by Mia Dolan
Not a word passed between them. They were stiff with expectation, waiting for the fun to start.
A chair came flying out of an upstairs window. A woman screamed. A child cried. At the same time a man was flung out of the door. He was tall and stringy and almost naked. The woman came screaming out after him, two children clinging to her thin nightdress.
Bog noticed. ‘Blimey! That’ll make her nipples stand out!’
Roberto gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. ‘You’re a pervert, Bogsy. You know that, don’t you?’
Victor’s employees flung out a bed, a mattress and other furniture. The woman screamed for the police. The black man got up and tried to stop Victor’s men throwing them out. Their fists landed on his chin. Their feet kicked his stomach once he was on the ground. Heads appeared in upstairs windows. They disappeared just as quickly. Nobody wanted to get involved. They’d come here to make good. They knew better than to make trouble.
Roberto got out of the car and crossed the street as though he owned the earth, not just the crummy tenements. He bent down so that he could see into the frightened eyes of the man lying on the ground.
‘I want my rent.’
Blood trickled from the corner of the black man’s mouth. His look was more defiant than Roberto had expected.
The bloke’s wife came running over. ‘Here! Here!’ She was tugging at her wedding ring. It eventually came off. She held it out to him.
‘Twenty-two carat. It was my mother’s and my grandmother’s before her. It is Victorian. I swear … I swear!’
Roberto let the ring lie in his palm. The weight was good. In this light it wasn’t possible to see the hallmark, but he guessed it was there. Still, no point in being too compliant. He had a business to run. This bitch had to understand that.
Grabbing the back of her head he wagged a warning finger just inches from her nose. ‘You’d better be telling the truth, bitch. If this is brass I’ll bring it back and shove it down your fucking throat. Have you got that?’
She nodded silently, her eyes round with fear.
Roberto let go of her hair. All would have ended then and there if the bloke on the ground hadn’t protested.
‘No, Bessie! Not your ring.’
As he attempted to get up, his feet flailed in a dirty puddle. Some of the black foetid water splashed onto the hem of Roberto’s trousers.
He surveyed the meagre specks – and exploded.
‘You fucking …’
He buried his foot in the man’s guts. The man curled up with the force of it.
The woman screamed. ‘Please!’
She grabbed at his arm, attempting to pull him back. The two sides of beef employed by his father stood back leaving Roberto to call the shots.
Flinging out his arm, the woman spun off, falling to the ground just in front of her two children who were clinging to each other, frightened and helpless.
‘This is all that’s standing between your old man getting a good walloping,’ he said to her. The meagre light of the gas lamp was enough to make the thick band gleam. It was gold alright. A red ruby flashed in the centre of it.
‘Let them back in,’ he called over his shoulder.
Victor and his son settled back against the smooth leather of the custom-built seats, smoking cigars.
‘This has been a good night’s work,’ said Victor. He exhaled a plume of smoke in a satisfied sigh. While Victor employed men like Tony Brooks to do his dirty work for him when it came to collecting the rent, he liked to keep his hand in from time to time. Roberto never needed to be asked twice to join a collection. Both men derived a vicious satisfaction from getting their hands dirty.
Roberto was thoughtful. ‘What’s the plan for Brooksey’s girl?’
Victor took a moment to reply. At last he said, ‘She’s quite something, isn’t she? In time she’ll be no different than any other woman. They all want the pretty things of life.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Roberto said somewhat gloomily. The promise to look after her would probably be broken. Supplying upper-class tarts – most on long contract terms – had become a lucrative and interesting sideline. The Camilleris were getting involved in legit operations. Politicians, company bosses and bankers ended up beholden to the family. Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies had brought down a government. They were building an empire with theirs.
But Marcie was different. There was sex and there was more than that – possession. He’d rarely wanted to possess a woman. He guessed it had something to do with the fact that Tony Brooks had asked for his father to look after Marcie for one very specific reason. ‘She’s not used to London,’ he’d said. ‘She’s a bit green in the way of the world. Know what I mean?’
Roberto had been struck by the statement. He’d gone out of his way to find out more about her. His father had said she was lovely. But it wasn’t just her looks. It was clear she was an innocent. No one else had touched her. And no one else would. She was clean. She was pure.
‘She’s not going to be one of the girls,’ Victor had said to his son. ‘She’s a good Catholic girl. Gotta lot of respect for family. She’s going to go home every weekend to look after her grandmother. I’ve promised to look after her and look after her I will. After all, Antonio’s grandfather was from Palermo. Did you know that?’
Roberto had not known that but he understood that looking after this girl was a matter of honour – of family, in fact. Because of this she really was here to help his mother and he decided, with an amused smile, she was also brought here to provide him with a bride. That was how his parents’ – especially his mother’s – minds worked. He could mess about with any girl at all but he was expected to marry an untouched Catholic girl. And Marcie would suit him fine.
He fingered the ring in his pocket. At the same time he fought to control his basic instinct. ‘I want her,’ he said.
His father exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. ‘Then have her.’
Behind them another family was picking up their meagre belongings and returning to the crummy two rooms they called home.
