Rhys nodded but couldn’t look either of them in the eye. It was no wonder Christos and Eleni were successful because they spoke sense and knew how to go about their business the correct way. He had to take inspiration from them for they were right.
‘Anyway,’ Christos resumed, standing up, ‘we’ve taken up far too much of your time. Think about what we said. This could be the making of you, Rhys.’
‘Thanks.’
Twenty minutes later, Rhys was lying on his bed, wearing only his underpants. His window was wide open but not a breath of air wanted to enter. With his hands behind his head, he could whiff the perspiration under his armpits but it didn’t concern him. His eyes were fixed on a small piece of cracked plaster near the grubby plastic lampshade in the centre of the ceiling and he wondered how long it would take before it fell down like so many other pieces before it. In the background, Bob Marley was wailing away and the aroma of ganja was so prevalent he tried to breathe it in himself. Rhys didn’t need to be a rocket scientist at NASA to know from which room it came as the ecstatic Rastafarian celebrated the West Indies’ demolition of England at the Oval.
As Rhys contemplated the race between two daddy longlegs across the ceiling, he wondered whether he had just taken part in a life-changing conversation or whether the heat had made him delirious with wild and weird dreams. No, he was not dreaming. He was so grateful to Christos and Eleni that he wanted to accept their offer there and then solely to help them fulfil their ambition of returning to Cyprus before winter gripped rather than because of any benefits it would bring to him. But, unquestionably, this was a life-changing moment. He would be mad not to accept. The figures made sense and he was sure he could ask Mr Partridge for whatever financial help and advice he might need going forward. Not only that but he had never had the confidence before to suggest to Christos and Eleni that they were being far too generous in the amount of space they were giving their customers in the dining area. After all, he didn’t think it his place. But on numerous occasions they had had to turn customers away and Rhys was certain he could fit in two more tables and eight more chairs without inconveniencing anyone sitting at the other tables. He also felt the Supreme could attract more customers by adding to the menu. Italian food was always popular and simple but hearty lasagne and spaghetti bolognese dishes would surely be welcomed.
With his mind working overtime, Rhys realised that he would have to find two new members of staff to replace Christos and Eleni and, momentarily, he became worried at the cost. But just as quickly the worry dissipated, for he was certain he would have to pay them less than what Christos and Eleni were currently taking out of the business for themselves. His confidence growing, Rhys smiled at the knowledge that, within half an hour of their conversation, he had already managed to increase the takings and reduce the outgoings. Yes, he would be mad not to accept and the thought sent shivers of excitement down his spine.
But what clinched it for him was the incredible prospect of living in a beautiful, spacious flat, which he would own, rather than the dump he now rented. He would be a property owner with his own business. He couldn’t believe it! His parents would be proud of him beyond belief … as would Vicki. The flat above the Supreme was made up of three large double bedrooms, a long rectangular lounge and similar size and shape kitchen. The bathroom was square and spacious enough to include a bath tub and separate shower unit. Not only that but the flat was immaculate and newly decorated. In fact, Rhys had helped Christos paint the walls. On no occasion had he witnessed any of the familiar black patches of damp that seemed to follow him around and all the kitchen units were new. It even possessed a washing machine. What luxury! Rhys shivered once more at the prospect of owning his own place and marvelled in the knowledge that, for the first time since leaving Wales six years ago, the kitchen was not a part of the living room.
Yes, he had to accept, this was the moment his life would change. After all, he knew he could not go on as it was. Christos was right; he had deteriorated both physically and mentally in recent times. As Rhys recalled Christos’s words of warning, he looked across at Vicki’s photograph on the table beside him. His stomach knotted as he contemplated her moonlight smile and in an effort to prevent the depths of depression he knew would soon befall him coming on, he jumped up from the bed and walked over to the fridge. He grabbed the half-full bottle of Johnny Walker from its top and poured himself a measure that nearly filled a tumbler. He returned to the bed and sat down on its edge, cradling and looking down at the brown liquid which he then swilled around in the glass. He considered it for a few seconds before placing it on the table next to Vicki’s picture.
