One Apple Tasted E-Book

Josa Keyes

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Seitenzahl: 467

Beschreibung

1982: Girl meets boy at a champagne-fuelled book launch. After they share a joke at a celebrity's expense, nothing can ever be the same again. 1958: Two young women go to a ball in home-made dresses. When they catch the eye of their hostess's sons, everything changes. 1939: A young woman sits crying in a Harley Street waiting room. When a motherly stranger offers her sanctuary, her life takes an unexpected twist. Dora Jerusalem hits London and lands a coveted job as features assistant at glossy 'Modern Woman' magazine. When she falls for Guy Boleyn, happiness should be simple - but a long-buried secret lies in wait.'One Apple Tasted' is a story about love, friendship and the moments that change the course of a life for good.

Leseprobe

One Apple Tasted

One Apple Tasted

JOSA YOUNG

First published 2009 by Elliott and Thompson Limited

27 John Street, London WC1N 2BX

www.eandtbooks.com

ISBN 978-1-90764-203-6

Copyright © Josa Young

The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed in the UK by J F Print

Typeset in Sabon

To Thoby

Prologue

St Agnes’ Eve – 20 January 1982

GEORGIA’S VOICE FLEW UP the stairs to where Dora lay dreaming in the bath. ‘Do you want an egg?’ she was yelling. Dora didn’t feel like breakfast but she sat up, cooling water pouring around her sides, and got out. Ultravox were feeling sorry for themselves on the radio in her bedroom as she picked her way through scattered garments, pulling on red tights, army surplus khaki shorts and a collarless shirt of her grandfather’s with safety pins as cufflinks.

On went grey eye shadow and mascara and down she flew to join her flatmates. Georgia sat eating her egg and scanning The Times. The espresso pot bubbled on the stove. Dora poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down.

‘What’s going on in the world, then?’ she asked.

‘It’s St Agnes’ Eve tonight,’ Georgia replied.

‘Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold,’ quoted Dora.

‘It says here that if we say the Lord’s Prayer and stick a pin into the sleeve of our nighties, we’ll dream of the man we’re going to marry. And you can’t have any dinner.’

‘Will a safety pin do?’ said Dora.

‘Any kind of pin; it doesn’t specify. You have to be a virgin. That rules me out.’

Dora stared into her coffee. Her virginity was a deadly secret.

‘St Agnes is patron saint of virgins,’ Georgia added. ‘I wonder who’s the patron saint of serial monogamists with the odd slip-up?’

Victoria came clattering in dressed in a navy pleated skirt and pie-frill collar, her thick fair hair held back with a velvet Alice band, for her job at a grand estate agent.

‘What are you two talking about?’ she said.

‘It’s St Agnes’ Eve, when, according to Keats, “Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey’d middle of the night”,’ said Dora.

‘Sounds a bit dodgy. Not sure about the soft bit. Do you have to be a virgin in the physical sense or in the old-fashioned sense of not being married?’

‘I’m sure that’ll do,’ said Georgia. ‘I’ll break out the safety pins this evening.’

One

1982

‘I FEEL SO SORRY for people like him. Cameras poking into his face wherever he goes. Particularly with that difficult-to-manage, flyaway hair and the kind of complexion that always lets you down.’

Dora knew the speaker’s face but she couldn’t remember his name. He shook his head. ‘I would hate to be famous,’ he added, shuddering.

Dora found him arch but touchingly beautiful. She assumed he was gay and therefore out of the question for anything but friendship. Not that she undervalued that. After Cambridge, her friendships still endured – unlike the relationships she’d had with straight boys.

The pretty, well-bred publicity girls known as Davoli’s puffettes had fielded just one A-list celebrity for Davoli’s latest splashy book launch and he’d had a grim time with the paparazzi on the way in. Dora supposed the singer felt obliged to come, as Davoli was going to publish the earnest photography he wasn’t ever likely to be famous for in a big glossy book.

‘If it was me I think I would never go anywhere. He’d go to the opening of a stock cube. Lovely for the puffettes to have such a tame celeb.’

There was a bitchy note in the beautiful boy’s voice. Dora thought he sounded jealous. She was only half listening when she became aware of something.

She began to giggle. Laughter rose from her stomach in a bubbling stream. She tried to keep her mouth shut but the joy escaped through her nose. She snorted and clutched her middle with one hand.

‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’

She was speechless. Giggles were escaping all over her face and her eyes began to stream. She wiped them with the floppy cuff of her New Romantic shirt, staggering backwards, looking for a wall to lean on but encountering only solid, disgruntled, fashionable flesh. She wheezed and ached with laughter. His anxious face only provoked fresh paroxysms.

‘What have you taken?’ the boy inquired, looking down at her hands to see if she had a joint. Her first glass of champagne was still half full.

Dora was held upright by the crush of the party. Davoli always gave good ones – champagne rather than warm white wine. The assembled liggers were squashed firmly together, rapidly smoking and drinking with arms clamped to their sides and hands up near their faces.

‘Look behind you,’ she managed to gasp, an idiotic grin wavering on her face.

The boy swivelled his head over one cramped shoulder. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s him,’ she whispered. The celeb. ‘You’re leaning against him.’

She was overcome again when on the boy’s elfin face it dawned that the celebrity was pressed firmly against his back. There was no way that the singer hadn’t heard their conversation.

She was suddenly afraid that her companion would abandon her in a sea of complete strangers. She’d been so relieved to see a face she half recognised, even if she couldn’t remember his name. Excruciatingly shy, Dora had been desperately pretending to have a good time before she ran into him. She had been thinking about leaving, hoping to give off an aura of an urgent, thrilling dinner date as she went.

