Playing Around

by Gilda O'Neill

Angie knew she’d made a fool of herself. ‘She’s special to me.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, sweetheart. Now, this is my card. I’m going to give it to you so you can phone me. I’ll take you out for a nice meal. How about that? A bit of dinner and maybe a show?’ He could hardly believe the words were coming out of his mouth. Dinner and a show? Who did he think he was? Fucking Noel Coward?

  Angie took the card and tilted it towards the light from a nearby lamppost. It had his name, David Fuller, an address in Greek Street, and a telephone number. The lettering was in black, and was all shiny and raised as if it had been carved out of the thick white paper. ‘Thanks.’

  David turned back to the steering-wheel and shrugged the creases from his jacket. ‘Now, how close can I drop you to your nan’s without you getting yourself in schtook?’

  Chapter 8

  JACKIE STOMPED UP the steps of Fenchurch Street station, aware of the grief she was doling out to the already grumpy Monday-morning commuters as she pushed and shoved her way past them to reach the exit, but not caring.

  ‘You were so stupid getting in that car, Angie, I can’t believe you did it. And I never knew you were staying round your nan’s. I was worried sick till you came round for me for work. Then all you wanted to know was why Martin had had to leave so early. Nothing about me, how upset I was. You are so selfish.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Jack, that was a sodding week ago! Change the record, can’t you?’ Angie stopped and held out her arms, scattering commuters off into tutting, complaining eddies all about her. ‘Look at me. I’m here. I’m safe. All right? What more do you want?’ She paused, searching for words. ‘Know your trouble? You never take a chance. Never do anything exciting.’

  Jackie grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her along. ‘Exciting? Are you mad? You’re bloody lucky to be alive. Bloody lucky. Haven’t you read about blokes taking young girls away?’

  Jackie continued carrying on about safety and luck and selfishness – just as she had done every day for a week – until she left Angie on the corner of Lime Street, where, as usual, they parted to go off to their respective offices. But, this morning, Angie wasn’t actually planning to go in to work. Not to stay, anyway.

  She walked into the reception area of the company where she was now a telephone ordering clerk, plonked herself down on the big leather sofa, and buried her head in her hands.

  ‘Marge, could you do me a favour?’ she asked the sleek, thirtyish brunette, who was all but obscured by a massive vase of pale yellow lilies.

  Marge skipped round her desk and sat down beside her. ‘Are you all right, poppet?’ She took Angie’s hand.

  ‘Could you tell Miss Shanks I don’t feel well? I tried my best. But the train journey. It’s made me feel even worse.’

  ‘You should have stayed in bed.’

  Angie nodded miserably. ‘I know, but I’ve been so pleased with my new job, I didn’t want to let anyone down.’

  Marge put a hand on Angie’s forehead. ‘You do feel a bit warm.’

  That was news to Angie, who felt just fine, but she nodded in agreement. ‘I’m burning up.’

  ‘I’ll call a cab. And get you home.’

  ‘No. Please. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘I’ll put it on the company account.’

  ‘No, honestly, Marge. I’ll only get car sick. I’d rather go by train.’

  ‘Wait there.’ She went back to her desk and dialled through to Janet Shanks.

  ‘I feel terrible about letting you down, Miss Shanks.’ Angie smiled weakly at her supervisor. ‘I know how busy Monday mornings are.’

  Janet Shanks smiled back with a caring, pleasant expression, knowing that, if she wasn’t careful, Angela Knight would be off looking for a new job. Somehow, from being a totally innocuous little junior run-around, she had suddenly become Miss Telephone Sales Woman of the Century. It was driving Janet Shanks mad, but Angie’s enthusiasm for her new job, along with her bizarre desire to please and to work really hard, rather than to compete, had seen the sales figures soar.

  At least being the supervisor meant that she was taking most of the credit.

  ‘You nip off home and get yourself better,’ she smarmed brightly. ‘Your figures were fabulous last week, Angela. Just fabulous. You have a good rest and let us all have a chance to catch up with you.’

