by AA Abbott
“Merry Christmas,” Angela trilled. At least she sounded sincere.
“Merry Christmas,” Kat replied, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice.
“We’re having a New Year’s Eve get-together,” Angela said. “I’d love you to join us. Are you free?”
“I’ll check my diary,” Kat lied.
“Erik and Amy are welcome, too.” Angela said.
Erik emerged from the kitchen with a full tray. “Ready to light the brandy?” he asked. “Oh, you’re on the phone.”
“Angela’s asked us round on New Year’s Eve.”
A smile lit his face. “Great.”
Kat surrendered to the inevitable. “Count us in.”
Socialising with Marty wasn’t high on her wish list. She’d just have to spend the evening avoiding him.
Chapter 20.
Vince
Dusk was falling when Vince’s phone rang. He recognised the number immediately. “Merry Christmas, Jon,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Party time,” Jon said. “I’ve had hooch, whizz and weed. The screws won’t bust us over Christmas; it’s too much aggro.”
Vince almost wished he was there. He gazed towards the window of his mother’s low-rise council flat, which was surrounded by similar apartment blocks. West Ham was quieter than the Tottenham High Road, but hardly lovelier. He appreciated the flashing fairy lights and five-foot-high glowing snowman on Lesley Mowatt’s balcony. They improved the view.
“You’re at your mum’s, I suppose,” Jon said. “Can I talk to her?”
It was a command rather than a request. “She’s sozzled on sherry already,” Vince said.
Jon cursed. “Give her a message when she’s sober then, will you? She’s still shooting her mouth off and she’s to shut it. It’s bad for her health if she doesn’t. Understand? My dad’s not happy.”
Vince felt dizzy, as if a chasm had opened at his feet. He wobbled on the brink. “I told her to be careful, but when she’s had a drink…”
“That’s her problem,” Jon said. “It’s up to her to fix it, if she knows what’s good for her. My dad’s been hearing gossip. Lucky he doesn’t believe it.” His voice softened. “You know how it is, Vince. He’d kill us both. It’s our secret, right?”
“Right,” Vince said. “We’ll still be together, though, won’t we? When you come out?”
“Of course. It’ll be just like before.”
Vince was infused with a sense of relief. Despite the risks, Jon cared. A future sharing his divided affections, however furtive, was infinitely better than life without him.
He glanced at his mother, almost unconscious on her threadbare sofa, her greying hair dishevelled. Tension coursed through him again. “Got to go. Love you.”
“You too, mate.” Obviously, Jon had to choose his words carefully. He was in a cell with a straight guy. Belmarsh was the kind of place where you were never alone.
“Who was that?” Lesley Mowatt’s speech was slurred.
“Never mind, Mum. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re a good boy, Vince,” she said, woozily.
There was no point communicating Shaun’s threats until she’d dried out. The task must wait for another day. Vince tidied up around her, taking the remnants of their lunch into the kitchen. He put the remains of the turkey crown in a bowl with a clean dinner plate on top, and placed it in the fridge. It was just as well he’d learned cookery at school, as his mother had lost interest in it since his father’s death. Her decline had been steady from that point.
When Meg Halloran had died, Vince had hoped Shaun would take a romantic interest in Lesley. Both were without a partner and of a similar age. Vince saw how naïve he’d been, not just in thinking an alcoholic widow would attract a man who didn’t share her addiction, but in letting himself be dazzled by Shaun’s wealth and power. Now he was caught in the Hallorans’ web, dependent on them for love and money.
Should he help Shaun escape, knowing the man had threatened his mother’s life, and by extension, his own? He had no choice: it was what Jon wanted, and Jon couldn’t be denied.
She began to snore. He washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. It didn’t take long. It wasn’t as if his mother aped Ben Halloran in her approach to housework; she still adhered to basic standards. He envied her, floating in a boozy dream, oblivious to the still-blaring television and the cares that gripped her son’s soul. Tiptoeing, he left the flat, locking the door behind him.
