Anyone Who Had a Heart (17 page)

Her blouse parted to expose firm, glossy breasts with large areolae and nut-brown nipples. Despite his best intentions, his passion rose in his pants.

He tried clearing his throat. ‘Ella, love. I don’t want anything in return. Honest I don’t.’ Like hell! He wanted her like crazy!

She smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘Of course you do. All men want something in return for their money. But this is me wanting this, Tony. I want to feel that I have given you something in return for all that money – for the sake of my children if nothing else. It is a matter of pride. I do not want charity. I do not want anything from any man for free.’

He could smell the musky scent of her body. It came over him in a soft wave as she dropped her skirt and let her blouse and her underwear fall down on top of it.

She gleamed in the muted light coming in from
the
window. Her belly was taut. Her breasts were firm and her hips flared out from a narrow waist.

He wanted her. He desperately wanted her, but some segment of the scruples he’d once known stayed his hand and cooled his ardour.

‘I can’t do this,’ he said shaking his head and attempting once again to get to his feet.

‘I want you to,’ she murmured in a soft hush of a voice, her long fingers entwining at the nape of his neck, pulling his head towards her, his lips closer to one of her breasts.

‘You cannot do me any more harm than Joe has done me already.’

The fact that she was pregnant was not that noticeable just yet. Her belly was rounded but it was early days. She could still get away with it.

He thought of what his family would say if they found out. He thought about what his mates would say and tried not to smile. His mates would crow at his triumph. He’d had a black piece, though that in itself wasn’t that unusual nowadays. What was unusual was that this woman already had kids and precious little else.

Babs wouldn’t find out of course. She was miles away with the kids living in a council house on the Isle of Sheppey. Was he crazy or what? Quite probably. But he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to her. He was drawn to the prominent nipple with his eyes and his mouth.

The bed was occupied, so they did it on the floor. The carpet was thin and the lino was cold. Her body was warm.

Ella mewed like a cat during their coupling and purred like one once it was over, her buttocks sitting in the curve of his groin, his arm around her as he nuzzled her neck.

‘You were gentle,’ she said and sounded surprised. ‘And you waited for me.’

‘You could tell that?’

‘Yes. Not many men wait for a woman to be fulfilled.’

Now it was his turn to be surprised. He couldn’t recall ever waiting for a woman to climax before he did. Something must have happened to him. Her name was Ella.

He cleaned himself and kissed her on the lips, rearranged his clothes and checked his appearance in the cracked mirror of an ancient sideboard – the big Victorian sort that Scouts burned on bonfires on Guy Fawkes Night.

‘You look very smart,’ she said to him.

‘Thank you.’

Timing what he had to do, he’d decided to put on his whistle and flute so he could go straight from Ella’s to pick up Marcie.

He felt her eyes on him. ‘Are you going somewhere nice?’

He stood by the door, hand poised on the old-fashioned Victorian doorknob.

‘Out on the town.’

‘With a woman?’

He caught a hint of jealousy in her voice but nodded anyway. ‘Yes.’

He didn’t elaborate and neither did he linger. He was already late for picking up his eldest daughter. The car was parked against the kerb and had attracted attention from a gang of small kids intent on ripping off his wing mirrors.

They scattered on seeing him, regrouping around a lamppost where an impromptu swing hung from an overhead bracket. Funny, he thought, how kids all over the country congregated around swings hung from lampposts.

He smiled as he got into the car. Before driving off he ducked down so he could better see the front window of Ella’s ground-floor flat. He saw the thin muslin curtain pulled back a matter of inches. Her face was like a shadow surrounded by the darkness of the old-fashioned interior.

He raised a hand in farewell. She raised hers only briefly. The curtain fell back into place. She was gone.

‘BELLISSIMA!’

Gabrielle Camilleri’s luminous brown eyes seemed to fill with tears. ‘My Roberto has such good taste.’ Her ample bosom heaved with pride. ‘And, of course, he is so excitingly handsome. Did you not think so?’

Marcie found the flattery a little overblown, but Mrs Camilleri had been kind to her.

‘He’s very good-looking,’ said Marcie. ‘He takes after you I think?’

