‘It seemed like it was with Johnny. He was like my dad.’ But then Charlie had to confess that he didn’t have anything to compare it with. He just got a funny feeling about this Spencer bloke. He didn’t think it would be the same with him. ‘Spencer, her new fella, speaks to me like I’m a kid.’
Kyle blew out a steady stream of smoke and then ground the butt of the cigarette into the ground with his heel. ‘Harsh,’ his friend concluded.
‘I don’t like her seeing him. What shall I do?’
‘Child from Hell.’ Kyle nodded to reinforce his point. ‘It’s the only way. It’ll be you or him. Always is.’
‘Me or him?’ As he trailed back after his friend into the Community Centre, Charlie thought that he didn’t like the sound of that at all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They were in the garage that Johnny used as his workshop. Johnny was painting, putting the finishing touches to an abstract canvas he’d mentally entitled Saturday and Feeling Fucking Awful. Primarily because it was Saturday and he was feeling fucking awful.
He’d danced with every single woman in that place last night – impressing even himself with his moves – and not one of them felt as good in his arms as Sally Freeman did. The way they’d swayed together, the feel of her soft body against his . . . Johnny sighed. He would have made Ronaldo proud of him. He had cucaracha-ed like an old pro. And it was pointless. All of it bloody pointless. She’d still gone home with the posh bloke in the Porsche. And that had cut him to the quick.
Had he really been so stupid as to think that a bit of fancy footwork on the dance floor was going to win Sally back? If he hoped to have any chance with her at all, he’d have to start thinking about what she really wanted out of life. What she wanted, clearly, was a well-turned-out bloke, with a good job and a flash motor. She wanted to be someone and she wanted to be with someone who was someone too. He knew that. In his heart, he knew that. But even if he managed to get a job again – no mean feat after being unemployed for so long – not many employers would tolerate the amount of time he had to take off to look after his old mam when she decided to take a turn for the worse. What would happen to her? Who’d care for her? What about the kids at the football club? Who’d look out for them if he couldn’t be there after school?
Was it just a ridiculous dream to think that he’d ever be able to make any money from his painting? Shouldn’t he simply knuckle down and do something solid, a sensible day job like everyone else?
He’d painted the canvas black all over and was now flicking splatters of grey and white paint at it. Ringo, asleep at his feet, was also splattered in monotone paint making him look part-Dalmatian, part-Jack Russell. The little dog would have to go in the bath later, which he’d love.
Charlie was mooching round, picking up and discarding all that he could lay his hands on. An occasional disgruntled huff emanated from his direction.
‘Don’t get paint on yourself, lad, or your mother will have my guts for garters,’ Johnny warned. If Charlie went home splattered with black and white paint he’d never hear the last of it.
Eventually the boy settled, coming to perch on a pile of old towels that Johnny had to one side for cleaning up. He put his head in his hands. ‘I didn’t know she was going to bring him,’ Charlie moaned.
Me neither, Johnny thought. ‘He seems like a nice bloke.’ That was the truth. More’s the pity.
‘Seems like a complete divvy,’ Charlie corrected. ‘He called me “little man”.’ The lad’s nose turned up in a sneer.
Johnny smiled to himself. ‘There are worse things to be called.’
‘Tosser,’ Charlie said.
‘That’s one of them,’ Johnny agreed. He wagged his paintbrush at the boy. ‘Mind your language.’
‘Do you think Mum’s in love with him?’
He did hope not. ‘It’s early days, Charlie,’ Johnny said with more confidence than he felt. ‘They’ve had a couple of dates. That’s all.’
‘She goes all girly when he’s around.’
‘Women can be like that,’ Johnny said. ‘It doesn’t mean that they’re in love.’ Though sometimes it did, he had to concede.
‘Kyle says women go all silly when they’re in love. Mum’s gone all silly. She poured me out a bowl of Ariel Automatic this morning instead of cornflakes.’
That was very silly, he had to admit.
‘Your relationship adviser might not be right one hundred per cent of the time,’ Johnny reminded him. ‘Does Kyle have a lot of experience with women? Bearing in mind that he’s ten years old.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘He’s been going steady with Britney Evans for three weeks now. He’s kissed her and everything.’
