talking to my woman,’ said Jonjo.
‘What’s it to you?’ asked the Irish.
Jonjo snatched a glass off the bar just as the Irish started to throw a right-hander. The red mist descended and he let him have it in the face with the glass. Blood spurted and Julie screamed. The Irishman’s eye was hanging out on his cheek and he was yelling blue murder. His pal came at Jonjo and Eric came round the bar with the ice pick, but Jonjo didn’t need any help. He dropped the glass and decked the pal then grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. The Irish turned red and then blue. Eric was pounding at Jonjo’s back without effect. The landlord bent down and looked urgently into Jonjo’s eyes.
‘That’s enough, Mr Carter,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, that’s enough now. Don’t kill the bastard, not in my pub, that’s enough.’
And Jonjo heard him at last. He came to with both Irishmen on the floor, one with his face in tatters and one unconscious. He got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, tidied his coat. There was a speck of blood on the lapel and he looked at it with distaste. He looked around for Kyle and his minder, but they were gone. Julie was still howling her stupid head off.
‘You get off, Mr Carter. I’ll sort this out,’ said Eric.
‘Thanks, Eric. We’ll pay for any damage.’ Jonjo grabbed Julie’s arm and marched her out the door. She still had the Babycham in her hand, and Ned Miller was still warbling on. Fucking women, thought Jonjo. They always caused trouble.
Ruthie sent Dave, her minder, to fetch Kath, her cousin, down to the big Surrey house on Miss Arnott’s day off. It was just a month since the wedding and she should have been on cloud nine but she was bitter to the bone, knowing how completely she had been betrayed. She was miserable and she was bored too, to tell the truth.
Max had said to her, redecorate, do whatever you like, but she hadn’t the heart.
He’d had clothes sent down from posh West End boutiques for her to try, saying that he liked this one, and that one, but never the one that Ruthie liked herself in best, so that one was always sent back.
Max didn’t come home very often. Most nights he slept at Queenie’s old place in the East End, or was out working or having a meet with the boys upstairs at Queenie’s, so he phoned her and told her he’d be back tomorrow, or the day after. Sometimes a whole week went by without her seeing him. Down here there was only Miss Arnott the prune-faced housekeeper and Dave who was on the door. Her minder, she supposed. Built like a tank, he was. He never said a word.
Kath’s reaction to Ruthie’s new home did cheer her up a bit, briefly. Kath came in the front door and stopped dead in the centre of the huge hall with her mouth hanging open in amazement.
‘Bloody hell, Ruthie,’ she gasped, then laughed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Only in pictures. Those stately homes, you know? It’s a fucking stately home.’
Ruthie looked around her and knew that what Kath said was true. The place was beautiful. She took Kath’s coat and led her all over it, enjoying playing lady of the manor for a brief time while Kath marvelled over the lovely furnishings, the thick velvet drapes, the expensive flock wallpaper, the carpet which was so deep you sank into it, the huge soft beds.
‘Jesus wept!’ Kath was bouncing up and down on one of the beds, laughing like a delighted child. ‘How many bedrooms did you say, Ruthie?’
‘Seven,’ said Ruthie.
The feelings of emptiness, of coldness, washed over her again.
And nothing happening in any of them, she thought.
‘Come on, let’s go downstairs and have a drink,’ she said.
Kath watched her cousin covertly as they tramped down the huge staircase and went into the drawing room.
A fucking drawing room! thought Kath. There was a roaring log fire, big couches on either side of it. A massive gilt mirror above the mantel. Drapes and carpets and … God, it was a fabulous place. Kath was pea-green with envy.
At least, she was until she looked at Ruthie’s face.
Because this wasn’t the Ruthie she knew of old.
This was a pale, drawn stranger.
Kath thought that Ruthie didn’t look well. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and she’d lost weight. She was wearing an olive-green dress and jacket with a lovely silky sheen to it. Her hair was pulled back into one of those classic French chignon things. She was nicely made-up. Ruthie looked elegant, and skinny, and … well, rich. Which of course she was. But she didn’t look well. She didn’t even look happy. There was a sort of bleakness about her and once she’d been so warm, so full of laughter.
‘It’s so lovely to see you, Kath,’ said Ruthie as they stood warming themselves before the fire.
Kath saw that there were tears in her eyes.
‘Ruthie, Ruthie.’ Kath rushed forward and hugged her. Ruthie felt frail, as if she might snap in two if you hugged her too hard. Christ, she even smelled different now. Kath inhaled a sweet expensive perfume when she pulled Ruthie into her arms. Whatever scent she was wearing, it wasn’t cheap and cheerful four seven fucking eleven. It was exotic. It matched her look.
Ruthie pulled herself free, wiping away a tear.
Kath saw that her nails were bitten down to the quick.
‘Come on, let’s have a drink,’ said Ruthie.
She went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured out what looked like a large sherry for them both. She brought the brimming glasses over and plonked herself down on the couch, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and tucking her birdlike legs up under her.
Kath had expected a cup of tea, not bloody sherry in the middle of the day. Still, she took a sip just to be sociable. She didn’t like alcohol much and she was appalled to see that Ruthie knocked half of hers back straight away.
‘So,’ Kath said briskly, ‘what’s it like, being Mrs Max Carter?’
Ruthie pulled a face. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, and dipped into the sherry again.
‘He’s ever so good-looking,’ said Kath. ‘You always sort of fancied him, didn’t you? When we were thirteen or fourteen you used to stop over with me at night. Remember? We used to lie in the dark and talk about Max Carter and Jonjo and the rest of the boys, and wonder what it would be like to be married. To be in charge of our own household.’
Ruthie nodded, her heart like lead in her chest. She wasn’t in charge of this household. It was in charge of her. Or Miss Arnott was. She thought back to those carefree teenage years, of all the dreams they’d had, her and Kath; how exciting and full of promise the future had seemed.
‘Yeah, I remember.’ She emptied her glass and went to fill it again.
‘We used to wonder what it would be
