All You Need is Love

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All You Need is Love Page 6

by Carole Matthews


  The DVD had finally loaded. The Bond theme blared out and he turned the sound down, so that it wouldn’t bother the neighbours through the paper-thin walls.

  ‘You could try, Johnny,’ Charlie pleaded. ‘You could try your hardest and then Mum might love you again.’

  ‘Yeah.’ And James Bond might turn out to be gay.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dinner was fabulous. The restaurant sublime. My companion attentive. My outfit – not appropriate. I was the only person in the place not wearing a Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress. Truly. And I was very conscious of it. Still, it didn’t spoil the evening. Once I got behind the table, I pulled the cloth over my jeans and didn’t move for the rest of the dinner. Good job I have a bladder formed of steel.

  Now the sun has nestled below the treetops. The green hedges are falling away behind us, being replaced by the silhouettes of chimney pots and high-rise blocks. We’re heading back to Liverpool and yet the night is still – like me – relatively young.

  ‘Do you want to come back to my place for a nightcap?’ Spencer asks. He looks across at me and a warm glow spreads through me that isn’t strictly down to the amount of fine wine and good food that I’ve managed to put away.

  ‘I can’t be late,’ I say. ‘My son’s babysitter will want to go home.’

  Spencer stiffens in his seat. ‘Your son?’

  I’m not sure how we managed to get through the whole evening to this point without talking about Charlie, but we haven’t. We’ve discussed pretty much everything else, I think – but the fruit of my loins was a notable omission. Maybe we just got carried away. Maybe I wanted Spencer to think that I was capable of leaving my motherly duties behind for the evening. And I don’t know where the time went. We got on so well that the evening just flew by. I’m not normally into poncey statements like this – I live in downtown Kirberly, not Beverly Hills – but I think that we really connected. And, to be honest, I sort of assumed that Spencer would know that I’d got a child – I don’t quite know how. Do I look like carefree, single totty? I don’t think so. I have the lines of harried motherhood etched into my face. How could he not tell?

  ‘You could come back to my place,’ I say, ‘but Charlie will be in bed by now.’ And my place is a dump, and I’d rather poke out my own eyes than let you see it. Or maybe I should just poke out Spencer’s eyes? Plus there’s the little matter of my ex-boyfriend being my babysitter. That’s probably a situation that’s best avoided. Johnny’s not usually up for a fight, but there’s always a first time.

  ‘Charlie.’ Spencer chews over the name as if it’s something bad in his mouth – like broccoli or Brussels sprouts.

  ‘He’s a great kid,’ I tell him eagerly. ‘You’ll love him.’

  Spencer frowns.

  ‘Everyone does,’ I say, more lamely this time.

  ‘I have a little bolt-hole,’ Spencer says. ‘We can go there.’

  Perhaps it is a bit too early to introduce Spencer to my son. We’ve had one date. A very nice one, but that does not a relationship make. I should take this slowly, slowly – even though Spencer’s possibly the best bloke I’ve ever come across. He’s funny, sophisticated, smart and – did I mention this? – he drives a Porsche. Not that something as shallow as that matters, but . . . of course it bloody matters! I’ve never been in a Porsche before and, frankly, my head has been turned. Never will the number 19A bus seem the same again.

  We pass the turning for Kirberly and keep going down the dual carriageway. ‘I thought you lived in the flat above the computer centre?’ I ask.

  ‘Sort of,’ he says a bit evasively. ‘That comes with the job. This is more for entertaining.’

  So, I’m going to be entertained? We head into the city centre and down towards the docks. This is the area that’s seen some of the most extensive regeneration in the efforts to spruce up the city for 2008 when Liverpool becomes the European Capital of Culture. When I was a kid, only a certain kind of person came down here after dark; now it’s the ritziest place in town. All the old warehouses have been converted into swish apartments – proper apartments, not knacky old ‘flats’ like mine. They change hands for money that I can only dream of. There are trendy restaurants, fashionable bars and even a branch of the Tate Modern Art Gallery – Tate Liverpool – that I’ve never visited because my appreciation of art, modern or otherwise, registers at zero. I glance over at Spencer. Bet this man knows his art. I’d stake my life on it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Spencer’s apartment is reached by an open, wrought-iron lift – the sort they have in warehouses, I suppose. We travel the four floors in silence, only the jingle of Spencer’s car keys in his hand punctuating it every now and again. I stare uncomfortably at the exposed brick walls as we travel slowly upwards. The lift seems to be for his own personal use as it goes straight from the parking garage under the building and comes out right in his lounge.

