by Lulu Taylor
She picked up the invitation. ‘Well, I think I might go. I always liked her.’
Mark shrugged. ‘Whatever you want.’
By the following afternoon, she was feeling nervous about going, and would have pulled out if Mark hadn’t annoyed her by teasing her about it. She half decided just to pretend she was going, and then wander around for a few hours, get a coffee somewhere and come home.
Nonetheless, she spent the afternoon getting ready. She put on a slinky dress of purple silk that Lala had sent her, and a pair of high heels borrowed from one of the girls in the house with a higher glamour quotient than her own. Her peroxided hair was backcombed and hairsprayed until it stood out in a white halo, and she went to town with cheap make-up from Boots, her eyelids thick with glittery purple shadow and her mouth scarlet and glossy. Over the top she slung a fur coat she’d picked up in a charity shop on the Clapham Road. Once she’d finished and was ready to go, she certainly didn’t look anything like Miss Julia Teague, late of St Agatha’s convent school.
Maybe I look a little bit like Debbie Harry. Just a bit.
She hoped so. Thinking of Debbie gave her confidence.
‘You look good,’ Mark said when she came downstairs, all ready for the party. He was sitting with four other housemates, preparing for an evening in. ‘Watch out, though, you could get mugged around here, looking like that.’
One of the other housemates, a tough bloke from East London, eyed the coat. ‘Is that real fur?’
‘Antique.’ Julia did a twirl. ‘No animals in living memory were harmed. Why don’t you walk me to the station if it’s dangerous out there?’
‘You’ll be fine.’ Mark was preparing to roll a joint and didn’t want to put down the paraphernalia that was carefully balanced on his knee. ‘Don’t get too pissed or you’ll fall over on the way home.’
‘Thanks for that. See you later.’
She tottered to Stockwell station, not used to walking in heels, clutching a plastic carrier bag with a gift for Seraphina in it, and felt as if everyone she passed was staring at her.
Do I look great? Or like an idiot?
On the train, she kept her eyes fixed to the floor to avoid the gaze of the other passengers, but once she emerged at Green Park, she felt better. It was a March night, dark and cold after a briskly sunny spring day, and Piccadilly was dusky, the blackness brightened by the lights of the Ritz, the shops and the glow from headlights and traffic lights. Other people in smart clothes walked past her: men in dinner suits and dark overcoats, women in glittering dresses with shoulder pads. As she walked past one man, he whistled gently under his breath and she felt a strange rush of pleasure at his approval. She pulled her fur coat closer and walked slowly towards Berkeley Square, smoking a cigarette to calm her nerves. She still half intended to go past Annabel’s and find somewhere to sit quietly until it was time to go home, but somehow she ended up making her way to the western side of the square to the little canopied tent behind the railings that covered the staircase down to the club. On the pavement was a liveried doorman, keeping out passers-by and letting the favoured ones pass down the steps and into the hallowed depths.
‘Evening, miss,’ he said as Julia approached. ‘Are you a member?’
The tone of his voice made it quite clear that he did not believe for an instant that she was. She lifted her chin and tried to sound authoritative.
‘I’m here for the party. Sardine’s party.’
The doorman frowned. ‘Who?’
‘I’ve got a card somewhere – Sardine’s party . . .’ She scrabbled in her pockets, flustered. ‘Ask Sardine, she’ll know me.’
He took in her peroxide hair and her shabby fur coat, and seemed to make a rapid judgement about her. ‘Look, love, you need to move on. You’re not coming in, understand? This isn’t your kind of place. You try one of them places up on Oxford Street, eh? You’ll get business there.’
Julia gaped at him, searching for words to explain herself. Her cheeks flooded red.
‘Come on now, on your way.’ He went to take her arm and move her aside.
‘It’s all right, she’s with me,’ said a voice and Julia turned to see a tall man in a smart dark suit. ‘We’re here for the Jardine party – Seraphina Jardine’s birthday.’ He held out a stiff card, the same as the one she had forgotten to bring with her.
