Kitabı oku: «The Doris Day Vintage Film Club»

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Chapter One: Nobody’s Sweetheart

Chapter Two: Just One Girl

Chapter Three: Never Look Back

Chapter Four: I Can Do Without You

Chapter Five: Anything You Can Do

Chapter Six: Ain’t We Got Fun?

Chapter Seven: There’s Good Blues Tonight

Chapter Eight: Teacher’s Pet

Chapter Nine: By the Light of the Silvery Moon

Chapter Ten: Ready, Willing and Able

Chapter Eleven: Send Me No Flowers

Chapter Twelve: I’ll See You In My Dreams

Chapter Thirteen: A Wonderful Guy

Chapter Fourteen: That Touch of Mink

Chapter Fifteen: Three at a Table for Two

Chapter Sixteen: There Once Was a Man

Chapter Seventeen: Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

Chapter Eighteen: A Woman’s Touch

Chapter Nineteen: You’re Getting to Be a Habit With Me

Chapter Twenty: Everybody Loves a Lover

Chapter Twenty-One: Let’s Take an Old-Fashioned Walk

Chapter Twenty-Two: I’m Beginning to See the Light

Chapter Twenty-Three: Young At Heart

Chapter Twenty-Four: I Got It Bad (and That Ain’t Good)

Chapter Twenty-Five: Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

Chapter Twenty-Six: Julie

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Cuddle Up a Little Closer

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Won’t You Dance With Me, Papa?

Chapter Twenty-Nine: What Does A Woman Do?

Chapter Thirty: Between Friends

Chapter Thirty-One: The Party’s Over

Chapter Thirty-Two: It’s Better to Conceal Than Reveal

Chapter Thirty-Three: I Love the Way You Say Goodnight

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Thrill of It All

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Man Who Knew Too Much

Chapter Thirty-Six: I’m Not At All In Love

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Love Me or Leave Me

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Quiet Night of Quiet Stars

Chapter Thirty-Nine: You Should Have Told Me

Chapter Forty: Do Not Disturb

Chapter Forty-One: I Didn’t Slip, I Wasn’t Pushed, I Fell

Chapter Forty-Two: I’ve Only Myself to Blame

Chapter Forty-Three: Foolishly Yours

Chapter Forty-Four: My Kinda Love

Chapter Forty-Five: The Game of Broken Hearts

Chapter Forty-Six: (Now and Then There’s) A Fool Such As I

Chapter Forty-Seven: Softly, As I Leave You

Chapter Forty-Eight: It’s Magic

Chapter Forty-Nine: Sentimental Journey

Chapter Fifty: I Don’t Want to Be Kissed By Anyone But You

Chapter Fifty-One: Hooray for Hollywood

Chapter Fifty-Two: He’ll Have to Cross the Atlantic

Chapter Fifty-Three: Que Sera, Sera

Endpages

Copyright

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to thank everyone at Mills & Boon, especially Anna Baggaley, my very patient editor, and the lovely Victoria Oundjian, especially as it took quite some time to help this author see the wood of this book through the trees of her wayward imagination. I also want to say a huge thank you to all of M&B’s marketing and promotion team, for their enthusiasm and hard work from day one.

Big thanks to my amazing agent Lizzy Kremer and also to Harriet Moore at David Higham Associates, for her calm encouragement in the midst of a deadline panic and her insightful suggestions.

My family definitely deserve my gratitude, especially my husband, Andy, who patiently listens to me warble on about difficult plot matters so I can get things straight in my head, even though he hardly ever knows who these people I’m talking about are, and to my lovely daughters, Sian and Rose, who cheer me on all the way, and who didn’t moan (much) when I hogged the TV for months, watching every film of Doris’s I could get my hands on.

Thanks to all my Facebook friends who helped me with football-related stuff. Sorry, those scenes ended up on the cutting room floor, but at least you have educated this football dunce a little.

Lastly, and most importantly, I want to thank Doris Day, for her captivating and charismatic performances that have charmed generations and continue to bring us joy and happiness, but also for her strength of character and resilience. The true story of the woman behind the Hollywood icon was the inspiration for this book.

Chapter One
Nobody’s Sweetheart

When Claire Bixby was nine, she decided that one day she’d like to live in Hollywood, because she wanted to be in movies. Not that she wanted to be an actress. Far from it. No, Claire wanted to actually be in the movies, to live there, a place where the sun always shone, everything was Technicolor bright and families lived happily ever after together. There would be no more shouting, no more crying. No hearing the front door slam, one parent leaving never to return – even if she’d discovered she could breathe out more easily after he’d left.

However, as all little girls do, Claire grew up, and she came to understand that nothing was what it seemed in Hollywood. The houses weren’t real. The outsides were just false fronts and the insides built on a sound stage, made up of plywood flats that could be wheeled around depending on where the camera needed to go. And while the sun might shine pretty regularly in California, she suspected that once the actors took off their make-up, they probably went home and shouted at the dog, or discovered their wife was cheating on them with her plastic surgeon, or maybe just went back to their mansion to sit there with the curtains drawn, wondering why their fabulous lives weren’t really that fabulous and if even one of the hangers-on who buzzed around them knew what their real name was.