Chapter Twenty-three
AFTER THREE DAYS the sweetpeas sitting on Marcie’s work table wilted. The bigger bouquet still blossomed. On arriving at her table on the fourth day Marcie found fresh sweetpeas had replaced those that had wilted. They released their heady perfume when she touched them. She chose to believe that Roberto was responsible but resolved not to mention it. He would have to mention it first.
Tonight was to be their first date. Marcie dressed in the black linen dress, feather boa and white boots. The dress was short and the boots delectably long. Tan-coloured tights emphasised the whiteness of her boots. She regarded herself with some apprehension. Did she look like a girl with a secret?
It was hard finding the courage to tell Roberto that she was an unmarried mother. Not yet, she thought to herself. The eyes shining back from her reflection flashed with a sudden fear. She couldn’t tell him yet, not until she was sure of his reaction.
‘Roberto is here for you,’ said Mrs Camilleri.
She looks more excited than I do, thought Marcie on eyeing the bright face and incredibly doleful eyes.
‘Do I look good?’ She did a little twirl.
‘Fab!’ Gabriella exclaimed, her hands clasped tightly together as though in saintly prayer. Unlike a saint her fingernails were polished and shocking pink.
‘Forgive me, Johnnie,’ Marcie whispered as she collected her bag from her bedroom.
As she made her way out, Michael came out of the study wearing his spectacles, just as he’d done on the first occasion she’d seen him.
It was difficult to read his expression but she couldn’t help thinking he looked sad.
He tugged his forelock as she passed before silently retreating into the study that seemed almost to be his prime domain.
According to Carol, Michael had trained as an accountant, though his studies had been curtailed when Victor had insisted he entered the fa
mily business.
She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. The fact that Michael and Roberto were half-brothers was difficult to accept. Heads turned when Roberto entered the room. Everyone seemed to know him and want to be with him, especially the girls. Michael on the other hand kept a lower profile, at home with his books and his balance sheets. But there was something about him that was compelling. She didn’t quite know what.
Roberto was waiting in the hall and smiled at the sight of her. ‘I have good taste,’ he said.
‘Are you referring to me or the dress?’
He smiled. ‘Both.’
He took her to a small Italian restaurant off Marylebone High Street. A frieze of Italian street scenes glanced through painted arches decorated the walls. A coffee machine hissed like a sleeping dragon on the countertop where a waiter in tight-fitting pants plucked languorously at an ancient mandolin.
The air was filled with the smell of strong coffee, tomatoes and herbs.
A bottle of white wine helped oil their conversation.
He talked a lot about himself. She didn’t mind that. She didn’t want to betray too much about herself.
Roberto was explaining his taste in clothes. ‘I like to stand out from the crowd. Getting involved in pirate radio made me that way.’
‘I knew it!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
He’d actually been a disc jockey on Radio England, a pirate radio ship previous to Radio Caroline.
‘Tell me all about it.’
Later she wondered perhaps if he wasn’t just a bit too full of himself. But he was funny and she needed to laugh. He told her how lovely she was and how glad he was that she was staying at his mother’s.
‘My mother will make sure you are chaperoned as a young girl should be.’
Marcie laughingly looked around her. ‘But she isn’t here! What shall I do sitting here alone with a man, a lovely meal and a bottle of Italian wine?’
‘Not tonight,’ he said, casually shaking his finger in front of her face. ‘You’re with me. You belong with me. I think she realises that. I think you realise that too.’
He was paying her an enormous compliment. She felt a fool to blush like a lovesick young girl, but that was exactly what she did. How come this man is having such an effect on you? she asked herself. No answer came. That’s when she realised she hadn’t thought of Johnnie tonight. Not once.
The night air finally dispersed the flush of excitement and wine consumption from her cheeks.
Roberto put his arm around her. ‘Do you do it on the first night?’ he asked her.
The question wiped the smile from her face. Up until that moment she’d felt fresh and new, as though she were sixteen again and just out of school. When he said that she wondered exactly what he might have heard. The spectre of being an unmarried mother was difficult to bear. People whispered. People gossiped and news travelled fast. There was also the fact that she went home each and every weekend. So far he hadn’t questioned why. Perhaps it was something to do with his background. Italians and Sicilians were possessive of their women and maintained close family ties. To them it was good that she went home to see her family.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I only asked if you kissed on the first date. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Her whole body seemed to sigh with relief. She only hoped that he hadn’t noticed.
‘Oh!’ she managed to say. ‘Well … I do … sometimes.’
He stood regarding her with his hands in his pockets, head thrown to one side. And then he laughed and shook his head.
‘Marcie! Oh, my beautiful Marcie! You are such an innocent. And I love it!’
He’d endowed her with a description she did not deserve and it felt wonderful. She was swept off her feet. With one word he had turned back the clock. It was crazy to go ahead and play the part, but play it she did.
‘I prefer not to kiss – just yet,’ she said hesitantly while looking up at him through a veil of blonde hair. Just to add the right touch of authenticity, she bit her bottom lip. ‘Perhaps another time – when I know you better – if you don’t mind …’
She lowered her head and her eyes. She felt his hand curving along the side of her head and knew he was hooked.
