Dream On (45 page)

Ginny tapped Simon Parker on the shoulder. ‘Still interested in talking to the “lady club boss”?'

Parker stood up, a delighted smile lighting up his boyishly handsome face. ‘You've changed your mind. You're going to let me do your story.'

She shook her head. ‘No, I just want to talk to you.'

She turned to stare into Welsh Davey's shifty eyes. ‘There's someone over at the bar been asking for you, Davey. Said something about . . . What was it? Some banking business or something? Or maybe it was about a load of old toffee. Or maybe it was just about settling up your bar bill.'

Welsh Davey finished his drink, stood up and treated Ginny to a sarcastic smirk. ‘Very funny,' he said, before leaving her alone with the reporter.

‘What was that about?' Simon asked.

‘Just a private joke.'

‘You're not laughing.'

‘I don't really feel much like laughing at the moment.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘It's a long story. Some other time, eh?'

‘Okay. So what was it you wanted to talk about?'

Ginny ran her fingers through her hair, stared down at her feet, then finally blurted out, ‘I've got a bit of free time and I was wondering if that offer of a date was still on.'

GINNY THREW THE
full-skirted floral-print dress, and its matching net petticoats, on to the bed. They landed on top of the pile of clothes she had already discarded as being totally unsuitable for a day out in the country. ‘Whatever d'you think you're up to?' she asked herself as she opened her wardrobe yet again. ‘You've got nothing in common with the likes of Simon Parker. You're only doing this because—'

Her voice trailed off, as her attention was suddenly caught by a squash of unopened parcels and bags that had been shoved right to the back of the top shelf. She didn't need to think what they were, she knew exactly: they were the spoils of her last shopping spree, the things she had bought the day before Billy had walked out on her. She gnawed anxiously at her bottom lip as she felt her eyes begin to sting.

Blinking back the tears, Ginny reached up and pulled down the bags.

She went through them, one by one, having a struggle to remember where she'd bought what, but always remembering exactly why she'd bought every single thing. Each item would have been fully approved of by Billy. Either because they were fashionable, or because they were what he called classy looking. And, inevitably, each had been more expensive than anything she would have chosen – had she not been trying to please him.

From amongst the hoard, Ginny dug out a pair of cavalry-twill slacks, which she couldn't even recall trying on, let alone buying, and a pale-blue angora twin set that she remembered all too well. She could just see the assistant holding the cardigan up to her: cooing and smiling, saying how lovely she would look in it, assuring her how the colour would set off the blue of her eyes and how it would complement her blonde hair.

What a load of shit. She knew the moment she walked out of any one of those snooty shops that all the assistants would be talking about her behind her back, speculating on how she had so much to spend. And they probably wouldn't be far wrong.

Ginny stared into the dressing-table mirror and sighed, brushing the soft, fluffy sweater against her cheek. She might as well look the part for a day out, even if she didn't feel like it.

By ten thirty, Ginny was ready and on her way downstairs to meet Simon Parker; just as they had agreed over a week ago. As she went to open the front door, she hesitated and peered through the side lights. There was nothing surprising to see, only Simon, standing next to a sleek, dark-green car, checking his watch.

Ginny covered her face with her hands. For Christ's sake, what was she doing? She should have telephoned the newspaper office yesterday evening – as she had almost done at least a dozen times – and told him she couldn't go out with him after all. Anyone could tell him she was far too busy. She had responsibilities, a club to run. All sorts of things to do with her time.

But she hadn't called him. Instead, here she was, acting as though she'd nothing better to do than go running off to the country with the first handsome man who'd asked her for a date since Billy had left her.

She was behaving like an adolescent kid. And all because she'd been hurt again. But that was no excuse. She was a grown woman. She should be used to pain by now.

She would find Flora and get him to make up some story – that wasn't exactly adult of her, but she saw no need to be rude to Simon. It wasn't his fault she was an idiot. Flora could go out and tell him she was ill or something. She stepped back from the door and turned on her heel to go and find him.