Hearing the news from Karen that Vicki was getting married was devastating enough but when he had read the pre-wedding feature in the Daily Mail, it was as if a JCB digger had ripped out his guts. Their relationship had meant nothing to her. He was a waste of space with nothing to offer, a nightmare. He had read this last word at least a thousand times. All the feelings he thought she had once had for him were a mirage, a lie. He felt worthless and seriously wondered what the point was of going on, drinking three-quarters of a bottle of whisky in an hour, as if it was water, before passing out. In many respects he was lucky, for if he hadn’t passed out and carried on guzzling the whisky the way he had been, then he might not have survived. When he came round, his face was lying in a pile of puke. Though disgusting, he realised he had been fortunate not to have choked on his own vomit and died like so many rock stars had done and that the emptying of his stomach had reduced the chances of alcohol poisoning. After this episode, he had stayed in bed for two days, the picture of depression and desolation. Many times afterwards he had considered other means of suicide, but, in truth, he never came close to carrying them out. He still harboured the belief that Vicki possessed a real love for him, however deluded he often considered himself. But it was enough to keep him alive.
It did not stop him from drinking, however, and from spending evening after evening alone in his hovel. He had stopped meeting his only friend in London from his previous job at the timber merchant’s for the odd pint in The Falcon and even lost touch with his friends back home in Pontypridd. On two occasions, Don, Ian and Dai had reason to come to London, the first time to see the supposedly future of rock ‘n’ roll at the Hammersmith Odeon called Bruce Springtime, or something like that, and the other to see some new band that was all the rage called the Sex Pistols. They had tried to get in touch with Rhys in the hope of crashing out on his floor, but Rhys had never got back to them. And now, he had not heard from them in months. And why should he? If he couldn’t be bothered with them, why should they be bothered with him? As Rhys recalled this from the edge of his bed, he squirmed and shut his eyes in shame.
Christos and Eleni were right. He had to pull himself together. It was time to move on. Vicki was gone. He had to accept it. As he thought once more about their proposal, Rhys understood clearly that this was the day a line had to be drawn in the sand to separate his past from his future. Christos and Eleni, God bless them. Outside of his parents and, for a time, Vicki, they were the only two people he had ever met who believed in him, who thought he had some value, something to offer in life. This knowledge moistened his eyes and he wiped them with the back of his hand. He was not useless after all and recognising this brought greater waves of emotion crashing over him. The dams in his ducts having been breached, the tears began to flow freely, forming a tiny pool of water on the floor, and he could not stop himself from blubbing like a toddler who had lost his favourite toy. Christos and Eleni, God bless them. Yes, he would accept their offer.
A few minutes later, Rhys regained his composure, blew his nose and sighed deeply. Instinctively, he stretched out his hand and grabbed the tumbler of whisky. He contemplated it for what seemed forever before, taking two paces to the sink, he poured it down the plughole.
‘Well, Rhys, Christos, everything seems to be in order, so once the legal side is all tied up, we’ll release th
e money.’ A smiling Mr Partridge peered over his half-moon spectacles at his two clients who, in turn, smiled back.
Rhys, wearing his C&A suit for the first time in years, mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ His throat was so dry he could barely make himself heard.
‘Christos, you’ll soon be lying under that wonderful Mediterranean sun, and Rhys, you’ll shortly be the proud owner of an excellent business. The bank is glad to have been of service.’
‘Thank you,’ Rhys repeated, fidgeting in his chair, for his waistline and behind were straining the fabric in his trousers. ‘Rest assured, Mr Partridge, you’ll receive the same quality of food and service you were used to under Christos.’
‘That’s good to hear. I look forward to being one of your first customers then,’ the bank manager replied in a happy tone.
‘And if either of you are ever in Cyprus, there’s always a bed waiting for you at our home,’ Christos cut in generously.
‘That’s a very kind offer. Thank you, Christos,’ Mr Partridge replied. Rhys nodded at the same time. ‘Well, I think that concludes our business unless you have any other questions?’ Mr Partridge declared, closing the file in front of him.