Due to the squeeze the boy couldn’t move away, which was a temporary comfort. She thought his ears looked pinker, but it was difficult to tell in the gloom. His mouth trembled and his expression became more intense. Her heart sank. Then his face seemed to crumple.

He closed his eyes and threw back his head, not caring that he nearly nutted the famous object of his pity. He opened his mouth to the tonsils and bellowed with laughter. As far as they could, the cramped partygoers looked around to see who was so genuinely enjoying themselves.

He put his hands – a cigarette in one and an empty glass in the other – on either side of her and pressed himself against her. Bending to lean his blond head upon her shoulder, he gave way to the giggles as well. This set her off again. She put her arms around him to hold them both up.

They held on tight, glasses behind each other’s backs, terrified of parting, looking for an escape route and trembling with crazy elation.

The crowd had parted crossly to let them through. They found a table and put their heads down on their arms to recover, gasping for breath, last little bubbles of laughter breaking free from their loosened mouths, faces wet with tears, feeling weak and abandoned.

Dora didn’t dare look up. Then she felt him take hold of her forearm. She raised her head slightly. Only his eyes were visible. As she couldn’t see his mouth, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking or feeling. His eyes were enormous in his thin face. His straight blond hair was dishevelled. Dora didn’t know what it was like to come back to life with a man after passionate love-making, but she thought this stillness, gasps for breath, utter relaxation, happiness and enormous warmth towards the other might be how it would – or could – be.

They turned their heads towards each other, still resting them on folded arms, their only contact his left hand on her forearm. She studied the worn gold signet ring on his little finger. She didn’t want to speak.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Aren’t you a friend of Evangeline’s?’

‘I work with her at Modern Woman. My name’s Dora Jerusalem.’

‘God, what a romantic name. Where did you get that from?’

‘My grandfather was dumped as an infant on the steps of the Jerusalem Mission in Limehouse. He believed himself to be the result of what he referred to as ships that pass in the night. I think it was his way of saying he was the offspring of a sailor and a prostitute. There’s an idea that one of them might have been partly Chinese – hence the dark hair.’

‘Sounds a lot more exciting than being the result of generations of country gentry humping resignedly in the marriage bed. I’m Guy Boleyn, by the way.’

‘Any connection with the poor girl?’

‘I don’t really know,’ he said carelessly.

He had dropped the camp and shuffled his chair closer to hers.

‘Would you like another drink?’

‘Yes, please.’ She handed him her glass.

‘I’ll get you a fresh one. This one’s got a bit warm in your sticky paw.’

He stood up and left her. Insecurity immediately flooded back. There were copies of the book on the table. She flicked through the pictures of impoverished but beautiful black South Africans and weird-looking white Afrikaans families, all photographed in stark black and white.

‘To make the point about apartheid,’ she thought. ‘Stunning but morally unspeakable.’ Her mind wandered off. The book dropped. She felt vague flutterings of excitement and fear under her ribcage.

Where was he? It seemed ages since his back had disappeared through the crowd. Even sitting down she was jostled. She went around the other side of the table, taking a chair with her and picking up the book again for cover as she surreptitiously watched for his return.

He didn’t come, and he didn’t come.

‘He’s found someone more interesting,’ she was thinking, just as she glimpsed him, cigarette in mouth, bringing two glasses and a bottle of Davoli’s champagne.

‘Sorry I took so long. I couldn’t get the barman to be a sensible chap and give me a bottle. He kept saying Mr Davoli wouldn’t like it. But I told him I was Mr Davoli’s nephew. Anyway, here we are, this should last us for a bit. Then we can go out and get some supper. What do you do on Modern Woman?’

‘I’m features assistant to the assistant features editor.’

‘What?’

Dora repeated herself and then asked Guy what he did. She couldn’t think of a more scintillating way to get into conversation with him.

‘Well, I do various different things. I’ve just left art school under a bit of a cloud. So I do a bit of painting now and again – houses not pictures – and sell the odd picture – other people’s not my own.’

‘I see. What happened at art school?’

‘Well, I thought it would be a complete doddle of a way to fill in time before my life started, but it turned out they wanted me to do some work. So I left.’

‘Can you draw?’

‘I think that was the problem. I had this romantic image of drawing fat naked men and thin naked women with interesting sticky-out bits all day long and hanging about in galleries full of plaster casts of Greek sculpture. But it’s not like that these days. They want you to be as provocative and abstract as you can possibly be. I really wasn’t interested. There seemed to be a lot of string involved.’

‘What did your parents think?’

Dora was still at an age when this mattered.

‘Well, they sent me to Dartington because of its arty reputation, but I wasted a lot of time there, so they opposed art school in the first place. In retrospect I think they knew more than me and realised I was fantasising. But I didn’t listen. They’re quite soft though, keen that I should be fulfilled and not too worried about the money-earning bit.’

‘Oh.’ Dora was confused by this. She had had no choice at all. If she wanted to come to London and have some fun, she had to earn her living and that was that.

‘So what are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I crashed it with one of Davoli’s many bits of skirt, but she disappeared quite quickly. I think Davoli is keen on her at the moment. She’s probably in the inner sanctum on his lap.’

There was a flurry by the door and the Modern Woman crowd arrived in the hopes of supper. The low-fat nibbles at the American Hero shop opening in Bond Street hadn’t been at all filling for girls who lived off canapés, and the understated drinks weren’t up to much either. Anyway, you weren’t allowed to smoke for fear of contaminating the expensive stock of faux British tweeds, velvet smoking jackets and satin column dresses.

Dora looked up and caught sight of Evangeline Flight, young gun (in her own estimation) of the Modern Woman fashion room. As far as Dora could see, Evangeline spent a lot of time crouched in the fashion cupboard covering the soles of shoes with masking tape to protect them during shoots.