Johnny had no desire to know what ‘everything’ might involve. Maybe it was time that he and Charlie sat down and had a proper man-to-man talk. Cover the birds, the bees, the sexually transmitted diseases. The whole gamut. But then he remembered that Charlie wasn’t really his responsibility any more. Perhaps Sally wouldn’t take kindly to him talking to her boy about such intimate subjects. Perhaps she’d want Spencer to sit down and have cosy chats with her son now.
An awful feeling of being cut loose overwhelmed him once more and, aggressively, he hurled the paint at the canvas. Watching the paint travel through the air and make its mark on the canvas felt good, therapeutic. He stood back and admired his handiwork.
‘That’s looking gear, Johnny. Can I have a go?’
‘No,’ Johnny said. ‘You’ll get me killed.’
The boy puffed unhappily again. ‘I don’t want her marrying him, Johnny.’
You and me both, he thought.
Chapter Twenty-Four
So, it’s Monday and my computer lesson has come round once again. I couldn’t go back to Spencer’s wonderful apartment on Friday, because I wasn’t able to find anyone to look after Charlie. I spent all night long lying awake having visions of me and Spencer romping together, naked, in his rooftop hot tub. I was so knackered the next day that I narrowly avoided poisoning my only child by trying to give him washing powder for breakfast. Good job one of us was awake.
Now Spencer’s standing behind me, looking over my shoulder – ostensibly to try to improve my computer literacy skills. He’s burbling on in his cut-glass voice about Word documents, but frankly my mind is so filled by thoughts of his closeness that there’s no room for anything else. As I try to open and close files and look like I give a fuck, his fingers stray to the back of my neck and linger there. I look round to check what Davy, Tom and the others are up to, but they’re too engrossed in their screens and doing proper computer stuff to notice the fact that Spencer and I can hardly keep our hands off each other.
‘I missed you this weekend,’ he says close to my ear. ‘I normally go home to Surrey, but I thought we might do something together next weekend. Something special. You’re not busy, are you?’
I was planning to spend an exciting Saturday scraping mildew from my window frames. That’s hardly going to stop me from doing something special. ‘No. No, I’m not busy,’ I tell him.
He squeezes my shoulder and smiles at me. ‘Leave it with me.’
I carry on plodding my way through my workbook trying to take in the basics of page set-up, but my head is all over the place. Wonder what ‘something special’ entails? I bet he’s planning to take me up to his spa and seduce me. Another expensive dinner could be involved. I feel like giving myself a little hug. How did I manage to get such a fab boyfriend? And Spencer missed me! He said so himself. Even after our disastrous date at the salsa night, he’s still coming back for more! Actually, Friday wasn’t entirely a damp squib. We had quite a nice time at the Community Centre although he did attract a lot of funny looks. He didn’t want to dance either – I had a few twirls with Debs, but that’s hardly the same. But then I can’t blame Spencer for feeling a bit intimidated after seeing Johnny on the dance floor. What an eyeopener! No one could have competed with that. It makes me smile, thinking of it. Wh
o’d have thought that my ex-boyfriend had it in him to throw out better moves than Ricky Martin?
‘What are you grinning at?’ Spencer’s behind me again.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Just something silly.’
He pulls a chair up next to me, close, close in my personal space. ‘We’re all set,’ he says. ‘I’ve organised everything.’
‘Great.’ It’s all I can do to stop myself from rubbing my hands together with glee.
‘The tickets are booked, the visa’s organised.’
‘Tickets? Visas?’
‘We leave from Heathrow on Friday night,’ Spencer informs me. ‘Our connecting flight leaves from John Lennon Airport at six o’clock.’
‘Heathrow?’ I squeak. ‘John Lennon?’
Spencer frowns. ‘You have got a passport?’
‘A passport?’
‘Have you?’
I nod. It’s been used twice. Both times to go to Ibiza with Debs – but you know that.
‘I thought we’d go to Cuba.’ He says it like he’s suggesting we go down the road to the local pub for a swiftie. Perhaps he sees the shock on my face as he continues quickly, ‘I saw how much you liked salsa dancing. Cuba is the best place to go to do it.’