  He slides back the gate and we step into the room.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, without really meaning to. The place is enormous. I bet if you got all of the flats on my floor of Bill Shankly House and knocked them all together, it wouldn’t be as big as this. So this is what Spencer classes as ‘a little bolt-hole’?

  There’s a vast expanse of dark wood flooring and not much furniture except for a couple of red leather sofas and a huge glass coffee-table. One wall is entirely glass and there’s a balcony that looks out over the River Mersey.

  ‘This is amazing,’ I tell him.

  ‘Thanks. White wine?’ While I stand and gape out of the windows, my date goes over to his minimalist stainless-steel kitchen and opens the fridge which is the size of an airplane hangar, busying himself with pouring me a drink. How is he affording this place? Certainly not on the salary of a computer tutor – if he even gets paid at all for his work at the Centre. He could be there on a volunteer basis, for all I know. Maybe Spencer made his fortune in the City or maybe he’s from ‘old’ money. Perhaps this isn’t his place at all and he’s borrowed it from a loaded mate for the night so that he could bring me up here and seduce me.

  When he comes back, he says, ‘It’s not cold outside – shall we go up onto the roof ?’

  ‘The roof ?’

  ‘Prepare to be amazed,’ he says with a twinkle in his eye.

  I follow Spencer up a staircase with glass treads until we come to a steel door which leads out onto the roof terrace. He’s right: I am amazed. The terrace has been tastefully landscaped with shingle and decking. Bay trees and black bamboos flourish in over-size stainless-steel pots. Two chrome sun-loungers grace the decking, and in the corner there’s a hot tub. Steam rises gently from the surface and beneath the inviting water, lights subtly change hue from red to green, to blue.

  ‘I didn’t bring my cossie.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  I nod at the hot tub. ‘My cossie. Swimsuit. I didn’t bring it.’

  Spencer grins at me. ‘That’s not strictly necessary.’

  I snort. Call me a prude, but I think it’s a little early in the proceedings to get naked with Spencer – even though I can see that it might have therapeutic benefits.

  He beckons me to the edge of the terrace which is bounded by a glass balcony. I join him and, as I do so, he slips his arm around my waist, making my pulse race.

  ‘Look at that,’ he breathes.

  The moon is high and bright and sparkles like disco lights on the inky blackness of the Mersey. It’s a clear night and the stars are out in force, adding their own special backdrop. On the far shore, the lights of Seacombe and New Brighton are spread out in front of us like a fairyland. Why didn’t I know that my own city had such potential for enchantment? If I crane my neck, I can see the Pier Head and the Three Graces – the world-famous Royal Liver building with its Liver birds perched majestically on top, the Cunard building and the Port of Liverpool building. I’d like to say that I had a view like this from my tenth-floor flat, but I don’t. My view consists of litter, bu
rned-out cars and a big brick wall that’s permanently covered in X-rated graffiti, and maybe that’s coloured my opinion for too long. In Kirberly I feel that I’m in the middle of a shitty little island, cut off from all the renewal and revitalisation that’s going on around me. I hadn’t realised that my Liverpool, the place that I’ve lived in all of my life, had become so very wonderful while I wasn’t watching.

  For some reason, this revelation makes me feel tearful. ‘I never knew that this city could be so beautiful,’ I say, choked.

  ‘Really? You were the one who was brought up here.’

  ‘I know.’ I shake my head. ‘I love the place, but I’ve always seen it as a dump.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Spencer squeezes my waist. ‘It’s fabulous. It has a colourful history.’

  Maybe it’s something about the familiarity of the place that has bred my contempt. Or maybe I’ve just never before taken the time to stop and think about it. But at this moment, I feel very proud to be a Liverpudlian. There’s a warm feeling in my heart and the hot tears prick at my eyes again.