So by the time Claire had turned thirty-four, she’d never once visited Hollywood, preferring to keep it a dim and distant bubble of fantasy she wasn’t quite yet ready to pop. As a travel agent, however, she did plan trips to Tinseltown for others, which was why on one sunny and rather muggy May morning, she hopped off the number fifty-six bus, thinking not only about the work of the day ahead but smiling slightly at the memory of her childhood naïvety.

She’d slowly been growing her business over the last two years and recently she’d taken the plunge and hired proper office space. It was only a couple of miles from where she lived in Highbury, North London. She’d moved into the premises two months ago, but she still loved turning the corner into an alley that led into a forgotten gem of a courtyard. Whilst most of the surrounding area had been levelled by the Blitz and had been reimagined into vast modern estates by some of Britain’s top architects during the sixties and seventies, a few narrow streets had survived and tiny pockets of nineteenth-century buildings nestled amongst the landscape of grey concrete and geometrical shapes.

Evidence of the old workshops and shopfronts still remained in Old Carter’s Yard. A couple of units were boarded up, yet to be renovated, but the others were filled with small businesses, many of which were wedding-related. It had started with a proposal-planning agency, of all things, and had grown from there. Now there was a bakery that did the most amazing five-tiered creations, a photographer’s studio, a stationer’s and even a wedding accessories shop, which did everything from garters and stockings to waterproof mascara for the big day and plastic tiaras for rowdy hen nights.

Claire walked across the cobbles carefully in her heels and smiled to herself as she saw the sign above the window. Far, Far Away. She still thought it was a great name for a travel agent’s, especially for one that specialised in romantic getaways, even though that hadn’t been part of the plan when she’d left her job as an advertising executive at Webster & Templeton and had set up an office in her living room.

She gave the window display the once-over before turning the key in the lock. The old-fashioned bay window of what had once been a fishmonger’s was now backed with a collage of elegant and romantic destinations: Paris, Venice, the Orient Express. A deserted Caribbean beach with a startling turquoise sea. A picture of a couple silhouetted by the sunset on the verge of what promised to be a meaningful kiss.

Knowing that brides-to-be were drawn to anything that hinted of weddings like a kleptomaniac to something shiny, Claire had draped white tulle around the window and had added a bouquet of silk flowers and a couple of wedding invitations. She’d then tossed a handful of rose petal confetti across everything, so it looked as if had been blown in by a soft wind. And at the bottom of the window in gold lettering it said, After the perfect wedding, the perfect honeymoon … Her post-wedding bookings had doubled since she’d opened up shop here.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Like many buildings in the Victorian courtyard, her shop stayed fairly cool in summer, but London was in the grip of a heatwave and this was the stickiest May on record for more than two decades. It had only been a short walk from the bus stop, but the back of her neck was already damp under her blonde bob and she could feel her tailored red shift dress sticking to her skin. Before she headed for her desk, she propped the door open to encourage fresh air to flow into the space.

She’d only just sat down in her office chair when she heard a rap on the glass of the open door. She looked up to find one of her fellow ‘wedding ghetto’ traders leaning against the jamb.

‘Hey,’ Peggy said, smiling. Today she was in all her vintage glory. Her platinum blonde hair was curled to resemble Marilyn Monroe’s and she wore a fitted pale pink dress covered with small white polka dots. The look was finished off with matching pink stilettos with spotty bows at the toes.

Claire had been friends with Peggy even before she’d rented the office in Old Carter’s Yard. It was through Peggy, who worked two doors down at Hopes & Dreams as a proposal planner, that Claire had discovered the shop space had been available to rent.

Claire smiled back. ‘Hi. Need help with a proposal?’

Peggy nodded and came and sat down in the chair opposite Claire. ‘Nicole asked me to pop down. We have a client who wants to pop the question – sunset at the top of the Eiffel Tower. That bit we can manage, but we’d like you to handle the first-class Eurostar tickets, and give us suggestions of half a dozen romantic hotels in Paris. He hasn’t got a five-star budget, but he’d like it if his fiancée-to-be didn’t guess that.’

Claire smiled. ‘I know some great little boutique hotels on the Left Bank, where you get a bit more pizazz for your euro. What sort of timescale are we looking at?’

‘Their anniversary is on the fourteenth of July. He’d like to do it then.’

‘No problem.’ Claire opened her browser and clicked through a couple of hotel websites. ‘I’ll have preliminary details to you by the beginning of next week.’

Peggy clapped her hands together and grinned. ‘You’re a star! And I’m so glad you took this office over. It’s so much more fun coming down for a visit than sending off a boring old email.’

‘I’m glad too.’ Carving a name for herself in the travel business had been hard. She needed a niche, she’d realised, and thanks to Peggy and Hopes & Dreams she’d found one. Six months after she’d started doing bookings for them she’d moved from general travel planning to concentrating on romantic trips of all kinds – proposals, honeymoons, special anniversaries.