She was a favourite of Addie Bean’s though, the fashion editor notorious for her wild ideas for locations and her narrative fashion stories: all black and white, tousled hair and homoerotic overtones. James Scott, the assistant features editor and Dora’s boss, had told Dora that Addie fancied Evangeline.

Addie definitely smiled indulgently when Evangeline took outrageous liberties with the clothes that had been brought in for shoots, wearing them for parties and sneaking them back, stinking of cigarette smoke, in plastic carrier bags. It all seemed so effortless for Evangeline. She had been at Cambridge with Dora but she was the year above and in a different college.

When Dora appeared at Modern Woman in the features department, the tall blonde beauty inexplicably began to patronise her – in the nicest possible way of course. Dora didn’t mind. It meant she went to a lot more parties. She wasn’t really aware that her dark curvaceous looks acted as a foil to the tall and fair Evangeline.

But she still started guiltily when the older girl said, ‘Dora? What are you doing here?’

‘James asked me to come. He said everyone else was going to the American Hero opening and someone must sign in for Modern Woman. He’s gone to the opera.’

Dora could have bitten her tongue. Why did she feel the need to justify herself like this?

‘Oh. I see. Well, the Modern Woman lot’s here now. Addie Bean is thinking of doing a black-and-white story in South Africa. Miss Peebles has forbidden her in case the anti-apartheid brigade boycotts the magazine. She’s not taking any notice; she’s come to get a look at Davoli’s new book for inspiration.’

Guy was attempting to disappear behind the pile of books when Dora felt she had to bring him to Evangeline’s attention: ‘You know Guy Boleyn?’

Guy swore to himself and re-materialised.

‘Goodness, Guy, what are you doing back there? Of course I know Guy, Dora. I introduced him to you, didn’t I?’

She turned back to Guy.

‘Dora is so silly sometimes. She’s quite bewildered by London. I have to tell her everything. How’s Thelma? Is she here?’

‘I believe she’s fine,’ Guy said coolly.

Evangeline drew up another chair and said, ‘Guy, do be a love and get us a drink. I’m parched.’

Addie Bean came over. Ignoring Dora, whom she recognised from Modern Woman but felt wasn’t important enough to be noticed, she picked up a copy of the book.

‘That old cow won’t let me go to South Africa. I’ve got this wonderful black photographer. I’ve got a lead on a six foot four black model. If I use black, we won’t be boycotted, will we? I want to put her on the cover. It would be just right for Modern Woman to have the first black cover girl, wouldn’t it, Evangeline?’

Modern Woman was famously liberal. Founded in 1910 by a suffragette with some commercial instinct and a large fortune, it billed itself as ‘The Glossy for Women Who Count’. Edited now by the terrifying Miss Peebles, it balanced its practical politics with the brilliant fashion, beauty and media coverage that brought in the advertisers.

Dora glanced sideways at Guy. He looked frozen, but when he saw her looking at him he imperceptibly cast his eyes skywards. She felt the giggles, which had been resting, bubble to the surface again.

Smiling a little, Guy said, ‘I’ll get you a drink, Evangeline, but I was just going to take Dora out to supper.’

‘Right. OK. Fine.’ Evangeline smiled back at him brightly.

He stood up, sighed and went to get Evangeline a drink.

As soon as he was out of earshot, she turned abruptly to Dora. ‘Goodness, what are you doing with Guy?’

‘Oh, we just started chatting.’ Dora felt distinctly uncomfortable. She wasn’t going to tell anyone about the giggling fit. It seemed private and significant.

‘Johnnie Yeats said you were giggling like a maniac. Are you stoned?’

‘No. I’m not stoned. I was just laughing at something funny.’

Addie Bean was gazing intently at each page of Davoli’s South Africa book. ‘Look at this, Evangeline. Don’t you think it would be brilliant to have the model standing against the sink in this Soweto hut wearing one of Comme’s ripped black jersey tubes? Wouldn’t it make the most fabulous statement about how wearable Comme des Garçons is?’

Evangeline, her career dependent upon Addie’s patronage, dropped her prey and switched, all smiles, to Addie.

Dora took the opportunity to stand up. ‘Bye, Evangeline. Bye, Addie.’

Addie looked up, her subtly made-up face a mask. Dora could see her faking an expression of dawning recognition. ‘Oh, it’s Dora isn’t it? From Features? Bye, dear.’

Having seen photography books scattered all around the Fashion Room, Dora knew that Addie was busy pillaging for visual ideas.

Dora didn’t want to lose Guy in the crush, so she made her way slowly towards the bar. After she had repeated, ‘Excuse me’ for the fourth time without being listened to she began to push. She felt a sharp sting, looked down and saw a little smouldering hole in her full shirtsleeve. When she looked up, she couldn’t see who’d done it.

Then she spotted Guy. He was standing talking to a woman in a beaded, Afghan-style dress and laced-up ankle boots. Her fair hair was long and wavy, her eyes lined with kohl and her lips painted bright shiny red. He held two glasses of champagne in his hands and handed her one. Their heads were very close together. The woman put her arm around the back of Guy’s neck and drew his face down to hers. She kissed his mouth. Guy did nothing to pull away.

‘Oh well,’ thought Dora. ‘He doesn’t belong to me.’

All the same, a twist of anxiety turned in her guts as she watched the long, sweet, familiar kiss.

‘He’ll get covered in lipstick,’ she thought. ‘I hope it smudges on her.’

Guy released himself gently and said goodbye. He turned, spotted Dora and smiled at her, pushing through the crowd in her direction.

‘I’ll just give this to Evangeline, and then we’ll go?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Dora, relieved. His mouth was a bit red. She handed him a tissue. ‘Wipe your lips.’

