‘The train now at Platform One is the 16:43 fast service to London Liverpool Street. This train is about to depart,’ announced the tannoy in clipped tones.
Over the bridge two red-headed women raced, baking in the summer heat, the first in panic and the second in confusion.
‘Stop, darling!’ yelled Angie’s mother again. ‘I have to talk to you about this.’
‘No way,’ Angie replied. ‘We never agree!’
The whistle blew. Angie was now on the right platform and legging it towards the train, her mother only ten paces behind. With a super-human effort, Angie hauled open the nearest door and flung herself and her hold-all onto the carriage’s dirty floor. She slammed the door behind her just as her mother collided against the outside of the window. The train began to move off.
‘Open this door at once!’ Angie’s mother yelled, beginning to scamper alongside the train to keep level with her fleeing daughter, who was now holding the door shut against her mother’s frantic attempts to get in.
‘Sta-a-and clear of the train!’ shouted the platform official.
‘Let go, mother!’ screamed Angie. ‘Please! You’ll hurt yourself. And I’m not staying at home. Or taking that job with the ruddy butcher. I’m sorry, I can’t!’
At the last moment, her mother let go of the window and stood at the very end of the platform, either gesticulating or waving at her departing daughter. Angie couldn’t tell which it might be, but thank goodness she was okay. She couldn’t have borne it if her mother had been hurt. She had a small enough family as it was.
As the train gathered speed for its hour’s journey into the distant heart of the city, Angie turned and gave a bright smile to the curious carriage occupants, all of whom avoided her direct gaze. Deciding there was nothing she could say to explain her extraordinary arrival into their midst, she gathered her belongings and sank into the nearest empty seat.
‘There, I’ve done it,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ve finally left home.’
It was only then she realised she’d forgotten to pack any knickers.
***
She had plenty of time on the journey to mull over this unfortunate oversight. The route from the wilds of Essex into Liverpool Street was a long one, even for anything designated a fast train. So instead of watching the dull green fields and country cottages give way to business parks and downtrodden housing, Angie worried about her underwear and thought about what she’d done.
It surprised her. She’d never defied her mother in such a practical way before. She knew it was going to be hurtful, but another day being stifled by her mother’s concern and overpowering love might have been too much to take. On top of which there was no way she could ever have taken the butcher’s job, as her mother had been nagging her to do for months on the grounds that it was the only food-related business in a five-mile radius of home. Yes, she wanted to work in catering, but she’d got her degree now, hadn’t she? She couldn’t stay at home for ever, no matter how much her mother seemed to want it. Okay, it hadn’t been a great result, but it was still a degree and she needed more out of life. Besides, the butcher, Mr Robinson, was at least one hundred and twenty years old, but was still rumoured to grope the wives at the annual cricketing tea. As she’d said in forceful terms to her mother, who hadn’t been best pleased, and had told her it was all just gossip. Maybe she should have been more tactful? All through her teens, her rebellion had been verbal, sometimes very verbal, but what teenage girl’s hadn’t? It was a rite of passage, wasn’t it?
More than anything she wished her father were still alive. Only two people in the family was way too few and she could have done with him to lighten the atmosphere. From memory, that was something he’d been good at. Until towards the end of course, when everything had changed. He’d died seven years ago and she still missed him, though to her shame sometimes she couldn’t remember the exact details of his face except from photographs. Would she have been a different person if he were here today? There’d certainly been so many changes, what with her mother starting her pottery business and later doing so well out of it, something Angie had never realised she could do. Had Dad ever known Mum had that sort of talent? Her mother’s earnings had seen her through University up until now. And for what? A miserable Third and little chance of paying anything back.
Hunching herself towards the window, she tried to focus on what she would do next. There was only one thing for it. Even though Uncle John, her mother’s brother, hadn’t visited them for years, for reasons her mother never ever talked about, she had to try to find him. It would be somewhere to stay. Taking out her mother’s address book, which she’d stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans on her mad rush out of the door, she turned to the appropriate entry. In tiny writing, almost as if apologising for its existence, she read:
The Den, 91 Queen’s Crescent, Muswell Hill, London, N10.
Funny name for a house, she thought. She should ring him first. Let him know she was coming and ask if he could give her a room for couple of nights while she tried to sort herself out. But there was no number. Anyway, she needed to recharge her mobile and, when she did, the first thing she’d do was ring her mother.
All the while, as the train trundled on, a twist of anxiety was filling Angie’s stomach. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been quite so dramatic in her manner of leaving home. The whole thing seemed crazy now and she groaned, putting her head in her hands. Why did she always go over the top like this? She’d have thought three years away at university would have made her more reasonable at least, but there was something about her mother and being at home which always brought out the worst in her. Still, she was an adult now. Or should be. Why couldn’t she be more sensible and take things slower? After all, there was no guarantee Uncle John would be glad to see her. Perhaps he never wanted to see any of them again. He’d run away from them, hadn’t he, all those years ago? Perhaps he’d kick her out if she turned up asking for help. Still, no going back now. And anyway in the past he’d always been kind to her. She could remember his great sense of humour and the fun they’d had together, until the day it had all gone wrong of course. If only he hadn’t disappeared like that, then maybe … but no, best not think of that now. Besides, she’d made her decision to leave home and find him, and she was going to stick with it, no matter what.
And if things turned out okay, then that might be just the beginning of the adventure. Only half aware of people crowding onto the train at Chelmsford and the seats around her being taken, Angie began to imagine all the good things which might happen if she was lucky, including setting up and running her dream café, with food reporters from all over the world flocking to acknowledge its worth and ringing her every day for a snippet of food business wisdom. It would be heaven. And maybe, just maybe, she might even be lucky enough to find a decent bloke, someone rich, kind-hearted and handsome of course, who could share all this fame and fortune with her. Oh yeah? Dream on …
Smiling at her fantasies, she looked up to see the man opposite staring at her breasts as if they held hidden treasure. She said nothing, but glared back before turning to gaze out of the window. There was no way she was going to move just because of him. He wasn’t even young and good-looking, darn it. That would have been nice.
At Liverpool Street, she made sure she was off the train first. Striding away and clutching her hold-all in one hand, as if she knew where she was going, the first thing that struck her, apart from the litter, was the smell. It was a smell she’d never come across anywhere else; greasy and metallic, the smell of people crowded together, the smell of hot metal and concrete, the smell of diesel fumes and oil. The smell of the city.
Something I’ll have to get used to then if I’m going to live here, Angie thought with growing excitement as she handed her ticket to the guard at the exit and checked her watch. Six o’clock. Plenty of time to work out how to get to Muswell Hill and fling herself on the mercy of her uncle. Next stop - the Tube. More exciting than a bus. Probably more frequent than they ever were back home. Bound to be more than one a week anyway.
Locating the entrance to the Underground proved harder than she’d imagined. Why couldn’t she remember this from the times she’d been before? Easy, she’d been too busy talking and laughing with her mates then. Somebody else - Lisa more than likely - would have been in charge of finding the way. She’d done geography and was a whizz at knowing north from south. Angie’s throat felt tight as she remembered she was on her own now. No Lisa to help; she’d be in Paris today with the rest of their mates on their post-university tour. So she wandered around the station and found herself in a large shopping centre. One day, she thought, one day I’ll come back and buy whatever I want. When I’m rich. And debt-free.
Twenty minutes later, she realised dreaming and staring through the shop windows wouldn’t help with her homelessness. She had to find the ticket office and get going. Looking at the people passing her by, all of whom seemed intent on rushing to some unknown destination, their faces stiff as masks, she didn’t feel much like asking the way. She’d already used up her day’s store of courage in her flight from home so she’d simply have to walk round and search by herself. Five minutes later, she discovered the queue for the ticket office. After queuing for what seemed a lifetime, she finally made it to the front where she found out her route, bought her ticket and was on the way, via one change at King’s Cross, to Highgate.
Angie wasn’t at her best in enclosed spaces and had to stop herself staring down and wanting to jump off as the escalator took her into what seemed to be the depths of the earth. The Underground smelt of stale chips and was packed with steaming bodies. Rush hour? Did it ever end? Waiting politely for a space to get onto the platform didn’t work very well, so after watching what other people did, she decided to push herself along the wall until she reached the very end of the platform. By now she’d already missed two trains and was determined not to miss a third.
‘Excuse me, excuse me.’
Verbal courtesy had as little effect as waiting had done. She would have to be more assertive.
‘EXCUSE ME,’ and then ‘PLEASE? WOULD YOU?’
At last, the doors of the tube closed behind her and Angie braced herself for the off. Nothing happened. The doors opened and then closed again without allowing anyone else inside. Not that there would have been any room.
Still nothing happened and several people were giving her hold-all dark glances, as if they might be tempted to seize it from her simply to give one more passenger the chance to travel. She clutched her bag to her stomach and tried to look fierce.
When it seemed all hope of getting to her destination that week, let alone that evening, was gone, the train moved off. After struggling at King’s Cross to work out where she should be heading and in which direction, she at last reached Highgate, where she paced towards the Exit sign and tried to imagine what her uncle would be like now. It was over eight years since she’d last seen him, when he’d arrived at her thirteenth birthday and inundated her with presents - perfume, scarves, and more books than she’d ever had time to read. In fact, had she read them at all? She had a sudden memory of her mother not being very pleased and taking them away, and then of course there’d been that horrible and mysterious row which had resulted in Uncle John slamming the front door and leaving in his yellow sports car with a screech of brakes and a great deal of shouting. And then nothing. For all this time. What had it been about? Why did her mother never say? If she could find where he lived, she’d soon know.
Outside Highgate Station it was still light and Angie glanced at her watch. Nearly 7.30pm. Plenty of evening left to surprise her long-lost uncle. What was the address again? There it was: The Den, 91 Queen’s Crescent, Muswell Hill, London, N10. It still seemed strange, but the more important question was how to get there. Looking up, she could see a bus-stop with a small line of people and she made her way towards them.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can you help me? Please?’