Outside, the street was deserted, cloaked in the boredom that had characterised most of Vince’s childhood. Brightly lit windows and occasional sounds of revelry were the only clues that others lived in this rectangular grid of homes. The weather was mild for the season, cloud obscuring the moon and stars. Bookies who had taken bets on a white Christmas would be laughing all the way to the bank.
Vince delved into a pocket for his phone, intending to take his chances on finding a cab back to Tottenham. Instead, he speed-dialled another number.
It was a mistake. His finger slipped. He realised as soon as the phone began ringing and a name appeared on its screen. It was someone he’d met online, over a year before.
Vince hadn’t fancied him then, and he didn’t now. The sex was tolerable, however, because this acquaintance was fun, and he had money. Wasn’t he Shaun’s friend too? Perhaps he’d be useful.
The phone was answered.
“Marshall?” Vince said. “I’ve got more Charlie than you’d believe. Want to help me get through it?”
Chapter 21.
Kat
“Gin and tonic?” Angela asked. “Or will that be vodka, Kat?” Marty’s wife, sparkling in a blue sequinned dress and matching six-inch heels, stood beside a well-stocked drinks cabinet. Her blonde curls were adorned with a glittering alice band, her face made up with an expert hand.
“Just tonic,” Kat told her beaming hostess. “I’ve got a tummy bug.” While she hadn’t been sick, the thought of alcohol nauseated her.
Angela handed her a large, bowl-shaped glass. Lemon slices and ice floated in the fizzy liquid. “Here you are, bab. Schweppes slimline.” She winked. “I won’t have the sugary stuff in the house.”
Marty’s white stuccoed mansion, occupying a tree-lined plot in the wealthier end of Edgbaston, was impressively large. Kat had visited it as a child, and recalled how rambling it had seemed, strewn with toys and sports gear by Tim and his siblings. Now the younger generation had moved out, the property had the air of a show home. Angela had installed cream carpets, pastel paint and tasteful artwork.
The doorbell rang. Tim brought Erik and Amy through to the front room. They were both smarter, glossier versions of their usual selves: Erik had donned a suit, and Amy a black velvet tunic. She was even wearing lipstick.
Erik kissed Angela’s cheek. “You look fabulous.”
Angela simpered. “Thank you. I hit the sales early. I’ve bought my outfit for the wedding of the century already.”
“You mean Charles and Dee’s?” Erik asked. “It isn’t until March.”
“I’ve found the perfect dress,” Angela said. “Want to see it later? Amy, you can tell me if Dee would approve.”
“Marty mentioned you were a fan,” Erik said.
“Yes,” Angela said. “Doesn’t Dee look young for her age? I’d love to know how she does it. Is it the yoga? I do ten minutes with one of her DVDs every morning. Great for reducing stress.”
“I prefer gin,” Tim said. “Any chance of another splash, Angela?”
“Of course.” She obliged. “Erik and Amy, what would you like to drink? G&T?”
Tim shepherded Kat into the drawing room. “You know most of my family, don’t you?”
Dan, his sister Martha, and many of Tim’s cousins were part of Marty’s team at East West Bridges. Kat’s recollection of the others was dim. At least a dozen of the clan gathered around her, asking how she’d enjoyed the holiday, and introducing her to uncles, aunts and friends.
Ka
t tried to ignore the sensation of being on display. She glimpsed Marty, sitting with other guests in a conservatory at the opposite end of the room.
“Top-up?” Angela asked, sloshing gin into Kat’s glass before she could protest. “I don’t suppose Tim’s taken you over to his grandparents yet.” She waved a red gel-tipped index finger, signalling to Kat to follow as she teetered towards the conservatory in her improbable heels. “They’ll be pleased to see us. Marty’s mum does enjoy her gin.”
Checking no one was looking her way, Kat tipped her drink into the pot of a handily placed peace lily. She let Angela guide her to a cluster of lush plants and cushioned wicker furniture. Here, Marty was holding court to an elderly couple.
“This is Kat,” Angela announced, stopping Marty mid-sentence.
The old man rose slowly to his feet. His joints were obviously painful. He couldn’t straighten his back, but he inched towards Kat and held out a hand in greeting. “So, this is Tim’s young lady. I’m Derek Bridges, and this is my wife, Sylvia.”