  ‘She won’t let me call her a cab,’ twittered Marge, who thrived on other people’s dramas.

  ‘I’m sure Angela knows what she’s doing,’ Janet said, asserting her authority over the receptionist.

  And she was right. Angie knew exactly what she was doing. By the time Miss Shanks was back in the department, fretting about sales figures and unanswered telephones, Angie was running down Gracechurch Street towards Monument underground station as if she were the sole competitor in the City of London’s very own version of the hundred yards dash.

  Angie stood by the revolving doors, trying hard to find the courage to enter the intimidating building, and wishing she hadn’t dressed quite so brightly that morning. Her pale lilac, moygashel minisuit might have been just the confident sort of outfit to wear for her new job, but it made her stand out from all the young people who were milling about in the sunshine outside Queen Mary College in the Mile End Road like a white feather in a crow’s wing.

  Taking a deep breath, she plunged in.

  ‘Yes?’ The bored-sounding woman, sitting behind the sliding glass panel, spoke without looking up.

  ‘How can I find Martin Murray, please?’

  ‘Course? Year?’

  ‘Economics, I think. Yes. Economics. First year.’

  ‘First year’s easy. Common courses.’ She still hadn’t looked up, but was now studying a colourful chart mapped out on graph paper. ‘Lecture theatre 3.’

  Astonished, but gratified by the woman’s lack of any concern regarding security, or even curiosity as to who she was, Angie, now with a genuine feeling of nausea, set off to find Martin.

  She cracked open the door just wide enough to see inside and was surprised to see that the lecture theatre was exactly that. She had been expecting something more like a classroom, but this was a massive, tiered room full of people. She’d never be able to find him in there, it would be like trying to find someone in the pictures after the main film had started. She would just have to wait until it was over.

  She waited for forty-five minutes, increasingly embarrassed by the interest she was arousing: superior sneers from many of the young women, appreciative glances from most of the young men.

  ‘Hello, Martin.’ Angie spoke before she noticed Jill was standing next to him.

  Martin looked shocked. ‘Squirt? Is everything all right? Is Jackie in trouble?’

  ‘Jackie’s fine. It’s me. I need to talk to you.’

  His mind was racing; whatever this was all about, he was sure he wouldn’t want Jill hearing it. ‘Jill, you remember Squirt. My little sister Jackie’s friend.’

  Angie and Jill both noted how he had stressed little sister’s friend.

  ‘I introduced you at Steve’s party?’

  ‘I remember.’ Jill’s smile was icy. ‘Hello, Squirt.’

  ‘My name’s Angie actually.’

  Jill looked at Martin. ‘Are you coming to the library, or are you too busy?’

  ‘I’ll see you there in about …’ He looked at his watch, then at Angie, then at Jill again. ‘Fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll see you then.’ Jill hauled her bag up on her shoulder and nodded at Angie. ‘Bye. Give my regards to Martin’s little sister.’

  ‘I think she’s upset,’ Angie said, watching her walk away along the corridor. She was secretly pleased at the effect she had had on the conceited cow, but didn’t want Martin to see her being spiteful. ‘I hope it wasn’t something I said.’

  ‘More like something you’ve done.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Squirt, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Can we get some coffee somewhere?’ An
ything to play for a bit of time.

  Martin managed to scrape up enough coppers from the bottom of his bag to buy them drinks in the college refectory. It was a big noisy room full of scruffy-looking students, all with piles of books, folders and files, and Angie felt even more out of place than she had in the corridor outside the lecture theatre.

  He set down two disposable plastic cups of hot brown, almost coffee-smelling liquid on the table, and sat opposite her on one of the ugly, dull red plastic chairs that, apart from Angie’s suit, provided the only splash of colour in the room. Black, dark grey, and sludge green seemed to be the predominant shades in students’ wardrobes.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Have you been avoiding me, Martin? I need to know. After what happened at Clacton, I …’ She had run out words, the words that she hadn’t even been able to run through and practise in her head before she got here, because, in all truth, she didn’t know what she wanted to say. She knew she wanted to be sure there was no hope of Martin feeling anything for her, before she made the telephone call. The call she had already half made up her mind she was going to make anyway. But there was still hope, that wild hope, no matter how small, that Martin was interested in her, that he had sort of slipped up, made a mistake, and that he would like to start all over again. But, if she was wrong, how could she say all that without making herself look even more pathetic?

