by AA Abbott
“Deirdre. I’m his older sister.” Her answer revealed teeth imprisoned behind braces. She added, in response to their cynical expressions, “I’m fourteen.”
“I happen to have some matches,” Charles said. She would have deduced that. All three boys were puffing at cancer sticks, which they must have ignited somehow.
Deirdre grinned awkwardly, and asked, “Can you light it for me?”
“Crumbs,” Richard said with contempt, “it’s your first one, isn’t it?”
She giggled with embarrassment.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Charles said, rather smoothly, he felt. “What you have to do is breathe in as soon as I light it, okay? Where are your cigarettes, anyway?”
Deirdre reached into her shorts pocket, producing a cellophane-wrapped packet of Dunhill.
Richard goggled at them. “Did you pinch them from your Dad?” he sniggered. None of them could afford the pricier brands. They sometimes bought singles from the local Indian shop, or clubbed together for the cheapest packet of ten on offer.
“Want to share?” she asked, and in that moment, immediately became their friend.
Her first smoke, like theirs, was not an unqualified success. She coughed uncontrollably as the heat caught her throat, paled as the nicotine surged through her bloodstream like an alien invader. Deirdre persisted, though, and for six months she joined them every day. Her paper round funded her habit, and, to an extent, theirs; she gave away more sticks than she ever received.
When she didn’t turn up any more, it was a week before they thought to enquire. Charles had hardly noticed. He had a new girlfriend, his first in fact, and was spending less time with his friends. Richard and Tim missed Deirdre’s cigarettes. “What’s up with your sister?” Richard asked young Davey when they encountered him outside the science block.
Davey shrugged, and said he supposed she was revising for exams. She was always complaining how difficult her studies were. Girls, and sisters in particular, were a mystery to him, and a matter of indifference.
Charles forgot all about her as his life swept him away from his childhood in Chislehurst, to a job in the City, marriage and a family. Decades later, to his chagrin, he found himself living with his parents again. Of his old friends, only Tim still lived locally. He’d never married. They met for an occasional drink after work, a welcome respite from stilted conversation with his parents, culminating in Tim’s suggestion they try clubbing together.
There was nothing wrong with the nightclub in Bromley that Tim chose, it just wasn’t Charles’ scene. He preferred a pub serving craft beer, ideally without a side order of pounding disco music. Tim was obviously a regular, for he spotted a group of women as they entered and nudged Charles in the ribs. “Strangers in town.”
“Fresh meat, are they?” Charles said drily.
“Oh, yes,” Tim leered.
There were four of them, all blonde, long limbed and well into their thirties. That was only to be expected. Tim, a teacher, had deliberately chosen a club with a more mature clientele. There was nothing worse, he said, than bumping into your sixth formers on the dancefloor.
“Let them get tanked up, then move in there,” Tim said.
The women were seated around a table, sharing two pitchers of a lurid blue drink. Charles and Tim bought their beer, a branded lager that Charles would normally avoid, and found seats nearby.
“How’s the single life suiting you, Charles?” Tim asked.
“Fine.” Charles lied. He’d rather have been settling down on the sofa in front of the TV with Rachel. He still didn’t understand why she’d decided she no longer wanted to be married.
“They’re looking our way,” Tim said.
The most gorgeous of the four, a woman in a tight red dress, was staring in their direction. She spoke briefly to her friends. They laughed, joining her in looking at the men. She waved.
“Come hither,” Tim said, with a satisfied smirk. He rose to his feet. “Up you get, Charlie. Let’s have a chat with the lady in red.”
She flashed a dazzling smile as they approached. “It’s Chas, isn’t it? And that can’t be Timbo, surely?”
Nobody had used their childhood nicknames since they left school. “The very same,” Tim replied. “Forgive me. You are?”
“Don’t you remember? Dee from the Smokers’ Corner.”
Charles searched his memory banks. “Davey Saxton’s big sister.” Vague recollections began to coalesce.
“That’s right.” Deirdre flashed a perfect set of pearly white teeth. “And here’s Jackie, Lisa and Liz. We won the hockey trophy the year you left.”
