Unlike the other men, Rick didn’t seem to notice me much, although I tried to catch his eye. In the canteen I would give him a little smile if he glanced my way. And if we happened to pass in the corridor I’d say ‘Hello!’ brightly, but not slow down at all, as though I was far too busy to stand and chat. I made sure to emphasise that little sway to my hips that I knew men liked. All of this had worked a treat before, but all I got from Rick was an amused stare or a quizzical look. It was as if he could see straight through my little ploys and was laughing at me. Mary said not to bother about him, that he was rumoured to be having an affair with a married woman, that he was a ‘bit of a one’. I wasn’t sure I believed this, but it only made me more determined.
Things went on like this for some weeks until finally I had to accept that he just wasn’t interested in a sixteen-year-old girl. I’d been asked out by someone else, someone more my own age. I was thinking about it, and had stopped trying to get Rick to notice me. Two days later, as I was coming out of the ladies’, I saw him loitering by the window, looking out at a sudden flurry of snow. It was late February. He turned as he heard the door.
‘Looks cold out there,’ he said, tilting his head towards the window. I said yes, it did. ‘So… I think maybe you’d like to go for a drink sometime?’ he went on, with such casual cheek it took my breath away. I just stared at him, feeling my face grow hot. He grinned. ‘It hasn’t gone unnoticed, you see. Your interest. Only I was waiting.’
I blinked, thinking maybe this was how they behaved in London; this was how you did it when you had ‘experience’.
‘Waiting for what?’
‘Until I was free, of course. I don’t like two-timing.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Better be getting back. What do you think then? Tomorrow at eight? I’ll meet you outside Boots in town.’
I was used to being called for, so that my dad could give them the once over. And I wasn’t used to it being assumed I’d say yes.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll meet you tomorrow.’
I didn’t tell my parents, partly because of him not coming to the house, partly because I didn’t want to contaminate the nervous, fizzing excitement inside me with their inevitable questions. As far as they were concerned I was meeting a girlfriend and going to the cinema.
He was there at Boots before me and took me to the Fox and Hounds. I didn’t tell him I’d never been in a pub without my parents, and I wondered if he thought I was older than I was. I was so nervous I could hardly speak, hardly think what to say. Luckily he talked enough for both of us so I just sat and listened until a couple of Cherry Bs had loosened my tongue. But as the evening went on my heart began to sink when I realised what a gulf there was between us. Every topic of conversation seemed to show me up as naïve and ignorant. Like music. He was into jazz and blues and Bob Dylan, and thought the Beatles were a one-hit wonder. And films. I said I liked watching all the old black-and-whites on TV, and he looked scornful. ‘My all-time favourite’s Rebel Without a Cause,’ he said, and then that James Dean was his hero. I didn’t tell him I’d barely heard of the film, or James Dean.
Eventually we got on to our families, and the gulf widened until it yawned beneath my feet. His father was in property, he said. My face must have shown that I didn’t know what being ‘in property’ meant exactly, and Rick explained that his father bought, sold and rented houses.
‘He used to work in my grandfather’s business, in the East End,’ he said, ‘trading cloth. But the war saw off the business, my granddad retired on the proceeds of selling the building, and my old man turned to property.’
When his father had made ‘quite a bit of money’ they’d moved out of London to Harborough. I recognised the name of the road where they lived; there were some big houses down there by the park.
‘Why don’t you just work for your dad?’ I asked him. ‘Couldn’t he give you a job, if he makes so much money?’
Rick shrugged. ‘I will one day. He said I should do something else first. Another string to my bow, as he calls it.’
Rick asked me about my family, and miserably I told him that both my parents worked in a shoe factory, my father as a supervisor and my mother as a stitcher on the line. He didn’t say much to that, but I saw him reassessing what little he knew about me.
When Rick walked me home I stopped at the end of our street and said, ‘Well, here we are, this is where I live.’ I pointed to somewhere halfway along the terrace, deliberately vague. But then, feeling guilty about fobbing him off, I said, ‘Do you want to come in for a coffee, or anything?’ He grinned, and I regretted that ‘or anything’. Then regretted asking him at all, wondering how I’d explain it away.
‘Dad will give you the third degree, though,’ I added. ‘And my little brother will hang around and be annoying.’
‘Now that sounds inviting.’ He pulled his collar up a little higher and blew on his hands, then shoved them into his pockets. ‘I’ll see you at work then. Okay?’
‘Yes, sure,’ I said, and he turned and walked away, round the corner and gone. I was stunned. Given his reputation I’d imagined myself having to politely remove groping hands. Was that it? Not even a peck on the cheek? Had I not passed the test?
In bed, later, I thought back over the evening, convincing myself that everything I’d told him would have put him off. I felt stupid, like I’d somehow been found out, found wanting. And I was disappointed; it sat in my stomach like a bowlful of my mother’s porridge, because even though I could see he was a bit full of himself I liked him. He made me laugh.
Two days passed without another word from him, barely an acknowledgement when I saw him at work. On the third day, we happened to pass in the corridor above where the draughtsmen worked. When he saw me coming he stopped and leant back on the wall, his eyes looking me up and down. I got ready to give him a quick nod and carry on, but he put one hand up to stop me.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asked.
Tomorrow was Friday, and I was doing nothing. I looked down at the drawing room and saw two of the men staring up at Rick and me. One leant over to the other and said something that the other one laughed at. I ignored them and turned back to Rick. ‘I’m seeing a friend,’ I said. And then added, ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, don’t see her, see me instead. I’ll take you to a nice Italian restaurant I know.’
Italian? That was one up on the fish and chips I usually get offered. ‘What, you don’t talk to me for two days and then you want to take me out?’
Well, those were the words in my head, but what I actually said was, ‘All right then. Why not?’
Eva
1987
The next morning, I get up late, around eleven.
I’ve been lying in bed thinking about Ed. This is something new to me, as I don’t think I’ve ever found my attention so absorbed by anyone I’ve been out with. Sometimes I’ve wondered if anyone ever would get my attention.
Contrary to what my mother thinks, I have had boyfriends – all part of the same group of friends, boys I’ve known for ages. Mostly it was just a few dates, although Robin Phipps lasted for five months on and off; I lost my virginity to him. It was at a party, on a pile of coats in the bedroom, a deliberate decision on my part to seduce him – out of curiosity and the desire to be able to join in conversations with girlfriends. Then a few times we had sex at his house when