Rhys threw his head back and slapped his brow with his hand. ‘Oh, I forgot, sorry. I should have mentioned it earlier.’ As Mr Partridge and Christos looked at him expectantly, Rhys dipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieved an oblong piece of paper, folded in two. He opened it out. ‘I’ve got a cheque for you here, Mr Partridge, for three hundred pounds.’ Rhys choked and found it difficult to continue and the bank manager and Christos noticed his eyes moisten. When Rhys had discussed Christos’s proposal with his parents over the phone, they had been thrilled for him. What Rhys had not expected a few days later, however, was a cheque for three hundred pounds which he knew was everything his parents had to their name. An accompanying note explained that it was a little something to reduce the loan and help him on his way. Then, as now, Rhys had been overwhelmed by his parents’ support and vowed that he would return their generosity with interest one day so that they would have a comfortable old age.
Rhys coughed and wiped his eyes before he resumed. ‘I know it’s not much in the scheme of things, but it’s a little something to show my commitment.’ Mr Partridge and Christos smiled. They did not know where the money came from but were correct in their suspicions.
‘That’s good, Rhys,’ Mr Partridge replied with a nod, opening the file. Like all bank managers, he liked nothing better than to see some financial commitment from his clients. ‘I’ll make the adjustment to the loan,’ he went on, taking the cheque and scribbling a few figures on a piece of paper. ‘Well, unless there’s anything else, I think that’s it.’
Christos and Rhys looked at each other to signal their agreement and the three of them all stood up simultaneously, shaking each other’s hands in turn. As Christos made to leave the office, Rhys put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Christos turned around and, to his surprise, Rhys hugged him tightly, tears glistening in his eyes which he fingered away. Christos’s eyes watered, too, and he patted Rhys lightly on the back as if he was the son he had never had.
June 1977
CHAPTER 15
‘What the heck, look at you!’ Rhys regretted it the second he said it. He hoped his exclamation had not appeared rude, but he couldn’t believe his eyes at Karen’s appearance when she approached his table in the Wimpy in Cardiff city centre. Picking up on his tone and look of shock, as if a streaker had just run in, Karen felt extremely self-conscious as she gave him a hug and peck on the cheek. ‘You are Karen, now, aren’t you?’
‘Very funny,’ she replied, her cheeks turning crimson.
‘I think you look great. Really, I do.’
The fact that Rhys had had to reconfirm his point only convinced Karen that she didn’t and her confidence waned. As they sat down on the tangerine-coloured plastic seats, Rhys looked her up and down playfully and there was certainly a lot to take in. Karen was wearing a coal-black leather biker’s jacket with silver studs dotted all around like those in the dog-collar around her neck. Underneath, she was wearing a grubby-grey string vest over another vest with a picture of the perennially angry-looking Johnny Rotten on its front. This bottom vest was ripped in parts and on more than one occasion Rhys caught sight of a nipple as the vest moved when Karen shifted her position. In addition to the dog-collar, a heavy-link chain was hanging around her neck, similar to the one he pulled in his parents’ toilet, Rhys thought, only this one held a razor blade that rested in her cleavage. The skirt she was wearing matched the jacket but was so short it was impossible to miss her black panties beneath it. Over these she wore fishnet tights which had so many tears in them Rhys wondered how they were still in place and, on her feet, Karen wore burgundy Doc Martens boots fastened with silver laces. Her hair, striped black and white like a zebra, was much longer than he remembered and pushed up high in a bundle. It was held in place by vicious-looking hooks and clasps and was as sticky as molasses. But it was her face that took his breath away. Her spikily-lashed eyes, swastika in the centre of her forehead and Morticia Addams-like lips were a sight to behold in themselves, but Rhys was transfixed by the three safety-pins, one of which was fastened to the middle of her bottom lip, the other two to the side of each eyebrow, the pierced skin looking red and sore.
‘When the change?’ Rhys asked as he picked up the two menus on the table, handing one to Karen.
‘A couple of weeks back. I love the music and a friend of mind in hospital kept badgering me. I saw her out one day and she looked fantastic so I took the plunge.’
‘Your patients must have died of shock,’ Rhys commented mischievously with a glint in his eye.