He laughed and took it from her, scrubbing away furiously. Dora caught a glimpse of the fair woman’s face. She seemed oblivious to everyone else in the room, staring at the back of Guy’s head. Her face had drooped into longing and sadness. Guy went across to Evangeline and handed her the glass of champagne.

She saw her friend put her hand on Guy’s arm, pulling him down towards her and saying something earnestly into his ear. The party was too noisy for Dora to hear what it was.

He extricated himself and came back to her, asking what she would like to eat. When she hesitated, he said, ‘We’ll go up to Westbourne Grove and see what we can find.’

They climbed up the stairs out of the smoky basement, collected their coats and emerged into the chilly night air. Guy hailed a taxi.

‘Westbourne Grove, please.’

Dora had never been there. She had no idea that authentic curry houses lined the Bayswater street. In the taxi, she shuddered. Guy’s arm came round her instantly.

‘Is that better?’ he whispered into her ear. It tickled and made her laugh.

‘I love your laugh,’ he said.

They drove on in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Dora didn’t feel she had to be amusing. She felt enormously happy.

They left the empty streets of Mayfair, turned into Park Lane and went past the lit-up fountains by Marble Arch.

Blade Runner was on at the Odeon.

‘Have you seen it?’ Guy asked.

‘No, not yet. I’d love to.’

‘Me too.’

‘Drop us at the junction of Queensway and Westbourne Grove,’ Guy told the taxi driver.

They got out; Guy paid and they began to walk.

‘We won’t go to Khan’s. It’s so noisy, and you always have to queue.’

Khan’s looked vast to her, its cloud-painted ceiling supported with exotic pillars like palm trees. ‘I would love to go there one day,’ she said wistfully.

‘I’ll take you, I promise. But not tonight, OK?’

They went into the Khyber opposite, which was quiet and conventional by comparison.

She said, ‘I’ve just got to go to the loo.’

She went into the Ladies. Her face looked flushed in the mirror, her eyes half closed. There were smudges where her mascara had run while she was giggling.

‘God, you look a fright, Jerusalem. What on earth does he see in you?’ She realised she was a bit drunk.

‘Now, Jerusalem, you’re not going to do anything silly,’ she told herself as she repaired her face. She pulled out the chopsticks that held her hair up and let it fall down her back.

Guy had swivelled his chair away from the table so he was facing her as she emerged. His face was quite expressionless. She could feel her heart like a fish in a landing net do a huge flip-flop that left her breathless. It seemed to take weeks to walk towards him. She didn’t even feel very welcome. Then he smiled and she was lost.

‘Come and sit down. You look lovely. Goodness, what long hair you’ve got. I love long hair.’ He was speaking fast. She wasn’t really listening. She gazed at his face. He took hold of her hand and guided her to the place opposite him. He went on holding her hand over the tablecloth. He stopped talking and looked at her.

‘Just like in the films,’ thought Dora. The restaurant faded away. All that was left were Guy’s large grey eyes fringed with thick dark eyelashes. She felt she wanted to eat the way he looked. Her gaze scanned the fine-grained skin dusted with a few distinct freckles, his soft, rather pale mouth (she didn’t like red lips on a man) and his high square forehead from which the thick straight dark blond hair sprang up and back.

‘Oh Lord,’ he said. He put her hand carefully down, dropping his eyes to the tablecloth as she heard him sigh. He seemed to hesitate before looking back up at her face and smiling. ‘Shall we look at the menu?’ he said.

‘Oh, yes, OK.’ Dora dropped her eyes.

‘What would you like?’

She was looking bewildered.

‘Would you choose for me. I’ve never been here before.’

‘All right. Do you like chicken or meat?’

‘Chicken I think.’

‘Right. I’m sure you will like chicken tikka masala. It’s not particularly hot, but it is delicious.’

‘That sounds lovely.’

Guy ordered lamb jalfrezi for himself, two naan breads, raita, a salad, and poppadums and chutney to start.

‘Would you like a beer?’

‘If that is the right thing, yes.’

He ordered a pint for himself and a half for her, and then sat back in his chair.

The food arrived and Dora picked at it. Her stomach was off somewhere else and not interested in eating. They tried to remember when they had first met, and talked about all the parties they had both been at without meeting. She refused coffee. She offered to pay half. He wouldn’t let her. She said, ‘OK, I’ll pay next time.’

Then she looked at her watch. ‘Goodness, it’s late. I’d better take a taxi home. Shall I drop you off on the way?’ She felt shivery with excitement and anticipation. In the taxi he simply curved an arm around her waist, which made her skin quiver. Then the cab stopped at his Chelsea basement. She wouldn’t let him give her any money for his bit of the journey. He kissed her lips. She felt a sharp, sweet pain. He surprised her by gently removing his lips from hers after only a moment or two. There was nothing ‘Not Safe in Taxis’– as her mother used to say – about him at all. Then he got out and the taxi carried her away. She turned and looked back as he disappeared down the area steps.

‘You look happy,’ said the taxi driver gloomily as he handed her the change. She tipped him lavishly to cheer him up. Then she let herself in. Everyone was asleep. She went to her bed hoping something significant had really happened. As she slipped into sleep, she muttered the Lord’s Prayer and half remembered that her torn old nightie was held together with a safety pin.

The next day she spent the morning wading through the usual pile of dross sent in by the most surprising people claiming to be Modern Woman readers. Occasionally there was a diamond in the dust, and she would be overcome with relief, composing long letters of appreciation to the writers. A stark contrast to the curt notes of rejection she usually banged out on the old electric typewriter.

As she typed mechanically, shreds and patches of the dream she had been having when her alarm went off that morning came back to her.

There’d been no man in it, just an unknown barren landscape, a thin wind sighing past her ears and a sense of overwhelming longing mixed with fear and sorrow. What did it mean? It didn’t have anything to do with the steamy, smoky, stuffy party where she had found Guy.

