Decade

by Roberto Rabaiotti

  Vicki lapped some more water over her breasts as she contemplated this. It was a pleasant feeling to be alone even if only for a few minutes. Tommy could be so stifling at times, she thought, recalling how he barely let her out of his sight on their honeymoon and how he gave off his air of disapproval whenever she went out with her friends in London. Vicki had wanted Karen to come and stay again when Tommy went off on West Ham’s pre-season tour, but he had flatly refused, as if he was worried they would go out and rip up the town and fuck every man in sight.

  Why was he so possessive? Vicki knew Tommy was madly in love with her and cherished a family, as she did. Was he afraid of losing her? Vicki believed this to be unquestionably part of the reason. The closer they had become, the more he seemed to fear that she might leave him, for she represented everything he wanted in a wife. As a result, his controlling instinct took over. How she longed to have more freedom … just like when she was with Rhys.

  The water was cooling down and goose bumps rose on her shoulders when she raised herself up momentarily. She leaned forward and pulled out the plug. When a third of the water had drained away, she put the plug back in and leaned back once more. With the big toe of her right foot, the nail painted a pale pink shade, she pushed at the hot water tap and the water rushed through the fish’s mouth once more as though it was vomiting. When the water covered her shoulders, she pulled at the tap with her toe and the fish stopped spewing. A few tiny beads of perspiration formed on her brow. With her mind turning to Tommy once again, she chastised herself for her critical reflections. She did love him after all, she convinced herself, just about, and she had been thrilled when he had asked her to marry him. She would not have accepted if she did not love him, surely? Didn’t they both want to start a family? Of course they did. Having a baby was their dream and soon they would make it happen. As Vicki lapped more water over her breasts, making the nipples stand out proud, she started to worry why she was suddenly so questioning of him. She put it down to her grumpy mood and was certain it would pass quickly. Well, she hoped it would, anyway.

  Vicki thought back to their wedding day just a couple of weeks earlier. Unbelievably, the weather had been terrible as rain cascaded from the skies, the only day in June it had rained all month. Was this a sign? Was the Almighty telling her something? She shook her head at such ridiculous questions.

  The day had passed off well enough, though the church in Whitechapel was modern and rather scruffy. Tommy was adamant about having the ceremony there and, as ever, he got his way. Vicki had finally relented after a serious argument for she had so longed to marry in her local parish church, St Peter & St Paul’s, in Godalming, a perfect setting, and where a church had stood for over a thousand years. Wasn’t it her prerogative as the bride to decide where she would get married? Not in Tommy’s book.

  The guest list was dominated by Tommy’s friends and family and included a scattering of well-known figures in the fields of sport and entertainment. The whole day was too brash for Vicki’s taste and, while her parents said nothing about it, she knew they thought the same. Everyone was friendly, nevertheless, and many of Tommy’s friends made her laugh on numerous occasions. There were plenty of rough diamonds among them but they were warm, genuine and welcoming people even if one or two of them had seriously troubled the magistrates in their time. Ironically, the one person she did not care for was Tommy’s best man, Freddie Butcher. Vicki had met him a few times before and, in her eyes, he was a nasty piece of work, though Tommy would have been furious with her if she ever admitted such a thing. It was only at the wedding that she learnt that his nickname was The Flick, and the reason why. The knowledge made her stomach churn.

  But one overriding memory of the wedding day stood out for her and it was a memory she would never be able to share with anyone else. When her father escorted her down the aisle to the sound of Here Comes The Bride, her mouth stretched from ear to ear in apparent joy, she could not stop herself from wishing that the man who awaited her was Rhys.

  And it was Rhys who came to mind now as she lapped more water over her breasts. She missed him … more than she could ever have imagined. They had lost touch, to her profound regret, and it was only when Karen had told her about their get-together that she discovered what was happening in his life. Things were clearly not going well for him at all, which consumed Vicki with guilt, for, rightly or wrongly, she felt responsible for a lot of his pain and anguish. When Karen told her he was missing her terribly, Vicki’s disconsolation mirrored that of Rhys’s and it took a big effort not to burst into tears.

