I Should Be So Lucky (14 page)

‘That’s the second time today!’ Viola laughed. ‘Rachel said more or less the same. I’m not twelve!’

‘I know, but think on. We’re only looking out for you.’

After much dithering in front of the wardrobe and wondering what had happened to her old instinct for what to wear to what, Viola opted for the not-making-huge-effort compromise of jeans but with an asymmetrically quirky All Saints top. She’d washed her hair and it had fluffed out in all the right ways for once, but she wasn’t wearing a lot of make-up. If Amanda was being thrifty with the truth and had, in spite of her promise, tried to make this a foursome with some stray man (and Viola could just picture it: Amanda saying, ‘Oh, this is Steve, by the way. I forgot to mention he happens to be staying with us tonight, thought he might as well come with us …’), then he wasn’t going to be encouraged to fancy her.

After all the thinking about it and dreading being set up, it was almost (but not quite) a disappointment when Amanda and Leo came to pick her up and there wasn’t anyone else in the car. How contrary was that?

‘Just to warn you, you and I’ll be the youngest here by about twenty years,’ Amanda told her as soon as they arrived. ‘This lot are what Leo’s mate once called SOGGS – otherwise known as
sad old gits with guitars
.’

‘They may be old,’ Leo, who was a good ten years older than Amanda, said, ‘but at least by now they can damn well play them. They’ve got years of music history in them, these guys.’

‘Here we go.’ Amanda rolled her eyes at Viola. ‘Now he’ll start on the kids of today wasting their time mucking about on virtual guitar …’

‘Well, you know I’m right,’ he said as they went into the pub and up the stairs to the clubroom. ‘If they spent as much time practising on the real thing as they do on the game version, they’d get bloody good.’

Amanda hadn’t been wrong about the age thing. The place was crammed with a mostly male audience: amiable, greying blues aficionados in ancient jeans, jackets proudly accessorized with rusting CND badges, wire-rimmed reading glasses poking out of top pockets. The women still had mildly exotic traces of old hippy-dom about them: Viola even spotted a couple of Stevie Nicks-style hanky-point skirts. At the bar people made way for each other; she heard the words please and thank you. It was a long way from the E-fuelled world of her own clubbing days, when an illegal rave in a field would be rammed with huge-eyed frantic dancers, beaming vacantly at their happy, happy world but totally unable to attempt a conversation.

‘If you’re looking for the older type, own bus pass, that sort of thing …’ Amanda whispered as they made their way to a table alongside the stage area.

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Viola told her, settling into her chair with a spritzer.

And Leo had been right about the music. The thoroughly competent band played a selection of old blues standards mixed in with such eternal favourites as Eddie Floyd’s ‘Knock on Wood’. Down at the front, a few energetic sorts were dancing in the kind of Dad-dance way that would have had Rachel and her mates pleading with them to stop.

‘That geezer keeps looking at you,’ Leo commented to Viola as the band stopped for a break. A grey-bearded man in ancient leather jeans and one dangling sword earring on the far side of the room caught her eye and raised his glass to her.

‘Thanks for the warning, but leather trousers – nooooo! Didn’t think they still existed.’ She half smiled politely back at the man, though, not wanting him to think (or rather to know) she was laughing at him. ‘I’ll keep clear and hope he finds someone else to hit on. And hey, my turn to get the drinks.’ She pulled her phone from her bag in case Rachel had sent a text (she hadn’t) and put it in her pocket, found her wallet and hung the bag over the back of the chair. ‘Same again for you both?’

Viola took her turn at the bar feeling unusually happy, almost euphoric. It was good to be out; she’d almost forgotten how it felt just to have nothing to think about but enjoying the moment. Rejoining the real world: she’d picked the right time.

‘You irk me,’ a male voice behind her said. She took no notice, assuming the speaker was having a conversation with someone else. The barman approached and she ordered the drinks.

‘You are
irksome
to me.’ This time it was definitely aimed close to her ear. She turned to look and there was the leather-trousered man, too close and staring intently into her face. The silver-sword earring swung against his stubbly neck.

‘Irksome?’ she asked as she handed over money for the drinks. ‘You don’t know me.’