Two

THEY DIDN’T BECOME A COUPLE EXACTLY. Dora was disappointed for a while but then stopped minding as the months went by. She dreaded what being a couple meant – the awful struggle to keep things under control. She remembered the angry men she’d fancied but refused to sleep with, who then wouldn’t speak to her. She’d lost so many promising friendships and had such nasty things said about and to her.

She didn’t like the idea of being anyone’s girlfriend, so it suited her to be sort of special but only sometimes, and it avoided the difficulty of her virginity very neatly. Having gone to boarding school at seven, squashing down her own emotional requirements and waiting months for the people she loved to take any notice of her was second nature anyway.

There was nothing to stop her thinking about him as much as she wanted – but it was always a little-girl fantasy about getting married. She’d been having these dreams for ever and felt slightly ashamed of them, but the man standing top right of the aisle had never had a face before. Now he did. Guy’s. She would tell herself that she had every right to want to get married, but inside she squirmed.

She loved the heart-lifting moments when she spotted him across yet another party. They often spent evenings together, talking and laughing and sometimes kissing like teenagers. They chattered on the phone. He wouldn’t ring her for a bit. She would sometimes ring him, but if he wasn’t in the mood for her he would be quite short. Then he would feel sorry and ring her back and talk to her for hours. Ridiculous banter.

Guy loved her pealing laugh so freely given where her body wasn’t. He went out of his way to think up jokes, the more ridiculous the better, because she appreciated them so much. He almost preferred her on the telephone: it wasn’t so frustrating.

He would fill the spaces with Thelma – although she was becoming so clingy that this was risky. Then there were girls he picked up at parties and private views, and Lesley Stavely. Oh yes, Lesley – a serious symptom that something was wrong in Guy’s love life.

One Friday morning in February he woke with Lesley in his bed, lying on her back snoring, her mouth slightly open. She smelt of pure alcohol and stale sweat. As he reached for his lighter and a half-smoked joint on the bedside table he wondered if he could set fire to her breath like James Bond with the aerosol.

Lesley had failed as usual to wash her face before falling into bed. Her long, unnaturally red hair extensions looked dull and ratty as they lay spread on the pillow.

He rolled out of his side of the bed, pulled on some jeans and went into the bathroom. ‘Better shave today,’ he said to himself. ‘Wouldn’t do to go and see Christopher Crane unshaven.’

He had a little Pre-Raphaelite drawing that Dorian Peak, a dealer friend who wasn’t as pretty as Guy, had asked him to show to specialist dealers. Crane specialised in Victorian pictures in general and Pre-Raphaelites if he could get his well-manicured hands on them. He had an amazing client list and was opening up the Victorian market.

‘Guy?’

He felt irritation.

‘Guy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Guy, get us a coffee. I feel awful. Have you got any Alka-Seltzer?’

Guy looked at the ceiling. It was peeling with damp from the shower. Demands, demands. She was voracious in bed and he couldn’t even get out without more demands.

To begin with it had been so exciting. In the months that followed it became mechanical. She wanted him to go on and on. The night before she had been so damped down with drink that nothing had lit her fire. In the end he’d given up and gone to sleep. Just couldn’t be bothered. He felt squalid. He pulled off his jeans and got into the shower, turning it on full blast to wash the smell of her off his face and body. Turning his head up, he opened his mouth and let the water flow down the sides of his face.

Faintly through the rush of the water he could hear her calling, ‘Can’t you hear me?’

He stood until the water went cold. The thermostat was unreliable. Then he stepped out and wrapped himself in a damp grey towel. ‘Sleazy, sleazy,’ he thought.

He could hear Lesley moaning next door. It was a pointed criticism of his performance of the night before. She was telling him that she could give herself a better time than he ever could.

He felt sick and grasped the loo seat, bitter saliva dribbling out of his mouth. Unable to face Lesley again, he went straight into the sitting room, where his clothes from the night before lay in a heap on the floor.

The shirt was crumpled and stained. He’d better buy a new one on the way and change before he got to his meeting. He didn’t want to go back into the fetid bedroom. He sprayed himself liberally with L’Heure Bleu. He hoped the creases would drop out of the chocolate brown velvet before he got down to the West End, and that he could have a coffee on the way.

When he was dressed, he picked up the small sanguine Conté crayon drawing of two children in vaguely Tudor dress embracing each other. Almost certainly by John William Waterhouse, it was called ‘The Princes in the Tower’. Their faces were particularly well drawn – frightened but trusting. He wrapped it in a piece of old blanket and put it in a carrier bag. Then he called out, ‘Lesley, I’ve got to go straight out. I’ll be late. Sorry. Get yourself some coffee and let yourself out, won’t you?’

He couldn’t help the questioning tone; he could have slapped himself. He really didn’t want to find her there when he got back. She was an actress, currently resting and therefore inclined to slob about all day in his flat, recovering from her hangover and waiting for him to come home.

She didn’t answer. He imagined she had gone back to sleep or else she was sulking. He was beginning to hate her.

Guy had first seen Lesley in a production of The Threepenny Opera at the Almeida Theatre in Islington three months before he met Dora. She had been a wonderful lowlife Jenny the prostitute. Her raucous singing voice had suited the part. Her dark eyes blazed. Her long magenta hair had seemed to crackle with energy. Guy had been drawn to her – she seemed so reckless and extreme. She’d played the part in a bodice that exposed her breasts. Her nipples were rouged bright red, her skin powdered greenish white. She looked just like a George Grosz drawing from 1930s Berlin. Guy had made the mistake of confusing part with person. He had a trace of nostalgie de la boue, and it had seemed to him a better idea to have sex with an actress playing a prostitute, than with a real prostitute. He didn’t consciously realise that Lesley was a good actress, well directed.

