‘I can’t say I am but I’m not averse to getting down on my knees.’
Having done so, what she did next was not something you would see in any church.
December 1973
CHAPTER 8
But their new life together had not turned out to be so wonderful.
Rhys was lounging barefooted on the sofa, wearing his stripy pyjama bottoms and Led Zeppelin T-shirt, with one leg on, one leg off. He was watching the small black and white television set and laughing along to Are You Being Served?. An empty plate with knife and fork lay on the floor next to him, a smear of deep orange providing the clue that he’d eaten baked beans on toast for his tea. The new sitcom was turning out to be one of his favourite programmes though Vicki thought it was average. The two loops of wire aerial were fixed in their optimum position for reception on top of the set. The slightest adjustment would result in a screen of fuzzy dots and, on more than one occasion, Rhys had had to be sharp with Vicki to be careful not to knock it.
Vicki was sitting in the armchair, which still retained its shredded printed covers. Her legs were curled up beneath her and a blanket was keeping her warm. This was her usual position now, her own private nest, though, for the first eighteen months, they had always snuggled up together on the sofa. She stared blankly at the screen, wondering what Rhys found so funny in the ridiculous Mrs Slocombe and the unoriginal double-entendre of her ‘pussy’. Her spirits were low despite it being only a couple of weeks away from Christmas, a time of year she usually adored. Rhys had bought a miserable-looking fake Christmas tree, with shimmering silver foil for pine needles instead of the real ones that Vicki preferred. To her, the angel on top and assortment of dangling baubles looked as old and worn out as she was feeling and she wondered from where on earth he could possibly have bought them. Probably from Steptoe and Son, she mused, breaking out into the thinnest of smiles for the first time that evening.
The dreary tinsel stuck to the walls was not that much better, but then again, she couldn’t complain, for she had asked him to arrange the Christmas decorations in the first place. After all, he had been out of work since the summer, and had time on his hands, while she was bringing in the bacon building her career as a marketing manager in the London office of an American company that manufactured clothing fabrics. She loved the job and, although the company was quite happy to take its pound of flesh, she never complained. After only a few months, her boss had left and Rhys pushed her day and night for a week to apply for the open position. Vicki thought it a waste of time for she was certain that they would be seeking a more experienced person. Eventually, she agreed, calculating that even if she failed, the company would recognise her ambition. Incredibly, she had succeeded and now controlled a department of ten with only her new boss, the sales and marketing director, standing between her and the company’s top UK position itself, which carried the American corporate title of president. President Victoria Mitchell, Rhys would tease her in bed, bowing in reverence. He told her she’d make it before her thirtieth birthday. Once again she thought it nonsense but Rhys had the happy knack of proving her wrong time and time again. He truly believed in her ability, which only made her believe more confidently about herself, and she loved him for it.
As her mind wandered, she looked around herself. Not much had changed since their moving in together. The useless landlord and even more useless letting agent had still not resolved the mystery of the Ascot boiler, which burned one day and not the next, but at least it was going through one of its less erratic phases for the time being. The walls were now white, well, a pinky white, if Vicki was honest with herself, for even three coats of emulsion had not been sufficient to completely hide the pillar-box red beneath them. The window panes were as grimy as ever, more so in truth, for it was impossible to gain access to the outside to give them a good wipe. Boxes of clothes and books and lines of shoes ran the length of the bottoms of the walls as there was no other space for them. The same was true along both sides of the hallway which was now only passable in single file. In the bedroom, the black patch next to the window refused to disappear despite their best efforts and they had given up even trying. The old mattress had gone, thank God, and the new one was standing up well to their vigorous love-making - though, recently, it had not had much to stand up to at all. Vicki had taped a new poster of the now-famous Marc Bolan onto one of the walls and Rhys had joked whether this was because she secretly wished to lust over him when they were making love. Vicki had laughed uproariously at this but admitted to herself that it was not so far away from reality.
