Tara (45 page)

'I'm talking about when I was very small,' she said hastily. 'We moved to my grandmother's place in Somerset when Dad died.'

'I'm sorry.' Josh looked sheepish. 'I never liked to ask before. What did he die of?'

'A heart attack. But I don't like talking about it.'

'So where was the flat? In London?' Josh was suddenly very attentive, sitting up on the floor and leaning towards her where she lounged back on the cushions.

'Acton. I can hardly remember any of it now,' Tara snapped, suddenly sober.

'OK, so you don't want to discuss it' Josh wriggled round so he was nearer her. 'I don't like to think about the place we had down by Cable Street, waking up to see a rat by my bed, or hearing other kids calling me a dirty Jew. There's no shame in being born poor, only in not improving your own lot. Dad and Mum think they've arrived now they've got the house in Golders Green and a Daimler. I want more than that!'

'Like what?' Although plenty of other people had talked about his origins, it was the first time Josh had spoken of it, and the admission seemed to make them equal.

'It's not just money. I want fame.' Josh turned on his side, supporting his head on his hand, looking right into her eyes.

She looked exhausted, and very drunk, with a violet tinge beneath her lovely eyes. Even in jeans and an old shirt, with no make-up and her hair all tousled, she still looked more desirable than any other girl he knew.

So much of Tara was hidden. Through her designs he sensed a sensual woman, the way she kept her flat showed she was a home-loving person, yet he had never been able to fathom exactly what it was she wanted. He hoped by opening up to her, she might reciprocate.

'I want to be a celebrity, Tara. I want people to nudge each other when I walk by and say," Hey look, there's Josh Bergman, he's only thirty and he's a multi-millionaire already".'

'You haven't given yourself long.' Tara giggled.

Josh had made her feel so much better. Maybe it was just the remnants of her childish crush that had made her think for a moment that Harry was for her. She was grown up now, she had a right to reach out for what she wanted, without feeling indebted to people from the past.

'I'm well on the way.' His eyes were full of fire now, face flushed with more than just the vodka. 'I want a plane of my own, holiday homes in exotic places and beautiful women on my arm.'

'Do I come anywhere in this dream?' she asked. 'Is your designer important or will you replace me?'

'You are part of the dream.' He lowered his voice and his hand moved to stroke her cheek. 'Together there's nothing we can't do, we'll rise up like shooting stars to conquer the fashion industry.'

Tara was very aware of his hand on her face, but his words thrilled her even more.

"That would be so wonderful,' she breathed. 'It's not money, is it? It's people looking up to you.'

His lips were moving slowly down towards hers, fleshy, pink and succulent, his dark eyes soft with tenderness. 'I'm hungry for you, Tara!'

His lips were so warm and soft against hers, his fingers in her hair soothing away any last doubts. There was no threat in his touch, just sweet warmth, lulling her into relaxation.

His kisses were thrilling, slow and teasing. At some point, though she never noticed when, he moved her slightly, placing another cushion under her head, and his fingers were slowly unfastening the buttons on her shirt. Flashes of lovemaking with Simon came back to her, memories of how she'd responded and the realisation she wanted that again.

'Tara, you're so beautiful,' he breathed softly against her neck as he opened her shirt and slid his hands round her back to unfasten her bra. 'I've dreamed of seeing your breasts since the first day I met you.'

A flush of desire washed over her as Josh's lips came down towards her nipple. She saw his face soften, his eyes half close and his lips move into a kiss. She watched as his lips took her pink nipple, his tongue snaking out to lick it, and her body arched involuntarily towards him.

She pulled out his shirt, running her fingers up and down his spine, pressing herself hard against the lump in his trousers she so much wanted to touch. But instead he moved back to her lips, kissing her again as he covered her breasts with her shirt. 'I must go home,' he whispered, tracing round the outline of her lips with his tongue. 'I won't be responsible for my actions if I stay.'

It pleased her that he didn't consider her a pushover, that he was too gentlemanly to pull off her clothes and his own on their first evening together, but all the same she wanted him. Wanting didn't quite cover it, she was burning for him, desperate, but how could she say so without appearing promiscuous?

'I don't want you to go,' was the best she could offer, kissing him with fevered lips.