He’d gone round to the stage door to see her when she came out. He had taken her for a drink and they had gone to bed that night. They hadn’t talked much – it had been pure lust. She’d smelt of greasepaint, which reminded him of productions he’d been in at school and the curious ambiguities of dressing up as a girl. It had been wonderfully grubby to begin with, but he tired of it quickly. The crackling electricity of her performance did not extend into her life. She was a blank, rather lazy woman whose moodiness was worsened by drink and drugs. He was finding it difficult to get rid of Lesley now. The night before he had been too drunk to resist.

Stupid nights like that made him want to be with Dora all the more. Sometimes it was all too much and he became depressed, hiding in the flat unwashed and unshaved, unable to go out.

He didn’t really know what to do with his life. Selling the odd picture, being turned down by Christie’s, painting people’s walls, waiting for his trust fund – it didn’t add up to much. He lay on his bed, an insignificant speck, feeling the enormousness of time stretching out into infinite space. The idea of filling it made him panic. He knew it was self-pity, but there was nothing he could do to shift it – not drink, drugs or sex; they just made it worse because they filled minutes only and left him hungover, bad-tempered and filled with self-disgust.

When he got back from showing the drawing to Crane – who’d said it was a fake, been rude and dismissive, put his hand on his leg and then offered him a fiver for it – Lesley was still in his bed. He lost his temper and yelled at her to get out. She sulkily dressed and left.

He sensed that Lesley was as terrified of life as he was and was trying to hitch a ride on him. There just wasn’t enough of him to try and pull her up when he was so down. The two of them dragged at each other. He had noticed that Lesley was particularly persistent when she wasn’t in work. When she was, he hardly saw her. How she afforded the cocaine he didn’t like to ask; and it was all very hilarious getting high. But the next day black depression descended on both of them, and they vied with each other as to who could be the most sullen and difficult. The contrast between Lesley and Dora bore down upon him like a blow, and he felt like crying with hungover self-pity.

He felt no better the next day, which was a Saturday. Unable to stop himself, he rang Dora. He wanted to warm himself on her hopefulness, her capacity for joy. She seemed to him to be staring open-eyed into her own future. He wanted to join himself to her and let her pull him forward, no matter how annoying he found her in the flesh. But he didn’t know how.

She realised from the flat note in his voice that all was not well.

‘Would you like me to come round?’ she asked.

‘If you like, but I’m not really worth seeing.’

Dora had to ring the bell twice before he let her in. She was dismayed by the stale whiff and the waves of misery that came from him. She hid her reaction. Depression had pulled his face downwards and his pink mouth drooped.

She had the sense not to whisk about tidying up, which she thought might irritate him. So she said, ‘Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll go out and have a late lunch?’

He felt quite blank. The easiest course was to go along with what she suggested. He went into the bathroom and Dora could hear the shower. When he came out, clean, dressed and shaven ten minutes later, Dora had opened a window to let in some fresh air. He went over to the telephone.

‘Mrs Jarvis? Look, I know it’s Saturday but do you think you would come round and clean up this afternoon? I’ll pay you a bit more… I know. I haven’t been very well. Right, I’ll leave the door unbolted so you can let yourself in. Thanks.’

He put down the telephone and turned to Dora. He was beginning to feel pleased to see her; the black dog slinking away.

‘Sorry about all this.’

‘Don’t worry. It can happen to all of us.’

‘It’s a disgusting mess. I am sorry you saw it like this.’

‘Well, it’s better if we know the worst of each other, isn’t it?’

He thought, ‘She doesn’t know anything like the worst of me yet.’

They went to a café and had cheese and pickle sandwiches, a carafe of red wine and coffee. Dora’s happiness at being with him came across the little, marble-topped table and cheered him. He thought to himself, ‘I can’t be that bad if this lovely girl is happy to be with me, can I?’

By the time they had finished he felt better and took her to see Blade Runner at the Chelsea Classic. Then they had supper and went their separate ways.

When he got back to his basement Mrs Jarvis had been and put all to rights. She was wonderful; she cleaned for his mother and never told tales of torn Rizla packets, funny-looking cigarettes, mirrors and razor blades and stained sheets. The place was as immaculate as it could be with its battered and faded old servants’ furniture from his father’s country house.

It smelt of Pledge and Mrs Jarvis had obviously had the windows open. His bedroom was innocent of the rumpled grey sheets that would have brought the sour taste of Lesley back into his mouth. He put on some old pyjamas, got himself a beer out of the fridge, rolled a joint, put The Stranglers on the record player and thought about Dora. At that moment, he didn’t want to be seedy any more – he wanted to try and do things on purpose, not just impulsively.

Dora wouldn’t let him pay for things, or if she did she was strict about paying for the next thing – even though he knew that Modern Woman paid a pittance. It expected its well-educated young employees to have an allowance, but he knew she didn’t.

There was never any pressure. She left him alone if he seemed to want that. She didn’t come across as needy. He was used to an exasperated feeling when some girl he’d screwed fell in love with him. ‘It’s not my fault that I didn’t fall in love with her,’ he would excuse himself with when he found some poor hopeful creature on his doorstep with a bottle of expensive wine she couldn’t afford.

Dora didn’t know that he had other girls but she must have assumed it. He did wonder sometimes why she was so dead set against full-on sex. She was much too young to be thinking about marriage, certainly to him with his unformed life and uncertain future. He was a good two years younger than her for starters, and wasn’t going to get his trust fund until he was 25. Sometimes he felt this was paralysing him.