Blushing like a girl, Mrs Camilleri clasped her hands together, her face full of adoration for her one and only son.

‘Roberto is my pride and joy. Whoever he marries will be his princess.’

She looked tellingly at Marcie, who for her part had been impressed by Roberto’s way-out appearance. Roberto was indeed the stuff of legends, but she couldn’t help holding back. Johnnie was dead but the thought of going out with anyone else didn’t seem right. She had to counter what Gabriella was hinting at.

‘I also met Michael,’ said Marcie.

The moment the words were out of her mouth,
she
realised she’d said the wrong thing. Mrs Camilleri’s expression soured at mention of Victor’s illegitimate son.

‘He is not like Roberto. Not like him in any way at all,’ she pronounced.

The bitterness was obvious. Marcie said goodbye and left.

Tony Brooks was knocked sideways when he first set eyes on his eldest daughter coming out of the apartment block where his boss lived. There were two reasons for this. Number one was she looked absolutely stunning. Number two she reminded him so much of her mother.

‘You look a right bloody knockout,’ he managed to say. ‘Like a bleeding film star. You’re better looking than Marilyn Monroe any day of the week.’

‘I would do. She’s dead and you’re late.’

‘Sorry, love. Got caught up in some business and then in the traffic.’

The car was black and shiny, though had acquired a dent on one wing. Her father wasn’t that brilliant a driver. Perhaps it was because he’d never passed a driving test.

‘You’re supposed to pass a driving test,’ she’d once said to him.

‘Not me, darling. I can drive and nobody can stop me.’

‘The police might.’

‘Nah! Not at my age. I look too distinguished.’

He was kidding himself about looking distinguished, she thought, but he was incorrigible and had never quite grown up; he just didn’t think the law of the land applied to him.

Marcie shook her head. ‘Is it far?’

‘Nah! Be there in a jiffy.’

She took that with a pinch of salt. The older she got the more convinced she was becoming that men were unreliable – except for Johnnie of course. One thing she would always believe was that Johnnie would always be the great love of her life. No one would ever replace him, of that she was certain.

‘So you’re liking your job?’ said her father while squeezing the car between a bus and a taxi coming in the other direction.

The taxi blew its horn. The people on the bus bounced as the driver slammed on the brakes.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to dwell on other things. Yes, she liked her job but her heart was heavy. Joanna was miles away. She was missing her.

The wages at Daisy Chain weren’t bad, but they were not enough to bring up a child. She had to do something that would bring in more money.

‘Just you wait till we get to the club,’ said her father. ‘All the young studs there will be after you,
so
just you stick with yer old dad. No matter what they ask, say no.’

She laughed at that. ‘I’m old enough to take care of myself, Dad.’

‘Course you are, but stick with me anyway. Right?’

‘I met Roberto Camilleri today. He came into the shop.’

‘Did he now?’

‘You didn’t say that the Camilleris would be there too at this club.’

‘Who told you that?’ he said, looking straight at her while aiming the car at the road ahead.

‘Dad! Keep your eyes on the road.’

He turned his attention back to the road just in time to brake at a zebra crossing. Two young studs in leather jackets gave him two-fingered salutes and shouted abuse.

He wound down the window.

‘Wanna make something of it, you …’

‘Dad! Let it be. Think of your driving licence,’ she added cheekily.

He blinked at her. ‘Oh, yeah.’

Marcie took a deep breath and watched the people thronging along the pavement. It was Friday night. People milled in and out of pubs. London had a buzz that the place she’d grown up in could never match. She couldn’t help feeling both excited and apprehensive about this evening. Roberto had made an
impression
on her and much as she tried to push him out of her mind, his charm and flamboyant appearance wouldn’t go away.

‘He’s a bit of a lad, young Roberto. Watch yerself. I wouldn’t want him breaking my little girl’s heart.’

She fancied that he might have chuckled if it hadn’t been for her. Men admired the stud in the pack, didn’t they?

‘No one can ever break my heart again.’ Her jaw ached when she said it. Johnnie’s death had broken her heart. Sometimes he never seemed that far away. She wondered if she would ever see him in the same way that her grandmother saw her grandfather.

‘You still think of that lad – Joanna’s father?’