You’re lying!
The voice was back in her head. Was it only her conscience, or was it Johnnie?
Nicholas Roberto Camilleri took her back to his parents’ house in a red Maserati.
‘I want to see you again. Tuesday suits me.’
He didn’t ask whether it suited her or not, but she didn’t mind. Tuesdays were nights in just like any other night. Thursday night was the only one earmarked for going out. Carol and April had asked her out with them. She explained that to him and was surprised on seeing his face cloud over.
‘I’d rather you did not go out with them.’
She studied his face, seeking the reason for his sudden change of mood.
‘I’m only going out with girls. No boys. We were going dancing at some club they know …’
She jumped when he cupped her face in his hands. He’d done it so quickly and, although it didn’t hurt, he was holding her very firmly and gazing intensely into her eyes.
‘Those girls are no good. They will lead you into bad ways. Trust me on this. My concern is for you, Marcie. It will always be for you.’
His words took her breath away. So did the kiss that landed gently and sweetly on her mouth.
‘I didn’t say you could kiss me,’ she murmured.
‘Yes you did.’
‘I did?’ She sounded incredulous.
He smiled. ‘With your eyes.’
Three nights that week they did the same thing. Three nights of the next he took her dancing, to the cinema and to an upmarket restaurant in Mayfair.
The waiters were not so familiar with him as at the Italian restaurant, but they were very professional, attentively spreading linen napkins on their laps and frequently asking whether everything was alright.
Marcie took it all in. London had a fizz like nowhere else in the world. The Isle of Sheppey seemed remote and dull in comparison. It had no upmarket restaurants with white-gloved doormen; no influx of people from every continent, every country. She frequently had to remind herself that her child was back there. Joanna pricked her conscience. If it hadn’t been for her daughter she knew that she would stay here in London and never go home again.
The sweet bouquets of hand-picked flowers arrived dewy fresh on Mondays and Wednesdays. Daisy Chain was busiest at the end of the week. Those were the days when Marcie helped out. Both Carol and April looked at her expectantly for updates on her exciting love life.
‘You’re still going out with him?’ April asked incredulously.
‘I am.’
‘Two weeks? You’re the longest ever,’ Carol added.
She burst out laughing. ‘You cannot be serious!’
Carol coloured in the details. ‘Nobody lasts longer than three dates with Nicholas Roberto Camilleri. It all depends on what the sex is like. If a girl doesn’t come over, then he dumps her. If she’s good in bed he sees her more than once.’
She couldn’t believe they were telling the truth. Roberto had not demanded what every man demanded sooner or later. The truth of the matter was that he did nothing more than kiss her good-night, though sometimes it was obvious he wanted to go further.
Her own need for sexual fulfilment surprised her. She was young. Seventeen, going on eighteen years of age. She’d enjoyed making love with Johnnie but since then there’d been nobody. She refused to dwell on Alan Taylor’s vicious attacks. Roberto had reawakened her, made her realise she missed having someone to hold, someone to kiss. Of course she wanted sex, though no more babies. Or at least, not yet. Not until she was married.
She talked to Carol and April about contraception.
‘The pill,’ stated Carol.
‘The pill,’ April echoed.
‘But then –’
/>
Marcie stopped in her tracks. She had been about to say that taking the pill meant she would end up throwing caution to the wind. Getting to sleep with someone was easy, but how about if having sex became just that? Easy. How about if it was the sex she wanted not the person she was having sex with?
At least next time she knew enough to ensure any pill came directly from a doctor. Much as she loved her daughter she did not wish to make the same mistake twice.
‘Partnerships and marriages could become obsolete in no time if you go on thinking like this,’ she stated.
‘So we all save ourselves for marriage! How dull.’ Carol’s tone was mocking. ‘Unless it’s Roberto Camilleri. I’d certainly wait to be wedded and bedded by him!’
Marcie was glad of the laughter that followed. It stopped the moment from becoming too serious. Afterwards she thought of how pompous she sounded. After all, it wasn’t as if she was a virgin. She was an unmarried mother. Even so, she knew she’d never be as casual over relationships as the other shop girls. I should be more careful, she thought to herself as she sat with her arms resting over a sewing machine.
He’s saving you for marriage.
The voice was right. Carol and April had said the same thing. Thinking like a true Sicilian or Italian, Roberto intended marrying a virgin. And she was it. Why hadn’t she realised before?
He’d hinted at getting engaged.
‘I will buy you a ring with a ruby the size of a crow’s egg encircled with diamonds.’
‘That sounds very flash,’ she’d responded.
‘Very Italian,’ he’d countered.
She hadn’t said yes or no. She knew enough about her grandmother’s culture to know that Italians, Sicilians and even Maltese were very much the same. Nice girls were for marrying. As far as Roberto was concerned, she was a nice girl. My God, she thought, closing her eyes, what am I going to do? When do I tell him – if at all?
It was at times like these that she badly missed having someone of her own age to talk to. The girls at Daisy Chain were fine, but April’s pills had got the better of her. Mrs Camilleri said she’d been transferred to another job where the stress would not weigh her down.