Spencer’s gone home to get a shower and change, then he’s coming back later to join us for our tea. No sixteen-seater dining-table in my place; he’ll get a tray on his lap tonight and like it.
The lights are still on in the Community Centre when I put my stuff away which I take it means that Johnny hasn’t quite finished yet. I’ve hardly seen him all day and, this may sound funny, but I’ve really missed him. I thought that we’d be working shoulder-to-shoulder on this and, well, we haven’t.
I head back towards Bill Shankly House with my arm slung round Charlie’s shoulder. My son must be feeling mellow – or too knackered to object – as he doesn’t shrug my arm away.
As we approach the flats I see Johnny, dog at feet and paintbrush in hand even though the light is failing.
‘Still at it?’ I quip as we both come alongside him. Then I realise what he’s doing. ‘Oh.’
‘Said I’d do this ages ago,’ he says, and makes another sweeping stroke with his brush. ‘Thought it was about time.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Yeah. I guess it is.’ But I feel something like pain deep inside me.
With a final flourish, Johnny stands back from his work. ‘Better?’
I feel a lump stick in my throat. ‘Yeah.’
The beautiful banner that he painted for me with hearts and flowers and the legend SALLY FREEMAN, I LOVE YOU slap bang in the middle has been updated. My name and Johnny’s bold declaration of his feelings for me have now been painted out. All that’s left is the heart and the flowers and a blank space where I used to be.
‘Thought I might paint “Kirberly” in the banner instead,’ Johnny tells me.
‘That would look nice.’ Not quite as nice as my name but, well . . .
‘I’ll do it tomorrow, then.’
I try to choke down my emotions. I’ve gone. I’ve been painted over. I’ve been airbrushed out of Johnny’s life. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I manage to croak out, ‘Had a good day?’
Johnny is all smiles. ‘The best.’
‘Great. Sound.’ I kick at the ground, lost for words.
‘Have a relaxing evening,’ Johnny says. ‘More of the same tomorrow.’
‘Yeah.’ I turn to go. ‘Johnny, we’re only having a takeaway but you’re welcome to join us if you like.’
‘Well . . .’ he says.
‘Spencer’s coming back too.’ Thought I’d better throw that in, just in case Johnny gets the wrong idea.
At that moment, a familiar figure appears out of the gathering gloom. She’s got a smut of dirt on her cheek, but she still looks fabulous.
‘Hi.’ Dana bends to ruffle Ringo’s fur affectionately. The little dog nearly licks her to death and suddenly I want Ringo doing that to me too. He’s probably given up because I always push him away. And the thought of that makes me want to cry. ‘You’ve done a great job today,’ she says. ‘You should be really proud of yourself.’
I have the grace to smile. ‘Thanks.’
Then when she’s finished charming his dog, she slips her arm through Johnny’s. ‘We’ve all worked really hard.’ She kisses Johnny warmly on the cheek and he grins happily.
My friend clears his throat. ‘Dana and I have already got plans for tonight.’
She laughs softly at that and gazes up at my very best friend and my ex-lover. My insides churn unpleasantly as if I’ve eaten something that doesn’t quite agree with me.
‘But thanks for the offer, Sal,’ Johnny adds. ‘Maybe another time.’
‘Yeah, sure. Another time.’ Turning my attention to Charlie, I say, ‘Come on, young man. Let’s get you home.’
We walk away from Johnny and Dana, arm-in-arm, and suddenly the evening feels cold.
‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ Charlie whispers as we get out of earshot. There’s a distinct note of awe in his voice. ‘Sound.’
‘She seems okay.’ The words seem to stick in my throat.
‘She said I was very good at digging.’
‘You are. You’ve done really well.
‘And she said that I was very handsome too.’
Flattery works every time with the male of the species – whatever the age. ‘Did she now?’ I tease.
My son’s ears turn pink and there’s a twinkle in his eye and a contented grin on his face. Just the same as Johnny’s.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
We all sit with trays on our laps, eating while we watch Any Dream Will Do – one of these television talent competitions destined to give some lucky soul a chance to fulfil their dreams and star in a West End production of Joseph and His Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat. I love this kind of show. It makes me all teary when I see ordinary people – such as myself – realising their most long-held ambitions.