No-one answered, so she tried again.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not begging or anything. I just need to know how I get to Muswell Hill from here. I haven’t a map.’
She smiled and continued to smile. After what seemed like an age during which she could feel her face setting in the position to which she’d willed it, an old and very large black woman pushed herself off from the side of the bus-stop and advanced two paces towards her.
‘Sure, dearie,’ she said. ‘You get on the next bus and follow me. I’m going there too.’
‘Thanks a lot, I’ll do that,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Placing her bag down next to the big woman, she smiled again, but if she’d been expecting more conversation, she was soon proved wrong. The woman went back to the book she’d been reading. For a moment, Angie wondered if she should say something else and see what happened, but decided against it. She didn’t want to push her luck. Instead, she gazed at her surroundings, which consisted of the bus-stop, a few bleak buildings and, to her surprise, almost as many trees as in the country.
Watching a stray dog snuffling through the gutter, she wondered if it had a home to go to or, like herself, was trying to fit in somewhere with no certainty of success. After today, she felt much like a stray dog herself. She was being a little mad, wasn’t she? If Uncle John had wanted to keep in touch with them during her teenage years, he would have done, no matter what dreadful deed he might have committed. She was expecting too much by turning up and asking for shelter.
She should take her mind off it; the stray dog, now lifting its leg against a nearby lamp-post, wasn’t helping. So instead she studied the people next to her in the bus queue. Two young girls who couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, each with pierced noses, one middle-aged man bent over and coughing phlegm into a dirty white handkerchief and the helpful woman who was still deep in her book.
‘Anything good?’ Angie asked. It would be nice to hear a friendly voice again.
There was a pause, then the woman lifted her head.
‘Sorry?’
‘Anything good? The book, I mean.’
‘It’s okay. Not bad for a white woman, know what I mean?’
Then raising the book so that Angie could see it was something by Joanna Trollope, the woman began to cackle, her shoulders shaking and the folds on her neck jiggling from side to side as if she were having a fit. Angie backed away. The woman stopped laughing, shook her head, gave a couple more snorts and then continued reading.
When the bus arrived five minutes later, Angie followed the woman on and sat on the seat across the aisle from her. Resolving to get off when her guide did, Angie realised she still needed to know how to get to her uncle’s address when in Muswell Hill. Perhaps it was best to ask now when she had a captive audience.
Leaning over and tapping the woman on the arm, she said, ‘Excuse me, sorry to trouble you again, but I’m trying to find a particular address. Could you help me please?’
The woman put down her book on her lap with a thump, ‘I have to say, dearie, you just don’t stop asking questions, do you?’
‘I was only …’
‘You white girls are all alike, you never stop talking. I ain’t never heard so many questions in one day. Ain’t you thought of giving a person some peace and quiet?’
Angie felt her eyes well up with tears; it had been a long day and wasn’t over yet. ‘Please, I just want to find out where my uncle lives, I haven’t seen him for years.’
‘That’s relations for you, you never see them till they want something,’ the woman began to reply but then shrugged. ‘Oh well, I suppose you won’t stop talking till you’ve got what you want, so come out with it then. What’s the address?’
‘Thanks. Really. It seems a bit strange, but it’s somewhere called The Den. It’s in Muswell Hill, number 91, Queen’s Crescent. Do you know it?’
There was a silence, during which her companion’s eyes became rounder and rounder.
‘Come again?’ she said.
Angie repeated the address, wondering why the woman looked so taken aback.
‘Please could you tell me where it is?’ she asked again.
With a sudden movement, the woman slapped both hands down on her floral skirt and gave a great guffaw of laughter.
‘The Den? Queen’s Crescent? Well, I never. What’s a little thing like you want in a place like that? You been set up or something? Here, I tell you this, there ain’t nothing someone like you can ever want in a place like that.’
‘What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing, as far as I’m concerned, dearie. Live and let live, that’s me, always has been. Did you say your uncle was there? Now what sort of a boy is he, I wonder?’
‘I don’t know. There’s nothing wrong with Uncle John, not that I know of. What do you mean?’
Something in Angie’s eyes must have warned the woman away from further teasing, as she gave a deep breath, wiped her eyes with her cardigan and seemed to try and bring herself under control.
‘I don’t mean nothing by anything, dearie. Don’t get so upset.’
‘I’m not upset, I was …’
‘There, there,’ the woman said, patting Angie on the knee. ‘Young folk these days are a mystery to me, but if you want to go there, I can’t stop you. Get off with me at the next bus-stop but one, take a left, right at the end of the road and then third left and you’re there. In Queen’s Crescent, anyhow. After that, I reckon you’re on your own.’
And with that she picked up her book, shook her head and continued to chuckle at intervals during the rest of the journey. Angie felt that pain in her stomach getting tighter. Why was Uncle John’s address such a mystery? Perhaps the woman somehow knew him and didn’t think much of him? No, that couldn’t be it. John had always seemed harmless enough in the past, if a bit weird, and Angie couldn’t imagine anyone taking a dislike to him at all. Apart from her mother of course, and for reasons way beyond her understanding.
When they shuddered to a halt in the middle of a wide street with rows and rows of Victorian-terraced shops, the woman was already halfway down the bus before Angie realised this was her stop. Scrabbling along behind, she only just made it onto the pavement before the doors closed behind her. At the end of the road, a huge church loomed dark against the evening skyline.
The woman grinned at Angie’s slowness.
‘Okay,’ she said, pointing to the left. ‘As I said, it’s left and then right at the end of this road, and third left and you can’t miss it. Good luck.’
She walked away in the opposite direction, shoulders still shaking as she disappeared round a corner, leaving Angie on her own.
Obeying the instructions, she turned left, then right, then left, passing one or two young couples, and several mothers with prams out for a stroll. But she must have turned left too soon as she wasn’t in Queen’s Crescent and there was no number 91 to be seen. What had the woman said? Second left instead of first? She couldn’t remember now. She’d better ask again. As yet another mother with a pram and toddler in tow came into view, Angie coughed and once more put on her brightest smile.
‘Excuse me, sorry to trouble you,’ she said, ‘but I think I’m a bit lost.’
The woman, who was young and dressed in a red sari, smiled back, stopped the pram and nodded. ‘Yes, yes, that okay. Where do you like to go?’
Angie told her.
There was a silence.
‘The Den? Number 91?’ Angie prompted. ‘Please?’
The woman clutched her toddler, backed the pram away from Angie and shook her head, ‘Oh no, no. Not go there, no.’
‘But …’ Angie began but it was too late. The woman had scuttled past, still muttering and was halfway down the road before Angie could finish her sentence.
Still puzzling over the reactions she was getting to her perfectly reasonable request, Angie retraced her steps. As she reached the junction, a group of three teenagers came into view, laughing and pointing to something on their mobiles. She’d ask them. It would be fine - one of them was a girl.
‘Hey, excuse me. I’m looking for an address round here. Can you help?’
‘Yeah, s’pose,’ said the taller boy with the dyed spiked hair and earring. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Number 91, Queen’s Crescent. I think it’s called The Den?’
‘The Den? No way!’ The other boy snorted with laughter and the girl hanging onto him giggled.
‘Cool!’ she said.
‘Weird!’ said the first boy. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, yes. Do you know how I get there? It can’t be far.’
They told her, the girl still giggling. Their laughter followed her all the way down the road. Exactly what was going on anyway? Was everyone around here mad, or just drugged?
Two streets further along, she found Queen’s Crescent at last. On the corner stood a large hall with “Number Ninety-One” stretched across the red brick façade in sloping Gothic letters. Success. It was bigger than she’d expected. Uncle John must be doing pretty well. Good for him. She hoped some of his luck might rub off on her.
With that soothing idea in her head, Angie trotted up the path, still clutching her hold-all like a comfort blanket, and raised her hand to press the Day-Glo orange doorbell.
Only then did the sign above the door come into focus. In flashing pink, it bore the legend: The Den Nightclub - We Cater for Your Pleasure.
What? Uncle John lived in a nightclub? Hey, how cool was that! But no, on second thoughts, that had to be wrong. No-one lived somewhere as exciting as this. Not Angie’s relatives or the relatives of any of her friends anyway. They were dull and normal. Usually. But it was definitely the right address, so maybe he lived over it or something? Yes, that must be it. Her missing uncle must live in a flat over the top. What a laugh. And what a great story to tell everyone. That would make them sit up and listen. It was rare she had any great stories to tell, what with living in the country where nothing ever happened; indeed she was always amazed at the things Colchester girls got up to. Thinking of her friends made Angie realise that of course none of them knew where she was. Technically she was a missing person, just like her uncle. Would her mother want to get in touch with her at all? And what would she say when her runaway daughter got in touch with her?
Before she could think of answering the question, the door in front of her swung open, bringing with it a wave of sound and two women with not much on. Even less than Angie herself might wear when clubbing. Must be London for you, she thought. They stared at her for a second and then one of them, the shorter of the two with a mass of black shiny hair, started to laugh. The taller fair-haired one gave her companion a playful punch in the ribs.
‘Oof! That hurt,’ the dark-haired one said. ‘Watch it, won’t you?’
Then they sashayed their way up the path, holding onto each other and swaying like two trees in a winter gale, and turned into the road.
Angie stared after them in amazement. Not because they were drunk and not because one of them had laughed at her without telling her why. No, Angie was amazed because when the dark-haired woman had spoken, she’d realised the woman wasn’t a woman at all. It was a man. Dressed up.
Wheeling round towards the door again, she found herself face to chest with a silver medallion and an impressive set of muscles. Now this was definitely a man. She cleared her throat and looked up. The face above the chest wasn’t a welcoming one but looked as if it had come off worse in a number of fights, being scarred and broken-nosed. Angie thought of turning and fleeing, but she’d come too far to back off.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You must be the bouncer. I know I’m not dressed … properly, but please can I come in?’
The muscles rippled and the silver medallion glinted, but response came there none.
‘Excuse me. Please? Do you think I could come in? I just need to see if I can speak to my uncle and ...’