The doorman was suddenly all courtesy, smooth and welcoming as though he had never questioned Julia at all. ‘Yes, of course, sir, miss. Please go in.’
The man smiled at Julia and gestured for her to lead the way down the iron staircase. Julia went past the doorman, saying, ‘Thank you,’ and the man followed.
When they got to the bottom, she turned and said, ‘Thank you so much. He wasn’t going to let me in! He thought I was a prostitute or something!’
‘Sardine?’ he said quizzically.
‘That was Seraphina’s nickname at school. Seraphina Jardine – Sardine. You can see how it happens.’
‘I can. But you can hardly be surprised when the doorman doesn’t get it.’ He led her towards the tiny reception window. ‘Come on, let’s get our names ticked off, then you can leave your coat.’
In the ladies’ cloakroom, she smiled at the attendant and checked her appearance in the mirror. She looked good, she thought, despite the gauntness in her face, and the peroxide hair looked punky and rebellious against the purple silk of her dress. She hummed the tune of ‘Heart of Glass’ under her breath as she applied another slick of blood-red lipstick, and went out to see if her friend from the staircase was there, but he was gone, and she had to make her way through the low-ceilinged, vaulted basement rooms of the nightclub on her own until she found the private room where Seraphina’s party was being held. Inside were a crowd of smartly dressed people, talking and drinking, and they turned to look in surprise as she came in, familiar faces among the strangers.
Think about Debbie.
She put her chin in the air and held out her bag. ‘Where’s Sardine, then? I’ve got a bloody present!’
They gaped at her. Not so long ago she had been just like these girls, her erstwhile friends and schoolfellows, with their long hair, Alice bands, ribbons and floral dresses. Now they were a notch or two above that in glamour, but not much, in sensible heels, smart dresses and strings of pearls. From the looks on their faces, it was obvious she’d taken another path and it had transformed her, so that she was an exotic bird among a flock of pretty, plump domestic chickens. They surrounded her, shrieking and fascinated.
‘Oh Julia, you look so different! Doesn’t she look amazing? Your hair, aren’t you brave! I wouldn’t dare, Mummy would have a fit. Oh goodness, where did you get that dress? Paris? How glamorous!’
They were sweet, well-brought-up girls, doing secretarial courses at Lucy Clayton, or working as personal assistants in banks, law companies or publishing houses. They lived in Chelsea and Kensington and went out to Harvey Nicks, Dickens & Jones and a few other acceptable haunts. They expected to marry soon, and quite well, then settle down to life as wives and mothers, raising their own broods and chivvying them through the same old rituals. The men were at university, or in the army, and would soon be the bankers, lawyers and consultants with young Sloaney secretaries of their own.
Why am I not like this? Julia wondered. It seemed to be my destiny. But I’m different. I don’t belong in Stockwell, and I don’t belong here either. Where do I belong?
She took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and slugged it all back at once. ‘Happy birthday, Sardine, darling!’ she said, offering her bag with a bright smile to Seraphina, who was in raptures over everything. Then she took another.
I’m drunk.
She blinked lazily and nodded at the young man talking to her, plump in a striped shirt with braces, his jacket abandoned somewhere. He was pink in the face from lots of champagne and weekends spent outdoors, and chattered away with an almost endearing mixture of bluster and nervousness.
‘Oh, I
say, your hair,’ he would exclaim every now and then, and chortle. ‘It is brilliant, it really is.’
Julia sipped her champagne. It was late. They’d eaten canapés and drunk lots of booze and nearly everyone left seemed to be smoking. The birthday cake had been cut, the birthday girl had been cheered, and now plates of half-eaten cream sponge with vivid pink icing were abandoned around the room. Somewhere, she could hear music pounding, and she was drawn to the beat, her feet itching to dance.
Oh yes, I want to dance!
When had she last danced?
I’m young. I’m drunk. I want to dance. Fuck this lot.
