Primmie licked a piece of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. ‘My family jewels will be diamanté, but my ball gown is going to be a knock-out. I’m having it made by Lauren Colefax’s aunt.’
Lauren Colefax had been in their form at Bickley from the first year to the sixth and her aunt’s reputation as a dressmaker was formidable.
‘The material is pale lemon taffeta and it’s going to have a scooped neckline and huge puffed sleeves.’
She was aware of Kiki flinching and didn’t care. ‘I’m going to look gorgeous in it,’ she said with happy certainty.
‘I’m sure you are, Prim.’ Artemis looked at her watch and rose to her feet. ‘It’s nearly six and I have to scoot. My godmother is visiting this evening and I don’t want to miss her.’
‘And I must go, too,’ Geraldine said, rising to her feet in a movement as fluid and graceful as a dancer’s. ‘Mummy has a meeting with the caterers this evening and I want to be in on it.’
‘And I have things to do and people to see as well.’ Kiki stood up. ‘What about you, Primmie? Do you still want to clear everything out of the bedroom today?’
Primmie nodded. It wasn’t something she really wanted to do, because she’d been too happy living half of every week with Kiki to be over the moon at finally removing all trace of occupancy from the room they’d shared. It was, however, a task that had to be done.
She picked up the two travel rugs and the thermos that had held the lemonade, glad that Kiki wouldn’t be with her when she emptied her drawers and packed her books, sure that, when she did so, she would shed a tear.
Sunlight streamed through the windows as she went through the bedroom’s bookshelves, separating her books from Kiki’s. No one else was in the house. Kiki’s mother was very seldom home, now. Jenny Reece, the friend she had made at the drying-out clinic, was a garden designer. A passionate gardener herself, Kiki’s mother took a great interest in Jenny’s work, travelling with her whenever she was visiting a new client. Simon wasn’t in either, though he soon would be because his evening surgery finished at seven o’clock.
With her books stacked in the sports bag she’d brought with her, she turned her attention to the wall-length shelf of records. Only a few of the vast collection were hers. She removed a Frank Sinatra single and a Julie London single from between a whole raft of Gene Vincent and Little Richard albums and then, hearing a car enter the drive, halted. If Mrs Lane had come home, then she wanted to thank her for all her many kindnesses.
The front door opened and seconds later there came the sound of someone running up the stairs.
Primmie slid the records into her sports bag and walked out of the room on to the wide landing. The door to Mrs Lane’s bedroom was open and there was the sound of drawers being opened in a hurry.
Walking across to the open door, she raised her hand in order to knock and announce her presence.
Her hand froze in mid-air.
Mrs Lane was scooping clothes from the drawers of her dressing-table and putting them into a suitcase that lay on the single bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, confused. ‘Are you late for something, Mrs Lane? Are you going away?’
Mrs Lane stood stock-still, a pile of lingerie in her arms. ‘Primmie! I didn’t know you were here.’
There was such consternation on her face that Primmie moved towards her, certain that someone in the Lane family must have been taken ill and that Mrs Lane was rushing off to be with them.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, deeply concerned. ‘Can I help?’
‘No.’ Mrs Lane continued what she was doing. ‘No, darling Primmie, you can’t help. I’m doing something I’ve wanted to do for ages.’
She dropped another pile of lingerie into the case. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said starkly. ‘I’m leaving for good. Simon knows. I’ve already told him, but he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t think I have the guts.’
Primmie stared at her, aghast. ‘But where are you going? Does Kiki know?’
Through the open window there came the sound of a short, sharp toot on a car horn.
‘I’m going to live with Jenny.’
As she was speaking she was taking dress after dress out of her wardrobe, laying them on top of the lingerie.
Primmie felt sick with helplessness, wondering what was going to happen when Simon Lane came home; when Kiki came home.
