She breathed in through her nose and cleared her throat.
She smiled at the small group of women – and George – in front of her, nursing their Diet Cokes and their warm white wines. ‘Hi, everyone. Welcome to this month’s meeting of the Doris Day Film Club. First, an order of business before we get going with tonight’s film: we’ve had a suggestion … Instead of running film night once a month as usual, we’ll meet weekly and have a Doris Day Film festival over the summer: twelve weeks, taking us from now right through to the end of July. Would all those in favour please raise—’
She was cut off as someone gave the slightly temperamental door behind her a shove then barrelled into the room, almost sending her flying. The whole group turned to look at the newcomer. Their visitor, a young woman, stared back at them with undisguised terror.
‘Is this the Dor—’ Her gaze darted from face to face. She paled as she spotted the red lips and eyelashes of the vintage crew and started to back away. ‘Um … Never mind. I think I’m … um … in the wrong place.’
She attempted to reverse, but hadn’t counted on the fact she’d moved a little bit sideways as she’d fallen into the room and she ended up backing into the wall and hitting her head on a wall light, almost dislodging its tasselled orange shade.
‘No, you’re in the right place,’ Claire said softly. ‘This is the Doris Day Film Club.’ She indicated an empty chair next to Kitty, the nearest of the vintage girls. ‘Please join us.’
The girl remained frozen. Claire realised she was younger than she’d first thought, maybe only in her late teens. She wore a football shirt and shapeless jeans with battered trainers on her feet. There wasn’t a lick of make-up on her face and her thin dark hair was parted severely down the middle and hung lank down either side of her face.
‘We’d love to have you.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Claire, the president of the club, but that doesn’t mean much except I do the boring stuff and get custody of the library of films we watch each meeting.’
The girl looked at her hand as if it were a live cobra about to strike. Panicked, she glanced at the door, but Claire had stepped forward when she’d starting talking to her and was now blocking her escape route.
Eventually, the girl’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’m Abby,’ she said, so quietly that Claire hardly heard her above the noise of the drinkers who’d spilled out onto the street below the open windows, eager to escape the cloying heat of the pub’s dark interior.
Kitty straightened her spine and twisted to stare at Abby as she bypassed the empty seat next to her and scuttled round the back of the tables and chairs to find a spot in the corner tucked away behind Bev and Candy.
‘Hang on, I know you, don’t I?’ she said.
Abby didn’t answer, just dropped into the chair, hunched over and folded her arms tight.
Claire looked between the two of them. A couple of the others were scowling, thinking Abby a bit rude, but it hadn’t been disdain Claire had seen on Abby’s face. It had been fear. Strange, because Kitty was a friendly, open-hearted girl of twenty-three, whose passion for all things vintage was unrivalled, her only flaw a tendency to open her mouth and let whatever entered her head spill out of it.
Despite the snub, Kitty grinned at their new member. Abby, however, didn’t see it, as her eyes were fixed steadily on the beer mat on the table in front of her.
‘Abby Preston, that’s right. You used to go to St Joseph’s, same as me. My younger brother Gus was on the football team with you. He was always moaning that you got to play centre midfield instead of him. He was well miffed that you were the best on the team!’
Abby looked up. Her long straight hair had partially fallen over her face and she didn’t brush it out of the way. ‘Really?’
Kitty nodded. ‘Really.’
Abby looked down again at the table, but Claire noticed that she now wore the barest of smiles.
‘Well, it’s lovely to have you with us for the evening, Abby,’ Claire said, as she took her seat, ‘and don’t worry, if it’s not your cup of tea, you don’t have to come back next time.’
Much to everyone’s surprise, Abby shot to her feet again, sending her chair skittering backwards into the wall. ‘But that’s just it! I do have to come back next week!’
Claire gave a slightly nervous laugh. ‘No … honestly. We won’t make you stay!’
Abby shook her head. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about,’ she explained, with a wobble in her voice. ‘It’s my mum. She’s blackmailing me.’
‘Blackmailing?’ Claire repeated quietly.
Abby nodded, her jaw tight. ‘She says she gave birth to and raised a little girl and that she’s tired of me going around looking like a football hooligan and that it’s high time I learned to be a bit more ladylike.’
‘I see,’ Claire said slowly, not really sure she did.
‘My mum says exactly the opposite,’ Kitty said brightly. ‘She keeps asking when I’m going to stop showing her up by dressing up like a pantomime dame!’
There was a murmur of sympathetic laughter from around the room.
‘My mother was always going on about the fact my slip was showing,’ the old lady sitting next to Abby said. ‘She said I was the untidiest child she’d ever seen.’
Claire watched Abby take in Bev’s spotless pink blouse, the crease in her nylon trousers and her perfectly permed hair. Bev smiled back at her. ‘Mothers and daughters,’ she said. ‘Some things never change.’
Claire frowned. ‘The demanding parent thing I get, believe me. But what I don’t get is why it has anything to do with us … the Doris Day Film Club?’
Abby sighed. ‘She often pops in downstairs for a drink and she’s seen you all going through the pub looking …’ she broke off to glanced around the room ‘… well, looking like girls, and last week she came home with a flyer for your meetings and stuck it to the front of the fridge with a magnet. She says it’s this or a spa weekend.’ Abby paused for a moment to let a shudder ripple up her spine. ‘And since neither of us have got the money for one of those, here I am.’
Claire shook her head, but she was smiling at the same time. ‘I’m sure she’s not going to actually—’
‘Oh yes she is!’ Abby blurted out. ‘She’s hired the whole pub out for her fortieth birthday party in six weeks’ time, and she says she’s getting desperate. No way am I allowed to show her up in front of her friends.’
‘Stand up to her,’ Peggy said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘She can’t force you, can she?’
Abby looked quite fierce. ‘Actually, she can. She bought tickets to the Arsenal–Man United game for me when I was broke. I’m saving up to pay her back, but now she’s holding them hostage. If I don’t turn up at her party in a dress with …’ she didn’t elaborate, twirling of her fingers near her head ‘… hair and … m-make up, she says she’s going to flog them on eBay.’ And then she sat down on her chair with a thump, looking more miserable than ever.
Bev, who had six grandchildren and was always hoping for more to mother, leaned backwards and patted Abby’s hand in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she told her. ‘If there are two things this lot aren’t short of, it’s advice – whether you want it or not – and fashion sense.’
‘I’m not sure any amount of fashion advice is going to help me,’ Abby said mournfully, ‘but thank you.’
Bev nodded. ‘Don’t you