Silk Queen Page 2

  It was entirely possible. Mr Boorman only had one eye.

  As riveting as the conversation was, I wanted to get out of there. Asking permission to leave was pointless, so I didn’t. While Mam was occupied, I slipped out the door.

  Nellie Black was not to be underestimated. If she’d wanted to chase me down and drag me back by the hair, she would’ve. Andrew knew it too, which is why he grabbed my hand and took off running down the road.

  “Run, Fi!” he ordered. I could barely breathe for laughing. “If she catches us, there’s no telling what she’ll do.”

  If Mam did give chase, she wasn’t quick enough. The beaten up white Cortina with the red stripe along the side was parked around the corner, idling at the ready. We jumped in and Andrew floored it, and in a plume of choking white smoke, we took off down the road.

  “Where to, lass?” he asked.

  I ducked my head, looking up through the cracked windscreen at the bright sky above. It was a glorious day, and I could think of no better way to spend it than in the sunshine with my fiancé.

  The park is where we ended up – not too far from home, but far enough away to feel like we’d truly escaped. We ran through the gates as if there was still a chance that Mam was chasing us, bolting across the lawn until our breath ran out. I finally tumbled onto the grass in a heap and Andrew flopped down beside me.

  Keeping my focus on the sky above, I reached for his hand. “Why aren’t you at work today?” I asked.

  I didn’t need to look at him to know he was smiling. I could hear it in his voice. “I’m dead poorly,” he claimed. “Too hungover to cart bricks.”

  Andrew wasn’t the most conscientious apprentice that ever lived. In fact, he skived work more often than he turned up. The reason why he was never sacked was simple – he worked for his uncle Ed, who was just as slack as him.

  “We’re supposed to be saving for Blackpool,” I grumbled. “Lazy git.”

  There’s a fine line between procrastinating and being bone-idle. I was wound far too tightly to tolerate either – and it didn’t seem to bother Andrew in the slightest.

  “I have something for you.” He reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a crisp ten-pound note and tucked it down the front of my top. “Put it away for a rainy Blackpool day.”

  As far as romantic gestures go, it was as grand as Andrew’s get. I was thrilled – so thrilled that I threw myself on top of him.

  His arms slipped around me. “I’ll always do the best I can for you, Fi,” he quietly promised.

  I dropped my head and softly kissed him. “I know,” I murmured.

  Over time, I’d come to realise that no matter how hard I wished for it, life wasn’t going to imitate the pages of my romance novels.

  Andrew wasn’t perfect, but he made me happy and that was enough. When the need for perfection hit me, I’d always have my books.

  Mam usually puts my tea in the oven if I’m out late. She’s mad so she didn’t do that tonight. I don’t care. I made a bacon butty.

  I wonder if the royals eat bacon? I’m sure the queen does, and if she doesn’t I’ll bet the corgis do.

  Bingo with the girls tomorrow night. Hope Gill behaves. Mr Taylor said if he has to speak to her one more time, she’s banned.

  Book of the week: My Darling Lover

  Honeymoon fund: £78.20

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday night bingo with the girls was usually a fun night out. A hundred people crammed into the town hall at 7PM sharp to see Betty Shepherd draw numbered ping-pong balls out of a wire barrel.

  Despite the fact that she already had a voice like a foghorn, Mr Taylor, the bingo boss, came up with the bright idea of arming her with a microphone. When amplified, Mrs Shepherd could probably be heard in Liverpool.

  Bingo was serious business. Giggling or talking while the numbers were being drawn was enough to get you lynched, and we were the worst offenders.

  Charlene never broke bingo rules. If anything, she enforced them. We’d only been seated a few minutes when she started laying down the law.

  “Just be quiet and play.” She pointed her lucky pink bingo dabber pen at Gill. “If you can’t keep up, I’ll help you.”

  “Shut up, yer mad cow,” snapped Gill. “I can count.”

  Math skills weren’t the issue. Bad behaviour was. Gill was notoriously disruptive and too easily riled, but she wasn’t totally out of control. Getting kicked out tonight wasn’t an option. There was a hundred quid main prize up for grabs and Gill wanted to win it as much as everybody else in the room.