  ‘The people are great,’ he continues. ‘Very feisty.’

  That makes me laugh and I brush the tears away. ‘Feisty?’ It makes me sound like Johnny’s dog.

  Spencer moves closer to me and takes my hand. ‘Some of them are very sexy.’

  Now that’s better. A welcome breeze lifts my hair and caresses my neck. Maybe it gives Spencer ideas because he takes my glass of wine, puts it down on a conveniently placed café table and leans his body into mine. His fingers trace the contours of my throat, and his lips, hot and searching, find mine. It’s shocking and exciting. The only person I’ve kissed for the last five years is Johnny, and Spencer’s lips, his kiss, feel so different, thrilling, unfamiliar. And I want to know more, so much more. I can hear my own blood rushing in my ears and I feel weak with desire. Right now, I’d like to reconsider my decision about the hot tub, because there’s nothing I’d like to do more than rip off my clothes and get naked with my host.

  We part and I can feel that Spencer’s heart is beating just as fast as mine. ‘Stay,’ he whispers breathlessly against my cheek.

  ‘I can’t. I have to get back.’ My voice sounds unsteady. ‘Charlie will be wondering where I am.’ Not to mention Johnny.

  ‘Another time then,’ Spencer says sadly.

  I nod eagerly. ‘Another time.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I haven’t felt like this since I was fourteen, when I sneaked home late from a school disco, clothes dishevelled from letting John Ashton feel my top parts, pissed on cider with a socking great love-bite on my neck. It was a bad feeling then and it hasn’t improved any, now that I’m twenty-seven. Even though I haven’t got a hickey and Spencer hasn’t been anywhere near my top parts, I still feel as guilty as hell. It’s midnight and I’d never intended to be so late back. I have no idea where the hours went. What is it they say about time flying when you’re enjoying yourself?

  Spencer has pulled up outside my flat. He looks as if he’s planning to get out of the car.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  That halts him in his tracks. He looks over his shoulder as he says, ‘I’m seeing you back to your apartment.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ I say too emphatically. ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘I’d feel happier.’

  I damn well wouldn’t! ‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ I give him a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening.’

  ‘I’m sorry it had to end so soon.’ Spencer finds my lips again and sears them with a kiss. I pull away. I can’t snog in a Porsche with my ex-boyfriend a hundred feet above us. It’s not right.

  Before I change my mind, I fumble for the door handle. ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘You don’t have my number,’ Spencer points out quite reasonably. ‘And I did hope that I’d see you at the computer course tomorrow.’

  Oh. The computer course. I’d forgotten all about that. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’ My voice sounds ridiculously chirpy.

  All Spencer does is smile at me. ‘See you tomorrow, Sally Freeman.’

  I’m out of the door and across the grass before you can say, ‘Take me on the bonnet of your Porsche. Now.’

  I pause outside my front door, letting my breathing return to normal. Biting on my lips, I hope that I don’t look like I’ve been thoroughly and expertly kissed. I can still taste Spencer on my mouth. When I’ve smoothed down my top and fluffed my hair, I let myself into the flat.

  ‘Hi,’ I say as cheerfully as I can manage when I go into the living room. ‘Sorry. I never meant to be this late.’

  Johnny has arranged himself casually on my couch. He looks like he’s been reading tonight’s Liverpool Echo, but he’s given himself away by holding the newspaper upside down. Ringo’s also being traitorous by looking out of the window, wagging his tail. Seems that man and dog both witnessed my arrival.

  Johnny puts down the paper. ‘Good time?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  He stands. ‘I’ll be off then.’

  I shrug. ‘I was going to have a cup of tea.’

  ‘I can’t hang around,’ Johnny says. ‘I want to look in on Mam.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Missing you,’ he tells me.

  ‘I’ll try to call in this week.’ We both know that I’ve been avoiding Mary and her probing questions. She’s devastated that Johnny and I have broken up and I can hardly bear her pain. It’s been easier not to go round there, but I know that it only makes things worse.

  ‘She’d like that.’ Now my ex-lover doesn’t know what to do and it makes me feel awful to see him like this. ‘I’d better be off.’

  ‘Was Charlie good?’