I’ve scrubbed all the dirt off me and I’m now dressed in my most comfortable – scruffy – tracky bottoms and sweatshirt. I’ve washed my hair, but couldn’t hold my arms up for long enough to dry it, so I’ve pulled it back in a scrunchy. Spencer, as always, looks as if he’s just stepped off a catwalk. It seems funny that last weekend we were eating together at his parents’ grand mahogany table, using the finest china and silver cutlery, and now he’s reduced to eating the traditional fayre of the Hong Kong Garden takeaway from plates bought on Kirberly market with free disposable wooden chopsticks.
Charlie and Kyle have chosen the menu so we’re feasting on sweet and sour pork balls, spare ribs in special sauce, sticky white rice and prawn crackers. I’m so tired that I’m currently struggling to stay upright and I’m eating on autopilot, so I’ve no idea whether the food is good or not. It doesn’t stop the boys from clearing their plates though.
‘Can we go into my bedroom and play on the Playstation?’ my son wants to know.
‘You can,’ I say. ‘You’ve both been very good today.’
Charlie and Kyle exchange a shifty glance.
‘Take your plates through to the kitchen before you go.’
Without a quibble, they meekly do as they’re told. There’s definitely something going on there. And I will find out what. Just give me time.
The boys disappear into Charlie’s bedroom and the door’s closed behind them, leaving Spencer and me in blissful peace.
Spencer finishes his Chinese and I give up with mine, the effort of eating proving too much to handle. I thought I was quite fit after bounding up and down ten flights of stairs at least twice a day, but I’ve got aches and pains in muscles that I never even knew that I had.
‘Here,’ Spencer says. ‘Let me take that.’ He picks up our trays and carries them into the kitchen. A minute later he reappears carrying two wine glasses and a bottle of fizz.
‘What’s that for?’
‘For you,’ he says. ‘You’ve worked so hard to get this off the ground and I’m very proud of you.’
I allow myself a tired smile. ‘Thank you.’
Spencer pops the cork with an expert flick of his wrist, splashes the fizz into the glasses and hands me one.
‘To you, Sally Freeman.’ He clinks his glass against mine. ‘A very special lady.’
‘Aw,’ I say. ‘That’s nice.’ I feel a solitary tear slide down my cheek.
‘Why the tears?’
‘I’m tired and emotional,’ I tell him with a sniff. ‘And happy. You don’t know what this means to me.’
‘I think I do.’
‘No. No one does. This feels like my first step out of this place. I’ve achieved something that I never thought that I could do, not in a million years.’ I then let the tears flow freely, enjoying the sensation of relief that floods through me. ‘Just think what else I might be able to do.’
‘Anything is possible,’ Spencer agrees.
We clink our glasses together again and both sip our champagne. Then Spencer toys with my fingers. ‘I wanted to do this properly,’ he says. ‘Whisk you away to Paris, get down on one knee, the whole thing . . .’
Suddenly, my heart has stopped beating. I take a hefty swig of my champ
agne to see if that will restart it.
My boyfriend’s eyes search mine. On the telly, I can hear people cheering, manic applause, clearly someone has found their dream, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Spencer’s.
‘But this seems like the perfect moment,’ he continued. ‘Sally Freeman, would you do me the very great honour of being my wife?’
I feel as if I want to splutter on my champagne, but I can’t: nothing will come. No comedy cough, no clever words, no cohesive thoughts. Nothing.
Spencer smiles. ‘Is it so much of a shock?’
A shock? Is it a shock? Of course it’s a bloody shock! ‘Yeah,’ I finally manage. ‘It’s a shock all right.’
Spencer’s friend Tania hinted at it, so did his own father, but I never thought that there was any substance behind the notion. Why on earth would Spencer want to marry me?
‘Do you think that you might be able to say yes?’ Spencer prompts eagerly.
‘No! No, no, no!’ I try not to look too aghast. ‘How can I possibly say yes?’
