‘With a daughter like mine to give the game away?’ said Izzy smiling up at him. ‘Some chance.’
Chapter 2
‘I don’t understand,’ said Gina hesitantly, her mind blotting out the words she knew she must have heard incorrectly. ‘You aren’t making sense. Let me get you a drink . . . there’s roast lamb for dinner and it won’t be ready for another thirty minutes.’
Moving jerkily towards the drinks cabinet in the corner of the sitting room, she became hideously aware of the fact that she no longer knew what to do with her hands. They seemed huge and ungainly, flapping at her sides as she walked. It was with relief that she picked up the bottle of Gordon’s and poured Andrew his drink - half an inch of gin, three inches of tonic, just as he always liked it when he returned home from work.
But now she was faced with the new problem of where to look. Andrew, she knew, was watching her and although he couldn’t possibly have meant what he’d just said, she found herself incapable of meeting his gaze. Her coordination had gone. She didn’t know whether to stand up or to sit down. And how could something so
silly
be happening to her body when it was only a simple misunderstanding anyway? In less than a minute, no doubt, they would be laughing at her ridiculous mistake and her hands and eyes would behave normally once more.
But Andrew wasn’t laughing. He shook his head when she finally held the drink towards him, gesturing instead to a nearby armchair.
‘Sit down.You’d better have that drink. God, I’m sorry, Gina - you must think I’m a real bastard, but I truly didn’t expect anything like this to happen. I didn’t want to hurt you . . .’
Gina tensed, unable to do anything but wait. Any minute now he’d break into a grin and say, ‘I’m joking, of course,’ and she would be able to relax and get on with the dinner. The parsnips needed to go into the roasting tin and the onion sauce, simmering on the stove, could probably do with a stir.
‘I would have thought you’d be throwing things by now,’ Andrew went on, hating himself for what he was doing but needing to provoke some kind of reaction. When Gina finally looked up at him he saw fear and confusion in her eyes.
‘Are you joking?’ she whispered at last, and the flicker of hope in her voice was almost too much to bear. Steeling himself against it, taking a deep breath, Andrew prepared to repeat the words which he had hoped to have to say only once.
‘Gina, this isn’t a joke,’ he said, more brusquely than he had intended. ‘I’m moving out of the house and I want a divorce. I’ve met someone else - I’ve been seeing her for almost six months now - and my staying here isn’t being fair to either of you. I’ve rented a flat in the Barbican and I’ll be going there tonight. I’m sorry,’ he repeated helplessly. ‘I really
didn’t
want to hurt you, but sometimes these things just happen . . .’
‘But you’re my husband,’ whispered Gina. Her knees were beginning to tremble uncontrollably - he’d always said how much he liked her knees - and she was finding it hard to swallow. Placing the tumbler of gin and tonic carefully on the table beside her before she spilled it, she rose to her feet, then abruptly sank back down. ‘We’re married,’ she said incredulously. ‘We’re
happily
married! Everyone’s always saying how happy we are.’
Sympathy mingled with exasperation. Why couldn’t she hurl something at him, for God’s sake? Why wasn’t she screaming, shouting, swearing and generally raising hell? It would, he thought grimly, make telling her the rest of it easier.
‘I was happy,’ he told her, willing her to react. ‘But now I’ve fallen in love with someone else.’
‘You said you didn’t want to hurt me!’ Gina’s knuckles whitened as she pressed clenched fists into her lap. With a huge effort, she burst out, ‘I could forgive you for having an affair. We don’t have to be divorced . . . if you don’t want to hurt me you can tell her it’s all over and we’ll carry on as if it never happened. It’s only a fling,’ she concluded breathlessly, choking on the words as hot tears - at last - began to fall. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, really it doesn’t. Lots of men go through this kind of thing . . . it doesn’t mean we have to get a divorce . . .’
‘I want to marry her,’ said Andrew tonelessly.
