Her Turn to Cry: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming. Chris Curran

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       Chapter Four

      On the way home Marcus kept asking her what was wrong, but she couldn’t tell him until they were safe inside. He made some tea, and when he was sitting opposite her at the tiny kitchen table he lit a cigarette and blew three smoke rings, which usually got her smiling. But not today.

      ‘That man, the one with the autograph book, he was in Manchester at the corner of my aunt’s street. He spoke to me, obviously knew who I was.’

      ‘Well that’s peculiar. Any idea who he might be?’

      ‘I’ve never set eyes on him before.’

      Marcus leaned back, staring up at the smoke rising to the ceiling. ‘Most likely a journalist. Unless it’s one of your fans. He looked a bit old for that, but you never can tell.’

      That was as likely an explanation as any. It was disturbing to think of people becoming obsessed with her, but it had happened before. As for journalists, her fear was always that they’d get wind of her father’s suicide and, of course, what led to it – his arrest and imprisonment.

      When she first started modelling that was one reason she’d changed her name. They’d given out the story that she was an orphan, which had been good enough so far. And the journalists were more interested in the romance between her and Marcus than poking into her background. The received wisdom was that she adored him, but he wouldn’t commit himself and was still playing the field. It wasn’t fair on Marcus because it was she who wouldn’t – couldn’t – commit, but he laughed it off, saying he didn’t mind people thinking he was a bit of a Casanova.

      ‘Shall we report him to the police?’ Marcus said.

      ‘What for? He hasn’t done anything, and both times he’s been very nice to me. It just doesn’t feel right.’

      Marcus swallowed back his tea and jumped up. ‘OK, go and get your glad rags on. Let’s have some dinner and get drunk. Forget about all this for a while. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow doing that shoot for Cecil Beaton.’

      ‘Oh God, I can’t believe I’ve forgotten about Beaton. I’ve been nervous about that for weeks. Should really stay in and get a good sleep.’

      Marcus came behind her chair and pulled it back. ‘Oh no, you need to be distracted, and I don’t want you too gorgeous for darling Cecil. He may be an old queen, but if he makes you look wonderful you might decide to dump me.’ He kissed the side of her neck and as she headed for the stairs reached out to slap her bum. She managed to evade his hand, charging up two steps at a time, and thanking God yet again for letting her meet him.

       Clacton-on-Sea – May 1954

      It’s a lovely sunny morning, but Dad was late home last night so he’s still in bed. Joycie is making some tea because he likes to wake up to a cuppa and a fag. There’s a knock on the door and it’s Sid. He walks straight in, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey, Charlie boy,’ before he slumps into a chair next to the table, pulling an ashtray towards him. ‘Any tea in the pot, Joycie love?’

      Sid lights up, and Joycie puts a cup in front of him as Dad comes out of the bedroom, rubbing his face. His hair has no Brylcreem on yet and is falling over his face. ‘Crikey, Sid, give a bloke a chance to come round.’

      Joycie turns back to the little kitchenette, taking some bacon slices wrapped in greaseproof paper from the wooden meat safe, and trying to close it gently so the thin metal grill on the front doesn’t rattle. Sid is talking about the act and she listens in. When she hears her own name she listens harder.

      ‘We need to sharpen up a bit and I’ve been thinking. I know you don’t like leaving Joycie at home on her own.’

      ‘I don’t, but it’s not fair making her hang about at the theatre every night either. It’s all right when Irene’s on the bill, but now she’s away I worry about Joycie when we’re onstage.’ Joycie can’t see his expression, but she can imagine him raising his eyebrows at Sid. She knows he doesn’t trust some of the men in the show.

      ‘Well what about this then?’ Sid pulls a floppy tweed cap with a big curved peak from his pocket and gestures for her to come over to him. ‘Try this on, love.’ When she looks at her dad, Sid laughs. ‘Go on, darlin’ make an old man happy, eh? It won’t bite you.’

      Her dad nods although his forehead is creased, and he gives Sid a sidelong glance. Joycie feels silly, СКАЧАТЬ