Vintage

by Maxine Linnell

  “Now you, Alan, you were a beautiful boy soprano.” Alan looks up at me. He’s got hazel eyes. Something clicks between us. He blinks, looks surprised. But he doesn’t stop looking.

  And I don’t stop looking back.

  I turn round to see where Sheila is. She’s with Tony. Dancing near him with her body half turned away. Probably to avoid the smell. Maybe she’s rescuing him now. Or saving him for me.

  Let’s get this straight.

  I am not Marilyn Bolton.

  Or whatever her name is.

  I am Holly Newman. Holly Newman. In some kind of time warp.

  That’s all.

  Alan and I lock eyes. I take a quick glance at the door. To show him I’m ready to leave. He looks shocked.

  But as I head back outside, I know he’s following me.

  Dave Richards is there. Still leaning against the wall. Surrounded by three girls. They’re spellbound each time he lifts the cigarette to his lips. I walk past him. Slowly. Deliberately. Make sure he sees me. I don’t look him in the eye.

  Alan’s at my shoulder. I can feel him there. We move beyond the corner of the hall, and round through the door of the church. It’s open. Don’t know where else to go. Churches are sexy. All that darkness and echoes. The smell of wood and dust. Something exciting about the pews. And the graves outside. Though I haven’t seen any graves here.

  I hear Alan stop at the door. Turn to him. “Coming?”

  He closes the door. Walks towards me. I sit in one of the front pews. Leave room for him.

  He sits next to me.

  We’re both quiet. But I can hear him breathing. Fast.

  Look up at the stained glass window. At a picture of Jesus. Floating up in the sky. Wearing something that looks like a nappy.

  “I’ve forgotten your name…”

  Marilyn is so forgettable.

  “I’m Holly.” Don’t want to be Marilyn, with her lumpy body and her bitten nails. But it doesn’t seem to matter here. Maybe because I’m Holly inside. I know I’m gorgeous. On a good night.

  “Aren’t you Sheila’s friend?”

  “No, you must have got me mixed up with somebody else.” Now this is a bit awkward. Feeling cold. Wish he’d make a move. Then at least I’d be warm.

  “Holly. That’s a strange name.”

  “My mum says it’s a name for the future.” Catching up with myself. On guard again.

  He slides an arm round my back. I lean casually into the arm. “Are you sure you’re not Sheila’s friend – Margaret or something?”

  I smile at him. Put my hand on his thigh. He looks worried. But he doesn’t move away.

  “Where d’you live? Holly?”

  I wish he’d stop asking difficult questions. I know I’m doing this for Marilyn. Might not be the best decision. Making a move on the guy her best friend is after. But somehow my head’s muddled up.

  Transfixed by his mouth.

  The song ended and people drifted off the dance floor, clumping together in groups of girls and boys, holding their drinks.

  “Let’s get completely out of our heads,” Kyle said in Marilyn’s ear, coming up behind her and holding her round her waist. “That guy’s here, have you seen him? The new one over the road from you.”

  Saleem was opposite them across the dance floor. He lifted the bottle he was holding, and smiled, then turned to his friends.

  “You still sure he’s straight? He was looking at me.”

  “No, he’s looking at me,” said Marilyn, too softly for Kyle to hear above the music.

  Marilyn didn’t need to drink to be drunk. The lights, the friends, Kyle’s arms holding her tight, the music. Saleem.

  This was all she needed. All she’d ever wanted was coming true. In a way she couldn’t understand, couldn’t make sense of. It was as if this was her home. She fitted in, completely.

  The church door bangs open. Alan’s leaning over.

  Close.

  There’s a loud cough. It’s the vicar.

  “Squash and biscuits are up. Come along, you two, and join everybody else.”

  Alan and I jump apart. He gets up. I follow him up the aisle. Feeling caught out.

  As if my dad walked in.

  We walk back towards the hall. Vicar first. Me after. Alan some way behind. Dave Richards grins. He’s alone now. Stubs his cigarette out under his heel.

