Here Come the Girls (27 page)

Roz contemplated buying another card and faking his signature, but knowing Ven she would go up and thank him and then he’d take pleasure in putting her right and that would ruin her day. Better just to abort that surprise. Roz ripped up the card with a strength she would have liked to have exerted on Dom Donaldson’s head and put it in the circular bin outside the theatre. Venice would have a brilliant birthday without that vain shite’s contribution. They’d all make sure of that.

Roz took a deep composing breath outside the theatre before joining the others. She was standing with her back to the wall, opposite the staircase. Her breath had just about got back to normal when a man came down the stairs and her eyes fixed on his and could not tear themselves away. For there, in a magnificently cut black suit and bow-tie and the whitest shirt she had ever seen, was Raul Cruz. His eyes were locked onto Roz’s with equal force. And though he did not say anything, but merely nodded his head to her, she almost slid down the wall and became a pool of drool.

D
AY
9: V
ENICE

Dress Code: Semi-Formal

Chapter 43

For David Hardcastle, 24 August would forever after be known as ‘the day when his life went totally tits up’. It was on this date that everything as he knew it was totally slaughtered with a wrecking ball and then immediately began to reconstruct itself in an entirely different way. Like the old Co-op on Newland Street, razed to the ground and quickly rebuilt as a gym. Although maybe that wasn’t the wisest parallel, seeing as the gym developed a structural problem and had to be demolished within six months.

It started innocuously enough with a planned cooked breakfast. He hummed as he snipped at the sausage links and cut up tomatoes and mushrooms and thick slices of black pudding. As the lard in the frying pan began to melt and give its first limp spit, the phone rang. He heard his mother pick up and start talking to someone on it.

‘Yes, this is Doreen Hardcastle . . . Oh, I am so sorry to hear that,’ she was saying. Then her voice dropped to a low whisper and he didn’t hear anything again until, ‘Yes, yes . . . tomorrow. I’ll be here . . . Yes, of course I still do – need you ask? . . . Till later then.’

The smoky breakfast smells snaked up David’s nostrils and made his enormous stomach growl with anticipation. He reached for the egg box, deciding he’d cook three this morning – two for himself and one for his mother – but he was to discover that the egg box had been sitting in the cupboard empty. It was one of Kevin’s many annoying habits, putting empty packages back on shelves instead of throwing them in the bin.

‘Bloody Kevin!’ he growled. The only thing he didn’t use and abuse in this house was toothpaste. There was no way David could have a cooked breakfast without fried eggs – it was illegal in the Hardcastle household. Angrily, he twisted the knob of the hob down to the lowest setting and felt in his pockets for some money. Apart from two pence and a ball of tissues that smelled vaguely of cheese, they were totally empty.

‘Mum, have you any money for eggs?’ he called. ‘I’ll have to nip to Warren Street shop and I’ve got no cash at all. Not a bean.’

He went into the lounge to find his mother deep in thought, staring into space.

‘Mum? We haven’t any eggs. Have you any change?’

Doreen shifted her attention to her son. He looked crestfallen. She didn’t see a man one step away from a monster cooked breakfast, only her little boy with a pushed-out lip of sadness. Doreen studied him. It was the same face he used to pull when he wanted a Curly Wurly and had spent all his pocket money. So like his father when he needed solace.

Yes, she decided, it was time now. The fates had stepped in this morning and told her as much. She reached into her cleavage for the key she wore as a pendant.

‘I’ve got some change upstairs,’ she said. ‘In the trunk under my bed.’

‘Oh heck, haven’t we anything down here? I’m going to ruin the breakfast otherwise.’

‘In the trunk under my bed upstairs,’ Doreen said again, holding out the small key. It felt warm and sweaty in David’s hand.

‘Okay,’ he sighed, taking the key and running upstairs as fast as his bulk would carry him.

His mother’s bedroom was the biggest one in the house, a total waste seeing as she never slept in it. Olive kept it dust-free and as immaculate as the rest of the house, though. David got on his knees and reached under the bed for the trunk which he had always presumed his mother kept her ‘treasures’ in – the Mother’s Day cards he’d made at school, photos, memorabilia, etc. He tugged it out but it took considerable effort.