‘You disturb me.’ This didn’t sound good; she looked over to their table. Amanda was on her own – Leo was talking to the band’s keyboard player. She put her wallet between her teeth and went to pick up the drinks.

‘You can’t carry all those on your own, let me help.’

Before Viola could protest, leather man picked up two of the glasses and led the way to their table. Amanda raised her eyebrows at Viola. ‘Can’t let you out of my sight for a sec …’ she began, then stopped, seeing Viola’s warning look. The man had pulled up a spare stool from the next table and now sat with them.

‘Paul,’ he said to Viola.

‘Hello, Paul.’ Viola wasn’t willing to give her name but also wished she wasn’t cursed with good manners; how did people ever tell anyone just to
get lost
? It wasn’t in her nature to be that rude – you couldn’t just tell a stranger who was only mildly annoying you to sod off.
He
was ignoring Amanda completely and was now staring at the floor.

‘You have beautiful feet,’ he declared in a strangely flat tone. ‘They please me.’

Viola looked at them, feeling as if her naked, pink-painted toenails at the front of her espadrilles were somehow indecently exposed. She could feel them trying to curl themselves out of sight, and she folded one ankle over the other and tucked her feet away under her chair.

‘OK, how are we doing and who is this?’ Leo arrived back at that moment; oh bless him, Viola thought.

‘And this is her husband,’ Amanda said to Paul, quite loudly and slowly so he couldn’t misinterpret or not hear and so Leo could pick up on the situation. The small lie made Viola swear eternal gratitude. ‘And I think he quite likes her feet as well.’

Paul stood up, put his hand out and Leo shook it, both men looking almost comically solemn. ‘You are a lucky man. She is an irksome woman but has good feet.’

‘You see, Vee?’ Amanda giggled as soon as Paul had vanished into the crowd, presumably to be irked by another cute-footed woman. ‘You’ve still got it!’

Pulling power she might have: if this was what she trawled she was glad she’d resolved to stay right out of the dating scene.

‘Thanks, Amanda, that’s so encouraging!’ She laughed.
‘And
it’s made me even keener to stay away from even the
idea
of looking for a new man.’

‘Oh, now, never say never!’ Leo said. ‘That’s just defeatist! Haven’t you been even slightly tempted to have a look at what’s out there online?’

‘Why, have you?’ Amanda asked him.

‘No! Of course not – not when I’ve got you, babe.’

Viola saw a swift and loving smile pass between the two of them and felt a little tweak of envy.
Maybe one day
… she allowed herself to think, but not yet.

‘I know exactly what would happen if I did online dating,’ she said. ‘I’d find someone who put up a photo of himself that was ten years old and two stone lighter and whose mum had written all his spiel. He’d have the dress sense of that Paul bloke and when face to face would communicate only in Neanderthal grunts.’

‘I’d better tell Charlotte that the Internet isn’t going to figure in her manhunt for you, then.’

‘You can try – I don’t expect she’ll take any notice, though. You know what she’s like.’

It was only as they began to leave and Viola was about to put her purse back in her bag that she realized the bag had gone from the back of her chair. Her heart started to beat fast as she thought about what was in it, and whether anything was going to be the most massive hassle to replace. But she hadn’t taken anything out with her other than her purse – which she still had, and one doorkey, which was in the pocket of her jeans. Only
a
small pack of tissues and a lipstick had gone, and the little bag had been an old one, brought out from handbag retirement because it had a long strap that she could wear across her body in a crowded bar and be safe from casual thieving. Well, that had worked well, hadn’t it. On the plus side, the thief would be disappointed with such a meagre haul.

‘So bloody unlucky!’ Amanda looked stricken when Viola told her, as if by taking her out that night it was somehow partly her fault.

‘Not really, just careless of me,’ Viola said. ‘I should know better than to let it out of my sight. I really
am
hopeless, aren’t I?’

‘Not at all,’ Amanda lied kindly. ‘But you are going to report it to the police?’

‘No,’ Viola said. ‘There was absolutely nothing in it, and I don’t want my family to know I can’t even manage a night out without
something
going wrong.’

‘Well, Leo and I won’t tell them. Just tell the barman, though – he’ll want to know if people are thieving in here.’