‘I don’t think so.’ Medallion Man’s voice rumbled like a thunderstorm over the hills and a not very distant one either. ‘This isn’t the place for you. Be a good girl and run along home.’
Hmm, this wasn’t going well. She’d have to see if she could conjure up some persuasive powers from somewhere. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, thrust out her breasts and started fluttering her eyelashes, even though this wasn’t an action she usually liked to take. ‘Please? Don’t you think you might see your way to letting me in? You see, I think my uncle lives here and his name is ...’
Her would-be opponent didn’t react in the way she’d hoped.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said. ‘All that jigging about doesn’t do it for me. I’m gay.’
Angie took a step back but stumbled on the edge of the path and flung out her hand for support. It landed in the exact centre of Medallion Man’s chest, a gesture he misinterpreted.
‘Right, little madam,’ he growled. ‘You’ve outstayed your welcome.’
Without any more fuss, he picked her up as if she were nothing but air, flung her over his considerable expanse of shoulder and carried her, kicking and screaming, to the end of the path where he dumped her into the bushes and wiped his hands.
‘My advice is: get away and stay away. We don’t want the likes of you people down here. The rule is: no tourists,’ he said and marched away, re-entering the nightclub and slamming the door behind him whilst Angie was still trying to catch her breath.
‘You, you demon!’ she shrieked and threw the nearest thing which came to hand, which happened to be two pebbles and an empty crisp packet, at the closing door. The pebbles rebounded off the wood, coming to rest several feet to one side whilst the crisp packet didn’t even reach half way down the path, instead floating off with the summer breeze.
Angie knew how it felt. If a crisp packet could have feelings. But she wasn’t going to give up, no way. If her uncle was in there, and she had every reason to believe he was, then she would find him, no matter what. Even if she had to break in like a thief.
Getting up and dusting herself down, she retrieved her hold-all and, in spite of all her bravado, stood for a few seconds undecided. Should she simply give up and go home and chalk this whole mad escapade down to experience? Or should she try to find a way into this seedy-looking place and get to speak to Uncle John at last? When it came down to it, the answer was easy. It was way too embarrassing to admit defeat and go home so she would have to finish the job. After all, what sort of twenty-one year old left home and returned on the same day? It would be completely uncool and her friends would disown her, a thought she couldn’t stomach. And if it meant being arrested and thrown into jail, then at least she’d have a roof over her head for the night.
Having made her decision, Angie didn’t hang around. Glancing behind her and then left and right, she made sure nobody was watching and crept round the side of the hall, hoping to find a window on the latch, somewhere she could crawl inside unnoticed and complete her search. She soon found it was more than simply a hall, as it had seemed at first sight. It was connected by what looked to be a recent extension to the three-floor house next door. Not a bad arrangement for a nightclub. The first window on the house side was no good; locked tight, no key she could spot and with double glazing. So she hadn’t a hope of breaking it with a nearby branch, should she be able to find any. Not that it seemed a polite thing to do by way of an introduction anyway. The second and third windows were the same. Hurrying on and beginning to think she’d never succeed in gaining an entrance, she found herself at the back of the house, having been stung twice by nettles and with something unmentionable clogging up her right shoe. On top of that, she’d caught her hair on an old nail sticking out of one of the bricks and had streaked mud all over her face trying to extricate herself. She wasn’t feeling her best and almost wished she’d stayed in the country and taken the job at the butcher’s after all. Almost, but not quite.
Come on, Angie girl, don’t give up, she chanted to herself as she came to the fourth window. This time she was lucky. No extra glazing and it was on the latch. Great, she wouldn’t have to use force. And it looked like there was no-one in the room. This was it. Squeezing her fingers underneath the wooden frame, she fiddled with the handle until it came free from its moorings. Getting inside was more of a struggle than she’d anticipated and she promised herself that first thing tomorrow she’d start that diet. For now she needed to get her bearings.
Groping for the light switch, she tripped over something soft in the middle of the room and almost screamed before she thought better of it. Trying to keep calm, she switched on the light and gasped as she viewed the sight before her. She was in what looked like somebody’s “getting ready to go out on the razz” room, with an enormous mirror and dressing table stacked up with different pots, potions and paints, the likes of which Angie had never seen before in such quantities, not even in the House of Fraser sale. Next to these was what looked liked … she took a cautious sniff and then a sip … yes, a glass of pink champagne, still cold. Nice.
She put the glass down and noticed that on top of each corner of the mirror was a luxuriant wig, one dark and one fair, just like those worn by the two “women” she’d seen earlier. Several other wigs of assorted colours were lying on top of the large wardrobe, which filled up most of the remaining space. The whole scene was suffused in a deep pink hue, courtesy of the deep pink light bulb. Angie tiptoed across to the wardrobe and opened it. Inside was a plethora of dresses in every imaginable style and material. There was slinky, sassy and saucy; hot, humid and hopeful; beaded, big and bouncy; even ethereal, elegant and exotic. How could one woman have so many dresses? At home, Angie only owned two and had even then worn them both only once. She was more of a jeans and tee-shirt girl.
The sound of distant laughter brought her out of her state of surprise and she rushed to the door, pressing her ear against the orange and yellow striped wood to see if she could get a clue as to what was going on. There was no more noise, apart from the throb, throb, throb of the nightclub, which seemed to be beyond the joining wall. The soundproofing must be state-of-the art. Hands on hips, she stared round the room, wondering what to do next. She wouldn’t find her uncle here, that much was obvious, so she’d have to try elsewhere.
Easing the door open, she peered round to see if it was safe to come out. The corridor exuded a stark whiteness, in direct contrast to the room behind her. It looked normal and she decided to head towards the narrow door at the furthest end and then see what might be on the other side. Before she did so, however, something metallic caught her eye as the door of the dressing room clicked shut and she glanced up to see the legend, carved in gold lettering on a silver background, Madame Jolene: Please Knock before Entering. The name made her frown but it didn’t make anything clearer so, still carrying her hold-all, she headed towards the far door with her heart thudding at double speed.
She was almost at the stairway when one of the doors she’d just passed opened without warning and a pair of scanty scarlet knickers came sailing out and landed on her shoulder. She brushed them off at once and felt her face go red. Almost matching the knickers.
‘You can take your bloody stupid underwear out of here and come back when you’ve got something decent to put in it,’ a male voice shouted. ‘Loser!’
Along with the voice appeared a slight figure - naked except for a pair of tartan socks - clutching a thin cotton shirt and a pair of black trousers to his particulars. When he saw Angie - now rendered speechless - he gaped and scurried past her, up the stairs and disappeared.
‘Who the hell are you?’
Spinning round, Angie saw the owner of the voice, bare to the waist only from where a short cobalt blue skirt did nothing to conceal his muscular thighs. On his face he wore heavy make-up, while black hair was sleeked down and wrapped tight to his skull with an Alice band. In his fingers, he carried a long fair-haired wig. Angie did the only thing she could think of to do under those circumstances. She squealed and fled.
‘Stop!’ the man yelled and she heard the thud of feet pursuing her.
Deciding in a split second not to follow the man with the tartan socks, she raced round the bend in the corridor and saw a set of stairs at the end leading to another door. Yes. That must be her escape route, she could still get away from this madhouse and be safe.
It was not to be. Because the red-painted door she could see so near and yet so far from her was flung open and someone came gallumphing down. Someone big and beast-like, with a hairy chest and a silver medallion swinging to and fro as he ran. No.
Angie whipped round, arms flailing to ward off all enemies, and accidentally hit the blue-skirted man right in the eye.
‘Shit,’ he said and staggered out of her way, clutching his head.
‘Sorry!’ she yelled.
Knowing she hadn’t time to go back to Madame Jolene’s room and escape the way she’d come, she made a mad dash for the other, narrower door, with Medallion Man only seconds behind her, his breath seeming to scorch the back of her neck. She’d never make it, she’d never make it, but she could still try. Two steps away, she turned and pushed her hold-all against her pursuer’s body with all her remaining strength. It caught him off balance and he fell, hitting his head on the banister and cursing like a Colchester squaddie.
This hadn’t been what she’d intended. She’d only meant to drive him off, not kill him.
‘Are you okay?’
The only answer was more cursing. Unsure whether she was running away or trying to get help, she reached out to the glittering door handle, but it swung open of its own accord and she found herself buried deep into what seemed like acres of rainbow gauze, ostrich feathers and heaving bosom. This new person - she didn’t dare assume man or woman - grunted, wrapped its perfumed arms around her and spoke.
‘My, my, darlings’ it said in high-pitched tones. ‘What have we here?’
This time Angie had had enough and she burst into tears. Still imprisoned in the grip, she made known her plea in one huge, impassioned sentence.
‘Let-me-go-I’m-sorry-about-the-mess-I-hope-I-haven’t-killed-anyone-my-name-is-Angie-Howard-and-I-just-want-to-find-my-uncle-John-I’ve-come-all-the-way-from-Beaumont-today-and-all-Iwant-to-do-is-find-him-and-everything’s-going-wrong.’
There was a silence, broken only by the groans of the two injured men, and then the bosom she was leaning on seemed to tense for a second or two before sighing.
‘You’ve succeeded, dear,’ he said and now it was definitely a “he”. ‘Possibly beyond your strangest dreams.’
Angie stopped sobbing and looked up at the big haired, impossibly glamorous creature holding her.
‘Uncle John?’ she whispered. ‘Is that you?’
Who else? Of course it had been Uncle John, and still was, Angie assumed. But right now her head was having trouble taking in all the information. Although the clues should have made it obvious. The address for starters, the reaction of the woman at the bus stop and the other people she’d spoken to, not to mention the two “girls” she’d caught leaving The Den, and what the bouncer had said. Whose name turned out to be Derek. Derek the Bouncer. He’d backed down at once when John had claimed her as his own, which had been a relief. Angie didn’t like to think what revenge Derek might have taken when he realised she’d broken in, but after John had laughed and asked her what on earth she was doing here, everyone, even the terrible Derek, had been kind. The injuries to the men - which thankfully turned out not to be as bad as she’d feared - had been bound up, apologies had been offered and accepted, and pride soothed. They’d organised tea, cake and some more champagne - pink - though she thought that was probably for John rather than for her, and had deposited her in the dressing room in which she’d first arrived.