As if reading her thoughts Mrs Lane said, ‘I’ve left a letter on the hall table.’ She closed the wardrobe door. ‘Please don’t look so devastated, Primmie. Jenny only lives in Sevenoaks. I’ll still be able to see Kiki whenever Kiki has the time to see me. And Simon will be … relieved. It isn’t the end of the world and, for me, it’s the beginning of a whole new one.’
The car horn sounded again and she clicked the locks of the suitcase shut.
‘I’ve enjoyed having you stay here these last few years, Primmie, dear,’ she said, sliding the suitcase from the bed. ‘You’ve been a constant ray of sunshine. Now, though, with both you and Kiki moving out and living in London, it’s time for me to move on. Empty marriages make for very unhappy homes and I’ve taken advantage of Simon’s sense of responsibility for me long enough. He needs the chance of a new start just as much as I do.’
She picked the suitcase up, touched Primmie’s face gently and walked from the room.
Through the open window there came the sound of a car door being opened and then slammed shut and footsteps scrunching across the gravel towards the front door.
Aware that Jenny was on her way into the house, Primmie hurried out of the bedroom in Mrs Lane’s wake.
As she reached the top of the stairs, Jenny Reece strode into the hall, wearing a sleeveless jacket over an open-necked chequered shirt and jeans tucked into muddy Wellingtons. ‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked as Mrs Lane manoeuvred her suitcase down the last few steps of the stairs. ‘I thought I heard you talking to someone.’
‘I was talking to Primmie.’
‘Thank God,’ she said, closing the gap between them. ‘I thought perhaps it was Kiki.’
Then, to Primmie’s stupefaction, she circled Eva Lane’s waist with her arm and bent her head to hers, kissing her deeply, full on the mouth.
Primmie’s shock was so great that her legs gave way. As she sank on to the top step in a disbelieving heap, Jenny Reece raised her head, smiled down into Mrs Lane’s eyes and said huskily: ‘Come along, sweetheart. Let’s go.’
Seconds later the door slammed shut after them, and then the only sound was that of the car, speeding down the drive.
Dazed, Primmie remained where she was. Lesbian relationships were something she knew about in theory, but theory – and rather hazy theory at that – was as far as it went. She knew, though, that what she had just witnessed was two women deeply in love.
For a long time she remained seated at the top of the stairs, able to understand, at last, lots of things that had always perplexed her. If Kiki’s mother was capable of loving another woman so wholeheartedly it was no wonder that her relationship with her husband had always been tense and unsatisfactory.
Unsteadily she rose to her feet. She had often been in the house before when it had been empty, but it had never before felt as deserted as it did now.
Slowly she walked back into the room she had shared with Kiki, sitting down on the edge of her bed. Kiki, quite obviously, didn’t know the truth about the nature of her mother’s relationship with Jenny and she had no intention of en-lightening her. It wasn’t up to her to do so. It was up to her mother to tell her, or Dr Lane.
That Simon Lane knew the kind of dilemma his wife had been battling with was a huge assumption, but knowing how deeply unhappy he’d been for so long, it was one she took for granted.
Though the sun still streamed in through the windows, the heat was no longer fierce. She looked down at her watch. It was seven fifteen. With a heavy heart she continued to sit, waiting for Dr Lane to return home from his evening surgery.
; It was seven forty-five when she heard the sound of his car easing its way up the gravelled drive.
Her hands tightened in her lap.
The car came to a halt; the driver’s door opened, was closed.
There came the familiar sound of his footsteps crossing the gravel to the house.
Still she didn’t move.
The heavy oak front door opened and she could hear him stepping into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Then there was silence and she knew he was reading the letter that had been propped on the hall table. At last, after what seemed an age, she heard him walking slowly towards the kitchen.
On legs that felt like jelly she rose to her feet. She needed to let him know that she was still in the house; that she, too, had packed her bag and was about to leave.
Reluctantly she walked downstairs and towards the kitchen.
He was standing at the window, his back towards her, his shoulders tense, his hands thrust in his pockets, his misery so palpable her heart hurt.
She cleared her throat.