She only felt reasonably happy in the bathroom, which was modern at least, with an avocado-green bath tub and sink and white porcelain toilet. The canary-yellow tiles were acceptably clean, though, as there was no outside window or extractor fan, they had to wipe away some mould every now and again as the condensation settled in the grouting between the tiles and around the rim of the bath and sink. Rhys could be a bit tidier and cleaner in a perfect world, Vicki thought, but she had quickly come to realise that she was not living in a perfect world and, more disconcertingly, believed that she never might.
Thinking about the flat depressed her, so, for the umpteenth time, she closed her eyes and tried to shut it out. A loud cackle of laughter from Rhys drew her attention and, on re-opening them, she gazed down at him lying back on the sofa. Physically, he had changed little over the years though she had detected some flecks of grey in his hair by his temples which was now so long it covered his shoulders. He, too, had adopted a corkscrew hairstyle, in keeping with his idol, Robert Plant. Perhaps his stomach was not as washer board hard as when they had first met but then neither was hers in truth. She had put on weight recently though she still managed to fit into her work skirts easily enough. In reality, she knew they had stretched and expanded to accommodate her. Had she lost the incentive to stay trim? Was it a reflection of her relationship that she didn’t care anymore? Vicki recognised these as worrying signs.
But her greatest worry was that they had not made the slightest upward progression in their relationship. As an individual she had, but, as a couple, they had in fact regressed. They were still stuck in this shit hole of a flat with no prospect of leaving. How Vicki laughed at the initial suggestion that they would be gone within a year. The main reason for this, in fact the only reason, was Rhys. He had totally underestimated the cost of living in London and his meagre savings had been eaten up faster than a bowl of food in front of a well-walked dog. But, fundamentally, the main problem had been his inability to hold down a job. He had lasted three months at Marks and Spencer before being told he had failed his probationary period. He was diligent but often lackadaisical and too trusting in the punctuality of the London Underground system. When the Sieff family themselves had begun to complain about the tardiness of their mail, Rhys was deemed responsible and his departure became inevitable. This had come as a terrible blow to him and it was two weeks before he plucked up the courage to tell his mother, who was nonetheless understanding. They had even both raised a chuckle when Rhys told her to forget about any discounted knickers for now and roared in laughter when she replied that she would have to go without as a consequence. He was determined to find a similar job and registered with a number of agencies, and every day, without fail, he would scour the appointments pages of the Evening Standard. Interviews came and went with no success and, as time passed by, Rhys became increasingly despondent. Vicki was his rock, however, constantly encouraging him and telling him not to give up, which raised his spirits. But weeks without work turned into months, during which Rhys had been able to contribute barely one new penny to their financial commitments which rested heavily upon Vicki’s shoulders. Her promotion had helped, but, at the end of each month, she found she had little left to build any savings.
Eventually, Rhys accepted that it was time to hang up his suit and put on his overalls again. He had desperately wanted to avoid going back to a job in a warehouse but he couldn’t live
with himself being a burden on Vicki. Accordingly, he returned to what he knew best, however badly paid, but even this was not without difficulty as tough economic times led to his being laid off on three separate occasions, joining the scarcely believable one million unemployed which the country registered for the first time in its history. Rhys blamed Heath and the uncaring Tories for this and longed for Labour to return to power. His last job had been at a timber merchant’s in Putney which he had held down for almost a year. But since being let go, there had been nothing. He had tried hard to find work, for he was no slacker, but, for now, Lady Luck was deserting him.
The suit had made another airing, nonetheless, when Vicki and Rhys had attended the wedding of Giles and Sophie in the summer, just two weeks after Rhys had lost his job in Putney. It had been held in the delightful St Nicholas Parish Church in Arundel, followed by a reception in Arundel Castle itself. It had been an exquisite affair with the great and the good of Sussex and London society in attendance. Vicki had felt completely at home mixing with her old friends, but, for Rhys, the whole day had been worse than torture. At the reception, he found himself sitting next to Jeremy and some other chinless wonders and contributed little to nothing in the way of conversation, not understanding anything they were talking about. Their attempts to include him, by asking about his work, led him into telling a number of tongue-tied, far-fetched lies about a managerial position in a multi-national timber merchant’s, with a head office in Sweden, from where they sourced the wood. Vicki cringed in embarrassment, her cheeks suffusing with blood, when she observed the sceptical looks on the faces around her. The closest the owner of the timber merchant’s in Putney had ever been to Sweden was when he watched his favourite seedy films in a dingy cinema in Soho.