Sylvia smiled at Kat. “I remember when you were a little girl. It’s nice to see you again, dear. When Angela mentioned Tim’s girlfriend was called Kat, I didn’t twig it was you.”
“My goodness, my lady wife’s right,” Derek said. “I do apologise. There were so many children running in and out of this house when our grandkids were small, I couldn’t keep track of them all.”
Kat had only the haziest memories of the pair herself. “You’re looking well,” she managed.
“You must forgive me, dear,” Sylvia said. “I’ll have to stay seated.”
Kat noticed the woman’s thin, frail appearance, and the walking stick resting on her chair. Having borne a bony handshake from Derek, she bent down to kiss Sylvia’s cheek.
Derek chuckled. “I hope you haven’t marked her with your lipstick, bab.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Sylvia said, clasping Kat’s right hand in both of hers. They were beautifully manicured in the French style, rather than the gel nails favoured by Angela. “Thanks for coming over to say hello, dear. We’ve heard so much about you, haven’t we, Derek?”
“All good, of course,” Angela said.
“It’s about time Tim settled down,” Sylvia said. “We’re not getting any younger. I want a great-grandchild before I pop my clogs.”
Taken aback, Kat glanced at Marty. His face reflected a storm about to break.
“Aren’t you being a bit hasty, Sylv?” Derek asked. “They’ve not been seeing each other long.” He chortled, sounding spookily like Marty. “Don’t let her wish your life away for you, bab.”
Tim belatedly joined them. “Have you got the gin, Angela?”
“Do excuse my manners,” Angela said, pouring generous measures into everyone’s glasses. “Oops, the bottle’s empty. I’ll get some more, and champagne to ring in the New Year. Will you help me, please, Kat?”
Kat took the lifeline. “No problem,” she said. “See you later.”
“Don’t mind the old folks,” Angela said, once she’d steered Kat into the kitchen, out of the clan’s earshot. “They’re in your face, but there’s no harm in them.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “How come you’re not drinking? Don’t pretend you are. I clocked the peace lily taking a soaking. Marty told me you were a party girl. I even bought in extra.”
It wasn’t just the elders who asked personal questions, then. “I’m not feeling well,” Kat said. She still wasn’t sure how she’d cope with her return to work on Tuesday. The production process relied on her tasting skills. She hoped she’d recover in time.
Angela persisted. “Are you pregnant?” she asked.
Kat shook her head. She hadn’t even considered the possibility. In truth, she didn’t know. To her growing dismay, memories of the Christmas party began to crystallise. There had been a night in a hotel with Tim. Had she nipped back home for a pill in the morning? When she recalled the hangover she’d suffered, she doubted it. Would pregnancy affect her that quickly, though? It wasn’t even two weeks ago.
A baby wasn’t part of her plan. She needed to make a success of her business, prove herself to Marty, and reap the rewards. He was paying her a basic salary, but she’d have a share when Starshine vodka made profits. She knew the brand would be a money-spinner: as soon as she moved to larger premises, she could show Marty that. Her future lay in her own hands, and a child was a wild card.
How would Tim feel? Kat had dreamed about walking down the aisle with him, but he hadn’t asked. Whatever Sylvia thought, they’d never talked about a long-term future, or children.
She hadn’t experienced any maternal instincts either. Didn’t they suddenly appear when you hit thirty? This was way too soon. Kat shuddered.
Angela sensed Kat’s uncertainty. “I bet we can find out,” Marty’s wife said conspiratorially. “Tim’s cousin, Lucy, is bound to have a pregnancy test in her handbag. She’s trying for a baby, you know.”
“That’s kind of you, but no thanks,” Kat said, her head beginning to spin. She suspected a test wouldn’t work this early. Anyway, the last thing she needed was confirmation of her worst fears in front of Marty, Tim and two dozen of their kinfolk.
Marty marched into the kitchen. He scowled at Kat. “I thought you were fetching gin,” he complained to Angela.
“Yes, boss. I’m on it like a car bonnet,” she said, giving a mock salute and handing him a bottle of Langley’s No 8.
Marty read the label. “London Dry Gin?”
“It’s made in the Black Country.”