  Initially, she had been so infatuated with Tommy that, cruelly, she hadn’t given Rhys a moment’s thought, but, as her relationship settled down and she came to know Tommy better, the contrast in the way he treated her and how Rhys had treated her became more apparent and her mind frequently wandered back to the wonderful memories of their time together. Nevertheless, it was the correct decision to leave him, she tried to convince herself for the thousandth time, as she stretched out her legs, her feet rising and appearing either side of the gormless fish. Observing them, she twiddled her toes, remembering fondly how Rhys so liked to play with them. The memory turned her on and she brushed the fingers of her right hand across a nipple before lightly rubbing it between her forefinger and thumb. But, thinking rationally, what Karen had revealed only confirmed what she had believed all along, that they would never have had a bright future together if they had remained a couple.

  Periodically, Tommy would ask her about Rhys, increasingly so as time went on. He wanted to know more about his character, what they had done together, where they had gone together and, most distastefully, which angered Vicki no end, what they had done together in bed … or elsewhere. Tommy’s jealousy grew more intense and, while at the beginning it was understandable, lately, he had barely been able to contain his fury at the mention of his name. Ironically, and to Vicki’s exasperation, it was Tommy who did the mentioning, not her. But as Vicki wiped some perspiration off her brow, she wondered yet again why? Was she projecting positive vibes about Rhys without her knowing it? Was it obvious to Tommy when he observed her faraway expression that she was thinking about Rhys? This was not the first time she’d had these reflections, but now she was more readily willing to believe that her feelings for Rhys were being picked up by Tommy.

  And why had Tommy lied to the press? Why? It was obvious. He had wanted to make a point; that he was a winner; that he had succeeded; that he was number one; and that Rhys was a loser and a bum. That whole episode made Vicki shiver with anger, despite the warm water, as it always did whenever she thought about it.

  On the morning of their wedding, an interview that Tommy and Vicki had given to the Daily Mail a few days earlier had appeared with great fanfare. In it, they expressed their happiness and excitement and talked openly about the love they felt for each other and how they wished passionately to start a family. It was a much sought-after interview for interest in the marriage of the England football captain was immense. They had both been delighted at the way it had gone and afterwards posed for some typical ‘happy couple’ photographs, some of which appeared alongside the interview.

  As Fiona tended to her sister in her hotel room that morning, their mother brought in a copy of the newspaper. They were eager to read the double-page centre spread and opened it flat across the bed. The pictures were excellent and the interview informative, light-hearted and well written. But right at the end, some quotes were attributed to Vicki which she knew she never said. They stated how lucky she was to be marrying such a person of distinction and how she shuddered at the memory of her former boyfriend who had turned out to be a drunk and a waster, and how Tommy had rescued her from a potential life of drudgery. She concluded by saying that when she was younger, she had made a number of foolish decisions, the most regrettable of which being her entering into a nightmare relationship she wished most emphatically to forget.

  Vicki was furious when she read these quotes
and this episode only served to put her on an edge she could have done without for the rest of the most important day of her life. She knew Tommy was behind it, in cahoots no doubt with that crony of an interviewer. It was only when they were boarding the flight to Nice the following day that she confronted him about it. Tommy angrily denied telling lies and even had the front to tell Vicki that he swore he heard her saying what had been attributed to her and that she could not simply backtrack now. When they stopped arguing, Tommy sat back in his seat to await the take-off and closed his eyes, but Vicki couldn’t help noticing a satisfied grin on his face as if he were the Duke of Wellington leaving the fields of Waterloo victorious in battle. Neither of them said a word to each other the whole flight. The honeymoon had got off to a bad start and, in Vicki’s opinion, it never got better.