Her companion was talking earnestly about his work at Schroders. She looked around the room from beneath lowered lids. Over there, Sardine was talking tearily to one of her friends, clearly pissed and overemotional. A couple was snogging wildly in a corner, as though they were invisible to the rest of the room. Others were in small gaggles. The party was officially at an end and there was talk of going to a favourite pub near Sloane Square. She noticed a tall, broad back in a smart charcoal flannel jacket and recognised her friend from the door. He hadn’t crossed her path all evening, and she’d forgotten about him.
Bloody rude. He was supposed to be my friend. He told the doorman we were together – well, we weren’t, not one bit. Rude.
She put out the cigarette she was smoking, grounding it down into an ashtray. ‘I’m just going to the loo,’ she said firmly to the braces boy.
‘Oh, yeah, sure. See you in a bit,’ he said as she walked off, trying not to sway on her heels. Out of the small private room, she could hear the thud of the music, louder and more enticing than ever, and turned away from the cloakroom to follow it. It led her through another bar and into the restaurant, a barely lit space full of tables and punctuated by glimmering brass pillars, the diners just dark shapes with faces illuminated by the table lamps. Beyond it was what she was seeking: a dance floor sparkling with tiny stars, a shadowy DJ booth at the far end. People were dancing, girls grinding and bopping, most of the men grooving clumsily with suit jackets flapping and ties flying. Julia made her way through the restaurant, stumbling slightly as she manoeuvred around chairs and pillars, until she reached the dance floor just as one of her favourite songs came on. It was Blondie. ‘Rapture’.
She shrieked with pleasure, though she couldn’t be heard, and began to dance. Her purple silk dress gleamed in the flashing lights, her hair was a white cloud, and she moved with an elemental connection to the powerful beat, singing along and whirling about the floor. It was blissful. Everyone and everything else fell away: the dreariness of her life with Mark and her abandoned dreams of acting; the dark misery that had hung around her heart for so long. She rode the wave of drunkenness and music, feeling elated and liberated, alive at last after so long feeling dead.
She didn’t know how long she danced but each song set her off on a fresh wave of excitement and connection to the music, and after a while she realised that a man was dancing with her; she was happy that someone else shared her joy and desire to let go and she smiled and danced alongside him, though she could see that he wasn’t all that good at it. He was fat and his belly hung over his trousers and juddered as he moved. But they were joined in the pleasure of movement and so she wouldn’t hold that against him.
But then, she found he was too close, and suddenly his huge hands were on her, stroking the purple silk and rounding the curves of her behind, and the big belly was pressing against her, his face brushing hers. She tried to push away but he was insistent, pawing at her, grinning and singing loudly, ‘Pretty lady, pretty lady!’ in her ear. ‘Why don’t you come with me, pretty lady, huh?’
‘No thanks,’ she shouted, and pushed at him again.
But he didn’t hear her, or pretended not to, crooning at her and pushing himself against her, edging her away from everyone else. She thought, dimly, that he would soon have her off the dance floor and into the shadows at the side.
Suddenly a warm hand took hers and a voice said loudly over the music, ‘Do you mind?’
The next moment, she was being pulled out of the fat man’s grasp, and she saw it was the man from the door. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said cheerily. ‘Do you want to dance?’
He ignored her but instead said insistently to the fat man, ‘I think you’d better leave her alone.’
The fat man shrugged, laughed and flapped his hands as if to dismiss Julia, and turned to look for someone else to try his luck with.
Julia grabbed the other man’s hands. ‘Come on then!’ She started to dance, laughing. He took a step or two with her, and then shook his head, smiling.
‘I’m not drunk enough.’
‘Come on!’
Her enthusiasm was hard to resist. The Rolling Stones came on and he seemed to find a new confidence, moving in time with the music.
‘You’re not bad actually,’ Julia said, but he didn’t appear to hear her. They danced to the insistent beat, Julia singing along, making him spin her around. When it finished, they were breathless and laughing. The music started up again, and she went to carry on, but he shook his head and beckoned to her to come away.
‘I want to dance!’ she protested, but she let him lead her through the restaurant and out into the bar. ‘Oh, are we having another drink?’
