The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane
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out; now Celia was going to turn her away.
‘She didn’t tell me why, though.’ Celia opened the door wider. ‘Come on in, then, and spill the beans. Put the wood in the hole after you.’
‘I slept with Max Carter,’ said Annie as they sat at the kitchen table. Celia’s dark, glittering eyes lit up.
‘You never did,’ she said breathlessly.
‘The night before the wedding.’ Annie sipped her tea. Nice and warm. The kitchen was cosy. She’d been frozen to the bone out there in the rain. This was lovely.
Celia let out a plume of smoke. ‘Never!’
‘And I told Ruth I’d done it. On her wedding day.’
Her aunt clicked her tongue in disbelief. ‘Fucking hell. What did you want to go and do that for?’
‘I told you it was stupid.’
‘You must have had a reason.’
‘Nothing that matters.’ Annie looked at Celia in anguish. ‘I loved him before Ruthie did. She gets everything! And I saw him first.’
Celia stubbed out her cigarette. ‘This ain’t the bloody playground, Annie. You really in love with him?’
‘Can I have a fag, Auntie?’ Annie had never smoked in her life, but now seemed like a good time to start.
‘No you bloody can’t. It’s a disgusting habit, don’t ever start doing stuff like that. And don’t call me Auntie, it makes me feel a bloody hundred. Call me Celia, you’re old enough. Drink your tea. Were you careful, Annie?’
Annie felt herself colouring up. She nodded.
‘Well thank God for that.’ Celia started tapping on the tabletop with her long, red-painted nails. Tart’s nails, Connie would call them. Annie thought they looked incredibly elegant. Her mother’s were stained yellow from nicotine, broken, ridged. Hideous. Celia was the same age as Connie, but she had looked after herself, that was obvious. Her dark hair was teased into a stylish bouffant. Her figure was still trim. Her tailored suit was a flattering powder-blue wool. It looked expensive. Annie remembered what else Connie had said about Celia, and wondered if it could be true.
‘So Connie knows all about it because Ruthie told her?’ asked Celia.
Annie nodded.
‘And what about Max – does he know what you’ve done?’
She nodded again.
‘Blood and sand,’ breathed Celia, and lit another cigarette from the packet of Player’s with an air of urgency. She stuck it in the holder, took a deep draw and regarded her niece with disfavour. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Yeah, I did.’ It hurt Annie afresh to think of the words they’d exchanged in the back of his car.
‘Did you tell him you were coming here?’
‘No,’ said Annie.
‘Keep it that way. I don’t want to upset the Carters. What did he say to you?’
‘To get out of his sight and stay out,’ said Annie bleakly.
‘Well just make sure you do. It’s good that he doesn’t know you’re here, although how long we can keep it that way is anyone’s guess. Connie needn’t know, either, in case you were thinking of letting your mother know where you’ve got to.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Annie bluntly. ‘She doesn’t care about me. Do you mean I can stay?’
‘Of course you bloody can. But here’s the house rules, Annie. You don’t go poking around outside your room. You can use the lavvy and this kitchen, but I don’t want you wandering about in the other rooms, got that?’
Annie nodded. She looked around the kitchen. It was clean and neat, nothing fancy. She put her cup down and bit her lip.
‘Whatever you’re thinking, you might as well say it,’ said Celia, tapping ash on to a saucer. ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil.’
‘No, it’s okay,’ said Annie. She didn’t want Celia getting the hump and changing her mind about letting her stay.
‘Come on,’ prompted Celia. ‘Out with it.’
‘You won’t like it.’
Celia looked her niece square in the eye. ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’
‘Mum said you ran a massage parlour,’ blurted Annie. ‘And that you were all pally with the Delaneys.’
Celia looked momentarily startled. Then she threw back her head and roared with laughter.
‘Is it true?’ asked Annie.
Celia’s laughter subsided. She took another drag. ‘What do you think, Annie?’ she asked, watching the younger woman keenly.
Annie looked at Celia’s neat turnout and made-up face, at her shrewd button-bright eyes.
‘I think she’s probably right,’ said Annie.
‘And I think we’re going to get on fine,’ said Celia, standing up and stubbing out her fag. ‘Come on up, doll-face, let’s get you settled in.’
Jonjo Carter was getting seriously annoyed. Not that this was anything new – anyone who knew Jonjo also knew that he had a short fuse. He was on his way out to the Shalimar. Nothing like having your own club to impress your latest lady, and this one was sweet. Blonde and cute with a rosebud mouth and big black-lashed blue eyes. A little scoop-necked white top and tight leopard skin trousers showing an ass you could stand a pint on. All bubbly and chatty, the sort he went for big-time. He’d picked her up when she was working in one of the new clip joints not far from the Starlight Club on the Richardson manor; there was never any trouble between the Richardsons and the Carters, they had a mutual respect and were always pleased to welcome each other.
Julie – or was it Julia? – was a hostess there, and she never tired of rattling off at the mouth about her working life, which was a drawback but with an ass like that, was he bothered?
‘The johns like me,’ she prattled on to him when they were in bed together and had just concluded a pleasurable session. He’d worn a French letter, of course. If he had his way he’d wear three, tart like this. Women always wanted to get you tied down with a baby, either that or they’d give you a dose of something nasty. Like the Boy Scouts, Jonjo was always Prepared.
‘They’re such mugs,’ she went on. ‘They buy me drinks all night and think I’m going to come across for them. Not that I ever would, Jonjo sweetheart, I’ve only got eyes for you,’ she added quickly when his brows drew together.
Jonjo was handsome, but not so handsome as Max. Jonjo was bulkier and she guessed he’d go to seed as he aged. His dark hair was curly, his eyes were dark too. He had a bullish look to him. But he was a Carter, and she was pleased and proud to be seen with him.
‘What else do they do?’ Jonjo grunted, not that he gave a shit or wanted to know, but he never did like the idea of dirty old men drooling over his current girl. What was his was his, no argument.
Julie or Julia shrugged and her breasts – not her best feature, he thought, too small for his taste really – jiggled nicely.
‘I arrange to meet them up the road,’ she giggled. ‘Not that I ever do.’
Which was a lie, Jonjo suspected. If a good-looking punter gave her the eye and spent enough, he reckoned she’d come across in the blink of an eye. Women were no good. They loved whoever they were with, he knew that. Hadn’t Ma told him so often enough? And she was right. The conversation