She’d even planned a couple of holidays to help couples conceive. Okay, well, she didn’t actually help them conceive – that was up to them and God – but giving them some much-needed time together where they could relax and let nature take its course, that she could manage.

‘How about a Frappuccino?’ Peggy asked, nodding towards Sweet Nothings, the organic café and bakery just at the entrance to the yard.

Claire frowned. ‘It’s only ten past nine and you’re having a break? I thought you were supposed to be just “popping down”.’

Peggy’s smile didn’t fade one iota. ‘I’m still working,’ she said sweetly. ‘We’ll discuss the Paris trip while we slurp.’

Claire shook her head gently and considered Peggy’s temping offer. When she arrived for work in the mornings, she usually dived straight in and didn’t surface again until her stomach started to rumble, but this morning her throat was dry and a fine bead of sweat was tickling its way down between her shoulder blades. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she muttered.

Peggy sprung up from the chair, grinning harder. Then she held out her hand. It took Claire a couple of moments before she worked out what was going on. Rolling her eyes, she fumbled through her purse then dropped a ten pound note into Peggy’s hand. ‘I want change!’ she yelled after the polka-dotted figure that practically skipped out of the shop.

There can’t have been much of a queue in Sweet Nothings, she thought, because less than a minute later she sensed a presence in the doorway, hardly enough time to blend the ice, let alone dowse it in ice-cold milk and espresso. ‘I need to talk to you about the film club meeting tonight,’ she said, still looking at her computer screen. ‘How do you feel about being our new treasurer?’

A dark silhouette strode into the shop. ‘You know I’d do anything for you,’ a smooth, deep voice said.

Claire’s head snapped up.

‘Treasurer of what?’ Doug Martin asked.

Claire shook her head. ‘Nothing you’d be interested in,’ she said, laughing. She saw enough of Mr Martin as it was. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’

He took a couple of steps into the office. ‘A boyfriend kind of someone else?’

Claire fought hard to keep her denial unspoken. She pasted on her best professional smile. ‘How can I help you, Mr Martin?’

He smiled at her indulgently. ‘Doug. I thought we agreed you were going to call me Doug.’

They had. And it did feel rather old-fashioned to be talking to a customer that way. He was a nice enough man, maybe a little closer to forty than she was, with an unthreatening, slightly boyish face.

‘Okay, Doug … What can I help you with?’

He didn’t have a chance to answer, because Peggy swept back in the door, a giant Frappuccino in each hand. She took one look at Doug and stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh, sorry … Didn’t realise you had company.’

Claire shot her a ‘save me’ look. Peggy just trotted over to the desk, popped Claire’s drink down two inches to the left of a coaster and whispered so Doug couldn’t hear. ‘Not a chance. Both you and I could do with a few more Y chromosomes in our lives.’

Claire’s brow lowered. You have him then, she mouthed.

Peggy gave her a dazzling smile and headed for the door. ‘I couldn’t possibly poach a client, but you never know …’ She blew a kiss at Doug, who received it gratefully. ‘If things go well, he might be knocking on my door soon anyway.’

Claire resisted the urge to throw the fountain pen sitting on her desk at Peggy and impale her to the doorpost with it. She did not need more Y chromosomes in her life. She’d only recently got free of one man and she wasn’t about to fill his space either quickly or indiscriminately.

And, as harmless as Doug was, he just didn’t float her boat. ‘So …’ she said, turning her attention back to him, hoping he hadn’t heard their muttered conversation. ‘Where do you want to go this time?’

Doug dropped into the chair Peggy had recently vacated and looked intently at her. ‘I think an island in the South Pacific.’

Claire looked over her shoulder at the world map that sat behind her desk. ‘Any bit of the South Pacific in particular? It’s a pretty big place, and there are thousands of islands.’

When she turned back, Doug looked deep into her eyes. ‘Somewhere secluded … romantic.’

‘Uh-uh.’ Claire nodded, but her eyes narrowed. She had a funny feeling she knew where this was going. She winced as she asked the crucial question. ‘How many travellers?’

He leaned even further forward and gave her a meaningful look. ‘I’d like it to be two. How about adding a wedding on a secluded white sandy beach beneath the palm trees?’

‘Doug,’ Claire said wearily ‘we’ve been through this before.’

He shrugged and shifted his weight so he was sitting firmly back in the chair. ‘You can’t blame a man in love for being hopeful, can you?’

Claire sighed. She’d like to, but the truth was she needed to build a customer base with more Dougs. Well, not exactly like him. She could do without the shameless flirting and the twice-weekly proposals, but she needed more repeat customers who kept coming back because she’d done such a good job the last time they couldn’t imagine booking a holiday without her. It was happening, but slowly.

‘No,’ she said, finally answering his question. ‘But I’ve told you before that I don’t love you, Doug. I hardly even know you.’ No matter how many hours he spent emailing or phoning each month. The downside of having a brand-new shiny office was that he now had the opportunity to moon over her in person.

