Bad Girls Good Women. Rosie Thomas
tough,’ he said at last. He didn’t try anything else and she loved him for that, for not flooding her with words.
Josh was watching her, under the light of the street lamp. The attempted sophistication of Leoni’s and the nightclub had dropped away from her. She wasn’t just another girl now. She was this girl, looking back at him with wide eyes that reflected the light. He cupped her face in his hands. Her neck and throat were fragile, and her skin was luminous. He kissed her, twisting her round against him, tasting the sweetness of her mouth and tongue. She held on to him, answering him, but Josh lifted his head again.
‘How old are you?’ he asked harshly.
‘Seventeen,’ Julia said, and then she whispered, ‘Almost.’ That was the truth. She wouldn’t lie to Josh.
‘Jesus.’ He turned her face again, so that he could see her more clearly. ‘That’s jail-bait.’
‘Josh. I’m older than you think.’
He remembered her in the restaurant. She had laid her claim on him then, as coolly as a woman twice her age. And she had danced with him, keeping nothing back. They had been making love, upright and fully clothed. Children didn’t dance like that. And he couldn’t relinquish her now. It was already too late.
‘Are you?’ he demanded roughly. ‘Are you?’
Julia only smiled. When he kissed her again he could feel the outline of her body under her thin clothes. She had long legs and narrow hips, and small, hard breasts. She felt hot, and her head tilted back under the weight of his.
‘Come on,’ Josh said. ‘Julia Smith, this is a public street.’ He was grinning but he wasn’t quite in control of himself, and he didn’t want Julia to see that. ‘Let’s walk on a way, or there’ll be real trouble.’
They went on under the street lights, walking very slowly, their hands still touching. Telling Josh about her mother had breached a dam inside Julia. The words poured out of her now, and she told him about home, and the High Street, and Blick Road, and about Mattie and the Embankment and ending up with Jessie and Felix in the square. They sounded such small doings compared with Josh’s but Julia didn’t care about that. It was important that he should know everything, that was all.
He listened gravely, nodding his blond head.
‘Now you know,’ she said at last.
‘Now I know.’
He was touched by her offering it all to him. It was very different, this walk in the deserted streets, from the conventional overture to the evening. Nor was this girl anything like one of the pair of pretty, giggling women he had ordered pink champagne for. Josh sighed. He touched Julia’s face with the tips of his fingers before he kissed her again.
‘It’s very late,’ he said.
‘I know.’ Time didn’t mean anything to Julia then.
Josh had been thinking. He had been staying with a girl, an ex-girlfriend, but even so he didn’t think that Carol would be happy to see him at three in the morning with Julia in tow. He knew that Julia shared a room with Mattie, back in their friend’s apartment. And it was far too late for a hotel, without any luggage.
‘I’d better take you home,’ he said gently.
Her hand tightened on his, but she only said, ‘It isn’t very far from here. I know the way.’ Julia smiled at him, and he saw the happiness in her face. ‘Tonight has been the most perfect evening I’ve ever had,’ she said simply.
Josh wanted to pick her up and hold her, and he knew that he was crazy, and that there was nothing to be done because it had happened now.
‘I kind of enjoyed it too,’ he said.
Outside the black-painted door in the square he held her again. Julia let her head fall against his shoulder, thinking, I don’t care what happens.
‘Can I see you again?’ Josh asked, and as soon as he had said it she knew how much she did care.
‘Oh, yes. Yes, please.’
Joshua couldn’t help smiling. ‘Give me your phone number then.’
‘There isn’t a telephone here.’
He looked up at the numerals on the shabby black door. ‘Okay. I know where you are.’ His hand touched her shoulder, lightly, like a friend’s. ‘So, I’ll be back.’
He walked away quickly, his hair a spot of brightness under the dark trees.
Julia let herself in and climbed the stairs. She couldn’t feel their dusty solidity under her feet. She was light, as if she could float, and the tight feeling inside her was all gone. It was a stream now, washing freely. She wanted to lie down in the warmth of it, with Josh, and let the current pour over them. Was that what love was? Julia was laughing. She could see Josh’s face so clearly. Your aviator, Mattie had said. The word was as beautiful as Josh himself. Julia tried the words aloud.
‘I love you,’ she said. ‘God help me, I love you.’
Julia waited for a week. Every evening she ran through the home-going crowds and into the square, certain that Josh would be there. But every evening at the top of the stairs there was only Jessie in her chair.
‘I know he’ll come,’ Julia said, with the light still in her face.
Jessie scowled. ‘What do you mean, you know? The only thing to know about men is that you can’t trust them. You listen to me.’
‘Josh is different,’ Julia said simply. It was unthinkable that he might not come. Another week went by.
Julia stopped talking about her aviator, but Mattie could see from the way that she sat with her head cocked that she was listening to the street noises below their window, willing the buzz of the doorbell to cut through their aimless conversation. Julia wouldn’t go out any more, however hard Mattie tried to persuade her. She sat on her bed, apparently absorbed in a book, but the pages either flicked over too quickly or else they didn’t turn at all.
‘Do you think he’ll come?’ Mattie whispered to Felix one night, but Felix only shrugged and turned away.
Mattie had her own preoccupations. After the party she had dialled the number on the card that Francis Willoughby had given her. She had imagined that such an important man would be shielded by secretaries, and she was faintly surprised when he answered the telephone himself.
‘Come and see me in my office,’ Mr Willoughby said.
‘Shaftesbury Avenue, of course. Address on the card I gave you. Top floor. Tuesday at three sharp.’
On the Tuesday afternoon Mattie told her shoe shop mangeress that she had a headache and would have to go home.
‘You can’t do that,’ the woman said. ‘What if we all went home on the slightest excuse?’ Mattie made her face sag, and swallowed very hard. ‘I feel sick. I might be sick near a customer. Or on some stock.’
‘Oh, go on then,’ the manageress said hastily.
Mattie caught a bus to Piccadilly Circus and began the walk up the enchanted curve of Shaftesbury Avenue. She didn’t see the dusty shop windows, or the advertisement hoardings, or the city-sharpened faces of the ordinary people passing her. She only saw the majestic fronts of the theatres and the names up in lights. She dawdled for a moment, staring greedily at the production stills in their glass cases. She had seen two or three of the plays, perched up in the cheapest seats, but with the talisman of Mr Willoughby’s card in her hand, Headline Repertory Companies, she felt closer to the stage than she had ever done in any audience.
It was further than she thought. She found the Victorian redbrick block housing the Headline