I have no doubt about that. ‘Cuba?’
‘It’s glorious,’ Spencer assures me. ‘We’ll have a great time. Take in some clubs, sample a few mojitos.’ He shrugs. ‘We’ll be back on Monday morning.’
‘I can’t go to Cuba, Spencer. I haven’t two pennies to rub together. It’s way out of my league.’
Even if he’d said we’d have a weekend in Blackpool that would be stretching my finances.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he tells me. ‘It’s all taken care of.’
He’s paying too? Wow. I daren’t admit it, but I haven’t a clue where Cuba is. How long is it going to take to get there? Is it do-able for a weekend? I thought it was miles away. Near America or somewhere. Geography isn’t my strong point – principally because I haven’t actually been anywhere. Never mind that! I don’t care where it is. It could be in Timbuktu or Outer Mongolia for all I care. What will I need to wear? I’m going to Cuba and Spencer’s forking out for it! I can hardly contain my excitement. I’m going to Cuba! For the weekend! I’m going to dance until dawn. Knock back mojitos like they’re going out of fashion. Then something in my brain brings me up sharp.
‘Charlie,’ I say quietly. ‘Is Charlie coming with us?’
That question looks like it pulls Spencer up sharp too.
‘Charlie,’ he murmurs, and I see a lump travel down his throat. ‘Couldn’t you get someone to look after him? It’s only for a couple of days.’
So, my son isn’t featured in the plans to trip the light fantastic on the other side of the globe. ‘Oh,’ I say. Charlie would love Cuba. I’m sure of it.
‘Havana really isn’t the sort of place that you take children.’
‘Isn’t it?’ What would international jet-setter Kate Moss do in this situation? If a hunky bloke was wanting to whisk her away for a weekend of pleasure would she consider having her kid in tow?
‘Perhaps your friend would take care of Charlie?’
‘Debs?’
‘It’s all booked up now.’ Spencer looks worried. ‘You said you weren’t busy.’
I said I wasn’t busy, I didn’t say that I didn’t have commitments. My lip gets an anxious chew. When do you see any of these celebs with their offspring, for that matter? I suppose they all have a barrage of nannies who can step into the breach when a bit of hedonism calls. Most people have family that they can call on. But I have no one – except Johnny.
Because everyone else on the computer course is working away and no one’s paying a blind bit of attention to us, Spencer reaches out and strokes my hair. ‘We could have a really fabulous time.’
We could. I know that.
‘Do you think Debs would do it?’
‘I could ask her,’ I say. But I think I know what the answer will be.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘No,’ Debs says, dragging deeply on her cigarette.
‘Think about it,’ I beg.
My friend arranges her face into an expression of thought. Then she says, ‘No.’
‘You’re such a cow.’
‘Do you mind,’ she says. ‘Even us heartless bitches have feelings too.’
Debs’s flat is nicer than mine. Marginally. Because she works cash in hand, she has a bit more money to spend on her home. My flat’s cleaner and neater, but Debs’s stuff is more trendy.
‘Cuba,’ she says for the tenth time. ‘I don’t even know where the fuck Cuba is.’
‘Me neither,’ I tell her. ‘I had to look it up on Google.’ One of the few things I have learned from my computer course. I can Google anything now. I just did it when Spencer wasn’t looking. ‘It’s the largest of the Caribbean islands. Just off the coast of America.’
‘And you’re going all that frigging way for a weekend, girl?’
‘Yes.’ I’m sprawled out on her leather sofa, nursing a cup of tea. I put the mug against my forehead to ease my headache. I don’t know whether it’s excitement or stress.
‘Has your fella never heard of the Lake District?’
‘I’d love to go.’ I make my eyes go all moony. ‘If I can get someone to look after Charlie.’
‘No. No. No.’
Putting down my tea, I make a pious steeple with my hands. ‘It’s for two days,’ I plead. ‘Two tiny, weeny, little days. That’s all.’
‘All day Saturday. All day Sunday. And Friday night and Monday morning. That’s more than two days. That’s nearly four days.’