“Dee was our captain,” Lisa said.
Charles was astounded. Prompted, he just about recognised the others, but not Deirdre. She must be in her early forties, but she looked ten years younger. Her puppy fat, acne and mousy hair were gone. She’d become slender and peachy-skinned, her hair sleek and blonde.
“What brings you out for a night in Bromley, Chas?” Deirdre asked.
“Er, just a night out.” Charles was aware it was a feeble answer, but he was unnerved by Tim’s irritated expression. Perhaps his friend had earmarked Deirdre for himself. That was too bad. Tim would have to settle for Jackie, Lisa or Liz, or even all three if they were so inclined. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.
The strident music was hardly conducive to a slow dance, but she agreed. “Wouldn’t you prefer a cigarette?” she suggested, as they headed for the dancefloor.
They asked at the bar, and were directed to the rather unpleasant concrete garden reserved for smokers.
“I don’t smoke, actually,” she said, as he lit up.
“When did you give up?” he asked, wondering why she’d chosen to go outside in that case. Perhaps she simply needed fresh air. He noted she still boasted an ample chest, but took care to make eye contact. He’d developed some self-restraint since his adolescence.
“Oh, not long after I began,” Deirdre said. “You started to go out with Becky Ogden, so there wasn’t a lot of point.”
“Sorry?” He couldn’t make the connection.
“I only smoked to get close to you,” she said. “I wanted to be your friend.”
“You were,” he reassured her. “You were just like one of the chaps. Timbo, Dicky, you and me.” He saw her crestfallen expression, and realised at last what she was saying. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was dense then and evidently I’m not much better now. I didn’t twig at all.” Even if he had, it wouldn’t have made any difference then. She just hadn’t been his type, certainly not by comparison with reed-slim Becky. Now, though, was another matter altogether.
“You haven’t changed a bit. I can’t believe it. It’s lovely to see you after all these years,” Deirdre gushed.
“Ditto,” Charles said. He knew he was in good shape, only a few wrinkles around his blue eyes betraying his age, but it was gratifying to hear it all the same. “I suppose you still live around here?”
Deirdre laughed. “No, in London. I rarely come back, but Jackie wanted to celebrate her birthday in a nightclub. Like the old days.”
“Why not a hedonistic night in London?”
“Well, we wanted to pay tribute to our teens,” Deirdre said. “Dolling ourselves up for a nightspot in Bromley, drinking cocktails, dancing round our handbags – we couldn’t have been classier twenty five years ago.”
“You certainly look classy now,” he said appreciatively.
“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “You’ve nearly finished your cigarette, and I still know so little about you. I thought you were going to be a professional footballer. Did it happen?”
“We all had dreams, I guess.” He sighed. “No, I went into banking.”
“Davey didn’t make it either. He works for an insurance company. Lives in the suburbs with a wife and four children.”
“I settled down with a wife and a semi in Brockenhurst. Our daughter’s in her last year of university. But my wife and I are no longer together.
”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She actually looked sympathetic. “Is there a girlfriend on the scene?”
“No. That wasn’t why we split.” He totally understood why she wanted to know. “I’ve moved back with my parents.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “Shall we return to the dancefloor?”
“Not yet,” Deirdre said. “First, I’m going to do what I should have done when I was fourteen.” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Charles was shocked for a second or two. Having decided in that brief moment that he liked it, he reciprocated avidly. His tongue, flicking towards her lips, found her mouth entirely willing. He clasped her body towards him, feeling her yield.
Deirdre pulled away from him, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. “Let’s get a taxi back to my place,” she suggested.
Charles’ mouth was agape. He’d rather hoped for this outcome, but he’d expected it to happen somewhat later. “You don’t waste any time, do you?” he said. “It won’t look good if we leave this early, in front of all our friends.”
“The girls said I should go for it,” Deirdre pointed out.
That just left Tim. Charles had the dubious pleasure of saying, “I’ve pulled, mate. You’re on your own.” Luckily, Tim didn’t appear too upset. He was enjoying the company of the erstwhile hockey stars.