‘Well, you could always make time to try to get to know me, ‘Doug said. He brightened. ‘I know … Let’s forget the wedding and just do the honeymoon!’

Claire couldn’t help but laugh. There was something about Doug’s irrepressible optimism, at least, that was attractive. ‘Now, do you really want me to book this trip for you, or are you just wasting my time?’

His face fell and he sighed. ‘I really want you to book me the trip. Mother says the Cook Islands are on her bucket list and since her time in this mortal realm is coming to a close, I’d better take her there before the year is out.’

Claire smothered a smile. From what she’d gleaned about Doug’s mother, she suspected the old lady would outlive them all. ‘The Cook Islands … Now we’re getting somewhere.’ She stood up, walked over to a rack full of brochures, pulled one out and flicked to a page that showed the kind of luxury resort Doug’s mother would appreciate, then handed it to him as she sat down again. ‘What you need is to find a nice girl who likes to travel.’

And doesn’t mind a twenty stone chaperone with a blue rinse, she added silently.

Doug, to his credit, was already bouncing back from her refusal. ‘But you’re a nice girl. And you must like to travel, otherwise why become a travel agent?’

Well, he’d hit the nail on the head there, and there were more than a few destinations on her own bucket list that were still unticked.

‘I do like to travel. And I will … But I’ve been very busy getting the new premises up and running and all my time and energy has gone into that.’ And money, she added silently, but he didn’t need to know that, did he?

Anyway, she didn’t like to travel alone – not that she was about to take Doug up on his offer to be his Girl Friday on a deserted tropical island. She wasn’t that desperate. But the last time she’d been away was that horrible trip to Prague with Philip, the last-ditch attempt to do something romantic as their marriage had been falling apart. For some reason, hearing the rumble of case wheels in the pre-dawn quiet just didn’t seem as thrilling any more.

And she wasn’t about to fill the space he’d left behind just because she wanted someone to talk to on a long plane journey. She was enjoying her freedom too much. A few years of staying put in London was a small price to pay for being able to do what she wanted, to fly as high as she could, without those little comments, sharp and penetrating as sniper’s bullets, bringing her smashing back down to earth again.

‘Well, if you won’t come to Rarotonga with me, how about an evening out in the West End?’

Claire blinked and refocused on Doug. She sighed. ‘We’ve talked about dating too.’

‘Oh, it’s not a date,’ he said with a surprisingly straight face. Only the glitter in his eyes gave him away. ‘It’s a party.’

Claire opened her mouth to ask what the difference was, but he barrelled on.

‘Jayce Rider, the guy who took over the Hamilton Hotel and turned its fortunes around is a friend of mine. He likes to throw parties for people in the travel industry and he’s planning one a week tomorrow. I thought you might like to come with me. For purely business reasons, of course.’

She hesitated. Actually, she’d been looking to develop relationships with a couple of high-end London hotels, hoping to be able to give her treasured clients a little bit of luxury at a discount. The Hamilton would be perfect.

She kept her expression neutral as she looked at Doug. ‘I’ll think about it.’

He grinned back at her, reminding her of a puppy who’d been scolded only moments before, but was now wagging its tail, transgression already half forgotten. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight,’ he said, as he rose from his chair and saluted her farewell.

Claire half stood in her chair as he disappeared out of the door. ‘There’ll be ground rules!’ she yelled after him. He didn’t shout anything back, so she wasn’t sure he’d heard her, but, even if he had, she suspected he might find a way to circumvent them.

She let her bottom bump back down into her office chair and then slumped face first onto her desk. The morning was already so clammy that her cheek instantly stuck to the polished surface.

Was that what Doug’s little visit had been all about?

Had he used her guilt at saying no to an all-expenses paid honeymoon to manoeuvre her into saying yes to the party? Which she hadn’t actually done, she reminded herself, even though it felt as if she had.

She peeled her face off the desk and sat up, then stared at her computer screen, thinking she ought to book the whole blooming trip anyway – two tickets, first class but non-refundable, and twin rooms all the way so he had to share with his Gorgon of a mother. Hah! The cancellation fees alone would make him think twice before he pulled another stunt like that on her, before he started messing with her head—

She inhaled sharply.

Claire, you’re being paranoid.

Not every man she met was out to use her as a pawn in his twisted little games. She had to remember that.

She scrubbed her face with her hands and stared out through the open door across the courtyard to Sweet Nothings, and suddenly remembered her Frappuccino perched on the edge of the desk. Half the ice had melted and one side of the swirl of cream had sunk into the liquid, making it look like a rapidly fading iceberg. She took a sip anyway. It was warmer than she would have liked, but at least she wasn’t in danger of brain freeze.

After a couple of slurps of the cool liquid she began to feel a bit more normal again. She laughed softly at herself.

Stupid woman. Of course Doug wasn’t manipulating her. Everything he felt and thought was instantly written all over his face. He didn’t have it in him to scheme and push and lie. Doug Martin had that going for him at least.

The gravity of this revelation hit her. Her eyes opened wide as she reached the bottom of the Frappuccino and it made a loud vacuum-like sound. That meant Doug had one up on almost every other man who’d played a significant role in her life, which made him a much better prospect than she’d given him credit for.