  The vicar shows us where the queue for the squash is. As if it wasn’t obvious. Looking red in the face, he goes to the front of the queue. Helps himself to a biscuit. And another.

  Sheila’s standing by the table. Looking furious.

  “What were you doing with Alan?”

  “Alan? Is that who he is? That guy? He walked in behind me, that’s all.”

  I’ve never been a good liar. Alan slides off into the queue. Sheila holds out a glass of bright orange liquid. Slops it over my hand. I take a sip.

  It’s an alcopop.

  Without the alcohol.

  This mission is much more difficult than I thought.

  It’s nine thirty. I imagine Kyle getting ready for the club. Try to picture Marilyn with him. In my body. What’s she doing? What’s she saying? Worse. What’s she going to do with the guy across the road?

  After the drinks, it’s competitions. Prettiest girl. Most handsome boy. Best dancer. That’s this girl with OCD. She’s got the steps perfect. Then the best-dressed boy. Now the most helpful girl. That’s Sheila. Walks up to the stage as if it was an Oscar. The vicar gives her a stuffed poodle toy. Looks like it’s from a car boot sale.

  Now there’s some kind of game going on. Everyone’s running up and down the hall. Like a bunch of infants. Some of the girls have taken their shoes off. The vicar’s trying to wear them all out.

  So the boys use up testosterone.

  And the girls get home intact.

  I slip out of the door again. Sheila’s too busy to see me. Dave Richards, on his own. Still smoking. Could seriously damage his health. I’m not going to waste any more valuable time. Could get to the end soon. Like Cinderella. Leaving the ball without leaving her number.

  I go right up to Dave and stand close. He looks down at my breasts.

  “Why, if it isn’t little Marilyn. Aren’t you growing up fast?” He doesn’t move.

  I pull his head down towards me. Kiss him on the mouth. He’s right there with me. Not his first kiss, that’s for sure.

  Now, at last, Marilyn is being kissed. By Dave Richards. With the bad reputation. And I’m enjoying making it happen.

  In fact, I’d like some more.

  It was late, very late. Marilyn and Kyle were still dancing. There was a smash of broken glass over by the bar and sounds of shouting. They all stopped dancing and looked, like a spell was broken. There was something ugly going on. Within seconds, the tall man from outside was diving in there, hauling people off each other as if they were rag dolls. Another man came in, the one who was taking the money. Between them they pushed two of the boys out of the club.

  Marilyn shivered and looked for her jacket. It had gone. She thought of the mobile in the pocket. She yelled at Kyle over the music.

  “Not my mobile! I can’t have lost my mobile again, Dad will kill me. Mum will kill me!”

  Kyle followed her to the side of the dance floor. Now it was packed with people again who took no notice of them as they hunted for the jacket.

  Then Marilyn saw it, hanging off someone’s finger. She threaded her way through, under people’s arms, pushing when she needed to, and held out her hand for it.

  “The jacket, it’s mine.”

  She looked up, and the finger holding the jacket belonged to Saleem. His eyes burned into her. His clothes looked brand new, as if he’d spent the day shopping. His hair was immaculate. His face was smooth, brown, beautiful. He looked like a film star.

  “I know. I saw you in it earlier.” He was holding the jacket out of reach, smiling and swinging it gently.

  “Isn’t this great?”

&
nbsp; “It’s okay.” He took her in, the basque, the skirt, the pink boots with white laces.

  The girl Marilyn saw him with earlier turned towards him, then stopped, seeing Marilyn.

  “This is Marilyn, she lives across the road from me now – this is my cousin, Rukhsana.”

  Cousin. Marilyn hoped the relief didn’t show on her face. This wasn’t Saleem’s girlfriend, it was his cousin.

  “Hi.” Rukhsana took in the clothes too.

  Marilyn reached for her jacket and Saleem let her take it. She suddenly felt cold, and put it on over her bare shoulders.

  Saleem smiled. “I’m going outside for some air, do you want to come?”