Gina stared at him, uncomprehending. Wasn’t she giving him every opportunity? Wasn’t she being as understanding as any woman could possibly be? ‘But why?’
He reached for the tumbler of gin and tonic and drained it in one go. ‘Because,’ he replied slowly, ‘she’s pregnant.’
Brandishing her mascara wand and treating her lashes to a second coat, Izzy belted out the second verse of ‘New York, New York!’. ‘Kat, do you want a lift to the library, because I’m leaving in five minutes.’
The next moment Katerina appeared behind her, in the mirror. Izzy, overcome with love for her precious, clever daughter, spun round and gave her a hug.
‘What would I do without you, hmm?’
‘Get yourself into a muddle,’ replied Katerina, ever practical. ‘Now, are either of them likely to phone tonight?’
‘Ralph might. He wants me to have dinner with him tomorrow . . . tell him I’ll meet him at Vampires at eight-thirty. Mike shouldn’t be phoning but if he does, just say that—’
‘You’re going for an audition,’ supplied her daughter. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t forget.’
‘You’re an angel.’ Izzy hugged her again, then stepped back and regarded her with mock-solemn dark eyes. ‘Am I really a disgrace?’
Katerina, at seventeen, knew nothing if not her own mind. Izzy had her faults - and her chronic untidiness could be particularly irritating at times - but as a mother she was one of the best. And who could ever describe such a warm, generous, optimistic and loving person as a disgrace?
‘You’ve been seeing Mike for over a year,’ she replied calmly. ‘And how long has Ralph been around, nearly two years? You’re faithful to them. You haven’t promised to marry either of them. Everybody’s happy . . . what can possibly be so wrong with that? When I grow up,’ she added airily, ‘I fully intend to go for multiple, part-time lovers myself.’
‘And long may they drool,’ said Izzy, who never failed to be amazed by the extent of her daughter’s irrefutable logic. She glanced at her watch. ‘Help, I really am going to be late. Do you want that lift or not?’
Katerina shook her head. ‘Too cold outside. I can pop in on my way to school tomorrow morning. I’ve got an essay to be getting on with tonight, anyway.’
‘OK.’ In the chilly hallway, Izzy wrapped herself up in her brown leather flying jacket and flung a white woollen scarf around her neck. Grabbing her keys and helmet, she gave her daughter a final kiss. ‘I’ll be back by one-thirty, fans willing!’
‘You’ll be back a lot sooner than that,’ said Katerina drily, holding up the carrier bag which Izzy had forgotten, ‘if you don’t take your clothes.’
Izzy hummed beneath her breath. Her teeth were chattering too violently to risk singing the words aloud; she’d end up with a shredded tongue. Her beloved motor bike, a sleek, black Suzuki 250, was a joy to ride during the summer months, and it was certainly economical to run, but travelling to and from work in sub-zero temperatures was - she couldn’t think of a better way of describing it - a real bitch.
Still, at least the roads weren’t too icy tonight. Maniacs notwithstanding, she’d be at the club in less than twenty minutes. And who knew, tonight might just be the night to change her life . . .
Having cleared away the debris of their early evening meal, changed out of her school uniform into black sweatshirt and leggings and emptied a packet of Liquorice Allsorts into a pudding bowl for easy access, Katerina settled herself in front of the fire and wondered what it must be like for people who hated solitude.
Katerina adored it, as much as she adored their small but cosy flat, situated over an ironmonger’s shop in a quiet road just off Clapham High Street. It was only rented, of course, but Izzy had thrown herself into redecorating with her usual enthusiasm and flair for the dramatic the moment they’d moved in eighteen months earlier. And although she might not have been able to afford the luxury of wallpaper she had more than made up for it with richly shaded paints, striking borders and her own dazzling sense of style. Many hours of multi-coloured stencilling and artful picture-hanging later, the effect had been as spectacular as Katerina had known it would be and within the space of four days the flat had become a home.
