she wanted to forget.
She sipped her sweet Cinzano. In Irene’s day it would have had a big slug of gin added. She hoped Deirdre was all right for money.
Deirdre was holding out one of the photos and a pen. ‘You will both sign them, won’t you, to join the collection?’ She waved her hand at the pictures all around. Joycie recognized the old ones like Charlie Chester and Dame Myra Hess, but there were some more recent photos too: Helen Shapiro, all bouffant hair and big smile, and Marty Wilde in a leather jacket attempting an Elvis lip curl.
She put her name on the photos opposite Marcus’s adding: with all my love to dearest Deirdre XXX. The signatures would make the photos worth some money, but Deirdre wouldn’t want to part with them so Joycie decided she’d send her another batch telling her to do what she wanted with them. If Deirdre sold them no one need know, and it would be a way of helping out without hurting her pride.
Leaning back in her chair she was aware that Marcus was watching her, waiting for her to say what they’d come for. Deirdre refilled her own glass and waved the bottle first at Marcus and then at Joycie, who shook her head. ‘Deirdre?’ she paused feeling a tremor deep inside, but forcing herself on. ‘I was wondering if you knew anything about that bloke my mum ran away with. I’ve met her sister, you see, and she said Mum never mentioned anyone.’
Deirdre put down her glass. ‘So she’s seen Mary, has she, the sister?’
‘No, but she seems to doubt there was a man in ’53.’
‘Well, I’m only going by what everyone said. They all seemed sure there was someone. Your mum was a lovely girl, of course, but we all knew things weren’t quite right between her and your dad even though you could tell they really loved each other.’
Marcus leaned forward. ‘So Irene never said anything to you about a man when Mary disappeared?’
‘No, and she just couldn’t understand it.’ She turned towards Joycie. ‘You should ask Sid’s wife, Cora. I’m sure she mentioned a fancy man, but I don’t think we ever heard his name.’
Deirdre insisted they stay for sandwiches and cake, and they promised not to be strangers, but when they were outside in the Morgan again Joycie said, ‘Well that’s it: another dead end.’
Marcus put the keys in the ignition. ‘Look, I know you don’t want to see Sid, but why not try to speak to Cora? I could see her if you like. I think she took a shine to me.’
Joycie managed a small laugh. ‘You noticed that, did you? OK, but make sure she doesn’t get the idea we want to be friends.’
A rap on the driver’s window, and when Marcus rolled it down a male voice said: ‘It’s Marcus and Orchid isn’t it? Wonder if I could beg an autograph. Name’s Bill, if you wouldn’t mind putting that too.’ There was something familiar about the voice, but it wasn’t until Marcus had signed and passed the brand new autograph book over to her that she saw the man’s face as he bent his tall frame down by the window and smiled in at her.
She scribbled her signature, aware that he was moving round the front of the car to get to her side. Then she had no option but to roll down her own window and pass the book to him, trying to avoid his eyes.
He pressed her fingers for a moment as he took the book, his own hand very cold as if he’d been standing outside for some time. She felt his breath against her cheek. ‘Keep bumping into each other, don’t we, Orchid?’ he said. ‘Glad you got home safe the other day. Take care of yourself, won’t you.’
He released her hand and stood back, his trousers as sharply creased, shoes as well-polished as they’d been when she’d seen him in Manchester.
On the way home Marcus kept asking her what was wrong, but she couldn’t tell him until they were safe inside. He made some tea, and when he was sitting opposite her at the tiny kitchen table he lit a cigarette and blew three smoke rings, which usually got her smiling. But not today.
‘That man, the one with the autograph book, he was in Manchester at the corner of my aunt’s street. He spoke to me, obviously knew who I was.’
‘Well that’s peculiar. Any idea who he might be?’
‘I’ve never set eyes on him before.’
Marcus leaned back, staring up at the smoke rising to the ceiling. ‘Most likely a journalist. Unless it’s one of your fans. He looked a bit old for that, but you never can tell.’
That was as likely an explanation as any. It was disturbing to think of people becoming obsessed with her, but it had happened before. As for journalists, her fear was always that they’d get wind of her father’s suicide and, of course, what led to it – his arrest and imprisonment.
When she first started modelling that was one reason she’d changed her name. They’d given out the story that she was an orphan, which had been good enough so far. And the journalists were more interested in the romance between her and Marcus than poking into her background. The received wisdom was that she adored him, but he wouldn’t commit himself and was still playing the field. It wasn’t fair on Marcus because it was she who wouldn’t – couldn’t – commit, but he laughed it off, saying he didn’t mind people thinking he was a bit of a Casanova.
‘Shall we report him to the police?’ Marcus said.
‘What for? He hasn’t done anything, and both times he’s been very nice to me. It just doesn’t feel right.’
Marcus swallowed back his tea and jumped up. ‘OK, go and get your glad rags on. Let’s have some dinner and get drunk. Forget about all this for a while. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow doing that shoot for Cecil Beaton.’
‘Oh God, I can’t believe I’ve forgotten about Beaton. I’ve been nervous about that for weeks. Should really stay in and get a good sleep.’
Marcus came behind her chair and pulled it back. ‘Oh no, you need to be distracted, and I don’t want you too gorgeous for darling Cecil. He may be an old queen, but if he makes you look wonderful you might decide to dump me.’ He kissed the side of her neck and as she headed for the stairs reached out to slap her bum. She managed to evade his hand, charging up two steps at a time, and thanking God yet again for letting her meet him.
Clacton-on-Sea – May 1954
It’s a lovely sunny morning, but Dad was late home last night so he’s still in bed. Joycie is making some tea because he likes to wake up to a cuppa and a fag. There’s a knock on the door and it’s Sid. He walks straight in, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey, Charlie boy,’ before he slumps into a chair next to the table, pulling an ashtray towards him. ‘Any tea in the pot, Joycie love?’
Sid lights up, and Joycie puts a cup in front of him as Dad comes out of the bedroom, rubbing his face. His hair has no Brylcreem on yet and is falling over his face. ‘Crikey, Sid, give a bloke a chance to come round.’
Joycie turns back to the little kitchenette, taking some bacon slices wrapped in greaseproof paper from the wooden meat safe, and trying to close it gently so the thin metal grill on the front doesn’t rattle. Sid is talking about the act and she listens in. When she hears her own name she listens harder.
‘We need to sharpen up a bit and I’ve been thinking. I know you don’t like leaving Joycie at home on her own.’
‘I don’t, but it’s not fair making her hang about at the theatre every night either. It’s all right when Irene’s on the bill, but now she’s away I worry about Joycie when we’re onstage.’ Joycie can’t see his expression, but she can imagine him raising his eyebrows at Sid. She knows he doesn’t