  “Okay.” Marilyn felt awkward, even a little scared. But she remembered that this wasn’t her life, it was Holly’s. She remembered that freedom she felt as she danced. She could do whatever she liked. She couldn’t even begin to think what that might mean.

  She found her way out behind Saleem, past the bouncers and onto the street. It was light out there, the street lights, the bars, and people spilling out onto the road. Holly was so lucky, living this life. Marilyn was sure she wouldn’t mind sharing a bit of it, wherever she was.

  She was only borrowing it, after all.

  Ten to ten. Slow music. Loads of bodies swaying. They’ve turned off some of the lights. The vicar and Mrs Bassett are standing by the stage. Watching.

  Maybe they’re keeping a head count. To be sure nobody slips off again like me and Alan. Or they’re enjoying the view. About forty kids in various degrees of clinch. A few sad people sitting at the back of the hall. Pretending they’re fine, left out of it all.

  Sheila’s busy clearing up spilt squash, like the good girl she is. I’m on my own again. Everyone’s avoiding me now. Like someone came in and shouted: “She kissed Dave Richards.” Perhaps they did. I feel like I’ve got a big stain on my front. Look down to check.

  Nothing there.

  Sheila gives up on the squash. Comes over to me, rubbing her hands together. She waves at Alan, at the back of the hall again. He comes over to her. They join in the dancing. Alan looks at me over Sheila’s shoulder. His hands stroking her back.

  Then he looks away.

  Music stops. The vicar turns all the lights on. Claps his hands. Everyone looks flustered, embarrassed. As if they’ve only just realised who they’ve been groping. Perhaps they have. Can’t see Tony. Anywhere. That’s a relief.

  Sheila and I get on our bikes. Riding home, there’s no traffic, no lights on in the houses. Saturday night, ten o’clock. Everyone’s in bed. How sad is that.

  “Did you see us – me and Alan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He asked me out, next Thursday, to the Odeon. I don’t know what’s on.”

  As if that matters.

  “Great.”

  “Where did Tony go?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “He’s nice, you know.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Somebody said they’d seen you outside with that Dave Richards.” She shoots a look at me.

  “Yeah. I mean no.”

  We’re at her house. She gets off her bike, wheels it off the road. “Thursday night. What am I going to wear?”

  “Good night,” I say. She doesn’t need an answer. She’s already off on some huge romantic fantasy.

  I wheel my bike up the hill. Let myself in as quietly as I can. Nobody about. Go to bed. Hope Sheila never finds out. About Alan and me. Or about Alan and Marilyn. Hope Marilyn never finds out. About me and Dave Richards. Wish I could see him again. If I was me, I mean.

  Which I’m not.

  Or perhaps I am.

  This is doing my head in.

  Saleem lent against the wall and smiled at her. Marilyn found herself looking down at her shoes, scuffing one foot along the ground.

  He was studying her closely, but she couldn’t look at him. She felt uncomfortable, awkward, as if he was sizing her up, judging her.

  “I can’t work you out,” he said. “Wild one minute, shy the next. They didn’t call you after Marilyn Monroe for nothing. She killed herself, didn’t she? They said she died in her sleep – in '62, wasn’t it? Don’t you love those old movies?”

  “Marilyn’s dead? She can’t be. I only saw her on the news a few days ago, winning some award.”

  “Of course she’s dead. She’d be a hundred and two or something by now. What’s up with you?” Saleem was giving her a funny look now.

  The woman Marilyn dreamed of, who she’d been named for, who she’d somehow always longed to be – was dead. Marilyn felt confused, bereft, as if someone in her family had died. She remembered the film she wanted to see – The Misfits. She had the poster up in her bedroom. Now she was the misfit.

  “Nothing – nothing’s up – I mean…” There was nothing she could say that would explain.

  “I need a drink – coming inside?” His voice was different now, cooler.

  She couldn’t face trying to keep him there with her. And she wasn’t sure about him. He was attractive, and interested – but what was it about him? If only she could talk to Holly.

  He paused. “Coming?”

  “No – I’ll stay outside for now.” She leant her back on the wall. It was reassuringly cold and rough. She watched Saleem as he walked back into the club. She felt shaky, and was glad she had the jacket.