‘Blimey, Mum, what have you got in here? It weighs a bleeding ton,’ he said to himself. He slid the key in the lock and the lid sprang open. Inside were indeed a scattering of photos and baby bootees and the Blue Peter badge he had found in the park but told everyone that he earned it for inventing a machine that turned vegetables into chocolate. Not exactly the sort of currency that the Warren Street shop would accept.

‘Mum, there’s nothing . . .’ he began to shout.

‘Lift the flap in the bottom, son!’ Doreen’s voice cut in and travelled upstairs.

David felt around and found a metal loop. He pulled it and a flap was released. He lifted it and stared down at what lay underneath. Wads and wads of paper money, neatly tied with elastic bands, and bags of two-pound coins. The box was so deep it seemed to go on for ever; it was like something out of
Treasure Island
. The sight trampled over all thoughts of his cooked breakfast on the floor below. Something not even pictures of Samantha Fox in her heyday could have done.

He was hallucinating through lack of food, obviously. He closed the lid and snapped it open again, but yes – the money was still there. He took out a single five-pound note, closed the lid again, locked it, slid it back under the bed and lumbered downstairs in a haze. Had his mother robbed a bank? It sounded incredible, but then again, she had a secret ‘able-bodied’ life he’d not known about until recently. Who was to say that masquerading as a poor disabled lady wasn’t part of some bigger, stranger charade?

‘What . . .where . . .’ he blundered, pointing upstairs.

‘It’s a nest egg,’ said Doreen. ‘It’s all yours.’

‘Mine!’ said David.

‘I didn’t put it in the bank because I don’t trust banks. I turned out to be right as well, didn’t I?’ Doreen nodded smugly, although she had had more than a minor panic recently when she thought Olive had found her secret stash and run off with it. ‘Plus I don’t want any greedy council bastards taking it off me if I ever went in a home.’

‘But where’s it come from, Mum?’

‘Your father,’ said Doreen.

‘Dad?
Dad?
Dad didn’t have a pot to piss in!’

‘Your father,’ corrected Doreen, ‘had a selection of pots to piss in. Plus I added to it by betting some of it on horses. I used to be very good at winning on the nags. I should have been a professional gambler, your father used to say.’

‘Dad? He never gambled in his life!’ Herbert Hardcastle was a non-drinking, non-smoking, non-gambling paragon of virtue.

‘David,’ said Doreen with a softness in her voice he hadn’t heard for years, ‘we’re going to have a visitor later on today. I want you to tidy around a bit so it’s nice, like Olive does it. All will become clear, son.’

‘Who’s coming?’ David asked, scratching his head.

‘Wait and see,’ said Doreen, putting her hand over his and giving it a fond squeeze. ‘Now, get out the Hoover, love, after you’ve been to the shop. There’s a good lad.’

Chapter 44

Venice awoke to a none-too-gentle knock on the door. It was only eight o’clock, but when she opened it, her three friends pushed their way into her cabin bearing cards, presents, hugs, streamers and flowers.

‘Happy fortieth birthday to you . . .’ they sang.

‘Fabulous day as well, weatherwise,’ said Olive. ‘I had a look on deck. It’s so beautiful outside. Look,’ and she pulled Ven’s curtains open. The weather might have been lovely, but the view was disappointing – lots of tall industrial chimneys and scrappy-looking boats – even if they were bathed in early-morning misty sunlight.

A second later and there was another knock at the door.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Roz, who knew who it was, because she had arranged it. Or at least some of it. In came Jesus trundling a trolley containing four long flutes of Bucks Fizz, a huge plate of handmade truffles, an arrangement of pink flowers and a pretty posy of yellow roses. Jesus was grinning and wished Ven a very happy birthday also before leaving the women to raise a toast to the birthday girl and dive on the choccies.

‘Coffee truffles!’ said Roz. ‘We didn’t order these – or the roses. I bet they’re from the competition people.’

‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Ven, looking rather puzzled.

‘Ooh,’ said Olive, spotting a card under the posy and wolf-whistling. ‘“From Captain Ocean Sea and the crew.” Ooohhhh! He’s actually written “Ocean Sea” as well, not “O’Shaughnessy”.’

‘Oooh,’ the others joined in the trill.

There was yet another knock on the door – more flowers. This time the card read
From Andrew and all at Figurehead Cruises
.

Then more flowers – from Royston and Stella.

‘Bloody hell, it looks like Donny Road Crem in here!’ laughed Roz. ‘Here, open your presents.’