It was one of Izzy’s more unexpected talents and if Katerina had been less loyal, she might have wished that her mother would consider a career in interior design, or even good old painting and decorating. Admittedly, it wasn’t likely to bring her fame and fortune beyond her wildest dreams, but it was decent, gainful employment and was even rumoured to bring with it a reasonably regular wage . . .
Katerina simply couldn’t imagine what it might have been like, growing up with a mother who didn’t sing. As far back as she was able to remember, Izzy had always been there, careering from one financial crisis to the next and at the same time eternally optimistic that the inevitable big break was just around the corner. When she was very small Katerina had perched on beer crates in dingy, smoke-filled pubs and working men’s clubs, sipping Coke and listening to her mother sing while all around her the audience got on with the serious business of getting Saturday-night drunk. Sometimes there would be appreciative applause, which was what Izzy lived for. At other times, a fight would break out among the customers and Izzy’s songs would be forgotten in the ensuing excitement. Periodically, the hecklers would turn out, either joining in with bawdy alternative lyrics or targeting Izzy directly and laughing inanely at their own imagined wit. Katerina’s eyes would fill with tears whenever this happened and the longing to land a seven-year-old punch on the noses of the perpetrators would be so great that she had to grip the sides of the crate upon which she sat in order to prevent herself from doing so. In her eyes, her mother was Joan of Arc, a heroine hounded by ignorant peasants. Afterwards, Izzy would laugh and say it didn’t matter because she’d earned £3.40, she would press the 40p into her daughter’s small hand and give her a hug. It didn’t matter, she would explain cheerfully, because everybody needed to start somewhere; that was a fact of life. And anyone who could survive an evening in a working men’s club on the outskirts of Blackpool was going to find Las Vegas a doddle in comparison.
At school the next day, Katerina’s teacher had found her poring over an atlas in search of that elusive town. In answer to the question, ‘What’s it like in Las Vegas?’ Miss Brent had replied with a disapproving sniff, ‘It’s a town where everybody gambles,’ and Katerina had been reassured. Lambs gambolled in fields. In her imagination, Las Vegas became one big, emerald-green field, with all its inhabitants skipping and bouncing and smiling at each other. ‘My mum’s going to take me to Las Vegas,’ she confided happily. ‘When we get there, I’m going to gamble every day.’
Las Vegas, needless to say, hadn’t happened. Izzy’s big break had stubbornly failed to materialise and life had continued its haphazard, impecunious course, although at least working men’s clubs were now a thing of the past. Platform One, where Izzy had worked for the past eighteen months, might not be Ronnie Scott’s, but it was situated in Soho and the clientele, on the whole, were appreciative. Here, in London, as Izzy always maintained, there was always that
chance
of a chance . . . one never knew who might walk through the door one night, hear her singing and realise that
she
was the one they needed to take the leading role in the show they were currently producing . . .
This didn’t happen, of course, but Izzy had never tired of the fantasy. Singing was her passion, what she was best at. She was doing what she
had
to do and Katerina didn’t begrudge her a single impoverished moment of it. Who, after all, could possibly begrudge a mother who would cheerfully splurge on a primrose-yellow mohair sweater for her daughter and survive on peanut-butter sandwiches for the next week in order to redress the precarious financial balance? And if her impulsive generosity never failed to alarm Mike, who was one of those people who got twitchy if their electricity bills weren’t paid by return of post, Katerina adored her mother’s blissful disregard for such mundane matters as financial security. If the bomb was dropped tomorrow she’d much rather have a deliciously soft, mohair sweater to keep her warm, than wander the rubble-strewn streets wondering how all this was going to affect her pension plan.
She was a third of the way through the Liquorice Allsorts and already on to the second page of her essay when the phone rang. It was two minutes past eight. Smiling to herself - for despite all his apparent sophistication Ralph could never bring himself to miss
Coronation Street
- Katerina picked up the receiver.