There had been one conversation at the reception, however, to which Rhys had contributed, but, after which, he experienced real unease. His table had been discussing the militant miners who, if not out on strike, were constantly threatening. Everyone at the table had been appalled at their behaviour, believing them to be holding the country to ransom for unreasonable demands in pay and working conditions. When Jeremy had commented that he would like nothing more than to line them all up and shoot them down, everyone had laughed, with the exception of Rhys, but, to his horror, including Vicki. He noted how she nodded when another criticism of the miners was opined around the table while at home she was always more sympathetic. Vicki had always supported the need to improve the lives and conditions of the working class and had always voted Labour in general elections. It was the goodness of her heart that was one of her main attractions to Rhys and vice versa. They both cared about people, particularly vulnerable ones. But now she was agreeing with the almost fascist opinions of the likes of Jeremy. Rhys looked at her with an expression as hard as drill bits, but she ignored him. When Rhys entered the conversation with insightful comments in support of the miners, everyone listened, firstly in shock that he actually possessed a tongue, and, secondly, because his arguments carried merit. But, ultimately, no one could agree or support his views, not even Vicki. When the conversation moved onto another subject, he looked daggers at her once again, but, as before, she ignored him. Rhys was so inwardly annoyed that he even ungraciously thought that Vicki’s sober suit and absurd wide-brimmed hat only served to age her and make her look as frumpy as her mother. The episode played restlessly on their minds for the rest of the day but neither of them ever mentioned it again.
How Rhys hated Jeremy and Giles and their cronies. When he and Vicki had first moved to London, they had met up on occasion when Fiona was in town or at the invitation of Sophie. Giles’s penthouse was stupendous with a direct view of the wonderful Lord’s pavilion while Jeremy’s house off Kensington High Street was equally impressive, if not more so. It would have been churlish to believe otherwise and both Vicki and Rhys had complimented them warmly and genuinely, wishing them well in their new homes. It hadn’t mattered to them in the slightest that their flat bore no comparison; they were deliriously happy. But, as time went on, and further opportunities arose to meet up with Sophie and Giles and Jeremy and Fiona or even Vicki’s other old housemate, Jill, when she was in town with her equally affluent boyfriend, Rhys would more often than not make an excuse and leave Vicki to go off by herself. Eventually, it came to the point when she didn’t even ask him anymore.
Latterly, this arrangement suited Vicki more and more as she took the opportunity to discuss Rhys with her best friends. Sophie, Jill and Brenda from the office could not fail to notice how increasingly unhappy Vicki was becoming, but, in equal measure, she could not hide the obvious love and affection she still held for him. But her circumstances depressed her: the shitty flat with no prospect of leaving; the financial pressures; Rhys’s depressions, though he tried desperately to hide them from her; the feeling that they were doing less and less as a couple together; their diminishing sex life. Vicki confided in her friends how she would love to get married and start a family, but how could she? Most upsettingly, she wondered whether she and Rhys would ever be in a position to do so. And yet, he was so caring and loving and strong, and in possession of a heart that held more gold than Fort Knox. He never interfered in anything she wanted to do. She could do what she liked, when she liked. He never told her what she could or could not wear or when she could or could not go out. He was not possessive in the slightest and she felt free, without any shackles, which was wonderful. Her friends often shifted in their chairs when Vicki said these things for she knew their boyfriends were not so accommodating.