‘There’s no one else in,’ she said awkwardly as he spun round. ‘Just me.’ And then, even more awkwardly, ‘I was here when … when Mrs Lane left.’
‘Did she tell you that she was leaving for good?’ he asked, the sun streaming in the window behind him, turning his fair hair to gold.
She nodded.
‘And was her friend with her?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, having no intention of increasing his hurt by telling him what she had seen. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked, offering the comfort her mother always offered in times of crisis.
He nodded. ‘That’s a very kind offer, Primmie. Thank you.’
Silence fell between them as she crossed to the sink and filled the kettle, painfully aware that, once Kiki had moved into the flat in Kensington, he was going to be living in the large house completely on his own.
As she waited for the kettle to boil he turned to look out of the window again, his hands still in his pockets, his shoulders still tense, his misery making him look much younger than his thirty-nine years.
‘Would you like a couple of biscuits with the tea?’ she asked, inadequately.
He didn’t answer her, instead he said, ‘And are you leaving for good, too, Primmie?’
‘Yes. I should have taken my things home days ago – when it was the last day of term.’
‘I shall miss you.’
His voice was bleak and she walked across to him, standing by his side at the window. Though it was now the end of July, the garden was still overflowing with roses in full flower. A Kifts-gate rampaged in a pear tree, clouds of creamy-white, semi-double flowers tumbling down through its branches in a mass of blossom. In the herbaceous borders pale pink roses mingled with lupins and delphiniums and everywhere there was lavender and the sweet scent of thyme.
‘I shall miss you, too,’ she said, wondering if he would ever know just how much.
‘You will still visit, Primmie, won’t you?’
‘Yes.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘That’s good,’ he said quietly, the tension in his shoulders easing.
The kettle began to boil and she stepped away from him to make the tea, knowing that their relationship had shifted and changed and that from now on, in some way she wasn’t yet sure of, things were going to be different between them. Different and very, very special.
Chapter Nine
Wearing the dark glasses that made her feel like an American superstar, Kiki strolled down the King’s Road in high spirits. Bickley High was now a part of her past. She’d stuck out the last two years in the sixth form only because Artemis, Geraldine and Primmie had been sticking them out with her. She sidestepped a couple of orange-robed, bell-carrying Hare Krishna devotees and mentally corrected herself. Primmie hadn’t been sticking things out in the sixth form. Primmie had been perfectly happy – and hardworking.
It was, she thought, deeply ironic that the only one of the four of them who wanted to go to university – and who was going to go – was the only one for whose family it would be a financial burden.
The up side, of course, was that Primmie wasn’t going to Durham till she had spent a year in London, working and saving money towards her living costs – which meant that their unity as a foursome was preserved for another twelve months at least.
And in another twelve months she, Kiki, intended to be a star as big as Lulu or Dusty.
It was a quarter to seven in the evening and the heat was still beating up from the pavement in waves. The guy she was on her way to have a drink with was a copywriter whose best buddy just happened to be the manager of Fleetwood Mac and, a week ago, he’d passed one of her demo tapes on to him.
A shop window filled with gorgeous mini-skirts and slinky thigh-high boots caught her eye. She came to a halt in front of it, wondering whether a mini-skirt might be a better bet than the mock lizard-skin hipsters she was wearing. The thing was, she didn’t really like skirts. What she felt comfortable in were skin-tight pants, teeteringly high-heeled boots and jackets with the collars flicked up, Elvis style. That it was a style a decade out of date didn’t bother her in the slightest. It was her style and just as Geraldine’s vintage look was inimitably her own, so was hers.
Deciding against a mini-skirt, she took off her dark glasses and went in the shop to buy a pair of the hooped brass earrings that had also been in the window, well aware that what she should have been shopping for was a dress to wear to Geraldine‘s engagement party. Not to wear on stage, of course. On stage she wore black leather in the same way the Beatles always wore collarless jackets. Geraldine, however, expected her to mingle as a guest when her set with The Atoms was over and had made it quite clear that, as a guest, she should dress accordingly – which meant, apparently, a ball gown.