Madame Jolene turned out to be Uncle John. Something else to get used to. John - or Jolene - was now sitting opposite her, knees pressed together as if holding his kneecaps in place and with pink feather boa cast elegantly around his neck. He was taking a second gulp at his champagne. Angie thought it was best to stick to the tea.
‘So, my dear,’ he said. Or gurgled might have been a better description. ‘How is everything in deepest, darkest Essex? And how is that sister of mine? How is Rebecca?’
As he said this, Angie noticed his heavy false eyelashes flicker and she wondered how much he wasn’t saying.
‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘She’s fine. Everything’s fine. Really it is.’
That was a lie and she knew it, but she found herself unable to go on because her throat was tight and her eyes prickly. There was a pause while John shuffled on his chair and took two Kleenex tissues between finger and thumb. One he gave to Angie, who dabbed at her eyes and swallowed, and with the other he wiped off an imaginary smear from his scarlet kitten-heeled shoe.
‘Lying won’t help you,’ he said in a sing-song voice whilst not looking at her. ‘Tell the truth and sha-ame the devil.’
In spite of the strangeness of her surroundings and the difficulty of the day, Angie couldn’t help but laugh. From the time she was very young until the day he left, Uncle John had always seemed to know when she was telling less than the truth and had been able to worm it out of her with that same song. Until now she hadn’t remembered it. The fact that he had gave her a small jolt of warmth in her stomach; it was good to think she might have a friend in the middle of all this. He waggled one manicured finger at her, making her laugh again.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘It’s not fine. No way. Mum and me, we’re not good, you know? I mean, she’s great and I know she wants the best for me, but sometimes I think I’ll never be able to live my own life. She just doesn’t see I’m not like her. I know she made a life for us both after Dad … died, building up the pottery business she’d started and doing so well with it. She’s helped me so much with money and stuff at Uni, but then I go and get a stupid Third, and how am I ever going to pay her back with that if I stay in the countryside? I’m not artistic, I need to be in a town to get any kind of a job, or work my way towards doing what I’d like to do.’
‘What’s that then?’ John asked as Angie paused for breath. ‘What would you like to do?’
‘I want to work in a café,’ Angie said. ‘I’d love to get enough experience to run one someday and I can’t do that in a village like Beaumont. Mum wants me to stay in deepest Essex and get a job at the butcher’s shop. The thought of it terrified me, so I … I found your address, took a train and here I am.’
‘Sounds reasonable to me. What does Rebecca think of it all?’
Angie was hoping he wouldn’t ask that immediately, but maybe the whole sorry tale was best told soon.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It was like this …’
‘Yes?’ he leant forward as she paused. ‘Go on, tell all. You haven’t killed your mother and buried her in next door’s cowshed, have you?’
‘No!’
‘Good, though it would have made a great story for our Saturday night after-show drinkies. Go on, how did you square it with my sister?’
Angie took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘I took - er, borrowed - some cash from Mum when she wasn’t looking, ran to the station, queued for ages to get a ticket from a boy who didn’t seem to want to sell me anything at all and then had to leg it onto the train when Mum showed up.’
‘She chased you?’
‘Yes. I got onto the train just as it was setting off. Mum was trying to open the door and I was trying to stop her as I thought she might get hurt, and then she had to let go.’
John made a peculiar choking noise in his throat. ‘Was she okay? Mind you, she’s a tough cookie and I should know.’
‘Yes, she was fine. I saw her wave and I waved back but I don’t think she saw.’
A sudden vision of her mother’s stricken expression as Angie disappeared on the train westward flashed into her head and she gulped again.
John handed her another tissue, ‘Ye gods. Anything else?’
‘On the way to the station, I stopped at the butcher’s and wasn’t nice to him. I said some rude things about … the cricketing tea and how old he was. People were listening. Look, I’m sorry I’ve left home this way,’ Angie lifted up her head and gazed at her uncle, ‘but, however I did it, it was the right decision and I’d do it again if I had to.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ John said. ‘You’re your mother’s daughter, after all. Once set on a course of action, never swayed.’
Before Angie could protest that she was nothing at all like her mother and would never be no matter how long either of them might live, John threw back his head and shouted with laughter though Angie wasn’t sure what the joke might be.
Instead of joining in, she took the opportunity to ask the two questions she’d been longing to ask since he’d grabbed her in the corridor.
‘Uncle John?’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you always wear that kind of dress? And what exactly is this place?’
‘Ah, my dear. I’ve been wondering when you’d raise that little matter.’
***
The Den was Uncle John’s dream come true. He’d been wanting to run somewhere like this for years, he told Angie, even when he’d lived in Beaumont, but the demand in those parts hadn’t been great. He’d gone so far as to discuss it with Angie’s mother, but she’d been so horrified that he’d never dared raise the subject again. Not for a while at least. When he finally did, it was only because he’d got a job in another, similar nightclub and was ready to “rock and roll”, as John put it, making Angie smile. It was good to know his language was still as ancient as ever, even though everything else had changed.
‘But,’ John said, ‘I made one fatal error.’
‘What was that?’
‘It was stupid. I should have thought it through and had at least two different conversations. Maybe more. But I was younger then. So at the same time as telling my big sister I was leaving home to work in a transvestite nightclub, with the hope of running my own one day, I also told her the truth about myself.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m gay. Isn’t it obvious? Every gay man I meet around here says I have a huge neon sign advertising the fact pinned to my forehead. Can’t think why. But Rebecca put two and two together and made five. So she probably still thinks I’m working in some kind of knocking shop in the evil city, and raking it in from my criminal activities. God, if she knew the half of it ... but never mind. It doesn’t matter.’
Her uncle broke off and gave a small sigh. Angie glanced at him and saw his brow furrow before he looked at her again and smiled. What was wrong? He wasn’t telling her the entire truth, that was it; there was more, wasn’t there? With her family, there always was. Should she ask? No, she hadn’t been here long enough and she didn’t want him to think she was interfering.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get you settled in. One thing you have to know: the first rule of The Den is never enter any closed doors on the corridor we found you on during a club night special. Which for your information is Wednesdays and Saturdays.’
‘So what’s going on? What …?’
Angie’s eyes widened and John raised one well-plucked eyebrow.
‘Young woman, you have an imagination. Some people like to be alone on certain occasions and I like to give them the chance where I can. Don’t worry, as I’ve said before, this isn’t a knocking shop. This is a well-respected entertainment venue. No money changes hands here. At least not illegally.’
***
Angie was hoping for a guided tour of the club itself which she hadn’t yet seen, especially as she could hear the music still thumping away, together with bursts of wild laughter and clapping. However, instead of turning right towards the sparkling door - was that gold glitter? - marked “Club Entrance”, John turned left and then sharp right and up a small, curved flight of steps. Disappointed, Angie followed him. Perhaps he was saving the best to last. She would have to see his club. It would be the perfect end to a very strange day.
To her surprise, her uncle stopped in front of a door marked “Private - No 1” and eased his skirt up to his thighs. She had no idea whether she should look away or act as if this sort of thing happened all the time in her part of the world but, before she could decide, John had already unhooked a key dangling from his suspender belt, smoothed down his skirt and was unlocking the door.
‘Welcome to my home,’ he said, waving her through. ‘Such as it is.’
It wasn’t what she’d expected. With the opulence of the rooms downstairs fresh in her mind, she’d assumed this would be more of the same. She was wrong. The hallway in which she now stood was a simple space painted light blue with a matching carpet and filled with the scent of lavender polish. It wasn’t over-the-top at all. In fact, it was very tasteful, almost subdued. Not all of it though. Next to her, a carved gilt mirror loomed over a small shelf piled high with hairgrips and, peeking round them, a tub of Vaseline. John blushed and whipped it away at once, and Angie knew better than to ask any questions.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
She smiled and shook her head, red hair falling over her eyes. Brushing it back, she followed her uncle through to the living room. Which was … well … beige.
‘Oh,’ was all she said.
John turned round in a swoosh of silk and cotton, eyes twinkling, ‘Do you like it? I can’t help thinking it might be a bit subdued, but Ma … I mean my friend … insisted it’s the way the new décor is going. What do you think?’
‘It’s very subtle.’
‘Not what you thought, eh? But you can’t have everything done up like a French tart’s boudoir, you know. Downstairs is where I work, but this is where I live. Though I can’t help wondering … but no. My friend was right, I’m sure of it.’
The rest of the flat revealed a Mediterranean-style kitchen, a bathroom almost dwarfed by a corner bath which all but squeezed the toilet out, a black-and-white Japanese-themed spare room with a futon and of course the main bedroom, which John indicated but didn’t reveal. Never mind, Angie thought, burning to see what it was like. She could always ask for a quick peek later.
All the time, her uncle was talking, as if determined she should not ask anything he didn’t feel he could answer, and she was nodding and smiling and trying to be a model guest in the way her mother had taught her. Thinking of her mother made her wonder how things were at home. She should ask John now if she could use his phone as her mobile was still out of action. Or maybe, a cowardly part of her whispered, it would be okay to ring later, or even tomorrow. No, that would be cruel, her mother would want to know she was safe, or she’d be browbeating the whole of the Essex Police into closing down the airports and locking up the ports. They’d need to patch up the row if possible as well.
Uncle John glanced at his watch and groaned, ‘Hell, 9.30 already. That’s fifteen minutes to my first show. I’d better go and get my act together.’
Angie forced her mind back to her uncle’s conversation, ‘Okay. Could I come and watch? I’d love to. I’m sure you’ll be great.’
Through the sunbed-inspired tan, John’s face went pale. ‘Urgh, no, I don’t think so.’