He was becoming hugely affectionate towards Dora, as well as exasperated. She seemed to him to be associated with the happy rush he got when he sold a picture well or had some other success. He would like to capture that pleasure and make it more permanent. It was so utterly unlike feelings evoked by Lesley and Thelma, inextricably linked with all that he felt was wrong in his life.

Three

GUY STOPPED FROM TIME TO TIME, wrapped his arms around a blissful Dora and kissed her. She tasted the bitter espresso on his lips and felt she was drowning with love. Her skin shuddered with desire like a horse shaking off flies. She also felt quite drunk. A group of Guy’s friends, including Evangeline, had all been having Sunday lunch in an Italian restaurant in Chelsea. The table had been covered with bottles by the end.

In the months since the book launch, Dora had harboured secret longings that she had the self-control not to reveal. They kissed a lot, but that was all. Mostly they just enjoyed themselves hugely. Dora felt her London life was lit up because Guy was around somewhere – not necessarily at exactly the same party just then, but bound to appear across a smoky room any point soon.

She thought about him constantly but knew better than to be clingy or demanding. This lunch had been different though. He’d hardly spoken to anyone else, and now they were reeling home through the quiet Sunday streets.

Joined at the hip like Siamese twins they dropped behind the others. Their friends were waiting by the railings outside Guy’s basement, shuffling their feet and looking embarrassed when Guy and Dora reappeared.

Evangeline said loudly, ‘I don’t think we’re wanted here. Guy’s got a bit of an agenda, haven’t you, Guy?’

Guy looked straight into Evangeline’s face. ‘I just go with the flow, just go with the flow.’

Dora was happy to flow along with Guy. She was so hungry for his love. Then she looked at Evangeline. Her fair skin was flushed; her eyes glittered. They were all quite lit up, but Dora suspected her friend was very drunk indeed. She’d noticed that the older girl had ordered Armagnac after lunch, when everyone else had stuck to the wine.

‘Remember what I told you, Dora dear. Be a sensible girl, won’t you? You’ve drunk an awful lot and I wouldn’t like you to do something you might regret.’

‘What a hypocrite,’ Dora thought. What did she mean anyway? Did she think Dora was a drunken little pushover? Was that what Guy was up to? Dora knew more about his philandering ways now and didn’t entirely trust him. It certainly didn’t put her off him, as he never seemed to have anyone who lasted more than a night or two. Also, she was a veteran in the campaign of saying no and meaning it.

She drew slightly away from his insistent arm. The others had all turned to go, muttering tactfully about being green and hairy. The spring day that had seemed like summer was chilling into dusk.

‘Bye, Guy. Bye, Dora.’ Kisses all round, then they were gone, leaving her outside Guy’s flat. Only Evangeline remained.

‘Don’t you need a chaperone, Dora?’ she said, propping herself up on the railings. ‘Guy’s got a terrible reputation, you know.’

‘I can look after myself, thank you,’ said Dora, all dignity, in spite of the spiteful glow that was lighting up her entrails. She wished Evangeline would leave too, and then asked herself why she wanted to be alone with Guy. What was her body planning?

Evangeline had turned to Guy. ‘What about whiling away the rest of this dull and depressing Sunday with both of us, Guy?’ she slurred.

Dora realised what she meant and felt her face grow hot. Guy had turned to go down the basement steps, trying to draw Dora with him. His averted head didn’t convey anything in particular. She pulled herself away from him. He looked around, startled.

‘I’m going now, OK, Guy. I’ve got to go home. I’ve a piece I’ve got to finish for Monday,’ Dora explained.

‘You didn’t say anything about it before. Do come at least and have a cup of tea. Please. You can do it later, can’t you, when you’ve sobered up?’

‘I write rather well when I’m a bit pissed.’ Dora was determined now. She found the idea of losing her virginity in the company of another woman utterly squalid. If she was going to take the plunge, she wanted to be the only female witness.

‘Do come down, please.’

Guy was ignoring Evangeline, who still stood there with a slightly mad smile on her face. He turned and came back up. Dora had her back to the railings, and he grasped the cold iron on either side of her, his right shoulder shutting out her friend. He bent down deliberately and kissed Dora’s mouth. Then he said, ‘Dora, I’m so madly in love with you that if you leave me now, I’ll get into the bath with the Carmen rollers.’

‘In your hair or out of it?’ Dora inquired solicitously.

‘Oh, in it I think, don’t you?’ He puffed up the back of his thick straight hair.

‘Then I won’t worry about you a bit, because they can’t present a threat to your health if they’re not plugged into the mains.’

‘Oh, you cruel woman. You will break my heart. I make a very good pot of tea. Everyone says so. You must be very dehydrated by now. Please come in.’

Evangeline stood silent and astounded. Guy didn’t usually say so much. The tender note in his voice disturbed her. The Guy she knew was far harder and more predatory.

‘OK, but just tea, please. I wasn’t fibbing when I said I had a piece to finish.’

‘Bye, then,’ said Evangeline, defeated. ‘Shall I come back later when she’s gone?’ she asked Guy.

‘I won’t require your services tonight, Miss Flight. Would you like to make an appointment with my secretary for later in the week?’

She at least had the grace to laugh and leave. Dora and Guy went down the steps. He kissed her while he was trying to put the key in the lock, which meant it took a long time. He had one hand twisted into the back of her loose hair. Her whole skin felt electric. He kissed her as he pushed the door open. He pulled off her jacket. He put his arms around her and fell with her on to the sofa. He kissed her again and undid the buttons of her tight bodice, releasing her breasts.

Although she was enjoying Guy’s energetic attentions, even with alcoholic logic and slightly dulled senses, she was disturbed by Evangeline’s insinuations. Her long-held virginity had taken on a hideous significance. Losing it couldn’t be casual now. She wasn’t too drunk to stick to her conviction about not joining the throng that trooped through his bed, and began half-heartedly to push his hands away.