  ‘Get a grip of yourself,’ Vicki suddenly blurted out in the bath, in an attempt to rid her mind of these depressing recollections. She even turned her head round to the door, fearing that Tommy might have heard her. But, thankfully, no looming shadow approached the frosted glass. Vicki turned her head back round and made herself comfortable once more. ‘You’ve got to move on,’ she scolded herself in a whisper. ‘What happened in the past is over. You’re married to a wonderful person now. Forget Rhys.’ Her words were forthright and decisive. But as she lapped yet more water over her breasts, she knew she was kidding herself and her forefinger and thumb played gently once more with her nipple. She couldn’t get the picture of Rhys doing the same to her out of her mind and, on this occasion, she didn’t try to. Closing her eyes and feeling aroused, she moved her left hand down between her legs and lightly rubbed herself with the end of her forefinger, imagining that it was Rhys’s tongue. Soon, the rubbing became swifter and, with a low sigh, she brought herself to orgasm.

  ‘You’ve been in there long?’

  ‘Yeah, it was just nice to relax and have a good soak,’ Vicki replied contentedly, wrapping a towel around her hair. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  ‘That’d be great, thanks.’

  Fortunately for Vicki, Tommy had moved from the bedroom into the kitchen where he was perched on a stool by the counter. He stood up and poured some water into the kettle before flicking down the switch to let it boil. He grabbed a claret and blue West Ham United mug from the cupboard and tipped a teaspoon of brown Nescafé granules inside. He added a splash of milk and a sweetener which he knew Vicki always took. Vicki sat down on another stool and rubbed at her hair. She was wearing a white fluffy dressing gown and her skin glowed a healthy shade of pink.

  ‘Now that you’re here, Vicki, I wanted to talk to you about something. I was going to mention it in Cannes but I thought I’d leave it till we got back.’ Vicki continued to rub at her hair, wondering what Tommy had on his mind. But before Tommy said another word he turned round and enveloped her in his arms. Vicki stood up and they kissed quickly on the lips. ‘I’m so happy, Vicki. I can’t believe I’m married to such a gorgeous girl and to think we might even have a little toddler running around before long. Having a beautiful family at home is the most important thing in the world to me.’

  ‘Yeah, same here,’ Vicki replied a little less enthusiastically.

  ‘I can be a bit old fashioned at times, you know that, but sometimes the old ways are the best. Going out to work and coming back home to a loving wife in an immaculate house, just like my old man did, is something I’ve always wanted.’ Vicki didn’t say a word, fearing what Tommy was building up to. Her smiling face changed to one of curiosity. In the background, the kettle came to boil and steam blasted out of its nozzle. Knowing that whatever Tommy wanted, he got, his next words stunned her. But, with resignation, she knew she couldn’t beat him in a fight and her eyes began to moisten. ‘That’s why I want you to resign and give up your job on Monday.’

  August 1976

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Thanks, Rhys, that was great.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ Rhys replied with a contented grin as he removed the empty plates from the table where two regular customers were sitting. He took them straight into the kitchen and placed them on top of a high pile of dirty dishes. Eleni was at the sink in her red and white striped apron trying hard to keep up with the conveyor-belt of crockery and cutlery coming her way.

  ‘This is like painting the Forth Bridge,’ she blurted out as she scrubbed away.

  Rhys laughed as he picked up two plates of sausage, mash and onion gravy from the table beside Christos who was standing in front of the cooker wearing his fat-splattered, grey-white chef’s jacket. The three of them were perspiring, as not only was the kitchen like a furnace, but also because they were in the midst of the hottest summer in years. It was thirty-five degrees outside. Test Match Special was on the radio, high up on a shelf next to an ineffectual, anthracite-black grease-smeared fan, and the heat was certainly on the England cricket team as Brian Johnson relayed the fall of yet another wicket at the hands of the scorching-hot West Indian fast bowler, Michael Holding.

  ‘What a great team they are, these West Indians,’ the cricket-mad Christos commented. Rhys lingered a moment before serving the customers, turning his ear to the radio, eager to hear the latest score. He loved cricket almost as much as rugby and was endlessly fascinated that a Greek-Cypriot did so as well, seeing as there was no history of the game in his part of the world. ‘Viv scored two ninety and that must be Holding’s tenth or eleventh wicket in the match so far. It’ll be all over soon.’