‘Uncle John,’ Angie folded her arms and frowned at him, though she didn’t find it easy to frown at someone dressed in skin-tight silk and a feather boa - especially if that someone was a man. ‘For goodness sake, I’m not thirteen any more. I’m twenty-one years old, which is old enough to know stuff, in spite of being a girl from the outback. And you don’t have to worry about corrupting my morals because, as my mother will tell you, they’re already ruined beyond saving. There aren’t any grown-up virgins in Essex any more. Not since the Civil War ended.’
John opened his mouth several times before managing to speak.
‘That’s me put in my place,’ he grinned.
‘I didn’t mean …’
He waved her apologies away, ‘No worries. But yes, I see there aren’t any children here.’
‘So can I watch the show?’
‘Still no. Not today. But you will go to the ball, if I can put it like that, I promise. Give me a chance to get used to the idea I’ve got a niece on the premises.’
‘But …’
John held up his hand in a gesture which was the image of her mother’s, ‘No buts - excuse the pun. Tonight you stay here. And tomorrow will be another day, as Scarlett said. Now I must go. Make yourself at home, eat whatever you like and the spare room is yours for the duration.’
‘Thank you, thank you so much, I’ll try not to get in your way and …’
Her uncle waved aside her thanks, ‘Don’t mention it. It’ll be nice having family here after all this time. Remember though our one rule.’
He paused, for dramatic effect Angie imagined, and she waited for the punch line.
‘Always knock before entering,’ he said. ‘Something your mother never learnt. And now, duckie, I simply must run. I’d kiss you but it would ruin my make-up. See you soon.’
‘Okay, but can I use your phone?’ Angie yelled at his departing back, the need to speak to her mother now an overwhelming pull. ‘Please?’
‘Sure, ring Rebecca. Give her my love. On second thoughts, don’t. It’ll only make things worse.’
As her uncle disappeared round the corner, Angie remembered the vital question she’d forgotten to ask.
‘Uncle John! Uncle John!’ she yelled, sprinting after him.
‘Yes?’ His head appeared round the corner as if detached from the rest of his body.
‘Have you got any knickers I could borrow?’
***
Angie smiled. Her uncle had promised he’d look for appropriate underwear in his dressing room, but could guarantee there’d be nothing in his flat. She did wonder what he might mean by “appropriate”. Even a G String would get her out to the shops to buy some knickers for goodness sake.
Hmm, for that she needed money. There it was again. The big shadow hanging over her head like the threat of rain on a sunny day. Cash. She had to earn some and soon. How difficult could that be? This was London. Bright lights, big city. There must be at least one or two jobs she could do. Her current CV already had some waitressing experience from the Tesco café near Uni, although most of her evening work had been on the tills, and she had worked one summer for the Harvester in Colchester. Not great pay, but cool experience for sure. And once she had a few months’ waitressing know-how from London, she could claw her way up to managerial roles and then one day - one day, please - she could pay back her mother’s loan and set up her first wonderful café.
She idled her way round John’s flat for a while, putting off the terrifying call she must make and at the same time longing to make it, and noticing instead the gleaming surfaces and almost-excruciating tidiness of her uncle’s home. In the living room, she explored the neat bookcase. Plenty of Armistead Maupin and Barbara Vine novels. She could have done with some Lisa Jewell or Marian Keyes, but that wasn’t what blokes liked. Not even blokes who were turning out to be as strange as Uncle John. She caught sight of the phone.
Mother. She’d do it now. How angry would her mother be though? What would she say? Before she could argue herself back into cowardice, Angie picked up the receiver and dialled the familiar number.
‘Hello?’
At the first ring, the phone the other end was snatched up and Angie could hear her mother’s shallow breaths oozing tension even from this distance.
‘Mum, it’s me,’ she said. ‘I’m …’
‘Angie! What are you doing? Are you all right? Where are you?’
The last question was almost screeched. Angie held the phone away from her ear for a second and closed her eyes. This wasn’t working.
‘Look, Mum, I’m really sorry about today. I’m fine. Are you all right? I’m sorry about what I said and the butcher and everything but …’
‘Yes, really, Angie, goodness knows how I’m going to get you that butcher’s job now.’
‘Mum, it’s kind of you but I don’t want it. I’m in London and … and I don’t think I’m coming back.’
‘Not coming back? Of course you’re coming back. Don’t be silly, this is your home.’
‘Mum, I need to find my own way, I’m not a child any more.’ Angie took a breath, trying to draw in courage from the scented air, ‘I’m all right at the moment, don’t worry. Please. I’ve got a place to stay.’
There was a fractional pause, ‘What sort of place?’
‘I’m staying with Uncle John, at his flat. I found his address in your address book, you see, and I’ve come here. He’s cool about it, Mum, and I’ll be fine. I’ll send your stuff back, the money too, as soon as I can.’
Angie tensed and waited for the outburst. It never came. Instead there was another pause filled with icy meaning and a click as the phone went down. Then there was only the sound of the dialling tone.
She swallowed. Her mother had hung up on her. That wasn’t something her mother did. She dialled again. And again. No answer.
She was shaking. Walking round and round the flat, unable to keep still, she wondered once more about the rift between her mother and her uncle. It must go deep, deeper than she’d imagined. If they talked, if only all three of them simply talked, she was sure they would sort it out. One day, she swore to herself, one day this family would be a real family again, even without her father, if she could make it happen.
In the meantime, she had to stop worrying and do something. Get out of the flat, shake off the way the conversation with her mother had ended, anything. But before she could decide what, there was a knock at the door, a muffled question and then the doorknob was being turned by someone on the other side. John? No, he was busy. Derek, the scary bouncer? Someone else?
The door opened and she gasped as her hormones kicked in, big time.
The man in front of her, dark hair flopping over his forehead and with brown eyes twinkling, was the most gorgeous man Angie had ever seen in her life. He was carrying on a tray a plate of sandwiches and what looked like a pile of neatly folded knickers.
God. Angie sat bolt upright in bed. For a couple of seconds, she had no idea where she was and stared round the black and white wallpaper, the unfurled Japanese-style fans and plain white carpet wondering if her mother had redecorated during the night. Then she remembered. Of course. Uncle John. London. Her new life.
And Philippe.
She groaned. How embarrassing. She could still feel the remains of the flush which had spread over her face and right into the roots of her hair when confronted with this hunk to end all hunks. Why couldn’t she ever play it cool? She must have looked a mess. Knowing she wouldn’t get back to sleep now, she turned on the light.
Philippe. Obvious name for a Frenchman really but he was gorgeous. A vision of male beauty who’d asked her to call him Philippe, in an accent which carried all the smooth greenness of the French countryside, mellow red wine and evenings spent laughing in smoky cafés. Things were definitely looking up. This was the first suitable man she’d met since Christmas. But why, oh why, did she have to meet him when he was bearing assorted knickers from her uncle? She blushed again. He must have thought she was mad, another stupid unsophisticated English girl with a strange taste in underwear. She’d never have a chance with someone like that. Especially as she’d been so rattled by the whole thing that she’d simply grabbed the sandwiches and the underwear and slammed the door. And when she’d opened it thirty seconds later, keen to apologise, he’d gone, his first impression of her ruined for all time.
In the muggy warmth of a London morning, Angie buried her face in her hands and wondered if she’d ever be able to look anyone in the eye again.
Outside her room, there were footsteps and the sound of a bath being run. She glanced at the clock. 8.30am. Time to get up, even though it was still early for her. Back home, her mother would have been up for at least two and a half hours, made and decorated a couple of pots and be preparing lunch by now. In the kitchen, Angie switched on the kettle and hunted through the cupboards for mugs and coffee. By the time John appeared, she’d brewed a pot strong enough to keep her going for a fortnight and was well on the way to showing the next slice of toast who was boss.
‘Morning,’ he yawned, hopping from one leg to the other on the cold kitchen tiles. ‘Something smells good.’
‘Hiya. Thought I’d better earn my keep. Seeing as I can’t pay you back. Yet.’
‘You don’t have to, but thanks.’
They had breakfast in the living room, John in a blue silk dressing gown with a gold dragon embroidered on the back and Angie in an old and rather furry green housecoat she’d discovered in the minuscule wardrobe. She was glad there wasn’t much chat, she wasn’t one for heavy morning conversations. Her mother would always insist on bringing up big issues like religion or the state of the economy when Angie hadn’t even finished her cereal. It was one of the reasons why leaving was so good, although thinking of home made Angie’s stomach muscles clench.
‘I rang Mum last night,’ she said, clutching her mug and feeling the last of the warmth trailing through her finger-tips. ‘Or tried to. She didn’t want to know.’
‘Good for you, but I wouldn’t have thought that was true,’ John gave her a searching glance. ‘Rebecca’s not that bad. What did she say?’
‘She wanted me to come home and wondered where I was.’
‘And you said …?’
‘I told her I was with you and she … she …’
‘She … what?’
‘She put the phone down. I tried to ring back but she wouldn’t pick up.’
‘I see.’ He sighed. ‘Look, Angie, I don’t think your mother is angry with you. Some people find people like me difficult to cope with, however close they might be. I don’t know, maybe it’s worse if it’s family. Who can say? Rebecca finds it hard to know what to do with me, but that’s my problem not yours. I’d offer to speak with her on your behalf but, believe me, that wouldn’t make it better. Give it a couple of days and ring her back. I’m sure things will be fine.’
She nodded. It made sense but she’d never felt quite as adrift as she did now.
‘So what’s the plan for today then?’ John asked.
‘Easy,’ she said, glad to focus on practical matters. ‘Find a job, earn my keep, send my mother’s belongings back and get my life sorted out.’
‘Only the young can think big. But great, go for it. I did - in the end - and look what happened to me.’
‘But before I do all that,’ she said, gathering her courage together, ‘there is one thing.’
‘What? Run out of underwear already?’
‘No! I was just wondering about …’
‘… Philippe? Ah yes, they all do, sweetie.’