Pleasingly, Vicki had made up with her family as, ultimately, the love between them was too strong. Her parents had concluded that there was nothing they could do about her relationship with Rhys. It was up to Vicki now. She was a big girl and she would have to live and learn through her own mistakes. They had given vent to their feelings and, despite her protestations, knew that deep down she would reflect upon them. They had never visited her flat for Vicki had never invited them. They suspected the reasons why and never pushed it. In fact, Mrs Mitchell was inwardly relieved, for it would have depressed her no end to witness her daughter living in what she would regard as a hovel.
They had encountered Rhys on just two other occasions since their first meeting, both times being on Christmas Day, in 1971 and 1972. To their surprise, they had actually warmed to him a little for, despite all his faults, he was invariably kind and well-mannered, and often funny. They could also see how much their daughter loved him. Nonetheless, it never changed their opinion that he was wrong for her and that he would hold her back, as events were proving to show. As time moved on, Mrs Mitchell’s maternal antennae were picking up on Vicki’s unease and doubts, and she suspected that it would only be a matter of time before Vicki came to her senses. When she learnt that Vicki would be coming for Christmas by herself this year, as Rhys had decided to spend it in Wales, she knew that that time was not so far away.
‘Hey, Vick, I know you don’t like the programme but you’ve got to admit this John Inman bloke is really funny. That poofy walk of his is hilarious.’
‘Yeah, he’s quite funny, I suppose,’ Vicki replied in a disconsolate tone.
‘It’s gonna be really weird in January when the telly goes off at half ten. Well, that’s what you get if you vote Tory. Bring back Harold, I say.’
Vicki didn’t reply. Politics was the last thing on her mind. The previous evening, the Prime Minister, Edward Heath, had announced that due to the continuing industrial action on the part of the miners, Britain would go onto a three-day working week from the start of the New Year. One of the measures introduced to reduce energy consumption was the early closing down of television programmes each evening. Rhys’s comment only served to depress her further for it was a reminder that the New Year was lining up to be a miserable time of austerity everywhere. Britain is as shitty as this flat … and this relationship, she mused. She was determined to do something about it and decided to think long and hard over Christ
mas.
But then, all of a sudden, Vicki perked up as she remembered the party she was going to the following evening. A customer of her company had invited her and a few colleagues to a Christmas bash at his apartment in the newly built high-rise tower of the Barbican Estate, a prestigious development in the City of London. Initially, Vicki had not been in the mood, but Brenda had badgered her for days on end about it and, eventually, she gave in and reluctantly agreed to go. It was a clear sign of her worsening relationship that she had not asked Rhys to accompany her even though partners were invited. As ever, Rhys was happy for Vicki to do as she pleased and hoped that she would have a good time. It was also a clear sign of her worsening relationship that the deciding argument for her agreeing to go was when Brenda threw into the conversation with a saucy grin, “And, who knows, you might even get to meet someone nice”. Brenda knew that Vicki was ready to move on, that the dew was running off the rose.
And Vicki did meet someone nice. He was one of the most famous men in the country.
CHAPTER 9
Tommy Slater was lying on his back in his king-size bed, his hands behind his head, moving his neck and eyes only a fraction to observe the spacious and comfortable surrounds of his newly acquired apartment in the Cromwell Tower of the Barbican Estate. He approved of what he saw and was pleased that he bought it. In the background, Tubular Bells was playing on low volume, a record he adored and never failed to play at least once a day like seemingly everyone else in the country.
The modern apartment was bright and airy, and so new that the smell of paint and plaster still lingered. There were plans for two additional towers on the estate and he was certain that their apartments would sell like hot cakes just like the ones in his. It even crossed his mind whether property development was something he could pursue after he hung up his football boots, for the current captain of West Ham United and England was savvy enough to know that that day was not so many years ahead and, were he to pick up a bad injury, considerably sooner. He didn’t fancy buying and running a pub like the vast majority of retired professional footballers. Yes, property development was definitely something to think about for the future, he mused, for it seemed an easy way to make a shedload of money very quickly indeed.
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