Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson

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СКАЧАТЬ hand, it could be significant. I can’t say yet.’

      ‘Well I hope it’s something easily sorted out,’ she said sincerely. ‘But how shall we get on tonight without a trombone player?’

      ‘Oh, you’ll be okay,’ he assured her. ‘Nobody will miss my line. You’ll cope fine.’

      They walked to his car, and he drove her to the Tower Ballroom. ‘The manager is supposed to let us know tonight whether he wants to book us for a resident season,’ he said as he pulled up outside. ‘Talk to him, Maxine, and explain that I can’t be there. I’ll leave it to you to sort out. But don’t go below that figure we said. If they want us they’ve got to pay.’

      Maxine nodded. ‘All right. I’ll see you Tuesday at practice. I hope you get it settled, whatever it is.’

      He smiled ruefully and held up his hand as a departing gesture.

      Funny how Maxine Kite had grown on him. Three months ago he hadn’t been that interested. Nowadays, though, he considered Maxine a prospective conquest. But Eleanor alone was enough for any man. His relationship with Eleanor was strange, obsessive, and he could not help himself where she was concerned. Ever since she’d coyly let him glimpse her first adolescent triangle of soft, pubic hair, they’d been lovers and their secret had fuelled their greater ardour for each other over the years. The curious and inexpert fumblings of youth, the unexpected, uncontrived sensations they experienced together, all gathered momentum and escalated into an ardour so intense that there had been times when they simply could not get enough of each other; when they would stay in bed all day. And this prolonged, frenetic lovemaking would render them sore and exhausted for days afterwards.

      But their relationship was strained at present. A couple of times in the past Eleanor had been aloof, indifferent towards him. He had grown suspicious then that she had been interested in another man. Whether or not it had amounted to anything, he did not know, short of asking her. Yet, he would not ask her for fear of learning the truth. The same suspicions had drawn him home early tonight. Something was wrong and he needed to find out what.

      As Brent drove on through the poorly lit streets of Bearwood towards Handsworth where he and Eleanor lived, he thought of the other women he had had; women who had failed to divert him in the way Eleanor evidently became diverted. They meant nothing; merely conquests; food for the ego.

      His thoughts quickly returned to Maxine Kite. He understood that it would be ungallant of him to try and ensnare Maxine in a sexual relationship, but only because he perceived she was forthright and had some honour; he could not reasonably expect her to be willing because of Eleanor. All the same, she was eminently beddable; and gallantry had never been his strong point anyway. Each time he looked at her he discovered something new; a different expression, a tiny mole on her arm he had not noticed before, how the light glinting off her lush dark hair reflected some other unexpected colour. She was his equal when it came to conversation, knowledgeable enough to discuss any topic. She was bright, intelligent, fun, not given to tantrums or selfishness. She would be bright, intelligent and fun in bed, too. Sooner or later he would bed her. He always got what he wanted. And he had no other competition now that Stephen was gone.

      At that moment, Brent saw Stephen’s car parked in Arthur Road, a side street close to his house in Grove Lane. What the devil was he doing here? This could explain the ring. Unless he was visiting somebody else close by. Brent knew few of his neighbours; by choice he did not socialise with them, so he did not know who lived where Stephen’s car was parked.

      But Eleanor’s recent indifference and his finding Stephen’s ring spelled it out, shouted it louder than any megaphone could. Of course, the crafty monkey was visiting Eleanor. Brent’s mind flickered back to that evening at the jazz club when Eleanor first met him. They had chatted easily and for quite a while, but not sufficiently to arouse any suspicion. Stephen was the last person he would have considered to be of interest to Eleanor. The man was too insipid, too ordinary and too dull for somebody as vibrant and discerning as Eleanor.

      Brent sat staring at Stephen’s car for ages, deciding what he should do for the best. He did not want to enter the house for fear Stephen was there with Eleanor. It would be counter-productive to confront them or find them in a compromising situation. First, in any case, he should make sure. So he reversed his car into Mostyn Road, another side street where it was out of view and hid behind the school gates from where he had sight of Stephen’s car and his own front door. One thing was certain; if Stephen was up to no good with Eleanor, he would take great pleasure in his revenge. And what more fitting revenge than to bed Maxine Kite when Stephen had manifestly failed to do so? What more satisfying conclusion than to induce her to fall in love with him? That would prove beyond any doubt that he was much more of a man than Stephen.

      He lit a cigarette and waited…and waited.

      At the Tower Ballroom, all was going well. Despite Brent’s absence, The Owls and the Pussycats were giving a good account of themselves. Only they seemed to know that somebody was missing from the line-up. As far as the dancing couples were concerned, everything was fine. When they had finished their first spot they headed thirstily for the bar. Within a couple of minutes a man approached them wearing a dark suit that badly needed pressing.

      ‘Who’s the leader of your band?’ he asked, addressing all of them and nobody in particular. ‘I’m from the Evening Mail. I wondered if I could interview your leader.’

      ‘Maybe I can help?’ Maxine responded.

      ‘But you’re never the band leader, are you?’

      ‘I am when he’s not around,’ she answered steadily.

      ‘But you’re a woman. Who is the recognised leader?’

      ‘Brent Shackleton,’ she said, keeping calm. ‘He’s not here. And when he’s not around I look after anything that might crop up.’

      ‘Okay,’ the man conceded. ‘I reckon you’ll have to do. I daresay you’re a sight prettier than this Brent Shackleton, anyway, eh?’

      ‘But he can be quite charming when he’s a mind to be.’ Maxine responded, indignant at the man’s attitude but maintaining her polite smile.

      ‘Can I get you a drink, Mister?’ Toots said, his arm as always around Pansy’s trim waist, even while waiting to be served at the bar.

      ‘Thanks, pal. That’s the best offer I’ve had since I’ve got here. Pint of Ansell’s…My name’s Bill Brighton, by the way. I’m the music critic for the Mail.’

      ‘Oh, I’ve read your column lots of times,’ Maxine said, overlooking her indignation, recognising the need to exaggerate the truth in the cause of flattery and what it might buy them in free publicity. ‘I always enjoy reading it.’ At this, Bill Brighton’s attitude visibly softened. ‘So what do you want to know about us, Mr Brighton?’

      ‘Well, word has got to us about the band. Some pretty impressive comments over the last few weeks. I wanted to come and hear you for myself.’

      ‘Pity we’re short of the trombonist then,’ Toots commented. ‘Trust that to happen when you come along.’

      ‘I’ve heard enough,’ the reporter said. ‘I’ve been mightily impressed…The name of the band, though…The Owls and the Pussycats? Who thought that one up?’

      ‘Brent Shackleton and me,’ Maxine answered, recalling their brain-storming a while ago.’

      ‘Borrowed СКАЧАТЬ