***
He’d told her all he knew, which was far more than her simple enquiry had looked for, but Angie wasn’t complaining. Philippe was seriously cute, and who was to say that while rearranging her life she couldn’t have a little fun as well? John hadn’t forgotten the most important thing either; Philippe - as well as being the club’s best waiter and a man with prospects - wasn’t gay, at least not, her uncle had reassured her, according to any known list of clues or gossip. He’d gone so far as to offer to arrange a date, but Angie had refused. She’d take her chances. It was time she made her own luck. Anyway, having her uncle as a pimp as well as a cross-dresser was surely one career move too far. For both of them.
Remembering the conversation made her smile, and took her mind off the ridiculously tiny number of catering jobs in the Ham & High Broadway. All of them wanted at least a year’s solid experience. Which she hadn’t got. One summer and a few evenings just wasn’t enough, by the looks of it.
Shaking her head, she leant over the newsprint, making her knees a mosaic of mirror language, and read some of the adverts she’d circled again.
Bar work, experience preferred.
Waitress, fast food outlet, must be flexible, some cooking duties.
Waitressing, silver service preferred.
Kitchen staff, must like young people.
Waiter/tress, good experience vital, uniform provided.
Silver service staff, one year’s experience, training provided.
Hmm, Angie thought, none of these fitted her one hundred percent to be honest, if at all. But if she didn’t try, she’d never succeed. So she gathered together the torn-out pieces of papers until they were in a neat pile in order of preference, and punched the first number into her newly-recharged mobile. She’d be darned if she’d cost her uncle more than she needed to; she’d have to work out the means to pay the bill later.
After an hour or so, she was older, hoarser and far more despondent than she’d anticipated. What was the point of putting a job advert in the paper if there wasn’t actually a vacancy? Or at least if there was, someone had filled it half an hour before she’d rung. Maybe she simply didn’t sound right on the phone. Perhaps the first word she said marked her out as being unsuitable. Maybe it was true that in London only Australians worked in catering. Nobody seemed to want an Essex Girl.
But she wasn’t intending to give up now. She would go on being bright and cheerful if it killed her, and try the last one, her least favourite option. Anything was better than nothing.
The phone was answered on the second ring.
‘Dog and Duck. Good meals equals great happiness. How can I help?’
‘Sorry?’ Angie stuttered, the unexpected marketing line throwing her off balance for a moment. ‘I mean, yes, hello. I’m calling about the job. In the paper.’
‘The job?’ The woman’s voice echoed down the line bringing with it its own question mark.
‘Yes. Is it still available? The one for silver service waitress?’
‘Have you done this sort of thing before, love?’
What should she do? Lie? It was tempting, but she was bound to be found out. No, best to be honest, like her mother was always saying, but she’d turn it to her advantage if it was the last thing she did.
‘Not exactly,’ she said, forcing a smile to her lips and trying to radiate confidence even at a distance. ‘Not silver service, though I did work for a while at a Tesco café and longer-term at a Harvester, but I’m a quick learner and willing to turn my hand to anything. Please could you tell me if the post is still free?’
There was a silence, followed by a muffled whispering as whoever it was covered the phone and talked to someone else at the other end. Angie held her breath. This was her last hope for a local job. If she didn’t get this, she’d never get anything near Muswell Hill. Even she could tell that much.
‘Okay,’ the voice came back on the line at full blast, making Angie jump. ‘Okay, as it happens, it’s still vacant. Come tonight at 6pm, wear comfortable shoes and we’ll see what you can do. Don’t be late.’
Yes! Success. Angie punched her fist in the air, almost knocking a small statue of a naked Adonis in a high state of excitement off the mantelpiece. She straightened it up and coughed into the phone.
‘Thank you, thank you very much. I won’t let you down, and I’ll be there early.’
‘You’d better be,’ the voice replied and went on to give her the address, the name of who to ask for and the easiest bus. Which was lucky as Angie would never have thought to ask for any of those details.
She rushed to the living room door, flung it wide and yelled, ‘Uncle John! Are you there?’
‘What?’ Her uncle appeared from the bathroom holding a make-up bag in one hand and some tissues in the other. ‘For God’s sake, what is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong, nothing at all,’ Angie seized him by the hands and danced up and down before giving him a huge hug. ‘I’ve got a job. A job! Or nearly. A chance to prove myself anyway.’
‘Is that all? I thought you’d broken a leg at the very least,’ he grumbled, but his eyes were smiling. ‘Or worse, broken something of mine.’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t do a thing like that,’ she replied, putting the image of the nearly-falling Adonis out of her head.
‘I’m sure not. Let me put this stuff down. It’s Clarins, you know, and good quality shouldn’t be thrown around. Now tell me all about it.’
She did. John was a good listener, letting her tell him in her own way without asking irrelevant questions like her mother would.
‘Tell you what,’ he said when at last she’d come to the end and paused for breath, ‘as you have to be at this place at 6pm and nothing happens at the Den till at least 9, why don’t I give you a lift there? You’ll have to make your own way back, but if I give you some cash for a taxi there should be no problem, should there? No, don’t object, this is your first chance at a job, Angie, and you are my niece. I owe you something at least for the years of silence. So I don’t want to hear any nonsense about paying it back later. I just wish someone had helped me out with my first job. Things might have been easier.’
He stopped speaking and Angie glanced at him. His face was shadowed, as if he were far away, too far for her to try to bring him back. She wondered what he was remembering, and then thought it might be too private to ask. Instead she hugged him.
‘Thank you, Uncle John,’ she said. ‘That’s very kind. You’re a star and I don’t deserve it.’
He smiled, ‘So people always say. And please don’t call me “uncle”. It makes me sound so old. “John” will do just fine.’
‘Okay, “John” it is.’
He glanced at his watch, ‘Way past lunchtime, I see. So an ideal opportunity to introduce you to the kitchen staff and grab some food whilst we chat. Heinrich, our chef, is a miracle-worker. German of course. It’s my belief that all the best chefs are. And with a bit of luck Philippe will be there too. Who knows?’
***
Angie’s first impression of the kitchen in full working mode was of a place of heat and shouting. Outside the world was calm and magical, but once John opened the swing doors into the bright lights of cooking, she could see at least six people rushing between huge ovens, gesticulating, weaving between worktop and cupboard, sink and side table. The great cloud of steam, which at once enveloped her, brought with it the scent of coriander and roasting chicken. It made her realise how long it had been since breakfast and her stomach rumbled.
‘Hello? Hello?’ John waved the steam away and made his way through the chaos. Angie followed him.
In the middle of the kitchen, chopping an enormous pile of carrots, was a tall man, in his late twenties or early thirties, Angie guessed, with curly fair hair, a hooked beak of a nose and fierce blue eyes. There was something about him that caught her interest and made her smile. He was attacking the hapless vegetables as if they might at any moment turn on him and rend him limb from limb. This had to be the chef.
John clapped him on the shoulder, ‘Hey, Heinrich, how’s it going?’
‘What?’ the man called Heinrich jumped and, holding his knife like a weapon, turned and waved it dangerously close to her uncle’s arm. ‘Ah, Mr John. I did not know it was you. You must be more careful, very careful, in the kitchen, ja?’
His accent was so thick that Angie only worked out what he’d said a couple of seconds after he’d finished speaking. John appeared to have no such problems. He must have been used to it.
‘Sure, you always say that, but I trust you, Heinrich. You haven’t murdered anyone yet, have you? I know you’re busy but let me introduce my niece, Angie. She’s just come up from the country to … to stay for a while. Angie, Heinrich Kaufmann. Heinrich, Angie Howard.’
John waved his arms towards both parties, raising his voice to be heard over the din. Angie smiled and held out her hand. Heinrich knitted his brows together then, putting down the knife, wiped his hands on his apron and shook hands with her. It was like having her fingers clasped by a mountain gorilla.
‘I am very happy to meet you, Angie Howard. I hope you will enjoy your stay.’
‘I hope so. Nice to meet you too.’
After a moment during which she felt hotter and hotter, and more and more shy, he dropped her hand. Staring at him, she wondered what on earth he was doing here. He didn’t look like the sort of person who’d want to work in a transvestite club. Still, you could never tell from appearances, could you?
John hadn’t appeared to notice any awkwardness and carried on talking, ‘Yes, Angie wants to be in the food industry too. Run a café in the future, that sort of thing. She starts a job tonight, silver-servicing for The Dog and Duck.’
Heinrich snorted and looked like he was about to say something, but then decided against it. Angie, however, wasn’t going to let this one go. She needed all the advice she could get. She also realised she wanted to know what he thought.
‘Don’t you like The Dog and Duck?’ she said. ‘Do you think there’s something wrong with it?’
‘Oh, I’m sure not,’ John said. ‘Anyway, don’t we all have to start somewhere?’
Heinrich rolled his eyes.
‘If you want to know,’ he said, ‘then I can tell you. Though you will not like it.’
‘Don’t worry, Heinrich. You’re busy, and …’
‘Yes, I’d like to know,’ Angie said and realised that the kitchen around them was now silent as everyone pretended not to listen. ‘I don’t like people not telling me things. I’ve had enough of that in the past.’
‘All right then,’ Heinrich nodded once at John, as if to ask permission. But if it hadn’t been forthcoming, Angie didn’t think it would have made a difference. ‘Frau Hammond who runs that restaurant is untidy, unhelpful, uncreative, and, what is far worse, she does not care about food. No, not one bit. You should not work there.’
As he spoke, his voice rose higher until he all but spat out the last few words in disgust. Angie stepped back to avoid being in the danger zone.
‘Oh, I see,’ she said, her hopes of it being the first rung on her brand-new career ladder in danger of being dashed. ‘Thank you. I’ll remember that when I’m there tonight. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.’
Beside her, John coughed. Heinrich’s face clouded over and she could tell that several pairs of eyes were trained on her back. The kitchen held itself in tense stillness and Angie wondered how often the people in it dared to disagree with their German chef. Probably never, it was the nature of kitchen hierarchies everywhere. Job-wise, there wasn’t any other choice. At last, Heinrich wiped his face and behind her the collective breathing began again.