  This was the most alone she had ever felt in her life. A different time, when people knew what had happened in her world before it happened to her. It was like her life was being stolen. All the surprises, even the ones she didn’t want, the people who mattered to her were just a memory to these people.

  Ancient history.

  This must be a dream. Don’t know how I know that. It’s night. Outside the club, with Kyle. We’re going home.

  There’s a man, standing in the shadows…

  Half past three now and the street lights still shone out. Marilyn stared up at the sky, and it looked the same as the one she saw in her own time. Only with all the lights it seemed duller, further away. She almost felt giddy looking at it.

  A group of girls spilled out from the club door. They were shouting, and the bouncers pushed one of them so she almost fell.

  “… and get yourselves off home now.”

  The bouncers stood at the door, their arms folded, grinning.

  A fight started up. Two of the girls hitting out at each other, grabbing at each other’s faces, unsteady on their feet. Marilyn shrank into the wall, hugging herself. She couldn’t believe this. Girls, fighting? And these girls were very drunk, swearing and screaming. Now they were pulling each other’s hair.

  People coming out of the club looked, but walked away. One of the girls was on the ground, and now two others were kicking at her. Marilyn edged her way back along the wall towards the club door, eyeing them closely.

  A girl lurched towards her, dropping a bottle on the ground. It rolled towards Marilyn’s feet. She stared at Marilyn. “What you looking at?”

  “Nothing.” Marilyn slipped inside behind the bouncers’ backs, breathing again in the warmth.

  Kyle was standing near the door.

  “Where’ve you been? You can’t go off on your own, it’s not safe.”

  “There’s these girls out there. They’re fighting. They’re drunk. One of them looks hurt.” Her hands were trembling.

  Kyle looked at her and frowned.

  We’ve got to do something, now. Come on. Marilyn heard her own voice, high, nervous. But she hadn’t said the words. She knew she should say them, wanted to say them, do something.

  Nothing had changed after all. She thought everything was different, but she was the same old Marilyn: stupid, speechless, frightened.

  “What do you expect? It’s Saturday night, remember? Shit happens.”

  “But girls, fighting, that can’t be right. Girls don’t fight. Not like that.”

  “Feeling strange again? Remember who you are? Come on, it happens.”

&n
bsp; “But why?”

  “Holly, it’s time we got you home before it gets too existential. Maybe you’re not joking – you do seem like somebody else.”

  When Kyle said Holly’s name, Marilyn remembered who she was, or who she should be. She shivered.

  The man. He’s standing in the car park. Under the trees. Swigging from a bottle. He’s waiting. They can’t see him yet.

  “I’m not sure I can walk. I feel shaky.”

  “We’re not walking anywhere. Don’t want a kicking. Your mum would kill me if anything happened. I’ll call a cab.”

  Marilyn headed for the toilets. She sat and looked round at the cubicle. There was writing on the walls – like at school, scrawls and crude images. On the door were three stickers.

  Pregnant? Worried?

  Lesbian, gay, bisexual and trans-gender helpline.

  Unhappy? Confused? Youth counselling.

  On the walls, stuff written by girls sitting here, like she was:

  I don’t belong here.

  Do you know who you are?

  I was young once. I’m still young.

  Slimming pills. These really work. A phone number.

  Marilyn pulled some toilet paper from the huge roll and stuffed it in her jacket pocket. She felt sick, and very tired. She left the cubicle. She saw her face in the mirror, washed her hands under the cold water. Holly’s face, her face, what did it matter?

  She dried her hands and went out to find Kyle.

  The girls had stopped fighting, but outside the club there were groups of people, drunk and noisy. There were people who hadn’t been in their club. Groups of older men, in patterned shirts and blue trousers. The noises and shouts outside were different now. Deeper voices and louder shouts. Where had they come from?

  A text came through on Kyle’s mobile to say the cab was waiting.

  “I said we’d be over the road. Let’s go.”

  They found a way through the new people outside, keeping their heads down.