Now it’s Spencer’s turn to look aghast. ‘I want you to marry me and come to Alderstone House, leave all this behind.’ He sweeps a hand round my poky living room. ‘Is that so terrible an idea?’
‘Of course not,’ I tell him. Then I sigh. ‘Oh, Spencer. You and I are from different worlds. It would never work out. Your family don’t want me within a hundred miles of you.’
A frown crosses Spencer’s beautiful brow. Have I really just turned down my Cinderella moment?
‘I told you what your father thinks. He wants you to settle down with someone more suitable to your status.’
‘What my father thinks isn’t important,’ he tells me. ‘This is about you and me. That’s all.’
‘Surely you’d want their blessing?’
‘They’ll come around in time,’ he says dismissively. ‘When they’ve had time to get to know you.’
‘Supposing they disinherit you or something?’
‘I’m their only son, their only heir. My parents want to step away from the management of Alderstone. They’ve realised that if we want to keep it in the family, then we have to start running it as a business – host weddings, shooting weekends, corporate parties, that kind of thing. That doesn’t interest my father. He doesn’t want to be around to see the public tramping through his family home.’
He doesn’t want to see me tramping round it either, from what he’s said.
‘As soon as I take over, he and my mother are going to retire to one of the smaller cottages on the estate.’
Probably a seven-bedroomed ‘cottage’, if you ask me.
‘They can’t wait. As soon as they see what you’re capable of, they’ll love you too.’
Tolerate, would be a good start.
‘I don’t know, Spencer.’ I chew at my fingernails. ‘You’d be better off with one of those haughty deb types like Arabella or Phoebe. They know your world. They know your kind of people.’
‘But you’re a breath of fresh air to me, Sally,’ he insists. ‘The reason I love you is precisely because you’re not like Arabella or Phoebe.’
The possibilities whir round in my head. Would I be mad to turn down this opportunity? Charlie and I could get out of here to a better life in one fell swoop. No slaving away at a computer trying to claw our way out of the gutter; it’s being handed to me on a plate – a silver plate. So what if my in-laws can’t stand the sight of me? I’d be marrying Spencer, not his flipping mum and dad. Who ever likes their in-laws anyway?
I put my head in my hands. ‘I can’t think straight,’ I say. ‘I’m so tired and there’s such a lot on my mind.’
‘Perhaps I should have whisked you off to Paris,’ Spencer says ruefully.
‘Give me time to think about this, Spencer. It’s a really big deal for me. There’s a lot to weigh up.’
‘Take all the time you need,’ he tells me. ‘Just make sure you come back with the right answer.’
Though what that should be is anyone’s guess.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Today, Johnny was going to carry on painting the outside of the Community Centre. Dora the Explorer and some of the other older women from the estate had been rubbing down the windowframes and the faded old double doors at the front.
His plan was to brighten up the place with one of his murals which seemed to be fast becoming his trademark. The mural he’d painted in Ronaldo’s studio certainly hadn’t done the dancer’s business any harm. Ronaldo reported that he’d had record numbers attending his classes since the makeover, which had revitalised the studio and had, effectively, saved it from closing.
They’d stayed in touch since Johnny’s dance lessons and now Ronaldo was eager to help out with their project. He’d turned up this morning and was busily working alongside Dora, rubbing down, filling in and flirting outrageously all the time, which she was lapping up.
He shouldn’t smile too much though at young love, Johnny thought; after all, he’d done his own bit of flirting last night – something that hadn’t happened in a long time. He’d gone home and showered and then he’d popped over to see how his mam was doing. If the weather held this afternoon, he might wheel her over here to look at the progress. Sally had suggested that Mary might be able to help by putting some bedding plants in the hanging baskets which were to grace either side of the door at the Community Centre. Johnny thought that his mam would like that and it was typical of Sally that she didn’t want Mary Jones to be left out.
After he’d made sure that his mam was okay, he’d left Ringo behind and gone to collect Dana in his van. Okay, it might not be a sporty little number like Spencer’s, but it was a two-seater nevertheless and it had a certain kind of charm. Dana had been impressed by his paintwork anyway.