John sprang into action. ‘Come on then. You must get on and so must we. We’ll speak later, Heinrich. Come on, Angie darling. Chop, chop.’
He half-ran out of the kitchen, pausing only to grab a packet of biscuits and some cheese on his way through. Angie followed at a more sedate pace. As the door swung to, she could hear Heinrich barking instructions.
Outside, in the warmth and quiet of the nightclub itself, John offered her his stolen snacks. ‘Don’t worry about Heinrich. He gets a bit passionate about his food - don’t they all? But, as I’ve said, he’s a bloody good chef and does a superb job here. No idea how long he’ll stay, but I’ll hang onto him as long as I can.’
Angie nodded, not paying much attention, and chewed on rice biscuits and Camembert as she gazed round the room. She was sitting with her back to the stage, looking out across stacked tables and chairs. Little alcoves and doors led off to other, smaller rooms, she presumed. But it was the walls that drew her attention. Deep red wallpaper with a gold swirled pattern brought to mind scenes of drugs and debauchery in 1920s Paris. Or at least in the films she’d sometimes seen of that era. The pictures added to the effect. An assortment of nudes, male and female, in various positions which could only be described as “artistic” - they didn’t look as if they would have been able to pose for long in any of them.
‘Hey,’ she said, knowing John would be expecting her to say something, ‘this is cool.’
‘Do you think so?’ John mumbled through his mouthful of cheese, looking chuffed. ‘Red always makes me want to party. It’s my favourite colour. The club’s much better when it’s full though. I wouldn’t be able to do my act at all without the adrenaline rush of an audience.’
A door banged at the rear of the club and Angie had her own private version of an adrenaline rush. Philippe was striding towards them, looking cooler than anyone she’d ever met, and it was all she could do not to fling herself at his feet and promise him the world. Forget chefs, she thought. Waiters were the real thing. Still, she should try not to be dazzled by appearances; it was always her undoing.
‘Ah, Philippe, late again?’ her uncle called out and at the same time gave her a huge wink. Angie coloured to the roots of her flaming hair. ‘I don’t think Heinrich wants to be disturbed. Why don’t you join us for a few minutes?’
‘Hello, Monsieur John. Yes, if you like, I will do so. But, believe me, I am not late. I am never late, non? You are Angie, Monsieur John’s niece, yes? It is nice to meet you again.’
With a wicked twinkle in his eye, Philippe slid into the seat next to Angie and she was at once overpowered by the scent of herbal aftershave and maleness. Help, she thought, a couple of centuries ago I might have been about to swoon, but this is the twenty-first century and we don’t do that sort of thing. Especially not in front of our very embarrassing relatives, whom I daren’t look at in case he’s still winking.
‘Yes,’ she said with a gulp. ‘I mean thank you … for the … the …’
‘… the very sexy underwear? Your uncle has good taste, non? I hope you like it.’
Angie’s blush grew worse and she cursed her fair skin, which always showed every thought she had to all around her. Damn her genes. And damn her uncle for being here and looking as if he were trying not to laugh.
‘Yes. Thanks,’ was all she could think of to say.
Philippe smiled as if she were the most fascinating creature he’d ever met and she could have stayed there like a hedgehog in the dazzle of the approaching car for ever. She felt like a country bumpkin about to be seduced by an experienced man of the world. She wished! Before she could draw breath and think how to recover, Philippe had rattled off a stream of French to John which she had no hope of following. Her uncle replied in what to her was equally good French, and Philippe laughed. What was he laughing about? Her? Something John had said?
There was no time to muscle in on the conversation though. Already Philippe was getting up, taking with him, she was sure of it, her heart. Or at least a large supply of lust.
‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Your uncle will not pay me if I do not work. But I hope it will not be adieu, but à bientôt. Yes?’
Even she knew what that meant. Yes, yes, yes and a thousand times yes, thought Angie, but all she could do was nod and watch Philippe’s sinewy back disappearing into the kitchen. The moment he was gone, she grabbed John’s arm.
‘What did he say?’ she whispered, although there was no-one else to hear.
‘Aha! Wouldn’t you like to know?’ was the teasing reply.
Yes, she would, she thought, as she stood outside the dark alleyway leading to The Dog and Duck in Wood Green, but no amount of asking had broken John’s silence. There’d been a lot of laughing though, even just now when he’d dropped her off. As he’d wished her luck and driven away in a plume of smoke from the exhaust of his Spitfire, she was sure he’d still been laughing.
Turning round, she came face to wall with the full glory of the Dog and Duck and, even at first sight, she began to understand what Heinrich might have meant. A tall, Victorian building, it stood on the corner of the main road and one of the side streets and must have, in its time, been imposing. Now it looked like an old actress, dreaming of her glory days but never to see them again. Dirty brickwork was smudged by the traffic, heat and dust of a busy London street. Slipping in the drizzle, Angie started to cross the road, a move that resulted in an explosion of hooting and strange gestures. She gestured back, felt proud of herself for doing so, and escaped to the safety of the other side of the road, panting.
What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they know how to be patient? Angie smiled. She was the least patient of people, wasn’t she? Too often she needed to think before she … well, thought.
She made her way round the building until she found a small green door, paint curling away at the edges, which bore the legend, “Dog and Duck. Good food, good company”. Next to it, the smell of stale urine made her nose wrinkle, but she kept going. Pushing open the door, she found herself in a dark and damp public bar.
Everything went silent. There were only a few old men and some very young girls wearing too much make-up but, even so, the murmur of voices faded and everyone turned to look at her.
‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘Please can I speak to Fr … I mean Mrs Hammond?’
The silence continued for a few more seconds and then a hulking figure rose from behind the bar.
‘I’m Mrs Hammond, love. What do you want with me?’
The voice was without doubt the one she’d heard on the phone, but Angie was glad the apparition had confirmed its - sorry, her - identity as otherwise she wouldn’t have had a clue whether it was male or female. Mrs Hammond was a broad woman with what appeared to be an astonishing capacity for stillness, as she didn’t move after rising from the depths of the bar. She stared unblinking at Angie, the only sign of life being the slight tremor of the cigarette at her lips as she breathed.
Angie gulped.
‘We spoke on the phone,’ she said. ‘I’m Angie Howard. You said you might try me out as your new silver service waitress?’
‘Angie Howard.’ The rock-like face broke into a smile. ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’
‘Oh?’
Mrs Hammond didn’t enlighten her as to why not, but stubbed out her cigarette in a pool of beer on the bar. ‘Come on then, let’s go and get you fitted and this lot can get back to their drinking.’
Angie followed her new boss through to the back of the bar, then down an unlit, uncarpeted corridor and into a small and stuffy room. In this were four or five tables laid with old beer mats and dirty glasses.
‘This is it then, love.’
‘Here?’ Angie looked up into the expressionless face and wondered if it was too late to run. It didn’t look very silver-service to her.
‘Whadyya mean, here? What’s wrong with it? All it needs is a bit of a clean.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. I didn’t mean …’
‘Which is where you come in, love. You’ve got to start that bloody training lark somewhere, haven’t you?’
Before Angie could raise any objection, Mrs Hammond turned, a movement much like bringing an old tanker into the Blackwater estuary, and yelled, ‘Mike? Mike, get your butt in here, would you? You’ve got staff.’
A door Angie hadn’t noticed now opened and a small, wrinkled man in his fifties hobbled out. Behind him, she caught a glimpse of what looked like a kitchen. That would make sense.
‘You don’t have to shout, Miriam,’ the man said. ‘We can all hear you.’
Miriam? Angie wondered what burst of optimism had made Mrs Hammond’s mother give her daughter such a beautiful name.
‘Then why don’t you ever bloody well answer?’ Mrs Hammond grumbled, but Mike ignored her. ‘This is Angie. She’s our new silver service waitress and …’
Mike’s bark of laughter didn’t stop the speaker’s torrent.
‘… and she’s here to try out for this evening. She’ll need a bit of training, which is where you come in. Then we’ll see how it goes. So get to it, man.’
‘What sort of training, eh? Because if it’s …’
‘Shut up,’ Mrs Hammond turned on the hapless Mike and looked as if she was about to hit him, but he stood his ground. As did Angie. ‘If I say it’s for silver service, then that’s what it’s for and nothing else. This place could use a bit of class.’
Oh dear, Angie thought, I should have listened to Heinrich.
‘Mrs Hammond?’ she said before she even knew she was going to say anything at all.
Both Mrs Hammond and Mike stared at her as if they hadn’t realised she could speak.
‘What?’ they said in unison.
Yes, Angie thought. Just what was I going to say? I need this job, don’t I? If working here as a waitress is what I have to do, then I’ll simply have to do it.
She lifted her chin and resurrected her smile.
‘When are we going to get on with it?’ she said.
An hour and a half later, Angie had scrubbed the floor, polished the tables, ferreted around for some tablecloths and napkins, some of which were just about usable in a low light, and polished what silverware she could find. Thanks to Mike, who knew far more than he looked as if he would, she’d also refreshed her knowledge of cutlery, glasses, how to serve a customer, where to stand to be unobtrusive but available, how to pour wine and, most importantly, how to enthuse about the food.
At the end of it all, she stood back, a safe couple of feet away from him, just in case, and viewed the results. Not bad, she thought, for a beginner.
‘So what do you think?’ she said to her reluctant tutor. ‘Okay?’
He shrugged, ‘Sure. It’ll do. Though God knows why we’re bothering anyway. There ain’t no way nobody is going to come and eat here. Not the sort of people who’d know whether it was good or not, anyhows.’
Angie tried to ignore the stab of disappointment at such faint encouragement, ‘Well, thanks. I don’t know about you but even if nobody turns up tonight, I feel the both of us have done more than okay. I’ve learnt a lot, thanks to you, and you can’t say you haven’t enjoyed bossing me around, can you?’