Viola felt relieved to be home as the Mini pulled up outside the house and she climbed out, hugging Amanda, who got out to move from the back seat to the front. OK, so something had gone wrong, but it could have been worse. She could have been about to spend hours on the phone cancelling credit cards or trying to get through to bank helplines.

‘Thank you so much, both of you. Great evening.’

‘We must do it again,’ Amanda said. ‘Loved the music, just sorry about your bag.’

‘It’s OK, honestly. And yes, let’s do it again.’

The Mini sped off and Viola, her doorkey already safely in her hand, waved till it vanished round the corner. Turning to go in through the gates, she tripped on a piece of loose paving and stumbled, the key flying out of her hand and clinking on metal. She didn’t have to guess what had happened to it. She’d been here before, back when she was fifteen. The key had found its inevitable way down the nearest drain.

TWELVE

AS THE SAYING
went, the light was on but no one was home. Naomi’s little Fiat was not in the driveway because it would be parked outside her friend Monica’s house, where Naomi would probably by now either be fast asleep or reading Ed McBain.

Viola sat on the steps on the front porch wondering how to deal with yet another problem that was of her own making. So what to do next? At least it wasn’t cold tonight – that was something. If the back door didn’t give with the hard tug she thought was all she’d need, then trying to unscrew the catch on the flat’s French doors would be a lot easier without frozen fingers. She picked her way carefully along the rutty path in the dark past the hydrangeas and went round to the back of the house to give the door a firm tug. But despite her best efforts, none of the doors budged, not even slightly. They might creak in a high wind and let whistling
draughts
through in winter, but the place was a lot tougher than she’d thought. The solidly built old house completely scorned her puny efforts, and the open but utterly inaccessible upstairs bathroom window was practically sneering at her. So it would have to be the heavyweight approach. But first to find a screwdriver and any other potentially useful tools. She switched on her phone to use the torch app so she could see her way to the shed in the back garden. At that moment a text flashed up, with the name Greg Fabian. She leaned against the porch to read it: ‘You still haven’t told me why you’re living with your mother. Am curious.’

He was being quite persistent on that one, she thought, though feeling exhilaratedly pleased to hear from him, as if he were a little bit of welcome friendly company while she scuffed about in the garden, trying to break in.

‘And you didn’t tell me why you plant fruit trees in the night. Am also curious,’ she replied briskly, pressing send and immediately realizing she hadn’t first checked the time he’d sent his message. It could have been hours ago. She should have waited till morning; by now he could well be asleep. The ding of the message alert might wake and infuriate both Greg and Mickey; after all, not everyone was up and about, prowling around wide awake. All the same, she thought, her question covered both the quince
and
the apples. This was his chance to fess up to that one – if it
was
him. It would be
typical
to presume and find she was completely wrong and make a total idiot of herself. Perhaps the world was full of night-time gardeners. Her phone dinged again. Not asleep then – either woken and annoyed by her text or still up and about.

‘Apples for teachers = traditional. No fruit tonight tho. Sunflowers.’

So it
was
him. Strange, loopy man! And he was out planting stuff in the night
again
? The thought made her smile, yet at the same time she also wondered if her nutter-alert radar should be kicking in here, just as it had with the foot-admirer earlier. Unable to resist her curiosity, she started tapping into her phone again.

‘Sunflowers? Right now? Where?’ She sent the message and switched the hopelessly feeble torch app on and set off round to the shed, thankful for a clear night with a good bright moon. With luck – if it wasn’t in its usual short supply – she wouldn’t trip over a tree root and break her ankle. As she rummaged through the old toolbox that had lived, more or less unbothered, in the shed for the past couple of decades, she suddenly felt desperately tired. It was nearly midnight. She was locked out and in urgent need of a pee. Well, at least that could be sorted, and she nipped round to the back of the shed and peed on the compost heap. Old Uncle Oliver would have approved – he’d once told her that all hard-core gardeners did that, something to do with uric acid being good for the mulch, though she wasn’t
sure
what old Joe, the neighbour who took care of their garden in exchange for turning the far end of it into his personal allotment, would think of it. She was just hauling up her jeans when her mobile rang and Greg, yet again, caught her by way of the phone with her knickers down. Not that she was going to tell him that, she thought, as she quickly fastened her zip, one-handed.