  ‘Yeah, and let that be a lesson to Tony Greig. All he’s managed to do is fire them up. What the heck does he expect if he goes round saying how much he wants to make them grovel? The West Indies are hardly likely to take a white South African-born captain of England saying that lying down.’

  Christos chuckled as he placed a pork chop into a frying pan which instantly burst into a sizzle. ‘You’re right there, Rhys.’

  Rhys returned to the dining area and placed the plates in front of two burly workmen who were wearing baggy shorts and vests, though their feet were shod in sturdy thick-soled boots. They, too, were perspiring and had already gulped down their pints of orange squash in two seconds flat. As Rhys brought them some ketchup and mustard from another table, he caught sight of a customer who had finished his plate of bacon, eggs and fried bread and, moving towards him, asked whether he would like a dessert.

  ‘I think I’ll have a nice bowl of vanilla ice cream, Rhys. It’s so bloody hot,’ he answered, wiping his brow with a napkin.

  ‘Ice cream coming up,’ Rhys replied with a grin, picking up the empty plate and cutlery, wiping away some crumbs and sponging down the table before striding back into the kitchen. Once there, the extended applause from the radio indicated that the West Indies had taken another wicket. ‘What’s happened, Christos?’

  ‘Selvey’s out, first ball. Clean bowled Holding. That’s his fourteenth wicket they just said, amazing. One more to go and the match will be all over.’ Eleni puffed out her cheeks as Rhys placed the dirty plate on top of the never-ending pile and sought a dessert bowl for the ice cream. ‘It’s been a brilliant summer for the West Indians around here, thrashing England the way they have,’ Christos carried on, moving the pork chop around the frying pan with a fork. ‘You can tell by the look on their faces how happy they are whenever they come in. Good luck to them, I say, they’re really nice people.’

  ‘Yeah, I agree with you, Christos. Showing Greig up like that is one in the eye for apartheid. They’re disgusting, those racist supremacists back in South Africa. Who do they think they are?’

  Christos and Eleni nodded in agreement but said nothing, busying themselves in their work. Rhys found a clean dessert bowl and walked over to the fridge. The mention of apartheid brought back yet more memories of Vicki. It had only been five minutes since he had thought of her last. He was finding it impossible to get her out of his mind. Like him, she was so against what was happening in South Africa. Rhys wondered whether this was still th
e case, recalling how she had seemingly changed her tune over the miners. He hoped not and believed deep down that she wouldn’t have changed her views. She had a good heart, he reflected, just like he did. As he opened the large, round ice cream tub, a relieving flow of cold air was released and he lowered his head to feel it on his face. He dug into the rock-hard block, struggling to produce two good-sized scoops for a customer he particularly liked. He finally managed it and replaced the lid. When he turned round, ready to deliver it to the customer, Christos was standing in front of him, wiping his hands on a tea towel, his expression serious.

  ‘Are you planning on shooting off tonight, Rhys?’

  ‘No, not really. I’ve got nothing arranged.’

  ‘Ah, good, because Eleni and I would like to have a chat with you when we close.’

  Rhys felt his stomach churn for Christos sounded very matter-of-fact rather than his usual happy-go-lucky self. He was certain he had bad news for him. ‘Yeah, fine,’ he answered, trying, but failing, to hide the concern in his voice.

  ‘Maybe after we lock up you can stay behind a few minutes. It shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘Sure, Christos. No problem.’

  ‘Good.’ And with that, Christos turned round, read Rhys’s scribble on a small piece of paper, and sought the ingredients.

  Rhys walked past him and out of the kitchen, ice cream in hand. His mind was in a spin. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. It was the only good thing that had happened to him since he and Vicki had split up, the only bit of stability he had in his life, the only reason he got out of bed every morning. Without it, he feared he’d just rot away in his hovel of a bedsit, drinking himself to an early death, with only Vicki’s picture to keep him sane. After serving the ice cream in a daze, he failed to acknowledge the customer’s gratitude for the first time ever.