“That’s better,” he conceded. “I remember Dom Davis pimping it in his club now. What were you two discussing, anyway?”
“Just girl talk,” Angela replied.
Chapter 22.
Vince
“We’ll have champagne.” Marshall Jenner, former MP and jailbird, turned to Vince. “Do you have a preference?”
“Craft beer,” Vince said.
Marshall chuckled. His double chin wobbled. Coupled with his bald dome, the effect was of Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall. “You hipsters! You can’t decline champagne at the Ritz. It’s against the rules.” He nodded to the waiter, a smooth young man with a professional smile. “Make that a bottle of house champagne. And we’ll have an extra glass with a Guinness, please.”
As the lad returned to the bar, Marshall said, “If you must have beer, take it in a Black Velvet.”
“Twist my arm, then,” Vince said, relaxing into his pony-skin chair. “I like this place already.” He didn’t rate the rough boozers that Shaun favoured; Shoreditch’s upmarket haunts were more his style, but the Rivoli Bar’s polished wood and plush seats outclassed them all for opulence and kitsch. Vince had the sense that, here, no irony was intended.
Marshall’s clothes cut a dash, as if he were campaigning for re-election. He wore a tailored suit that gave no hint of the flabby figure beneath. The pale shirt and silk tie flattered his blue eyes rather than his florid skin. “I’m glad you’re properly dressed,” he remarked.
“A dicky bow, you mean?” As usual, Vince sported a white shirt, red braces, black waistcoat and smart trousers. He’d added a bow tie in honour of the venue.
“They don’t like trainers,” Marshall said. “Not a problem for you.” He pointed to Vince’s feet, clad in gleaming black winklepickers. “Once, they tried to stop Jeannie from entering. In the end, she walked in barefoot.”
“What happened?” Vince asked, bristling at the mention of Marshall’s wife but curious nonetheless.
“We enjoyed a glass of champagne together,” Marshall said. “Jeannie usually gets her own way.”
“Really?” Vince asked. “She’s happy about our little reunion, then?”
Marshall patted his hand. “What she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.”
“How much is that peace of mind worth?” Vince asked.
Marshall took it as a joke. “Cheeky boy. Jeannie’s never cared about my little bit of fun, so long as I don’t flaunt it
in front of her. She took me back after I’d been in prison, remember.” He sighed. “It was a wake-up call for her. After the media storm about rent boys, she realised she’d let herself go. She needed to raise her game. While I was inside, she lost three stone and had her nose fixed. Look.” He took the latest iPhone from his pocket, showing Vince a photograph of an elegant blonde of middle years. “What do you think?”
“All right,” Vince said. “She looks better than my mum.” He guessed the two women must be about the same age. Marshall himself, bald and wrinkled, was well on the way to collecting a pension. “I can’t really comment. I don’t do women.”
“Alas, nor do I,” Marshall confided. “It’s a shame, after all the trouble she’s been to, and the expense. The hairdresser, plastic surgeon and personal trainer don’t come cheap.”
“Maybe I’m in the wrong job,” Vince said.
Marshall leaned forward. “What is your job?” he asked. “I don’t think it’s ever cropped up in conversation.”
Vince was saved from answering by the champagne’s arrival.
“I’m sorry, Sir, we have no Guinness,” the waiter said. “I do have stout from an independent brewery, though.”
“Craft beer? Bring it on,” Vince said.
The bottles were opened for them. “A Black Velvet in this glass, Sir?” the waiter asked. He poured a little stout into the flute, topping it up with foamy champagne before placing it in front of Vince.
“Santé,” Marshall said, picking up the other glass. “Sorry I couldn’t see you on Christmas Day. I was cruising in the Caribbean. Before you ask, it wasn’t that kind of cruising, more’s the pity.”
Vince tried the jet-coloured cocktail, expecting an abomination. It wasn’t at all bad. He was reminded of the gassy ciders he’d sampled as a teenager.
“I’ve paid cash for the room,” Marshall said. “Otherwise, it would go on my credit card, and Jeannie would see it. She’s tolerant, but there’s no need to force it down her throat. We can’t go back to your flat, can we, because you live with someone?”