Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection: Strangers, Bad Girls Good Women, A Woman of Our Times, All My Sins Remembered. Rosie Thomas
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door opened. A thin finger of light reached past her. Julia didn’t look round, but she heard a man’s voice and then a woman’s low laugh before the door closed again. The man walked quickly along the gallery and stopped beside her at the head of the stairs. Turning to look now, Julia saw that it was her old friend Johnny Flowers. He had arrived hours ago in one of the packed cars that had raced each other from London to Julia’s party.
She smiled, and saw the whiteness of his teeth as he smiled back at her.
‘Good time, Johnny?’ she whispered.
He leaned forward to kiss the corner of her mouth and his hand rested lightly on her waist.
‘Mmm. The very best time. The party to end all parties, this one.’
Julia murmured, ‘Good. But it’s early yet.’
Johnny’s hand slid over her hip as he passed her, and fleetingly she remembered other times. Other places, a long way from this big house beached in its dark gardens.
She tilted her head backwards at the closed bedroom door.
‘Who?’
‘Sssh.’ The white smile came again as he put his finger to his lips. ‘You haven’t seen me.’
‘I haven’t seen you.’
Julia watched him run downstairs and disappear into the brightness. A swirl of laughing people poured out into the hallway and the colours of the girls’ dresses blurred exotically against the wood panelling.
Someone called out, ‘Ju—lia!’ and the faces turned to look up at her. She stood on the top stair for a moment longer, surveying the scene, smiling with satisfaction. Then, with the tips of her fingers just touching the smooth, curving warmth of the banister rail, she floated down to join them.
In the doorway, someone shouted, ‘Be Bop A Lula!’
Out of sight, in the room where the dancers surged past the huge Christmas tree, the lead guitarist mopped the sweat out of his eyes and obligingly struck the first chord.
‘She’s my baby,’ Julia sang.
A chain of people formed and swayed in front of her, and arms came round her waist. She could feel the heat of the man, whoever he was, through her thin dress. Julia stumbled forward and steadied herself in the crush by flinging her arms around someone else. Everyone was singing now, ‘Don’t mean maybe.’
The conga line snaked around the hallway and back into the big room. Before it jerked her away Julia saw Johnny Flowers again. He was slipping back up the stairs, holding a champagne bottle by its gold foil neck. She looked away quickly, thinking, I wanted this, didn’t I? To be able to give parties in a big house for all my friends. To have everyone around me, enjoying themselves …
Happy New Year, she wished herself. But it didn’t suppress the little beat of loneliness that she had felt, in the middle of all the people.
The dancers swept her along, into the heat of the drawing room where the carpets had been rolled back and the log fire in the huge stone fireplace crackled unnecessarily. Inside her head, all around her, the music thudded on.
Julia saw a whisky bottle on a windowsill. As they swooped past she reached for it and titled it to her mouth. They circled the Christmas tree. It was so tall that the silver star on the top touched the high ceiling, and there was a real candle burning on every branch. Julia had insisted on real candles, because they were so beautiful. The blaze of them and the flames in the hearth gave the only light in the packed room now.
Julia’s oldest friend Mattie was lying along the back of a sofa, her head propped on one hand and the other waving a cigarette in a long holder. The cigarette holder was a recent affection, adopted since Mattie had begun to be famous. The cluster of men around her was nothing new, because Mattie had attracted men effortlessly ever since Julia had known her. She waved the cigarette holder at Julia now, and closed one eye in a slow wink.
‘Seen Bliss?’ Julia mouthed at her, and Mattie pointed the holder.
Julia’s husband was on the far side of the room. He was bending over the radiogram in its cabinet, twiddling the knobs. Although his back was turned to her, Julia could imagine his mildly preoccupied frown, like a small boy’s intent on a puzzle. Alexander Bliss was a tall, spare, elegant man. He was ten years older than his wife, and he had chosen to wear a dinner jacket for her party. Most of his country neighbours had dressed too, but the influx of London guests wore sharp Italian suits, studded leather, evening dresses that were hardly dresses at all.
The contrast wouldn’t have struck Alexander. He had seen it often enough before. If he had bothered to make any comment, he would have shrugged amiably. ‘Anything goes, nowadays.’
Julia wriggled out of the grasp of the conga man. She didn’t know him but she thought that he had arrived with Johnny. There were lots of strange faces tonight, mixed with the familiar ones, and she liked that because it meant that anything could happen. Julia still believed that’s what parties were for.
She thought back, in an instant of painful, irresistible nostalgia. Parties in bedsitters and parties in cellars. Crowded parties with hot jazz, and warm booze drunk out of chipped cups, and an endless, wonderful parade of new faces. It was at the time of those parties that Julia had met the aviator. Mattie had nicknamed him your aviator. Where was he now?
I’m twenty-one years old, she thought suddenly, and I’m looking back like an old woman. Julia tipped the whisky bottle again. Happy New Year.
‘C’mon baby. What about a dance?’ Johnny’s friend, if he was Johnny’s friend, had a nice face enlivened by louche sideburns. She grinned at him. ‘Later,’ she shouted over the music. ‘Promise.’
Then she threaded her way through the dancers to Alexander, crouched beside the radiogram. He looked up when she touched his shoulder and smiled at her, the corners of his eyes creasing. ‘It’s nearly twelve. Listen.’
He pressed his ear to the speaker and then leapt up, turning the volume control sharply. ‘It’s midnight!’
The guitarists finished the number with a deafening chord and the drummer brandished his sticks in a drum roll. In the sudden silence that followed, Big Ben struck the quarters and then the hour. Twelve booming peals, and Julia imagined them echoing through the house and rolling over the trees and lawns beyond the windows. At the twelfth stroke the room erupted into shouts and cheers, kissing and clapping.
It was 1960.
Alexander turned Julia’s face up to his, and kissed her. ‘Don’t look so sad. It’s a new decade. Happy New Decade.’
With the warmth of Alexander’s kiss still on her mouth, Julia said, ‘I liked the old decade.’
He touched her cheek, lifting the curl that lay against it. ‘You’ll like this one too.’ He took her hand, and drew her into the huge, smiling circle to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Julia sang with everyone else, and when the hugging and shouting was over the music started to pound again.
‘Dance with your husband?’ he asked her. Alexander was a very good dancer. It was one of the first things she had noticed about him, long ago. She had been surprised, to begin with, that someone like Alexander Bliss should like rock and roll.
‘Delighted.’
When the number finished, so quietly that she could hardly hear him, Alexander asked her, ‘Are you happy?’
And Julia faced him squarely, looking straight into his eyes. ‘Of course I am.’
Alexander turned her to face the room. ‘Go on then. Enjoy your party.’
The man with the sideburns was waiting. Mattie had left her sofa to dance, her long diamond earrings swinging. The house was full of friends. It was a good party. My party, Julia thought. Alexander wouldn’t say our party. Nor would he invite all these people of his own accord, but he would never stop his wife