‘Ha ha, very funny. We’re not allowed to wear this in there.’
‘I think you look great, seriously. I love this whole punk thing. The energy of the music is amazing, much better than all this recent glam crud. The Stranglers are my favourites, especially Peaches,’ and with that, Rhys sang a quick line from the song. ‘Sitting on the beaches, looking at the peaches, durr durruh, they’ve got me going up and dowwwnnn …’
Karen laughed. ‘I wouldn’t give up your day job if I were you. Yeah, that’s a great song but nothing beats Anarchy In The U.K.. The Pistols are awesome and this new guitarist of theirs, Sid Vicious, is just sex on legs, real eye candy.’ The expression made Rhys think instantly of Vicki but the moment was fleeting.
‘You gobbed on anyone yet then?’
‘Definitely not!’ Karen exclaimed, scrunching up her face. ‘I couldn’t do that.’
Rhys chuckled. ‘So what do you call yourself these days? No, lemme guess. Karen Killer? Or Karen Cretin, perhaps?’
‘Very funny. Just Karen will do, thanks.’
With them both smiling, Rhys and Karen put down their menus simultaneously, indicating that they were ready to order. A sharp-eyed waitress was with them at warp speed, pad in hand.
‘Karen?’
‘I’ll have the quarter-pounder with cheese, please, and a strawberry milkshake.’
‘I’ll have the frankfurter and chips and grilled tomato, please, and a chocolate milkshake. Thanks.’
The pretty blonde waitress flashed Rhys a smile, which he reciprocated, before turning away. He shifted his feet and accidentally kicked his holdall. He had taken advantage of the bank holiday for the Queen’s Silver Jubilee to make a flying visit home to see his parents and friends. His train to London was leaving in a couple of hours so he had arranged to meet Karen for a catch-up. Rhys was so busy with his business back in London that it was rare for him to find the time to return to Wales.
Rhys might have been shocked at Karen’s appearance but in many respects she was even more shocked at his. He looked completely different to the mess she had encountered in The Falcon pub a couple of years back. His hair was shorter, with a healthy bounce, and brushed back off his forehead and behind his ears to reveal a bright-eyed and glowing complexion.
Even the flecks of grey had disappeared. His light blue Double Two shirt and dark navy cords were free of wrinkles and creases and his black brogues shone so brightly Karen wondered if he had worn the brush out cleaning them. Draped over the back of his chair was a dove-grey soft-leather bomber jacket. Karen’s jacket was second-hand and cheap while Rhys’s looked new and expensive. But even more impressive than his physical appearance was the air of confidence Rhys carried which was so lacking the last time they had met. Karen had been intrigued to see Rhys again because the word from Jen, who was back with Don, much to Karen’s dismay, was that he was doing well and now the owner of the Supreme Café. She had not believed Jen at first, thinking she must have got it all wrong, but without even asking him, Karen could tell from Rhys’s demeanour that Jen was indeed correct.
‘I’d be interested to know what you think about your burger,’ Rhys enquired, picking up the conversation. ‘I’ve got a Wimpy down the road from me and I’m keen to know what the competition is like. I haven’t had the chance to go in there myself yet.’
‘Yeah, I was going to ask. I heard through the grapevine you’d bought the Supreme?’
‘You’re right. The previous owners wanted to go back to Cyprus and gave me first refusal. They helped me with the bank manager to sort out the finance and everything and were just brilliant to me. I owe them everything.’ Rhys looked down momentarily with an expression of longing. He missed Christos and Eleni.
‘That’s great, Rhys. I’m really pleased for you.’
‘Thanks. It’s hard work but I love it. I’ve got an Italian chef now, Mario, and he’s added some new dishes. The waitress I’ve got is really good as well and is as keen as mustard. The customers love her; it’s a nice little team. I’ve made one or two changes but not too many. Fortunately, business is really good. I owed the previous owners some money but I’ve paid them off already and I’ve managed to reduce my bank loan, too. Yeah, touch wood, well Formica anyway, things are going great,’ Rhys added with a contented smile, touching the table top.
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