Yikes. That was a seriously sad state of affairs.

She laughed again and shook herself as she aimed the empty Frappuccino cup towards the bin and scored a mental point for getting it in first time. She stood up and reached for her purse. Maybe she should go and get herself a fresh one. If she was starting to consider Doug Martin as prime boyfriend material, the heat of this sticky May morning was definitely getting to her.

Chapter Two
Just One Girl

The Doris Day Film Club met on Tuesday evenings in the upper room of The Glass Bottom Boat, a shabby little pub on the fringes of Highbury and Islington that had, as yet, escaped the clutches of developers who wanted to transform it into yet another fashionable and minimalist wine bar. Some of the other pubs in the area were cool and grungy, the kind with bare plaster and sanded floorboards that had live music and open mike nights. The Glass Bottom Boat was just plain grungy.

There was no air conditioning in the upper room, just walls covered with red flock wallpaper, a carpet guaranteed to make one’s eyes hurt and rickety tables and chairs that had been stained with dark varnish in an effort to make them look ‘rustic’ instead of just old and broken. The only way to get more air into the room was to wedge the two large windows open as wide as they could go, which wasn’t far, seeing as they were almost glued shut with four decades’ worth of paint and half the sash ropes were missing.

It was a small space, only needing twenty people to fill it to the rafters, so on this muggy evening, the eight members of the Doris Day Film Club fitted in quite comfortably.

The room’s saving grace, and the only reason the club continued to meet here month after month, was the massive, state-of-the-art 52-inch flat-screen TV that almost filled one wall. The landlord had installed it when the last World Cup had been on, and had intended to play sports on it twenty-four-seven, but on Tuesday nights it belonged to the Doris Day Film Club and them alone.

On the table nearest the window was Bev, dressed in a pastel blouse and beige slacks. She was giving a younger woman the highlights of her last visit to the chiropodist. Candy, a yummy mummy in her late thirties, was suitably grossed out but trying to hide it, while simultaneously studying her own stiletto-encased feet under the table and wondering if bunions were looming perilously close in her future too.

On the table next door were Kitty and Grace, two vintage fashion queens in their early twenties, who thought anything retro was cooler than cool and never left their houses without their eyeliner wings and crimson lipstick. Kitty was flirting with George, bless him, the lone male of their intimate little society. Everyone had assumed he was gay at first, but it turned out he was just a sweet old bachelor who’d fallen in love with Doris at the age of eleven when his mother had bribed him with a quarter of gobstoppers to accompany her to the flicks to watch Move Over, Darling. He’d never been able to find a woman to match Doris after that, so he’d never tried, didn’t think it would be fair to his bride to always play second fiddle to such perfection. Of course, he didn’t mind it when a pretty young thing like Kitty gave him a bit of attention, even though it made him blush furiously.

Finally, gathered round a square table that had one of its legs propped up by a folded beer mat, were two of the three-strong committee. Claire sat in the central chair and stared at the gossiping group with vague dismay. It was getting harder and harder to start on time nowadays. Quite a few unlikely friendships were budding. Never in her life had she been in more need of a loudhailer.

‘Ladies!’ she began.

‘And George …’ Maggs, her vice-president, sitting beside her, interjected.

‘Ladies and George!’ Claire said, just that little bit louder.

The din continued. Claire sighed.

Maggs tutted beside her. Two years ago they hadn’t had this kind of problem, but two years ago she, Maggs and Claire’s grandmother Laurie had been the only members of the club. Now it was a victim of its own success.

Claire had never actually volunteered for the position of president; she’d kind of inherited the role after her grandmother had died. Gran had started a Doris Day Appreciation Society back in 1951 and had roped her best friend, Margaret – always known as Maggs – into being the second member.

The society had been hugely popular in the fifties and sixties, filled with members who’d been drawn to the independent and charismatic woman they’d seen on the cinema screen, but numbers had dwindled in the seventies, when Doris had stopped making films and it became less than cool to have a squeaky clean image.

Maggs had insisted that Claire take up the mantle of president when the position had become vacant. In honour of her grandmother, she’d said. Claire had been flattered at the time, but now she suspected Maggs preferred the vice-president’s role, because she got to boss people around without actually doing very much.

Claire hadn’t really minded. Watching Doris Day films with her grandmother had been the happiest moments of her childhood, afternoons when she’d escaped the tense atmosphere of home, when she hadn’t had to watch what she said and did or be careful that she wasn’t too noisy. Gran had never minded if she wanted to sing or skip around the flat or laugh out loud.

Thinking of noise brought her back to the decibel level of the current moment. That, and the fact that Maggs jabbed her in the ribs with a bony elbow. She was one of those wiry old ladies, the sort whose strength belied their tiny frames. ‘I used to be able to do a wolf whistle that could stop traffic three streets away,’ she said, looking from noisy club member to noisy club member. ‘It hasn’t been the same since I got my false teeth, but I could always give it a go?’ She raised her eyebrows and began to lift two fingers towards her mouth.