  None of us even came close to winning that night, but we had a good laugh. It was impossible not to giggle when Mrs Shepherd called out “Dirty Gertie, number thirty.” And when the old lady sitting next to Charlene jumped out of her wheelchair to shout bingo and claim her prize, we completely lost the plot.

  “Nice one, missus,” praised Gill.

  Mr Taylor approached and handed the lady her prize money. “Congratulations, love,” he said. “It’s good to see a regular have a win.”

  “We’re here every week too,” Gill interjected. “When are we going to have a win?”

  Mr Taylor pointed his finger at her. “Behave yourself,” he warned.

  Unwilling to give him reason to follow through with his weekly threat of banning her, she didn’t answer back. In fact, Gill didn’t say much for a while. We were half way to the bus stop before she spoke again. “What would you do with a hundred quid?”

  Charlene had obviously put some thought into it. “I’d go on tour with Duran Duran,” she answered in a flash.

  I wasn’t sure why she needed a hundred pounds to do it, but I was impressed by her answer.

  Gill wasn’t buying it for a second. “What for?” she asked. “You wouldn’t know what to do with Simon Le Bon.”

  Even Charlene’s wicked giggle was demure. “I’d figure it out eventually.”

  The pointless conversation continued all the way to the bus stop. Gill revealed that she’d bet it all on the horses. “Double or nothing,” she exclaimed.

  “Wouldn’t you be worried about losing it?” asked Charl.

  “Had nowt to begin with, right?” Gill shrugged. “You’ve got to take a chance in life some time.”

  “I’ll remember that next time Simon Le Bon rings me,” replied Charlene displaying smart-arse wit that I didn’t know she had.

  Still laughing, Gill turned to me. “And what about you, princess? What would you do with it?”

  I didn’t get a chance to answer her. The bus pulled up and we staggered aboard like a group of giggly drunks, which was ironic considering we hadn’t had a drop all night. The bus was nearly empty and spirits were high, but all that changed the second we caught sight of the girl sprawled out along the back seat smoking a cigarette. I’d never liked Sharon Smedley. When we were kids, she was a vicious little brute who liked to pull hair and kick people. Now we were grown, not much had changed.

  Sharon cut a menacing form. Her black tracksuit was practically her uniform, and the harsh look was topped off with rows of silver hoop earrings and a fierce mono-brow.

  Keeping a safe distance wasn’t going to save us. The only thing she enjoyed more than her filthy Benson & Hedges addiction was her even filthier habit of winding Gill up. Sharon sat up, giving us her full attention. “Big night out at bingo?” she taunted.

  We knew that bingo wasn’t a hip pastime for twenty-year-old women. That’s why we loved it so much.

  “Ignore her,” murmured Charlene.

  That wasn’t going to happen. Gill turned around. “Big night out on the bus, Sharon?” she fired back.

  The dirty cow stubbed her smoke out on the floor. “I’ve been for a night out in Stretford,” she explained, directing her comment at me. “Mandy was there,” she added with a sly grin.

  Mandy Brewer was even dirtier than Sharon. She had a penchant for off the shoulder crop tops and liked to tease her blonde hair to within an inch of its life. She also had
a fondness for other people’s boyfriends, which is why the next words out of Sharon’s mouth made me feel ill.

  “Andrew was there too, Fiona,” she said. “Getting dead close with Mandy over a pint.”

  Ever protective, Gill jumped out of her seat, probably with the intent of collaring her. I wasn’t going to let it get that far. Sharon was beastly, and Gill didn’t stand a chance. “Stop it,” I demanded, pulling her back down beside me. “She’s just trying to wind us up.”

  The bus crawled to a stop and Sharon rose to her feet. “You might want to ask him what he’s been up to.” She squeezed down the narrow aisle to get to the door. “Andy’s been a bad, bad lad,” she gibed.

  “Are you getting off or not?” called the driver.