He let go of her abruptly and slipped to the floor at her feet, where he knelt down on the bare boards.

Dora blinked. Without his warmth, the chill of the unheated room struck on her bare chest, raising goose pimples.

He said: ‘Shall we get married then?’

She was silent for a minute, and then she said, ‘OK’.

‘Right, my darling, let’s go to bed.’

He stood up, holding out his hand to help her to her feet.

‘Hold on, Guy.’

She didn’t accept his hand. She leaned back on the sofa. The world was beginning to tip. She felt slightly queasy. She tried to think.

‘Shouldn’t we wait until after the wedding?’ she asked carefully.

He was still laughing.

‘I don’t think I can wait another minute. And this is the 1980s, not the 1880s.’

‘We hardly know each other.’

‘I know everything I want to know. That you are beautiful and good and kind, and I don’t know – that I’m desperate to fuck you right now. Here if you like.’

He sat down beside her on the sofa again, hoping that he might overcome her scruples physically. He scooped her on to his knee and began to kiss her again. Her arms went around his neck. In spite of all the booze he was feeling very aroused. He bent his head, released a nipple from her bra with his tongue and sucked quite hard. It had an electric effect – the sensation shot through to her groin and she clung all the closer and kissed him enthusiastically back.

‘Here we go,’ he thought to himself, smiling inwardly. He’d really meant it when he’d said he loved her. She was special and different, but not too special and different to fuck.

Then she pulled back, her eyes glittering, her cheeks red.

‘When do you want to get married?’

He felt shocked. Marriage wasn’t the sort of persuasion technique he usually used. These days every girl he met was on the Pill and it wasn’t necessary. He might be a chancer but he didn’t employ cheap tricks like declaring undying love. He was confident enough of his own attractions to get anyone he wanted into bed. He wasn’t quite sure why he had used marriage now, but it had seemed right. He had felt overwhelmed by Dora herself, not just by lust.

She rested her head on his shoulder, hiding her face from him, her hands still linked around the back of his neck. He felt very frustrated and had the urge to pull up her flounced skirt and just get on with it. He put his hand on the damp warmth of her cotton knickers. She murmured a protest and clamped her legs together, wriggling to dislodge him. He resisted a parallel desire to push her sharply off his lap on to the floor.

Dora was aching with desire, and trying to deal with this peculiar proposal, rampant lust and her usual reluctance to let anyone go too far. She wished he would just put his hand in her pants and make her come that way; but this had always led to requests she couldn’t fulfil.

Guy gave up and let go of her, glaring at her hot face and naked breasts in frustrated fury. She wanted to cry and he wanted to scream.

Lost for words, he shoved her away from him, stood up and left the room. It felt like some stupid 1950s heavy petting session.

‘For God’s sake,’ he said to himself over and over again. ‘Why don’t you just leave her alone. She’s obviously frigid as hell, or religious or something. Maybe she doesn’t fancy you. Not your type at all.’

He shut his bedroom door and leaned against it, his erection gradually subsiding. He could hear her gathering herself together in the next room, and the sound of the front door opening and closing. He sighed. What was wrong with Dora?

‘I wouldn’t marry me,’ he thought.

For the first time in his life, he wondered what was going on inside a girl’s head. Hitherto, he had worried a great deal more about what was going on in their knickers.

Four

DORA HOISTED HER TOWEL HIGHER over her breasts and sat down on the chair by the telephone to answer it. ‘Who’s that?’ she said, although she knew damn well.

‘It’s me, Evangeline. Can I come and see you?’

Dora felt uneasy. Evangeline did telephone sometimes, but only to invite her out somewhere. She never seemed interested in visiting Dora at home.

Dora’s heart started thumping in her chest and she didn’t dare say, ‘Why?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I’m in this evening. Do you want to come now?’

‘Yes, all right. Are you alone?’

‘Er, I think so. Why?’

‘I want to talk to you in private.’

Dora felt as if she couldn’t breathe properly. She knew what Evangeline was going to tell her, and she didn’t want to hear it.

She wanted to tell Evangeline to go to hell. She also wanted to hear what she had to say. It was like licking an ulcer.

She went upstairs, rubbing her hair with her towel, and hastened back into her clothes. She had intended to put on her cotton pyjamas and dressing gown, but if she had to face Evangeline, she wanted to be armoured in stiff fabric. She chose midnight blue corduroy jodhpurs and a matching beaded cardigan. Then she went to make a pot of tea, damned if she was going to pour wine down Evangeline.

She turned on the television and caught the news. Mrs Thatcher was doing something or other. She felt rather bemused and considered having a stiff drink herself first. There was some cooking brandy left over from the Christmas cake she had made. She went into the kitchen, took the bottle down, unscrewed the lid and took a swig. It burned down her gullet, making her choke, but when it settled in her stomach it glowed more gently. She took another couple of nips, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and put the bottle back for next Christmas, or crisis, whichever came first.

The doorbell rang and Dora jumped guiltily. She went and let her in. Evangeline was immaculate. Her floating blonde hair was crimped into perfect little curls. Her face was artfully made up to look unmade up, and she was wearing a soft suede wrap-around skirt and an extravagant natural cashmere throw. When Dora looked at her objectively, she thought the whole effect was much too old. Evangeline was only 25, for goodness’ sake. That look suited the senior fashion editors, but not a young woman.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said to Dora. Unhappiness always made Dora clumsy and the two of them got stuck in the narrow end part of the passage. Evangeline’s smile became rather fixed.

‘Come on, Dora, let’s sit down.’

‘Would you like some tea?’

‘Haven’t you got anything stronger?’

‘Sorry, Evangeline, I haven’t.’

‘Oh, but what can I smell on your breath?’