‘It’ll fly by,’ I promise. ‘And Charlie will be good. I’ll threaten him. You’ll hardly know he’s here.’
‘I’ll hardly know he’s here, because he won’t be here.’
‘Debs,’ I say in a censorious tone. I ask very little of my friend.
‘What would I do with him? Charlie’s a great kid, but how am I going to entertain a ten year old for days on end?’
‘I’ll break all of my rules,’ I tell her. ‘You can leave him in front of the Playstation for hours on end and just give him junk food.’ You can tell that I’m desperate and I’m hoping that a weekend of bad habits won’t harm my son too much. Charlie, the little sod, would love it.
‘Did you ever notice that I lack a certain maternal streak?’
‘You’d have made a great mum.’
‘I don’t think so. But if I was hankering to look after something cute with way too much energy, I wouldn’t go for a kid. I’d get a puppy. Better to ruin my carpets than ruin my life.’
My powers of persuasion are failing me.
‘Johnny’ll do it,’ my friend says. ‘Don’t sweat. You can still go trotting off with Little Lord Fauntleroy.’
I frown. ‘Don’t call Spencer that. He’s lovely.’
‘I must admit,’ Debs says sulkily, ‘hitting Cuba is a bit more imaginative than your average date round here. You’re lucky if most blokes stump up to go to the chippy.’
Perhaps that’s really her problem. It’s not just that she doesn’t want to look after Charlie for me, it’s that she’s a little bit jealous that I’ve got a fab new man who wants to treat me like a princess and whisk me away to exotic lands – at his expense. ‘I can’t ask Johnny,’ I say. ‘He’ll think that I’m using him.’
‘You are.’
‘Well, I can’t do it,’ I say. ‘It’s not fair on him.’
She stubs out her cigarette. ‘Don’t you think all that dancing on Friday was for your benefit? Did you see the state of the man? Desperate.’
‘He was not! He was good.’
Debs snorts.
‘Johnny isn’t like that, anyway. He knows that our relationship is over. We’ve both moved on. What we have now is a mature friendship.’
Debs snorts louder.
I try changing the subject. ‘It looked like it was a big success on
Friday though.’ Johnny’s Strictly Come Dancing routine aside.
My friend’s eyes light up. ‘I’m well chuffed. Can you believe how many people turned up? The place was rammed. We’d sold a load of tickets, but even more people turned up at the door. Even after paying the DJ we’re up about a hundred quid.’
‘That’s fantastic.’
‘Maybe I should go into event management,’ she muses. ‘What shall I do with the money?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Give it some thought,’ Debs says.
‘It would be nice to do something for the estate.’
‘I’ve already done enough for the estate. I was thinking I might spend it on shoes and handbags.’
‘You were not!’ I throw a cushion at her. ‘This whole thing was set up to save the Community Centre from closure.’
‘The rickety old dump will probably fall down of its own accord before they get a chance to close it.’
‘I was talking to Mrs Kapur a couple of weeks ago. She said it used to be lovely round here. There was a real sense of community.’
‘There still is.’
‘Yeah, but a lot of it’s gone. Look at the state of the place. It could be twinned with Beirut. No one cares. Would you have got kids pissing in the lifts twenty years ago?’
‘Probably.’
‘I don’t think so. Mrs K said that everyone used to look out for each other. Wouldn’t it be nice for it to be like that again? Why let a tiny percentage of idiots ruin it for the rest of us.’ I stretch out on the sofa. ‘When I was on Spencer’s roof terrace last week . . .’ My friend fakes a theatrical yawn, which I ignore ‘. . . I looked out across Liverpool and thought what a wonderful, magical place it was. I’d sort of forgotten that. And now that I’ve seen it, I don’t want to be living in the arse end of the city.’ I look over at Debs. ‘We could change things.’
‘With a hundred quid?’
‘Everyone has to start somewhere.’
‘It’ll never happen,’ Debs says with a shake of her head. ‘Might as well spend the cash on shoes and handbags.’
‘I’ll think of something,’ I assure her. Why should everyone else be benefiting from regeneration when we’re not? ‘You see if I don’t.’
All You Need is Love Page 9