  Sharon stepped off the bus and continued her taunts from the footpath. “Mandy and Andy sitting in a tree,” she sang. “K-I-S-I-N-G.”

  In the biggest surprise of the night, Charlene slid her window open. As the bus pulled away, she hurled a parting shot at Sharon. “You spelt it wrong, dozy bitch!”

  Andrew’s been to Stretford twice this week and I want to know why.

  Tomorrow I’m going to ask him.

  Mandy Brewer is a slapper.

  Finished reading ‘My Darling Lover’.

  The ending was stupid.

  Book of the week: A Recipe For Romance

  Honeymoon fund: £76.00

  Chapter Six

  Andrew lives with his father, Dennis, in a flat above the local chippy. For that reason alone, I hate visiting. The whole place stinks of cooking oil, and it’s at its worst in summer, but nothing was going to deter me from going there today. After our run in with Sharon, I wanted answers.

  Andrew met me at the door, quickly greeting me with a kiss. “Alright, lass?”

  I wasn’t sure, but I answered with a smile. “Yeah, I just want to talk to you about something.”

  He nudged me out of the way and closed the door. “Not more wedding talk, Fi.” He groaned. “You know I don’t care about that stuff.”

  “How about Mandy Brewer?” I asked. “Do you care about her?”

  The flash of panic that glinted in his blue eyes was brief, but I saw it. “No,” he replied, outraged. “Why would I?”

  “I saw Sharon on the bus last night,” I said flatly. “She told me you were hanging out with Mandy in Stretford.”

  Andrew took a step closer, cautiously weaving his arm around my waist. “Trevor has the hots for her,” he quietly explained. “I was just there as his wingman.” He kissed my cheek. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  More than anything in the world, I wanted to. But doubt was gnawing at me so I dodged the question. “I don’t want you anywhere near her, Andrew,” I demanded. “She’s no good.”

  “Alright,” he agreed. “I’ll steer clear of her.”

  I could feel the tension spreading across my chest, but Andrew was his usual unaffected self. As much as I wanted to continue laying down the law, the conversation was over because he’d left me with nowhere to go.

  “I’ll make you a brew,” he offered. “And then I want to show you something special.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for tea, but coming from Andrew, the gesture was too grand to refuse. “Thank you.” I smoothed down the back of my skirt and sat down on the settee. “What do you want to show me?”

  Already in the kitchen, he called out to me. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  I knew better than to get my hopes up, and I was right to keep my excitement in check. Andrew’s idea of something special was anything but. When he returned to the room, he handed me a cup of tea and pointed to a black box on the floor near the TV stand.

  “It’s an Atari game station,” he explained. “We can play arcade games at home now.” The excitement in his voice was unfathomable. “It’s dead technical. I’ve wanted one for ages.”

  “Where did you get it from?” I asked.

  “Trevor knows a bloke,” he said vaguely. “He hangs out at the Gloucester Arms. He got me a good deal.”

  I set my tea down on the coffee table. “Bloody Trevor,” I grumbled.

  Andrew flopped down beside me. “Don’t be like that, lass,” he said, patting my knee. “It was a steal at eighty quid.”

  “Eighty flippin’ quid?” The words came out in an angry squeak. “We’re supposed to be saving our money!”

  Andrew took my hand, probably to lessen the risk of me beating him to a pulp. “That doesn’t mean we can’t treat ourselves occasionally, Fiona,” he said. “While we still can.”

  I snatched my hand free. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, once we’re married it’s all over, right?” he asked. “We’ll have to start saving for a house of our own, and then kids will come along. There won’t be money for treats.”

  The picture he painted was bleak, and by the sound of it, he was already mourning the loss of his freedom and youth.

  “Are you sure you want to marry me?” My eyes narrowed, perhaps bracing for a painful answer. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  That was a lie. Every last detail of the wedding had been finalised. Backing out now would break my heart and embarrass both of our families beyond measure.

  Andrew dropped to his knees in front of me, taking both of my hands in his. “We’re going to get married, Fi,” he insisted. “And it’s going to be a grand wedding, just like you want.”