‘Not a good idea,’ Claire said wearily. ‘If they shot out and hit someone, we could be sued, and funds are low enough in the kitty as it is.’

‘Might be worth it, just to get some peace and quiet,’ Maggs muttered, surveying their unruly members with disdain. She turned her focus to the empty chair on the other side of Claire. ‘Talking of money … Where’s our new treasurer, anyway?’

‘She’ll be here any second.’

Right on cue, the door flew open and Peggy burst in, wearing the same pink dress she’d had on earlier, so tight it only just allowed her to trot in her five-inch heels.

‘You’re late,’ Maggs said, switching her laser-beam stare from Claire to Peggy.

Peggy just grinned at her. ‘That’s because my first job as treasurer was to negotiate next year’s rent for the room with the landlord. Not only is the price staying the same, but he’s agreed to throw in a round of cocktails each meeting too.’

Claire’s eyes widened. She was about to ask just how Peggy had managed that – Bruce, the landlord, had never been anything but surly with her – but then she got a prime view of Peggy’s rear end as she bent over to put her vintage handbag on the floor and pull out her notebook, and she had a sneaking suspicion just how their new treasurer had accomplished it.

Maggs nodded sagely. ‘I knew there was something I liked about that girl. I’ve always been partial to the odd gin sling.’ As if to prove the point, she pulled a hip flask from her handbag and added more ‘va-va-voom’ to the already generous gin and tonic in front of her.

Claire decided not to remind the older lady just how vocal she’d been when Claire had suggested Peggy for the post of treasurer. She’d called Peggy a ‘slip of a thing’ and had campaigned long and hard for Bev, who she’d strong-armed into coming from her Pilates class, to take the job, even though Bev had said flatly that she didn’t want to do it.

Maggs leaned across Claire and held out her hand. ‘Can I borrow one of those for a second?’ she asked Peggy, nodding at her shoes with the polka-dot bows. Peggy opened her mouth to ask why, but Maggs waggled her fingers impatiently. In the end, Peggy just sighed and handed one exquisite shoe over.

Maggs took it by the toe and rapped the heel on the table three times so loudly that the whole room fell silent. ‘There you go,’ she said to Claire, and handed Peggy back her shoe.

All eyes turned to Claire. She stood up. For just a split second nothing came out of her mouth.

It was stupid. She should be over this by now, not only because she’d been leading these meetings for almost a year, but because her previous job had required her to give numerous presentations. However, while she was good with people, fabulous one-to-one, there was always this jab of panic every time she got up to talk to a group. It hadn’t worn off in the slightest over the years. There was something about this intense moment of silence, when every eye was trained on her, that made her feel like an insect on a microscope slide. Her throat always went dry and her fingers tingled.

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 get het up about that right now. You got here for the meeting, just like your mother asked. We’ll start worrying about the rest of it next time. All you need to do now is sit back and enjoy the film. You can do that, can’t you?’

Abby gave her a weak smile and nodded.

‘That’s sorted then,’ said Bev, and turned back around to face the front of the room.

Claire took her cue. ‘Right … we might as well get on and watch tonight’s film. I was going to go for Tea for Two, but now I’m wondering if we should go for one that will give Abby some good fashion ideas.’ She opened a large zip-up case that held her entire collection of Doris Day DVDs in sleeves and flicked through it. ‘Any suggestions?’

‘The Pajama Game!’ said Kitty loudly. ‘It’s based on the fashion industry, after all.’

Maggs snorted at the young woman. ‘Don’t be daft. It’s hardly as if Abby needs a nightie for her mother’s party, and Doris spends a lot of the rest of the film in factory work clothes.’

Kitty pouted. ‘It was just a suggestion.’

‘What about Do Not Disturb?’ Candy said. ‘I remember how that dress she wore to the party at the hotel took my breath away the first time I saw it.’

‘Oh, my, yes!’ Kitty said, almost jumping out of her seat, sulk forgotten. ‘All those sequins! And do you remember …? The lining of the coat matched!’

‘Maybe …’ Claire said as she continued to thumb through her collection, frowning slightly. For some reason she wasn’t sure that this floor-length dress in orange sequins was going to be Abby’s thing.

‘I know,’ Peggy said firmly beside her. ‘Pillow Talk.’

There was a general buzz of agreement. Claire looked up. Almost everyone was nodding – except for Abby, who was looking at them all as if they were talking a foreign language.

‘Pillow Talk it is,’ Claire said, smiling as she slid it from its sleeve. ‘Great choice, Peggy. Jean Louis created the whole wardrobe for that film. It shows Doris in some of the most spectacular creations of her career – smart, simple, elegant. In other words, perfect.’

She dimmed the lights and a reverent hush fell over the room.

The opening credits rolled and a sense of both peace and nostalgia swept over Claire as the jaunty little title song played and an anonymous pyjama-clad couple threw pillows back and forth at each other from their respective beds. She let out a long breath.