  So she sipped at her drink instead.

  Martin felt the sweat begin to bead on his top lip. ‘But nothing happened at Clacton. Nothing.’

  ‘All right. What almost happened. I need to know, Martin. Did it mean anything to you?’

  ‘Squirt, I was drunk. You know I was.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  ‘And when you asked me to the party?’

  ‘Angie, I don’t mean to be unkind …’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m not some soppy lovesick kid.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re lovely. And I—’

  ‘Save it, Martin. I’ve made a fool of myself. Let’s leave it at that.’

  As Angie stood in the telephone box, her hands were shaking. Not only because she was about to make the call that part of her said was just about one of the stupidest things she had ever done, but because she had allowed herself to be humiliated all over again.

  But she had had to go to see Martin; had had to be sure that he really didn’t care about her. Because say he had cared about her all along, and she hadn’t done anything about it?

  And say she got home tonight and her mum had wallpapered her bedroom for her, had baked a cake and was wearing an apron and a great, big welcoming smile?

  Angie took the card from her bag and rang the number in Greek Street.

  ‘Mr Fuller, please,’ she said. ‘Tell him it’s Angel calling.’

  ‘Angie.’ Jackie hissed into the receiver, she wanted to shout, but didn’t want to cause a scene at work. ‘It’s nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Where the bloody hell are you calling from? I called you at twelve. To meet up. And they said they’d sent you home not well.’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘So what’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve taken the day off.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘I’m out. With a friend.’

  Jackie took a deep breath. ‘Angie. Where are you? What are you up to? And who are you with?’

  ‘I’m with David.’

  ‘That old bloke in the car? Are you barmy?’

  Angie hoped David couldn’t hear Jackie shrieking. ‘That’s right,’ she said casually. ‘And we’re at …’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Where are we, David?’

  ‘Westbourne Grove,’ he said. He looked amused for some reason.

  Angie looked at him and shrugged, not understanding.

  ‘West London.’

  ‘West London,’ she repeated to Jackie. ‘I didn’t want you hanging about for me at the station tonight.’

  ‘Very thoughtful.’

  ‘And, Jack. I need a favour.’

  Jackie sighed and shook her head, resigned now to the fact she had been coming to terms with during the past few weeks: she was no longer top dog in her friendship with Angie. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I told Mum I was going out with you tonight. All right?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Thanks. Bye.’

  Jackie jumped in before Angie had a chance to hang up. ‘Wait. Before you go. There’s something—’

  ‘I know what I’m doing, Jack.’

  ‘I know. I only wanted to say that I wish I wanted something so badly I just had to do it. There’s nothing I want that much. Nothing. And it’s a bit depressing.’

  ‘Don’t be put off by this place, Angel. It might look divey, but I’ve got to meet this bloke here. It shouldn’t take too long.’ David nodded at the doorman who waved them past the peeling, rusting railings, and on to the cracked path.

  It reminded Angie, far too closely for comfort, of the students’ house where she had been so shown up; right down to the booming music that was so loud she could feel it through her feet.

  ‘They all come here. All the stars. All the ones that David Bailey bloke photographs. This is the proper business, this is.’

  As they slowly went down the steep, metal stairs to the basement, clinging on to the greasy handrail, Angie wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Slumming, you see,’ he went on. ‘They like going to West End places like mine, the places to be seen in. But they come over this way, to Bayswater and Notting Hill and that, for a bit of excitement. They love this sort of thing. These West Indian clubs. All the famous stars and actors.’