Deirdre ordered a cab through Uber. “I live alone,” she told him.
“Have you been married?” he asked.
“I never found the right guy.”
They chatted and cuddled throughout the journey. She told him she wasn’t academic like her brother, she was a fitness and yoga instructor, and much of her business was done online. Charles was so absorbed in her physical presence, her words barely registered. He paid little attention to the cab’s route either, imagining Deirdre would live in one of the nearer environs of London; Penge or Dulwich perhaps. To his surprise, they were whisked across Westminster Bridge, ending their journey in a stuccoed square shortly afterwards.
The huge white houses, like giant wedding cakes, looked quietly opulent. Deirdre’s flat was a lateral apartment, occupying the first floor of two adjacent villas. Dramatic in shades of grey and white, it was scented by bouquets of lilies.
“Not bad for a yoga teacher,” Charles said, overawed. “Is there anything I should know?”
He’d made the assumption that a rich man would have paid for the sumptuous flat, although there was no evidence of male occupation. The brocades, velvets and carved furniture were decidedly feminine. In any event, Deirdre chose to ignore his question.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked.
He took her in his arms. “I’m more interested in other things.”
“Me too,” Deirdre admitted. “I want to make up for lost time.”
He’d moved in the next day. Her sole condition had been to insist he smoked only on the balcony.
Fifteen months later, he was still with her, still heading for the balcony when he needed nicotine. His cigarette was reaching its end now. Mark’s, he saw, was already finished. “Definitely no silver spoons,” Charles said. “Dee and Davey Saxton were brought up in a semi in Chislehurst, same as me.”
“Haven’t they done well for themselves?” Mark said.
The unspoken assumption, Charles supposed, was that he had not. He felt he had done his duty in talking to Mark. “I’m meeting my daughter for dinner at eight,” he said, placing the cigarette stub in an ashtray discreetly fixed to the railings. “Let me introduce you to more of Dee’s guests.” On her laptop, Deirdre would have a list of invitees, colour-coded by common interests. She was ferociously well-organised. If he could somehow access that list, perhaps under the guise of checking sporting fixtures, he could divert Mark towards suitable individuals.
Deirdre saved him the bother. “Hey,” she said, as he re-entered her splendid rococo drawing room, “I’ve been looking for you two. Mark, you need to meet Camilla over there.” She pointed to a strikingly beautiful, and very bored-looking, young brunette.
“I really should be going, Dee,” Charles said, suspecting he would have a mere few seconds to talk to her alone.
“You could manage another ten minutes,” she said.
“The traffic will be bad.”
His anxiety must have been evident, because she changed her mind. “Of course, you’re seeing Amy.” She hugged him and kissed each cheek, just as she had for each guest as they arrived and would undoubtedly do again when they departed. Gesturing around the busy room, she said, “This will be finished in an hour. Leave room for a glass of wine with me later.”
The caterers would tidy the flat, he knew. Deirdre had used them before. Her little black book of contacts was second to none. When he returned, the drawing room would be pristine and tranquil, and they would snuggle up on the sofa with a bottle of fizz to celebrate.
His car was garaged in a mews round the corner. Charles smoked another cigarette on his way, his excitement mounting. The Porsche was new. Deirdre had seen him staring at it as they walked past the dealership and had urged him to buy it. He only complied because he was afraid she would make a gift of it to him, and he couldn’t bear that. Despite his affection for her, Charles already felt like a rich woman’s lapdog. The car was everything he desired, though: shiny, sleek and smooth. He still felt a pleasurable thrill at the thought of driving it. Opening the garage door, he stroked the car’s gleaming white paintwork.
Driving it was even better than admiring it, although the early evening traffic cramped his style. The Porsche could do 0-60 in four seconds. While there was little opportunity to try in London, the car came into its own at Hyde Park Corner. Ignoring the grim faces of cab drivers as he cut across them, he accelerated onto the roundabout in the most satisfying way. He could feel their envy, and revelled in it.