Well, Geraldine could go whistle. There wasn’t enough money in the world to lure her into a county-set tulle or taffeta ball gown. What she might be lured into, though, was a pair of silver sequinned hipsters worn with a skin-tight sleeveless top and a pair of stiletto-heeled, ankle-strapped shoes.
Walking out of the shop, the earrings swinging in her ears, she wondered where to find what she was after. Walton Street had dozens of seductive boutiques and was only a hop and a skip from the King’s Road. And there was Kensington Church Street – but Kensington Church Street would mean a cab ride if she wasn’t to be late for her date.
She shrugged her shoulders. The party wasn’t for another two weeks and there were more important things to think about than what she was going to wear when in guest mode at Geraldine’s party.
Her demo tape, for one thing. With her earnings from The Atoms, she’d bought herself a four-track recorder, a mixer and some effects and had started over-dubbing her voice. Harmonization had never really been her thing, she’d always preferred simply belting out a song with a hot band behind her, but with the songs Geraldine had helped her put together she’d done over-dub harmonies, doing three- and four-parters.
The result had been a revelation, for she’d realized that she didn’t have to work harmonies out, that she had the ability to hear them in her head. The discovery had reminded her of how, when she’d begun piano lessons at six years old, she’d almost immediately had the ability to play by ear. Even better had been the guitar lessons when she was nine. By the time she was ten she knew how to play all the diminished chords and had spent hours in her bedroom with the door closed, creating and playing riffs and practising her autograph.
Once she’d started going to Bickley High and had made friends with Artemis, Geraldine and Primmie, piano and guitar lessons had taken a bit of a back seat. Music hadn’t, though. The first single she’d bought for herself had been Elvis Presley’s ‘Good Luck Charm’. It was never her favourite Presley number – ‘All Shook Up’ had that honour – but Presley was definitely Number 1 where she was concerned. Another favourite, that first summer at Bickley
High, had been the Everley Brothers ‘Walk Right Back’. She’d spent hours in her room singing along to it, pretending to hold a microphone, pretending she was on stage.
She continued down the King’s Road, thinking back to the time when she’d been eleven and her dream of becoming a rock star had first taken serious hold. It had been Helen Shapiro who had been the catalyst. Helen Shapiro who had had a hit record at fourteen. How had she done it? Whom had she known? And if Helen Shapiro could become a school-age pop star, why couldn’t she? The question had tormented her endlessly, and if anyone had been responsible for her going to the Two Zeds and so tenaciously latching on to a member of the band playing there, it had been Helen Shapiro.
Not that Ty had been a musical member of the band, of course. All he had been was their road manager. He had, though, been her ticket to singing with the band. Because she’d become his girlfriend she’d gained the invaluable experience of singing in public one, and sometimes two, nights a week.
There’d been other aspects, too, to the couple of years she’d spent as Ty’s lady. For one thing, she’d begun dressing like an Angel’s mamma – wearing tight slacks, sleeveless sweaters and bright lipstick as opposed to the floppy hats, mini-dresses and pale, pale mouths beloved of dolly birds.
The black leather that Ty had suggested she always wear on stage had become a uniform, too. At first, until she cottoned on to the fact that Hell’s Angels never, but never, wore leather jackets, she’d assumed that black leather trousers and jackets were standard biker’s gear.
Even when she found out differently, she didn’t care. Black leather had become her image. Audiences at their gigs perceived her as being a badass chick – and until the hideous moment when she had realized she was pregnant, a badass chick was how she’d liked to think of herself.
She paused at an ice-cream stall and bought herself a giant cornet. Those few weeks of pregnancy had brought her down to earth big time, and when the nightmare had been over she’d never wanted to see Ty again.
She hadn’t missed him, but she had missed his Harley. Straddling the pillion, jamming crazy through traffic at 90 miles an hour, other Harleys in front, abreast and behind them, beards and bandanas flying, was an adrenalin rush like no other.
The Four of Us Page 9