She didn't have to go far; Flora was coming down the stairs towards her. ‘Look at you!' he trilled, slapping the side of his face with the stubby fingers on one hand and thrusting a wicker hamper at her with the other. ‘Ava Gardner in a blonde wig. No. No, wait.' He put his head on one side. ‘It's not Ava Gardner, is it? Wait, it's coming to me. I know! You're Grace Kelly's double! That's what you are. All you need's a row of pearls and you could pass for her twin sister.'

Ginny waited for him to finish, then held up the basket. ‘What's this?'

‘I got the kitchen to knock you up a few bits for the journey. A nice wee picnic. Some ham, sausage rolls, a few pies, a bit of salad stuff, and I've set aside a couple of bottles of something special to wash it all down. I've even had a Thermos of coffee made up, in case it turns nippy later on.'

‘It was a kind thought, Flora, thank you. But I'm not going.'

‘Oh yes, you are, Miss Martin.' Flora backed away from the hamper she was trying to return to him. ‘As if I'd let you throw away the chance of spending the day in the country with that gorgeous hunk of manhood. Have you seen him? He's been waiting outside for you since ten o'clock, poor lamb. Now come on, it's just what you need, a day out. Something to bring a bit of sunshine into your life and to put the roses back into those pretty cheeks of yours.'

‘The sun isn't shining, Flora,' she said lifelessly.

‘What a sourpuss! You see, you'll have a lovely day. And don't tell me you don't deserve it. You've been working that hard lately.'

Flora guided Ginny forward and, with all the skill of a collie herding a recalcitrant sheep, pulled open the door, eased her outside and down the steps to where Simon was standing, smiling fit to burst.

‘And don't let me see either of you
near
this place till six o'clock at the earliest,' he said, taking the hamper from Ginny and handing it to Simon. ‘Now go on, have a lovely day, and I don't want a single crust left in that basket when you get back.'

Ginny climbed into the car without a word, while Flora took Simon inside to collect the bottles and flask.

‘You will try and keep her out for a good few hours, won't you?' Flora said with a sad shake of his head, as he loaded Simon up with the drinks. ‘Honestly, she's been that overworked, it's about time she had a little bit of a treat. You'll have to get her to relax, if you know what I mean.' He winked extravagantly. ‘I know she'd be very grateful, so it'll certainly be worth the effort.'

Flora stood and waved until the car had pulled out of the alley, then he went back inside the club and picked up the telephone. ‘Gloria? It's me, I've—' He tutted irritably. ‘It's Flora, you silly tart, who'd you think it is, Liberace and his magic flaming fingers? Anyway, I've got rid of the ice maiden at last, thank God, so the poker game's on. Any more of her moaning and I'd be slitting my sodding throat. What?' He listened impatiently. ‘Yes, of course I've fixed it all up this end. We've got the whole place to ourselves for a good seven hours. You let everyone know, and by the time they get here Casino Floriana will be open for business.'

After they had left the East End far behind and the broad South London streets had narrowed into the hilly, winding lanes of Kent, the sun made an appearance from behind the bank of clouds that was at last breaking up in the soft, late-morning breeze.

Without taking his eyes from the road, Simon handed Ginny a pair of diamanté-studded, butterfly-wing sunglasses. ‘Try these for size.'

‘I'm all right, thanks,' she said, balancing them on the polished walnut dashboard in front of her.

‘I thought they'd make you smile.'

‘Look, Simon, I don't mean to be miserable, but I don't feel much like smiling. Okay?'

‘Do you know that apart from the dismal-sounding hello that you just about managed to bark at me earlier, those are the first words you've uttered since you got in the car?'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You haven't even mentioned what you think of the motor,' he said, reaching out of the window and giving the car roof an affectionate pat.

‘It's very nice.'

‘
Nice
? This is more than nice. This, Ginny, is a Jaguar. It was meant to impress you.' He flicked his eyes sideways and flashed her his cheeky boyish grin. ‘My father's Jaguar, admittedly, but it's still a Jag. I keep telling him he's too old to drive it and he should give it to me. But he won't listen. What do you think? Should he give it to me? He can certainly afford to.'