It had been a long day, and she hadn’t realised she’d need this moment to switch off and unwind until it had come upon her. Now, for a glorious ninety minutes, she could sit back, relax, and lose herself in a world where wrongs were always righted, love always triumphed and even the most scheming scoundrel could be redeemed.

Chapter Three
Never Look Back

When the film finished, Claire turned the lights back on and the members of the Doris Day Film Club started to gather their belongings together. Claire noticed Kitty and Grace turn to Abby, expectant looks on their faces.

‘Did you like the film?’ Grace asked. Of the two, she was definitely less talkative, preferring to emulate some of the screen goddesses of old and maintain an air of mystery. She was tall, with a long neck, aristocratic features and vibrant red hair. Her eyes were always slightly hooded, and Claire was never quite sure whether it was in an effort to look sexy or because she thought feigning boredom was cool. She and the shoot first, think later Kitty were certainly an interesting pair.

Abby looked from one to the other, as if she was surprised girls like that would start up a conversation with her, and then a slow, shy smile spread across her lips. She nodded. Kitty and Grace gave each other a knowing look.

‘What did you like best about it?’ Kitty asked, grabbing Abby’s arm.

Abby’s eyes widened, then she thought for a moment. ‘I liked her … Jan. I mean, Doris. She seemed nice.’

‘That’s why we love Doris too,’ Kitty said, while Grace just flicked her hair back over her shoulder. ‘There’s something so warm and approachable about her, even while she’s looking glamorous in all those epic clothes and—’

‘She’s sexy too,’ Grace added in her husky voice.

‘Yes,’ Kitty said, ‘but she’s sexy without being in-your-face about it.’ She shot a look at Grace as she said that. ‘And then there’s the whole “perpetual virgin” thing … I think it’s kind of romantic … I think I’d like to be thought of that way – sexy but unobtainable.’

‘I don’t think anyone’s going to mistake you for a perpetual virgin!’

Kitty pinned her with a fierce look. ‘Well, that’s better than being like you! If a man ever does get into those knickers of yours, he’s going to find they’ve frozen solid!’

Grace just flicked her hair again and turned away.

Kitty leaned in closer to Abby and took on a confidential tone. ‘Okay, I had some insecurity issues a while ago, and maybe I tried to solve them by seeking male attention—’ she glanced towards the blank screen of the television ‘—but watching these films has made me think that maybe I’d like a bit of old-fashioned respect.’

Abby nodded, looking uncomfortable at Kitty’s massive overshare.

Grace’s perfect mask of calm showed signs of cracking. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Kitty, while keeping her eyes fixed on the garish wallpaper. ‘I’ve been trying to develop some of that Bacall-like rapier wit and sometimes it runs away with me.’

Kitty rolled her eyes but her expression softened. ‘Forgiven. Anyway, we’re drifting from the point … What we’re trying to do is tell Abby that Doris is all about the fun and the romance—’

‘And the fashion,’ Grace added seriously.

Claire was sliding the DVD of Pillow Talk back into her storage case. She’d been listening to the conversation. ‘Actually, Doris ended up hating the image people, and the media, had of her. Her real life wasn’t like that at all,’ she said.

Kitty and Grace looked at her, their expressions slightly blank. Abby looked at the floor.

‘We all love her because she’s bright and perky and happy on screen, you’re right,’ Claire continued, ‘but she had a lot of tragedy in her life. The real Doris Day is a lot more complex than people think.’

‘Oh, I know,’ Kitty said, nodding absent-mindedly, and then she grinned, ‘but the clothes! Did you see the clothes, Abby? Which ones were your favourites?’

And with that, Kitty inked arms with Abby and steered her towards the door. Grace wafted along behind them. Poor Abby looked stuck halfway between awe and terror. Who knew if she was going to come again next meeting – which would be next week, rather than next month, as the membership had unanimously embraced the idea of a Doris Day film festival. Claire supposed it depended on how desperate she was for those Arsenal tickets.

She looked up at Maggs, who was hovering near the committee table, and gave a heavy sigh. ‘They don’t get it, do they? Those girls? They don’t know the truth about Doris. All they can see is the pastel colours, the dazzling smile, the voice of an angel …’

They didn’t know what Claire knew – the one reason she’d really started to love Doris Day in her own right, not because her grandmother had – that Doris was tough. She was a survivor. Claire wanted to be just like her.

‘It’ll come,’ Maggs said, strangely reasonably for her. ‘After all, you didn’t get it at first.’

Claire nodded. She hoped Maggs was right. It was one of the reasons she’d wanted to keep the club running after Gran’s death. Gran had known the truth too, drawn strength from it. Her life hadn’t been easy either.

There wasn’t much clearing up to be done after club meetings. Usually, there’d be a bit of chit-chat after the film, then people would drift off one by one until it was just her, left to give the place a quick once-over before she turned out the light and shut the door, but tonight Maggs was hovering.

Claire straightened the lampshade that Abby had bumped into. Maggs didn’t seem to be making any moves to leave, so Claire glanced over her shoulder at her, just in time to see Maggs finish taking a quick nip from her hip flask and hide it back in her handbag.

