A Vision of Loveliness - By Louise Levene Page 0,54
he stared dumbly at their cardiganed chests. Mummy relented and he was too vain and proud to try again. Which meant that dances – the one time you were actually licensed to grope girls – were terrible ordeals spent loafing on the touchline with half a pint of bitter trying to talk smart while better men foxtrotted their way over the stocking tops.
‘I don’t dance.’ He used to practise saying it in the mirror: world-weary, a little contemptuous, a tiny bit reproachful – how could they talk of dancing with so much sadness and uncertainty in the world? It never had cut much ice and Jane and Suzy were no different. Jane knew he’d say no to dancing. He just wasn’t the type.
He took a deep breath. Would they like to come back to his flat for a nightcap?
‘Your flat?’ Suzy was surprised – and impressed. He looked more like the type that lived at home.
‘It belongs to my uncle but he’s down in Sussex most of the time.’
Michael’s ‘uncle in Sussex’ was a bit like Jane’s ‘aunt in Surrey’. Uncle Jack ran a chain of gents’ outfitters in the Bexhill area but there was no need to dwell on that. Gents took a lot of fitting out in the Bexhill area and Uncle Jack had spent much of the proceeds on a West End bolt hole where he could entertain willing young boys without endangering trade. He popped up about once a fortnight and Michael would doss down on a friend’s sofa or go home to his mother’s in Sevenoaks until the coast was clear.
‘I’ve got some whisky . . . and I think there’s some crème de menthe’ (Uncle Jack’s younger friends liked a drop of crème de menthe).
Jane didn’t especially want to go back to their freezing cold flat but she wasn’t too sure about the nightcap at his place either. What for?
‘There’s a taxi,’ said Suzy. It wasn’t a statement; it was an order.
‘I’ve got the car,’ trumped Michael, happily. The girls purred with surprise. He didn’t look much like a driver – but then it didn’t look much of a car. Uncle Jack’s finances had been stretched buying the flat, let alone the runabout to go with it, so he’d settled for a smart new Ford. He’d wanted red but red was Export Only for some peculiar reason – why? It was only paint, for God’s sake – so he settled for black with snazzy red seats.
‘Ooh!’ squeaked Suzy. ‘I’ve driven one of these. My uncle used to have one.’ Uncle. Like hell.
Woodrose became very panicky and started muttering about third party and no syncromesh.
‘What makes you think I can’t double declutch? Cheek. Daddy taught me. I can double declutch in my sleep – often do as a matter of fact.’
He was really panicking now but Suzy was already behind the wheel – first time she’d opened a car door for herself since she left school.
‘Have you passed your test?’
‘Oh don’t be such an old woman, Mikey.’
Had she passed her test? Unlikely. She might be all right with double declutching but she used far too much choke and her steering was terrifying. She blithely shot a red light crossing Oxford Street. Suzy carried on regardless, squealing with excitement, fag stuck jauntily between her smiling red lips. Her skirt had ridden high above her knees but Michael Woodrose was past caring. There was a horrible knot of fear in his stomach, a nasty, queasy feeling that dredged up blushing memories of long-forgotten boyhood crimes. Uncle Jack’s Ford Consul might not be much of a car but every Sunday he was in London he would be out with a chamois leather polishing the chrome trim, waxing the bodywork. One of his young friends had been sick in it once – having discovered (a bit late in the day) that red biddy and blue curaçao didn’t really mix. Uncle Jack had blown a fuse, obsessively rinsing and wiping the floor and clearing out all the crevices in the map pocket with an old toothbrush. God knew what he’d do if anyone scratched the paintwork.
‘This is it, on the corner.’
Suzy braked very abruptly, and stalled to a stop outside the mansion block, thoroughly exhilarated by her little spin.
‘That was fab, darling, I must get a car. How much are cars, darling?’
You could practically hear the tumblers working in that little tart’s brain of hers. Would the generous Mr Swan be good for a car as well as a flat?