There was the beautiful, old-gold heart-shaped locket which Olive and Roz had bought. It had a tiny ring of red roses engraved on the front, circling a swirly letter V. From Frankie there was a huge showy diamanté necklace and matching earrings – Ven could never have enough jewellery, they’d always known that. Manus had sent a silver bracelet, the links all cats with tiny green eyes. Roz felt a dull ache when she saw it released from its clumsy wrapping. He had chosen that gift so carefully because it was perfectly suited to Ven. She gulped down a sudden tearful feeling and wished she could ring him.

Roz had switched on her phone that morning with the intention of texting
Missing you
to him. But then she thought: what if he didn’t reply? How would that make her feel? So she didn’t send it, after all. She clicked her phone shut and imagined that he was thinking the same, scared to get in contact for fear of rejection. This break had to be one of her most stupid suggestions ever, and boy, did she have some making-up to do. The damage would need much more than a couple of bottles of Limoncello to mend. Dragging her focus away from Frankie had made her realise the full picture of what a bitch she had been to him. She couldn’t just turn on being nice again. Not at this distance. She needed to give him space too.

‘Get dressed, Ven, and we’ll have a sit-down breakfast in the Ambrosia this morning instead of slumming it in the Buttery,’ said Frankie, popping another truffle into her mouth.

‘You can’t “slum” it anywhere on here,’ said Roz. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘Give me five minutes then,’ said Ven, jumping off the bed, gathering up some fresh clothes and disappearing into the bathroom.

‘Roses from the Captain?’ Frankie raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m sure that doesn’t happen to everyone who has a birthday on the ship.’

‘It
is
her fortieth,’ said Roz. ‘And he
is
sitting next to her at the dinner-table.’

‘Still . . .’ said Frankie with a mischievous glint in her eye, ‘that would be rather nice, wouldn’t it – a little dalliance with a tall, dark, handsome man, especially one in a sexy white uniform? She’s well overdue a snog.’

‘Da-da!’ Ven was ready in a flash and burst out of the bathroom clad in a white top with a pretty frill and a bright green short skirt. It showed off her tan to perfection. She put her birthday heart-shaped locket on, saving the diamanté one for that evening, applied a slick of lipstick, grabbed her bag and announced that she was ready. ‘Oh, and my ears were burning in there. You were on about those flowers from the Captain, weren’t you?’

‘Course we were,’ said Roz, following her out of the door. ‘I’ll be very interested to see what happens at dinner. Wonder if you’ll get a gypsy violinist instead of the waiters’ choir.’

‘Oh God,’ said Ven, visibly cringing. ‘I’d forgotten about that ordeal.’

Chapter 45

In 15, Land Lane, David was dusting in preparation for the arrival of the mystery visitor. A grey film had landed everywhere since Olive had gone on holiday and it annoyed him. He had taken a clean house for granted and he now realised that muck didn’t shift by itself. He flicked the cloth and sent the dust motes swirling in the air. They’d fly around a bit and then settle again so he wouldn’t actually get rid of them, he thought. What a waste of time. How anyone could do cleaning for a living was beyond him.

At twelve, Kevin made lunch for everyone. Over the past couple of days he’d turned into Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen – or at least a cut-price version. He had poured boiling water over three chicken-and-mushroom pot noodles and stirred them. Then he had tipped them on a plate with some slices of turkey burgers and sprinkled the whole thing liberally with dried parsley and a dash of soy sauce. Sweet had been a slice of swiss roll each and squirty cream with a Cadbury’s chocolate finger stuck in the middle of it like a totem pole. Then he made himself scarce for a couple of hours, as Doreen had asked, until the mystery man – or woman – had left. Now Doreen was sitting in her smartest dress and had even applied some make-up and curled her hair with her hotbrush. David couldn’t remember ever seeing his mother in make-up. Her non-existent eyebrows were now two high brown arches, her eyelids seventies blue as if she was in Abba, and her lips had been extended by very pink lipstick that he was sure would have shown up in the dark. It was like some awful ventriloquist doll come to life.

‘Put that duster down now and get the kettle on ready for our visitor, David.’

‘Who is it, Mam?’

‘Wait and see.’

Right on cue as the kettle heralded its boiling point with a shrill whistle, there was a sharp tattoo of raps on the front door. Doreen nodded at David to go and answer it whilst she straightened herself up and patted her curls.