‘It's up to him.'

‘I suppose it is.'

They drove on in a silence broken only by Simon's shouted ‘thank you' to a roadside AA man who saluted them, and his occasional strange pronouncements on interesting features he spotted in the passing landscape. Then, without warning, he stopped the car in a layby next to a five-bar gate.

‘Look, Ginny, I could talk for a living if I had to, but even I can't spin out a phoney commentary on oasthouses and hop gardens and cherry orchards for more than an hour. It's wearing me ragged. You're going to have to help me a bit. Even if it's only to note what a good-looking sort of a devil you think I am.'

Ginny stared down at her hands. ‘Okay. Where are we going?' she asked eventually.

Simon looked about him. ‘We're sort of here, really. I thought we might get out and enjoy the fresh air. There's a river over there. What do you think?'

‘Fine,' she said flatly.

‘And if we're lucky, we might see the eclipse. This is a special day, you know, Ginny. One for the old headlines.' He pointed at the windscreen, as though composing the front page of a newspaper.
‘Wednesday, 30 June 1954. Solar eclipse over Britain. Ginny Martin amazed
!' He put his head on one side. ‘Well? Will you be amazed? Are you looking forward to witnessing this extraordinary event?'

‘I did see something about it.'

‘Did you? Where?' he asked, trying to encourage her. ‘In my paper, I hope.'

‘No. On the television.'

‘I've been thinking about getting one of those. Do you think I should?'

‘If you want one.'

Simon nodded briskly. ‘Right, tell you what, let's have that picnic.'

Simon ferried the picnic hamper, Thermos flask and bottles, a fringed tartan travelling rug and a black leather case that he tucked carefully under his arm, to the far side of the field. There, he set out the rug on the river bank, in the shade of a massive chestnut tree. He then went back to the Jaguar for Ginny, who had shown no interest in even getting out of the car, never mind any enthusiasm for a nature ramble through a wheat field.

Gently, Simon pushed her down on to the rug. ‘You have a choice,' he said, filling two glasses with deep-red wine. ‘While we dine on these fine morsels, so kindly supplied by Flora, you can either listen to me telling you all about myself – how I'm going to get the biggest series of scoops ever known in Fleet Street and how my great success will mean that they'll have to make me an editor before I'm thirty-five.
Or
I'll play you my clarinet.' He held up the black leather case. ‘And that will show you why, instead of editing
The Times,
I might become the best jazz clarinettist who's ever been born this side of New Orleans.' He pulled a face. ‘Although, even I have to admit I just
might
need a tiny bit more practice on the old licorice stick before that happens. But with my good looks, maybe they won't notice the duff notes.'

‘You really reckon yourself, don't you?' Ginny said, wondering why she'd let Flora bamboozle her into this.

He looked up from ferreting through the hamper. ‘Me?' He sounded shocked.

‘Yeah. You.' She could have added, just like almost every other man I've ever met in my life, but she didn't have the energy for a row. Instead she took a gulp of her drink.

‘Well, I know I used to get upset when I was a child and the other kids at school called me big-head,' he said, topping up Ginny's glass. ‘But d'you know what my mother always said?'

‘Surprise me.'

‘She'd say, don't let them upset you, son. You just go down to the fruit and vegetable shop and get me fourteen pounds of potatoes in your cap.'

Ginny stared at him blankly. ‘Very funny.'

‘If I'm such a comedian, then how come you look so sad?' He found a pork pie in the basket and took a large bite, giving her the chance to say something, but all she did was sip fitfully at her drink.

‘Is it something I've said, Ginny? It wasn't meant to be like this, you know. We were meant to have a lovely day. And you were meant to—'

‘Simon, I'm sorry,' she broke in. ‘It's not you. It's just that . . . I've not had much to be happy about lately.'

He aimed the half-eaten pork pie into the middle of the river, sending up a gentle plop into the still midday air. ‘But you've got so much. You've got the club, and you're—'

‘I know. I'm luckier than most people. In lots of ways. But that doesn't mean . . . Aw, I don't know.'