'I must, babe.' He wriggled away from her slightly. 'We've got plenty of other nights, haven't we?'

It was next morning, when she woke up with a raging thirst and a headache, that she had misgivings.

'Thank heavens he didn't take advantage,' she thought to herself as she lay holding her head. Sober, she could see things that hadn't even crossed her mind last night. Angie's hurt, maybe even putting her job in jeopardy, not to mention the callousness of taking a lover the very first night Harry was in jail.

She couldn't concentrate on her work that day. She was making up some samples, but she kept making mistakes and having to unpick things. Each time she heard one of the girls go into the shop kitchen, she started, expecting Josh to come up the stairs.

Yet as hard as she tried to forget, images kept coming into her mind and she could feel his lips on her breasts, taste his kisses, and she knew she wanted him.

He rang late in the afternoon, hurriedly from a phone box.

'Are you all right today?' he asked. 'You put a lot of drink away.'

'Just a bit of a headache,' she said, wondering if she should try to cool things down, or encourage him.

'I don't know when I'll be able to get round again,' he said. 'I've had a bit of a problem getting more material for the velvet jackets. I might have to go up to the Midlands.'

He left it at that. No date, no promise to come round, leaving her without the opportunity to turn him down.

That evening Amy phoned and the moment Tara heard her voice she knew she'd been crying.

'I don't know what to say,' she said in a weak plaintive voice. 'I can't believe Harry would hurt an old man.'

'I'm sure he didn't, Mum.' Tara felt sick now, she'd forgotten all those people back home reading about it and recognising it as the Harry Collins they all liked so much. 'George say's he's shielding someone.'

'But he was at the robbery,' Amy said. 'No-one can alter that.'

Tara tried to get her off the subject, asking about Greg and Gran, but still her mother kept coming back to it.

'We just have to believe in him, Mum,' Tara said. 'And hope the man that did it comes forward.'

After she'd put the phone down Tara put her head on her arms and cried. She was so confused. Harry's face danced before her, bringing back all the good memories. But even if he wasn't a murderer, he was a thief, and he was going to prison. She couldn't even think about loving a man like that.

As the run-up to Christmas grew more frantic, Tara had little opportunity to dwell on either Harry or Josh. There was no time for designing now, just helping in the shop, filling up the rails from the stockroom, supervising, displaying, rushing to the bank for change.

Josh baffled her. He only breezed in and out to collect the takings, or bring more stock. Sometimes he could spare five minutes for a coffee upstairs in her flat, but even though he always pulled her into his arms and gave her one of his thrilling kisses, she could feel the tension pent up inside him.

'I'll make it up to you soon,' he said one afternoon, sliding his hand up under her sweater and tweaking her nipple. 'What are you doing for Christmas?'

'I have to go home,' she said, wishing it wasn't necessary as she was beginning to feel she had no place there any longer.

'Could I come with you?'

Tara was stunned. 'You don't really want to?' she said disbelievingly.

'I do. I'd like to meet your family and see your home. Christmas isn't different to any other day at my parents, but if I'm in London they'll expect me to turn up. I could drive us down on Christmas Eve after we've closed.'

'I'd have to speak to Gran.' Tara immediately got a mental picture of her Gran sounding off about Jews and wondered if it was such a good idea. But on the other hand it would prevent Mum and Gran from going on about Harry all the time.

'Gran's a bit batty.' She slid into Josh's arms. 'Don't blame me if you have a terrible time.'

'I've got a way with ladies,' he whispered, pressing himself hard against her. 'Or so I'm told.'

To Tara's surprise both Gran and her mother seemed to welcome the idea of Josh when she telephoned them. They both agreed to stick to the same story about the flat in Acton and Mr Manning's heart attack. Even when Tara warned Gran not to make her usual disparaging remarks about Jews, she only chuckled.

'I know when to keep my lip buttoned,' she said.

Gran didn't mention Harry, but then she'd already made her feelings known in a letter. To her there were no grey areas, Harry was guilty of robbing the warehouse, so it followed he'd killed the watchman too.

When Angie phoned one evening and said she'd jacked in her job, Tara was shocked.

'But why?' she asked. 'I thought you loved it.'