Claire frowned, but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, she asked, ‘George not giving you a lift this evening?’

Maggs shook her head. ‘I told him to go on without me.’

Claire stopped fussing with the shade, which would just not consent to stay horizontal. ‘Oh? Are things okay between you two?’

Maggs shrugged.

Claire turned to look at her. She’d thought Maggs and George might have been developing a little ‘thing’. Maybe she’d been wrong, but she hadn’t failed to notice the way that at some club meetings, as the film rolled, George wouldn’t be watching Doris on the fifty-two inch screen all the time. Sometimes he’d be watching Maggs.

It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, even though Maggs had scoffed at the suggestion. Claire knew how lonely she’d been after Sid had died. They’d been married for thirty-eight years, after all. It had to leave a horrible hole.

She put a hand on Maggs’s bony shoulder. Maggs, her full height at five feet and one inch, looked up at Claire, her expression guarded, eyes searching. ‘I just don’t know,’ she said quietly, revealing more than she ever had on the subject before. ‘He’s a sweet man, but he’s not …’ She looked away.

He’s not Sid, Claire finished for her silently. She got that.

‘Well, I’ll give you a lift back if you want,’ Claire said and continued to bustle around while really doing nothing. It was better if she pretended she hadn’t seen that mistiness in Maggs’s eyes.

When Claire had been a child she’d always thought of her grandmother’s best friend as ‘that funny lady’, but as she’d grown into an adult, she’d come to appreciate the other woman’s dry humour, her mastery of the snappy comeback. They’d found a new kind of closeness since her grandmother’s death, bound together by her absence in a much stronger way than they had been by her presence.

Maggs sniffed and gave Claire a faux-offended look. ‘I’m not too old and frail to get the two-seven-one, you know. Those louts who like to ride on the top deck don’t scare me!’

Claire turned to have one last go at the lampshade, mainly to make sure Maggs didn’t see her smiling at that comment. If anything, those ‘louts’ were more likely to be cowed by Maggs than the other way round. ‘I know that,’ she said, turning back, ‘but my car has air conditioning and I can give you door-to-door service.’

Maggs adjusted the light cardigan she’d slung over her shoulder. ‘I suppose I can keep you company, if you want. There’s something I need to talk to you about, anyway.’

‘Club business?’ Claire asked absent-mindedly as she flicked off the lights and they both exited onto the landing.

‘Not exactly,’ Maggs muttered as she followed behind.

*

Given the fact she had something to say, Maggs was very quiet on the drive home. She didn’t speak until they were almost there. ‘I had a letter from your father,’ she announced suddenly, staring straight ahead, looking for all the world as if she’d just told Claire she had a hairdressing appointment in the morning.

Claire didn’t decide to brake hard – she just did – causing both her and Maggs to fly forward until their seat belts engaged, digging into their chests then flinging them back into their seats again. She turned to stare at Maggs, only half aware her fingers were making dents in the steering wheel.

‘What …? I mean, how …?’ She shook her head, kept on shaking it. ‘How did he know your address?’

Maggs shrugged and glanced at her. Now that Claire was looking at her more carefully, she could see that Maggs wasn’t as blasé about the whole thing as she’d first thought. There was a tension around her mouth, as if someone had pulled a drawstring round it, crinkling its edges.

‘To be honest, I have no idea, but he wrote to me anyway.’

Claire realised that her little Fiat was blocking the narrow Victorian street, lined with parked cars on both sides. It was only a matter of time before some other motorist started honking their horn or swearing at her. She slid the car into gear and eased away slowly. ‘What did he want?’

‘To see you.’

The urge to brake hard again was strong, but Claire managed to beat it. Instead, she concentrated on indicating left and turning into Maggs’s road. ‘Why now?’ she whispered, more to herself than her passenger.

Maggs sighed. ‘He didn’t say.’

Claire’s brows lowered and pinched the skin at the top of her nose. Of course he hadn’t said. Her father had never felt the need to explain anything he did, had only saw fit to issue orders. She stewed on that thought as she performed a perfect parallel park outside Maggs’s house.

‘But reading between the lines,’ Maggs continued as the car came to a halt, ‘I’d say he’s ill.’

Claire realised she was squeezing the life out of her steering wheel again and deliberately peeled her fingers from its warm surface. ‘I don’t care,’ she said. She could feel Maggs looking at her, and Maggs kept looking until Claire gave in and twisted her head to stare back at her. ‘I don’t.’

‘He’s your father,’ Maggs said simply.

She nodded. She knew that.

‘If anyone knows the pain of not taking an opportunity to make things right while you can, it’s me.’

Claire sighed. There was a difference. Maggs had had a silly quarrel with Sid the day before he’d died and the following morning she’d been monosyllabic with him at breakfast. He’d told her she was being childish then went out to fetch a pint of milk from the corner shop. She’d never seen him again. Not until she’d had to identify his body. Heart attack. No one had seen it coming, not even Sid, who’d declared himself as fit as an ox until the day his body had so unceremoniously contradicted him.