They’d gone to one of those trendy restaurants down by the Albert Dock. And they’d had a great night, even though the meal and a few drinks had cost him way more than his week’s benefit. Good job that he’d started doing some painting on the side. Dana was good company and they’d laughed a lot at nothing in particular – something else that had been missing in his life recently.
Dana rented her own little place in Everton Valley – an area that had already seen some benefits of regeneration – and he’d gone back there for a nightcap at the end of the evening. He hadn’t stayed over, but Dana had made it clear that he was welcome to do so if he’d wanted. Johnny sighed to himself. This was moving way too quickly for his liking – he was more of a slow-smoulder man – but there was no denying that there was an extra lightness in his heart this morning which wasn’t entirely down to the fact that the project was going so well.
‘Hiya, doll,’ Dora called out, and he turned to see Sally striding towards him.
‘Hiya,’ he said when she bowled up in front of him.
She nodded towards the hall. ‘You’re getting on well here.’
‘I want to give the old place a base coat today – we’ve got loads of white paint. Then I can start on the mural in the week when I’ve got some spare time.’
‘Have you decided what you might do?’
‘Thought it would be nice if we had scenes of all the work that’s been going on. A sort of arty-farty record.’
‘That’s a great idea, Johnny.’
He smiled. ‘Glad you approve.’
‘When did you suddenly become so clever?’ Sally asked.
He shrugged. ‘A lot of things seem to be falling into place for me.’
‘I’m pleased.’
‘Are you okay?’ Sally looked tired today, a bit of her old sparkle missing.
‘I’ve a lot on my plate, Johnny,’ she admitted. ‘With this and everything.’
Johnny didn’t like to ask what the ‘everything’ might be. He hoped that Spencer wasn’t cooling their relationship – or maybe he did.
With that, the Council van pulled up next to them and Dana got out. She smiled as she came towards them both, swinging her keys in her hand. Ringo scamper
ed over to meet her like a long-lost friend, a puppyish spring in his step and Johnny thought that he saw Sally scowl slightly.
‘How did your date go last night?’ she asked him in whispered tones.
‘Good,’ he said truthfully. ‘Very good.’
‘I’d better be off, then,’ Sally said. ‘See if Mrs Kapur’s okay. Charlie said she was out there with her paintbrush at the crack of dawn, bless.’
She waved at Dana as she hurried away.
Dana came over and kissed Johnny casually on the cheek. He didn’t know if they’d be self-conscious with each other this morning, but everything seemed cool. ‘Sally’s rushing off?’ she asked.
‘Mrs Kapur’s on her own in the new garden bit,’ Johnny explained. ‘She was worried about her.’
‘She is okay about me being around?’
‘Of course,’ Johnny said. ‘Many hands make light work.’
‘I meant being around you.’
‘Oh, right,’ Johnny said.
‘Looked like she was trying to avoid me.’
‘No, not Sal. She’s fine.’ Why did women always try to over-complicate matters? ‘Sally and I are old news. We’re just mates now. But I guess that she’ll always be in my life.’ He thought it was only fair to let Dana know that from the outset. ‘I love her kid to bits. I told you that last night. He’s . . . well, I know that he’s not, but Charlie feels like he’s my own boy.’
‘He seems like a good lad.’
‘One of the best.’ Johnny picked up his brush. ‘I’d better get on if we’re to get this place painted today.’
‘I enjoyed our evening together,’ Dana said softly. Her hand rested on his arm. ‘Want to do it again?’
‘That’d be great.’
‘Lasagne at my place later?’
‘Sound.’ Then his mobile phone rang and he answered it. ‘Johnny Jones.’
‘This is Matthew Stokes, Chief Executive of the Tate Liverpool, Mr Jones,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.
‘Yeah?’ Johnny felt himself frown. The Tate were ringing him?
‘We have some of your paintings here.’
‘My paintings?’ Johnny laughed. How could that be? ‘You sure?’
All You Need is Love Page 25