. They had a heady scent.
Marcie asked Meg, the old girl who did the cleaning, who’d put them there.
‘Dunno,’ said Meg, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.
Marcie smiled. It had to be Roberto.
There was another bouquet waiting for her in her room, though bigger and looking more shop bought than the pretty posy in the sewing room.
‘They’re from Roberto,’ beamed Mrs Gabriella Camilleri. She stood on tiptoe so she could whisper into Marcie’s ear. ‘I think you are the girl of his dreams.’
Marcie didn’t know what to say. No one had ever sent her a bouquet before.
‘Two bouquets!’ Marcie exclaimed. ‘Sweetpeas and these.’
Mrs Camilleri looked puzzled. ‘Did he? I did not know that.’
Chapter Twenty
MARCIE EYED HER reflection in the full-length mirror fastened to the back of the bedroom door. She was wearing the black linen dress and white boots. Her hair was piled on top her head and fastened with pins. A few tendrils had escaped and hung down like pieces of torn silk around her face. A thick silver bangle, triangular silver earrings and a purple feather boa completed the picture. Her eyes were emphasised with black eyeliner and mascara. Her lips were as beige as the rest of her face though they blossomed like a rose at its centre. She was seeing a trendy modern girl with things to do; places to go and handsome guys to see. Roberto was handsome. He’d be there tonight when she went out with her father. Her stomach churned with excitement. London had been good to her so far. Her
only real bugbear was that she had not made any friends here – not real friends of her own age. She’d dismissed Carol and April as being work colleagues, not friends as such.
Mrs Camilleri stood behind her, eyeing the same reflection. ‘Your father will be very proud of you. You are very beautiful, just like …’ She paused.
‘Like what?’ Marcie asked.
For a brief moment Mrs Camilleri seemed stuck for words. ‘Just like a daughter should be.’
The words came out in a rush. Marcie was quick minded enough to suspect that something was unsaid as much as said with those words. She decided not to push it. Tonight she was going out with her father and Mrs Camilleri was right. She looked beautiful.
Tony Brooks looked at his watch. He was running late. Mrs Reynolds had made him a cup of tea. She looked cleaner and less harassed than she used to. This had nothing to do with her husband having followed up the job Tony had put his way. The bastard had done a runner back to Jamaica, though not before knocking Ella about and getting her up the spout.
One of the kids had been put to bed. The other was playing with a set of wooden bricks that Tony had bought for her.
He’d never much liked this debt collection lark, but Camilleri paid him well for his trouble. Blokes on their own swinging the lead he could cope with. Young families looking cold and miserable in a city they’d been told was paved with gold were becoming the norm in Victor Camilleri’s miserable Victorian tenements. The rental business was booming on account of the flood of immigrants arriving from the West Indies. The properties were sub standard and the rent was high. Victor Camilleri had his fingers in a lot of pies; renting to an influx of black people was one of them. Some other geezer called Rachman had been running the same racket as Victor, cramming newly arrived immigrants – blacks, Irish and Poles – into cramped accommodation where the roofs leaked and fungus grew out of the walls. Ella had one of the better drums, but it was no palace. The windows shook when a train went by down on the adjacent railway line. The wallpaper was peeling and the tired old three-piece looked as though it was pre-war and had barely survived a direct hit from the Luftwaffe.