Amy was waiting outside the main door of her office, staring down at her feet and scowling. It was a busy road with double yellow lines and he shouldn’t really stop there. Glancing around quickly for police and seeing none, he flicked on the hazard lights and halted smoothly in front of her.
He was about to run his fingers through his hair, a nervous reaction, then remembered it was spiked and gelled. “Hop in.”
“Take a lift from you? In your new sports car? I don’t want anyone thinking I’m your girlfriend.”
Charles hoped she was speaking in jest. Just in case, he played it with a straight bat. “Don’t be silly. It’s obvious I’m your father.” This was not quite true, he realised. Amy’s ginger hair was a throwback to previous generations, a shock both to him and Rachel when their daughter was born. His own locks were dark, apart from a few grey strands which he removed whenever he spotted them. His personality, too, was different. He was inclined to compromise, eager to please; a characteristic that had led to his ill-advised early marriage.
“No, that’s a mid-life crisis car. I’m embarrassed to be seen in it.” Amy obviously wasn’t joking. Was she deliberately being hurtful? He’d thought the barbed remarks and spikiness had vanished with her adolescence. Evidently, they were simply simmering below the surface before staging a reappearance.
Charles admitted defeat. “All right,” he said. “I’ll park round the corner.”
He regretted it as they walked together to New Change, the sybaritic air conditioning of the car replaced by stifling London air heavy with exhaust fumes. Although they were outside for a few minutes only, Charles was perspiring freely when they arrived at Amy’s chosen destination.
He’d suggested a wine bar by the Thames, one of Deirdre’s favourites. Amy had other ideas. She wanted to be taken to a barbecue restaurant. It was a modish place where the other customers were at least a decade younger than Charles. The menu featured a short and deceptively cheap list of main dishes, to which could be added many extras at an extortionate price. Nevertheless, he encouraged Amy to pile her plate. He had done this since she first left home for university, convinced she wouldn’t eat otherwise. While
she was now working in the City and hadn’t followed him into nicotine addiction, a vice common among his slimmer female colleagues, she seemed unnaturally thin and pale.
“How’s your new flatmate?” he asked.
“Kat’s not really new any more, Dad,” Amy said. “We’ve been sharing for two months.”
“What’s she like?” he persisted.
“Tidy,” Amy said. “I suppose that’s what you really want to know?” Her eyes were dreamy. “Kat’s fun. She likes to hear about my world, although hers is much more exciting. She’s a croupier in a top casino and she meets celebs all the time. We go to amazing parties thanks to the invitations that come her way. She’s got a tall, dark and handsome boyfriend too.”
“Is he a ‘celeb’ – the boyfriend?” Charles asked.
“Who, Jeb? No, Kat calls him an East End gangster. I suppose he’s not really her boyfriend, more a wannabe. He never stays over. But he takes her out on the town a lot.”
Charles was rather alarmed. “I think I should visit your flat and meet her.”
Amy resisted a parental inspection. “No Dad, there’s no room for visitors. That’s why we go out so much. My bedroom has no space for a wardrobe, let alone a chair you could sit on. I have to hang my clothes on hooks on the wall.”
“Isn’t there a living room or a kitchen?”
“Neither. We have what’s called a kitchenette, and it’s a cupboard. Kat sleeps in the lounge. I mean, it’s a one bedroom flat. She shouldn’t really be subletting to me, but it’s what everyone does to make ends meet.”
“You’re paying nearly a thousand pounds a month for that?” He was horrified.
“What else can I do? Fitzrovia is a nice area, and it’s close enough to work. Parveen expects me at her beck and call 24-7. I couldn’t carry on living in Hendon. It was cheaper, but it took too long to get back from work. And it wasn’t safe late at night, when Parveen finally released me from my toil.”
Charles shuddered. “Did anything...”
“No.” She interrupted him firmly. “And you’re not to say a word to Mum. She’s already guilt-tripping me about living away from home. She thinks I should spend all my salary commuting from Brockenhurst instead of paying rent to live in London.”