There was a moment of tension so thick it could beat you to a pulp before saying “Good Evening” and Angie wondered at her own daring. Then Mike laughed, a bleating sound like a sheep in labour, and held his stomach as his shoulders quivered.
‘You’re a bold one, you are,’ he wheezed. ‘I like them bold, just like the old days when …’
Much to her relief, Angie never got to find out about the old days as, with the sound of a great army advancing, the door was flung open and Mrs Hammond appeared.
‘We’ve got a customer!’ she cried.
A customer. Her first, at least in London. She fled to the minuscule kitchen where the only other member of staff, a small Chinese man, was slaving in the steam. Mike followed, shouting instructions in a mixture of English and Oriental patter. With one hand he gestured towards the menus and at the other towards a small mirror over a corner sink.
‘Your hair,’ he yelled. ‘Make it look nice, would you?’
Wine and food menus in one hand, which looked to have been scrawled in crayon by a child of six, and patting down her hair with the other, Angie thought that if Mike had known her at all, he would have realised that this was the best her hair ever got. To get male attention, she usually relied on her breasts.
A mad combing session and several hairgrips later, she was ready.
Peering through the murk of the window between kitchen and would-be restaurant, Angie could see a lone figure, back towards her, sitting at the table nearest the door. Probably best for escape. And she couldn’t blame him. Right now, that was what she wanted to do too, but no way was she going to run away from this unpromising start to her glorious new career. So, head back and shoulders squared, she arranged her menus in a cross shape and strode out into the dining area.
The man at the table jumped as if he’d been shot.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Angie blushed. Not the best way to make the customer happy. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. May I give you the wine and food menus?’
A pair of frightened eyes looked at her body for several long moments and then up a little further at her face. She could see a gleam of sweat lining his forehead.
‘No. I mean yes. No, you didn’t startle me. And yes please, the menus would be good.’
He smiled as his eyes dropped downwards again to Angie’s best features, and she handed him the ragged pieces of paper as if they were gold.
‘Today’s special is …’ she began and then realised she had no idea what today’s special was. Mike hadn’t got round to that part of the training. ‘One moment, sir, I believe Chef might have changed his mind. I’ll check for you.’
Angie backed away from the man as if he were royalty. He knitted his eyebrows together and gave her a puzzled look as she slipped through the kitchen door. When it was safely shut, she grabbed Mike.
‘What’s the special tonight?’
He gulped. ‘Special? What do you mean special?’
‘Whatever the chef has decided he wants to cook. I’m sorry, I forgot to ask what that is. Could you ask him, please?’
Mike shrugged. It was as if the moment she’d stepped out to deal with the first diner, he’d lost interest. ‘Does it matter?’
Angie nodded and Mike sighed. Turning to the now very sweaty chef, he reeled off a string of oriental-sounding sentences mixed here and there with a guttural English word. Again Angie was impressed.
‘No specials,’ Mike said.
‘Sorry?’
‘No specials. We just do what’s on the menu. And what’s on the menu is what’s always there. A chicken dish, a cheese dish, a beef dish. And then something in a crumble. Keep it simple, that’s what Mrs H likes to do.’
‘But we’re supposed to be silver service.’
‘No, we’re supposed to be Dog and Duck-style silver service. It’s different. Welcome to the wonderful world of downmarket catering. Now get back out there and sort that bloke out with his order. Scram.’
She scrammed. She apologised for the unaccountable lack of special, but the man made no comment and, after taking his order, she poured his wine, being careful to hold the towel in the right way. Then she shook out his napkin and laid it over his legs, a difficult task when the napkin was paper rather than cloth, but she did her best as instructed by Mike. When the dish was ready - her customer had opted for the chicken, probably a wise choice - she served the pale grey slabs covered in mustard sauce to him from a platter that was certainly not silver. Not even silver-plated. Like herself, Angie thought, the Dog and Duck had some way to go to get where they wanted to be. The thought made her smile and it was then that it happened.
Without any warning, the man reached out his hand and slid it up her skirt. Even as she was dolloping out some sauce onto his plate. He didn’t just stop at her knee or even her thigh. No, he went right up as slithery as a snake on ice until he almost …
Angie flinched away and, in flinching, upturned the steaming plate of chicken all over his bulging napkin.
‘No!’ Angie shrieked.
The man shrieked too and clutched at his lap before staggering to his feet, just as the Chinese man and Mike flung themselves through the kitchen doors to survey the scene.
‘What the …?’ Mike yelped and then, grabbing a jug of water from the table, emptied it over the groaning man.
A thunder of feet outside the dining room, and Mrs Hammond burst into view. The chef fled to the safety of his domain and Angie didn’t blame him.
‘What the hell is going on out here?’ the owner roared and then seeing Mike with the jug, thwacked him across the head with one hand whilst whipping away the nearest tablecloth to use as a covering for his victim with the other. ‘What have you done to my customer?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Mike moaned from the floor. ‘It was her.’
That was unfair to say the least. If the man at the table hadn’t tried it on, he wouldn’t have got his dinner in the crotch. It was obvious whose fault it was and she opened her mouth to say so.
Octopus Man got there first.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, pointing with a trembling hand at his nemesis. ‘It was her.’
‘You!’
Mrs Hammond turned to the unfortunate Angie like a figure of retribution. Her face was swollen and red, eyes blazing like a fury, and hand raised for further punishment. However, Angie was wearing her flatties and was younger and fitter than the enemy. She fled. But she was darned if she was going without saying something.
From the doorway, she spat out her words like an angry cat. ‘If you stopped punching and started listening, you might find out that it was your customer who started it, not me. Maybe you should ask him what he did!’
She didn’t wait for the answer. Mrs Hammond’s advancing figure was more than enough to persuade her that legging it was still the best option.
‘You’re sacked!’ was the last thing she heard as she ran through the bar, ignoring the wide-eyed curiosity of the punters there.
‘I quit!’ she yelled back and was gone. Out into the warm night air and away from the madness.
It was all very exciting to make a dramatic exit from your first place of employment and there was something to be said for the thrill of victory Angie felt as she trotted, flushed and panting, through Wood Green’s glittering streets and trendy crowds, reaching for her mobile to dial for a taxi. It was cathartic somehow, being the only one for miles without high heels. That included the men. She felt like a heroine from a 1950s film running away from a life of slavery into the arms of Mr Right. If only. Just so long as Mr Right had a fat wallet and a sexy smile, not to mention a willingness to back her ideas for a cool café, she’d be fine. But no, that wasn’t the way. If she was to get anything out of this life, it would be as far as possible by her own merits. She didn’t fancy being a … a … what did they used to call them? - oh yes, kept woman. No she didn’t fancy being one of those at all, not in the long term anyway.
The taxi, when it came, whisked her back to Muswell Hill Broadway where she got out for some air. She jostled her way along against young girls dressed in black and the adrenaline rush drifted away. Maybe she should have stayed and fought her corner, and not fled the scene at the first hint of trouble. But no, Mrs Hammond was way too terrifying. She’d have to find another job. Somehow.
As she continued to walk along the Broadway, she thought how strange it was that everything was still open at this time of night and how different everyone looked from her. If she looked as fantastic as some of these - what? sixteen-year olds? younger? - she’d have no problem pulling the gorgeous Philippe and then the two of them could be out every night, staring into each other’s eyes across a packed nightclub floor. A lurch of longing drove her forwards and she almost collided with a group of teenage boys mooching near the church and palming cigarettes.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘My fault.’
‘Watch it, weirdo,’ one of them taunted her and she was just about to answer back when he leered at her and something warned her not to. London was different from rural Essex and she ought to remember it. Once out of sight of the gangs, she slowed down and tried to look normal, whatever that was. The simple fact that she could recognise somewhere she’d been before made her feel better.
As she approached the front door and the flashing pink lights of the only place she could now call home, she was almost confident of a welcome. And, when he saw her, Derek’s face twisted into something that could well have been a smile.
‘Hi, Derek, I’m back,’ she said. ‘Early, I know, but please can I come in? I’ve got a key to the flat.’
In her hands, the key swung and glowed rose in the wall lights, matching his silver medallion as it hung round his neck. A different one. This one had a shape she couldn’t quite see.
‘What’s that?’ she said, waving one finger in the direction of the bouncer’s massive chest. ‘It’s not the same as the one you were wearing before, is it?’
It might have been her imagination, but his chest seemed to swell and take in even more North London air.
‘I’ve got a collection, belonged to my dad’s dad,’ she managed to make out. ‘I wear them all in turn, in memory.’
‘I see,’ Angie nodded. ‘That’s really nice. Could I come in now? I think I need a thinking session and some chocolate.’
Derek’s eyes narrowed and his chest subsided. ‘You can’t think in the club. Punters don’t like it, they like things easy and smooth.’
He sounded concerned and Angie tried to smile, not wanting to cause any more trouble tonight, ‘Sure. Don’t worry, I’ll go upstairs. No-one will know I’m here.’
She swished past him. The door of the club was open behind Derek’s massive frame and she caught a glimpse of red light, sequins and feathers. The voice that crooned its way into her ears was husky and sensuous, like honey flowing over earth. Was it John? It would be amazing to watch her uncle do his stuff. No way was he going to put her off for much longer. For one thing it would cheer her up. Might even put her in the mood for more job-hunting.
Stepping into the flat, she could see the lights were on and could hear movement in John’s bedroom. Good, he was in after all then. She could tell him the whole saga of her first and only night as a silver service waitress without waiting till the morning.
She knocked on his door, heard a grunt she interpreted as “Come in”, and walked inside.
Where all words were lost into the orange-scented air, never to be found again.
Because her interpretation of the grunt had been wrong. Her uncle was in no state to say anything. He was sprawled face down and naked across a circular red-silk bed bordered with orange and gold cushions and pillows. On top of him, an equally naked plump and balding man with a hairy back moved slowly up and down. It was he who was groaning. Angie couldn’t help it, she gasped, and John’s eyes flickered up towards the door where she was standing.
‘Oh God,’ he moaned and buried his head in his hands. ‘Angie.’