Amazing! Her father had hit the nail on the head.

‘How did you know I was thinking of Johnnie?’ She eyed the mane of dark hair that showed little sign of grey.

Her father smiled and tipped her the wink. ‘You get that same funny look in your eyes that your gran gets when she’s in tune with me dad.’

‘P’raps I’m doing more than thinking of him. P’raps I’m seeing him – just like Gran sees granddad.’

‘Very likely, my girl. It runs in the family. My mother’s mother was also that way inclined, if you know what I mean. Back in Malta that was. She’s no longer with us, of course. She’s crossed over as your gran would say. Had a bomb drop on her during the
war
. They got a lot of bombing out there. They was out there at the time you know – your gran and your grandfather. Me too, though I don’t remember much about it. But your gran went through a lot. You want to ask her sometime.’

‘It’s a wonder Gran and Great-gran didn’t get burnt as witches, what with the Catholic Church and all that.’

Her father laughed. ‘Too bloody true! I can just imagine my old mother flying through the air on a bleedin’ broomstick!’

The city lights flashed past on both sides of them. Every so often Marcie felt little glances of pride come her way as though he couldn’t quite believe that this beauty sitting by his side was really his daughter.

She caught him looking. ‘Keep your eyes on the road.’

‘I’m a good driver!’ he exclaimed. ‘So how do you like Victor and his family?’

It was just like him to change the subject. Marcie remembered having a headache and what Victor had said to her. ‘He’s different.’

Her father laughed. ‘He’s bloody mental! That’s what he is.’

She didn’t know what he meant. ‘He’s Sicilian,’ she countered.

Her father laughed even harder, throwing his head back so the veins stood out like twigs in his neck. ‘That too! Too right he’s bloody that!’

Her comments seemed to amuse him a lot, though she couldn’t fathom why. Obviously something about them had tickled his funny bone. Done with talking of the past, she changed the subject.

‘Where is this place we’re going?’

‘Cleopatra’s Bath Tub.’

‘What?’ Marcie giggled at the name. ‘Why is it called that?’

Her father shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think the boss just liked the name.’

‘The boss?’

‘Victor Camilleri. He owns it. He owns a few others as well, though some of them are not quite so upmarket as this little lot. This is where the real glitz and glamour is, Marcie. You just wait till you see it in here.’

The building housing Cleopatra’s Bath Tub turned out to be something of a disappointment. Books not being judged by their covers came to Marcie’s mind as she looked up at the plain brick façade. There was a sign saying Cleopatra’s Bath Tub Club above a plain green door. The door was narrow and had a small aperture at head height. When her father knocked, the aperture opened. Whoever was behind the door took one look, saw who it was and opened the door for them.

‘Good evening, Mr Brooks.’

The man behind the door had the chubby face of a child and the body of an all-in wrestler.

‘Arthur! How the devil are you, my man?’ The two men shook hands.

‘Fine and dandy, Mr Brooks. Fine and dandy.’

A ten shilling note passed from her father’s big hand into the meatier shovel of the doorman.

‘You’re a gentleman, Mr Brooks.’

‘Call me Tony,’ said her father, squeezing the doorman’s elbow in a friendly manner. ‘All my mates call me Tony.’

Cleopatra’s Bath Tub Club was dark and smoky. Egyptian-style tomb tableaux decorated most of the walls and the waitresses were dressed in white tunics with gold belts, fake gold necklaces and Egyptian-style multicoloured headbands. Some of the girls smiled sweetly at her father, reserving less welcoming looks for the statuesque blonde who had come in with him.

‘My daughter,’ he said to one of them.

‘Yeah,’ said the gum-chewing waitress. ‘They all say that.’

Something in Marcie Brooks snapped. She’d had enough of being labelled a tart because she had a kid, so she wasn’t taking this. The girl flinched when she grabbed her wrist.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she whined.

‘Yes, and I’ll hurt you some more,’ said Marcie squeezing the girl’s wrist a little more tightly. ‘He’s telling the truth. He is my dad,’ said Marcie. ‘I’m
unique
in that I know who my dad is but not my mother.’

The words were out before she could stop them.

‘Leave it out, Marcie.’ Tony seemed embarrassed.