He turned to her as they went. ‘We could. But it’s late. And I think we’ve both had plenty.’
‘Thanks for getting rid of the slimeball.’
‘This place can attract a certain type, I’m afraid.’
‘Dirty old men?’ She giggled.
‘And willing young ladies.’
She pouted. ‘That’s not me. I just like dancing.’ She cast a wistful glance over her shoulder to the crowded dance floor and the fainter pounding of the music.
‘I can tell.’ They were in the bar now, and he stopped and turned to look at her. He was tall, she had noticed that right away, but now she saw a firm gaze, and a determined mouth. He had intensely blue eyes, and his dark hair, almost black, was cut regulation short. ‘I don’t mean to boss you about, but don’t you think you ought to go home? You’re more than a little pissed.’
‘Do you mind?’ she said, indignant. ‘I’m a bit sloshed, yes, but . . . well.’ She felt very grown-up and sophisticated suddenly, a girl who had seen the dark side of life. ‘I can take it. My boyfriend is a drug addict.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I’m not sure that means you have a limitless capacity for booze. You should go home. I’ll put you in a taxi. Where do you live?’
‘Stockwell.’
He looked surprised. ‘Really?’
‘I know! Horrors! Not in Chelsea! Yikes.’ She hiccupped gently and said, ‘Or we could have a drink here.’
‘We’ll be lucky to find a taxi that will take you to Stockwell. Do you really live there?’
‘Yep. With my boyfriend.’
A worried look crossed his face, and two lines formed between his dark brows. ‘The drug addict?’
‘Yes. You name it, he takes it. Speed, acid, charlie, heroin.’ She felt almost proud of Mark’s prodigious appetite. ‘Not everyone can manage all that, you know.’
‘Heroin? Where are your parents?’
‘Dead and buried, darling,’ she said dramatically. ‘Dead and buried.’ Then added, ‘Well, one of them. But my father is in Cornwall so that’s a no-go.’
He fixed her with a hard stare. ‘Are you going to be all right? You . . .’ A bewildered look crossed his face. ‘You look too utterly fabulous to be going to some drug addict in Stockwell.’
She laughed, flattered, and then the laughter fell away and she was staring at him, almost embarrassed by the knowledge that he was right, she shouldn’t go back there to Mark and all the grime and misery. She wasn’t happy there. She didn’t want to go back. I don’t love Mark. Not really. He’ll never change. He’ll sit on that sofa and take drugs for the rest of his life. I don’t want to watch him kill himself.
He seeme
d to read it all in her face. ‘Come on,’ he said decisively. ‘You’re coming with me.’
A whoosh of something elemental flooded through her, a kind of fizzy joy mixed with a sense of absolute rightness, as though she had somehow, against all the odds, managed to get herself to the right place at the right time, and destiny had been fulfilled.
‘I’d better get my coat then,’ she said.
She woke in a strange bed in a strange room and the first thing that struck her was how comfortable she was. The mattress was soft, the sheets crisp and clean, and everything smelled lovely. The air was fresh, with no bitter tang of sweat, dirt and smoke.
Am I home?
Then she remembered. She was in the flat of the man in Annabel’s. David, he’d said his name was. He had given her his bed, insisting on putting on fresh bedding for her, and he had taken the sofa in the small sitting room.
She came out wrapped in the dressing gown she found on the back of the door, and he was in the tiny kitchen making cups of tea, already showered and dressed in a suit and tie. He smiled at her as she came in. ‘Good morning. How are you feeling?’
‘All right.’ She winced. ‘Well, not all right. But I’ll live.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ He handed her a cup of tea. ‘Sugar?’
‘At least three.’
‘That bad then?’ He passed her the jar of sugar and a spoon.
‘Just need to stabilise. Then I’ll be fine. Goodness, I must look a fright.’
‘You look amazing,’ he said softly, and she looked up at him properly.
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ she said, and the moment turned electric, and then awkward, and she bustled about putting the sugar in her tea.