'It was crappy money, and I'm fed up with Josh,' Angie said light-heartedly. 'He hasn't been near me since he opened the Church Street shop. I'm not wasting any more time on him. I'm going to work for a new boutique in Carnaby Street. I might even get a flat over your way, too.'

She spoke of people's faith in Harry in Bethnal Green.

'Everyone knows he didn't do it,' she said. 'His mates'll put the frighteners on the bloke what shot him, don't worry.'

It was one less thing to worry about. At least she didn't have to concern herself about hurting Angie. But as Christmas came closer and closer, there was no time to dwell on anything other than work.

The shop was packed with noisy, over-excited young people. Soul music played at full volume, coloured lights flashed over the central display of one green and one red velvet mini dress. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and it seemed as if the whole of London's youth had descended on Kensington to buy something to wear.

Tara stood by the side of the cashier, folding and packing the garments, keeping one eye open for shop lifters.

"That's the last of those!' Susie, one of the temporary staff, put down the white crepe mini dress trimmed with fluffy feathers at the neck and wrists on the counter. 'We must have sold hundreds!'

"They've been going well in Bethnal Green, too,' Tara replied, mentally making a note to ask Josh to get some more.

'That was mean of Josh sacking the manageress there,' Susie said. 'She's been working for him since he started.'

'She left to work in Carnaby Street.' Tara looked sharply at the girl. Her eyes showed no sign of malice.

'Where did you hear that?'

'My cousin Rose works there,' Susie said. 'She told me. Josh accused her of wearing clothes from the shop and sacked her instantly. Rose reckons that wasn't the real reason, though. She thinks he's got another bird, and doesn't want the new one to find out he's been sleeping with Angie.'

Tara ruminated on this news for the rest of the afternoon. It was quite in character for Angie not to admit the truth; she didn't like to lose face, not even with an old friend. But Josh's behaviour was far more puzzling. He had known Angie borrowed clothes right from the outset. Why get funny about it now? Unless of course Rose was right and he wanted to remove the last obstacle in his way to getting her.

It was the deviousness of it that bothered her. What sort of game was Josh playing, and why?

Tara got into bed early on Sunday night. Saturday night had been a real laugh. Miranda had stayed behind after work and they'd had a couple of bottles of wine, while they chatted. She had been wrong about Miranda. She wasn't snooty, not once you got closer, it was just the way she'd been brought up – private school, rich parents with a big house in Barnes.

Later, when they were very drunk, they staggered off to the Zambesi club in Earl's Court wearing tinsel and mistletoe in their hair. There weren't anywhere near enough girls to go round, and the Australians and South Africans who had made the club their own were practically fighting each other to dance or buy them drinks. She had vague memories of snogging with some huge Australian and telling him she'd fallen in love with him, then running off to catch a taxi with Miranda while he was in the toilets.

But on Sunday when she woke around twelve she felt like a balloon with a slow puncture, all the joy disappearing leaving her flat as a pancake. She halfheartedly did the button holes on a sample jacket, took her washing to the launderette and cleaned her flat, then crawled into bed to cry.

'Let Josh come for Christmas,' she said to herself joylessly as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. 'But keep him at a distance. Don't trust him!'

'Try and find out who grassed me up,' Harry whispered to George through the grille in the visiting room. 'I've heard the name Joe Spikes mentioned a few times in here, too, try and get a starting price on him, where he's come from, his form, the works.'

'Where's he supposed to hang out?' George asked.

'I dunno, one bloke said he's come from over the river, Catford, Deptford. Thinks he might be part of the Richardson crew. I got this whisper that he's got some grudge against me. He could have leaned on one of the lads.'

George looked nervously round him. He hated coming to Brixton. Seeing his son through this grille was torture, the haunted look in his eyes, the way he kept biting his lip. There was nothing he could do either, not even squeeze his boy's hand.

In the waiting room the heat was stifling. Flustered mothers struggled with small babies, toddlers grizzled because they were tired of waiting. You could tell the women who'd been through this countless times, boldfaced and loud-voiced, ten minutes with them and they'd tell you every last thing about their old man. It was a sordid, dirty place, like lifting a manhole cover and finding a whole underworld you never knew existed.