  Johnny nods. ‘He always is. He’s a great kid.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘For standing in at short notice and all that.’

  ‘No worries. Any time.’ We both sound ridiculously stilted and over-bright. Johnny clicks his fingers. ‘Come on, Ringo. Mustn’t outstay our welcome.’

  ‘Johnny . . .’

  ‘I’m finding this very difficult, Sal. It’s probably best if you don’t say anything.’

  ‘He’s just a friend.’

  Johnny snorts in a way that says he doubts it.

  ‘Really.’

  Johnny looks at the floor. ‘I could change, Sally. I could change, if you give me another chance.’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before, Johnny.’Too many times.

  ‘I’m painting again.’

  ‘So Charlie said.’

  ‘I think they’re good,’ he says, and it breaks my heart to see him so desperate. ‘Maybe I could sell some this time. Make some money.’

  ‘And maybe you won’t.’

  ‘Come down to the garage, have a look at them.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I know nothing about painting.’

  ‘You’re trying to improve yourself. Why do you think that I don’t want to do the same?’

  ‘I’m doing it through courses and studying – hard work. All you’re doing is daubing about in your garage.’

  ‘If you saw it, you might like my painting.’

  ‘Perhaps I would, but you can’t make a living doing something like that.’

  ‘People do.’

  ‘Not people like us,’ I remind him.

  ‘That’s my dream, Sally.’

  ‘Dreams don’t come true. Not round here. Look at this place.’ I cock my head to take in the flat, the estate, the whole dump of an area. Perhaps I’m feeling bitter because I want a flat like Spencer’s. I want a magical view over the Mersey. I want more than I can ever possibly have. ‘People like you and me have to graft for everything we get. There are no free rides for us.’

  ‘This is where the Beatles came from. I bet the world’s glad that they were dreamers. My painting could be like a proper job,’ he says earnestly. ‘I really think so this time.’

  ‘A proper job would be if you bought a ladder
and a van, possibly a roller and paintbrush, a few tins of magnolia and did some decorating. That’s what painters do as proper jobs.’

  ‘If I did that,’ he says, ‘would you take me back?’

  My head hurts and I feel dizzy with emotion. One minute I’m elated, the next I’m in despair. Both times I’m fairly confused. ‘I don’t know, Johnny.’

  His handsome face breaks into a hopeful smile. ‘That’s not an outright no, then.’

  I think that it is, but – for some stupid reason – I can’t bring myself to say it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Johnny had spent the night on his mother’s sofa, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. After leaving Sally’s house, he hadn’t been able to face going back to his own miserable maisonette and the delightful sounds of Jeff the lorry driver snoring. The next afternoon, trying to run round a football field with twenty-two hyperactive teenagers, he realised that his muscles weren’t quite as young as they used to be and were objecting to his night curled up on the soft cushions.

  ‘Kyle! Kyle! Pass the ball to Charlie. Pass it! Pass it!’ Johnny ran up and down the pitch, yelling instructions and encouragement to the kids. He’d been coach to this after-school football team for over two years now. Most of these kids had no one waiting for them at home – or no one who’d be pleased to have them under their feet. Johnny had wanted to offer them an alternative to kicking round the streets getting into trouble through sheer boredom.

  It had been a struggle to set up, get the kids committed, but finally they were shaping up quite well. Somehow, Johnny had managed to persuade a local business to sponsor them and provide some kits. He wasn’t sure how cool it was to have KEN’S CUT PRICE KITCHENS plastered all over your back, but at least they looked like a team. It was unlikely any of these lads would end up playing for Liverpool FC, but from small acorns many an oak tree had flourished. This wasn’t the school football team – Lord Sefton’s had their own coach, their own stars, their own little prodigies who would end up trialling for the under-sixteens at Anfield or Everton. In Johnny’s football team were the kids who no one wanted to play. They were the troublemakers, the rebels, the ones with special needs and, of course, the ones who were completely crap at football. Charlie, unfortunately, fell into the latter category. The boy had clearly inherited his mum’s skill with ball control and comprehension of the off-side rule. Despite the hours they spent playing keepy-uppy together, Charlie – to the lad’s eternal disappointment – was never going to make the A-team.

 

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