  Despite what she had said to Jackie, Angie wasn’t convinced she knew what she was doing at all. Not any more. She was about to go with David Fuller, a man she knew nothing about – well, nothing except that he seemed to have loads of money, that he drove a big, shiny car, and he was probably at least fifteen years older than she was – into a club he had described as a dive, in the middle of the afternoon, in an unfamiliar part of London.

  When he had driven her to her nan’s he had said about taking her for a meal and to see a show. Some show this was turning out to be. She must have taken leave of her senses.

  To cover up her nerves, Angie said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Anyone ever told you, you look like that actor?’

  Had she really just said that?

  David held open the tatty, flaking door and gestured for her to go inside.

  ‘Don’t tell me. Michael Caine.’ He laughed, a warm, easy laugh, and winked at her, making her feel more good than gauche. Safe rather than quite so scared. ‘A lot of people say it. I’ll have to get together with him one day. Have a beer or two. So he can see who this Fuller bloke is, who everyone keeps telling him he looks like.’

  As they left the bright afternoon sunshine behind them and entered the dark, pulsating cave of the club, Angie found herself joining in with his laughter.

  ‘This is good music,’ Angie said. She was sitting stiffly, on a grubby chair, by a shabby, splintered table, worried about her new suit and holding the strong-smelling drink David had ordered for her at arm’s length, sure it would choke her.

  ‘It’s ska.’

  So, this was ska. ‘It’s good.’ Angie nodded as if she knew what he was talking about, and strained to make out the words so she could remember them for Jackie. Although she thought she probably wouldn’t tell her much about the club itself. David must have made it up, about famous people going there, because, for the life of her, she couldn’t see why anyone, let along a star, would go there. It was horrible. It would make Wyckham Hall in Romford look glamorous.

  When she thought about it, maybe David wasn’t as sophisticated as she’d thought. Maybe he only worked at the Canvas Club, for someone else, and he was borrowing his boss’s car. And a man of his age was probably married anyway.

  ‘See that black girl over there, by the bar
?’

  Angie peered through the gloom. ‘The one in the red dress?’

  ‘That’s the one. She’s going to be a top singing star, that girl. Fantastic voice. Georgie Fame introduced her to me. I might ask her to do a spot at my next party.’

  Angie’s uneasiness about the strange situation in which she had somehow found herself was instantly forgotten. ‘You know Georgie Fame?’

  ‘Yeah, really nice feller.’

  ‘I love his music. Especially “Yeh Yeh”.’

  ‘You’ll have to meet him.’ Suddenly distracted, David stood up. ‘Hang on a minute, Angel. That bloke I’ve got to see. He’s turned up. Won’t be long.’

  Angie was only a little disappointed to see that it wasn’t Georgie Fame.

  *

  Jackie jumped on to the tube just as the doors were closing.

  ‘No Angie tonight?’ asked a voice from somewhere inside a huddle of bored-looking strap-hangers.

  Jackie peered round a man, who was trying, not very successfully, to read the Evening Standard. ‘Rita!’ She was pleased to see it was one of the old schoolfriends she used to knock around with – before Angie’s transformation into a bloody dolly bird. One of the old friends she might well need again if Angie insisted on going through yet another transformation – into a flipping night-club queen. Despite Angie’s generosity, going up to the West End still hadn’t been a cheap night out: the fare alone would have bought a couple of pairs of tights, and the journey home had been a nightmare. Then, to top that, despite her elaborate tale about getting separated from all her mates, her mum had led off alarming when she had rolled in, soaking wet, after midnight. It was an experience Jackie wasn’t in a hurry to repeat.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She shoved her way past the now tutting Evening Standard reader to join her. ‘They sent her home from work. Not well.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Rita with a knowing look. ‘Sure it wasn’t a hangover?’

  ‘Actually,’ lied Jackie, coming over all protective – it was all right for her to have a go at Angie, but it was nothing to do with Rita – ‘it was her monthly.’

  Rita put on a sad face. ‘Poor thing.’ Then, without a pause, she added, ‘I heard you went to the Canvas Club.’