  “It’s not just about the wedding,” I told him. “You have to think long term. We’re going to be married for the rest of our lives. You understand that, don’t you?”

  He smiled impishly, a grin that made adult conversation practically impossible. “It’s going to be ace.”

  The juvenile response summed up Andrew Pidgeon to a T. As much as I tried to convince myself that he was a grown man who was ready for the commitment we were about to jump headlong into; he was a lad and probably always would be.

  Andrew hardly spoke to me all night. Hopefully the novelty of playing arcade games on the TV wears off soon. If not, he’s going to end up with square eyes.

  I wonder if Prince Charles has an Atari.

  Probably not.

  I’m sure he’s much too sensible to fork out £80 on a passing fad.

  I spent the night reading an old copy of Women’s Own that I found stuffed between the sofa cushions and then walked home. Two cats followed me. I’m sure it’s because I smelt like fish and chips.

  Book of the week: A Recipe for Romance

  Honeymoon Fund: £76.00

  Chapter Seven

  Every now and then I stumble across a book that does my head in. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else, and it drives my mother spare.

  “Put the blasted book down and do something productive,” she scolded.

  I lowered my book and took a long look around the busy shop floor. Reality wasn’t looking too special at that point. Two ladies were quibbling over the last set of daisy print sheets in stock and Mrs Wimbush was sizing up crocheting needles while her longsuffering husband waited outside.

  Hanging out inside the pages of A Recipe for Romance seemed like a much better idea. I was completely taken by the story of a tall, dark and handsome restaurateur from New York. When the girl of his dreams walked in off the street and fell in love with his food, he fell in love with her. It was instant, crushing and left him feeling euphoric and incapable of lucid thoughts.

  Those were his words, not mine. The only time I ever felt that was after a skinful of Green Totty cider.

  “Do you think men like this really exist, Mam?” I waved the book at her.

  “Men like what?” she asked, dumping a bolt of red seersucker down on the counter.

  I lifted the dog-eared corner of the page and read out loud. “When he glanced at her and smiled, a magical waterfall of sensations flooded her heart with invigorating delight.”

  My mother chuckled heartily. “Sounds like a medical condition,” she teased. “She should s
ee a doctor.”

  “Be serious,” I whined. “That kind of love must be real if people write about it.”

  “Total fiction, my girl,” she said sternly. “And if it was real, it’s not likely to be found in downtown Denton.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed with a heavy sigh.

  Mam grabbed the end of the roll of fabric and spread it across the counter. “You have Andrew,” she reminded me. “He’s all you’ll ever need – a hardworking man who’s good to you.”

  After measuring the fabric, she instructed me to cut it. “Just once, Mam,” I muttered, slicing the razor sharp scissors through the fabric. “I just want to know what it feels like.”

  She tapped the side of her temple. “Get your head out of the clouds and be thankful for what you have.”

  I had plenty to be thankful for, and later that afternoon, I was most thankful for my ace bartering skills. In exchange for babysitting Becky Cox’s ratbag kids four Saturdays in a row, she agreed to style my hair.

  Finally, the day had come. Charlene agreed to come with me for moral support. No one doubted Becky’s hairdressing skills, but she was pushy and rarely followed her customer’s instructions. When Gill last visited her salon, she had grand ideas of a gorgeous Princess Di bob. Unfortunately, Becky didn’t share her vision. After chopping, teasing and dyeing her hair to death, poor Gill was left looking more like Rod Stewart after a hard night on the town.

  Months later, she was still threatening to firebomb the salon so Charlene and I were going it alone.

  There are heaps of salons in Denton, but none as classy as Becky’s. It had a faux marble linoleum floor, macramé plant holders hanging from the ceiling, and bright vanity lighting around the mirrors. Even Charlene was impressed.

  “This is a bit flash, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Becky was a bit flash too. Her pinstriped denim jumpsuit was straight out of the pages of a fashion mag. She wheeled her plastic cart of tools and brushes over to the mirrors and told us to take a seat.