Julia put her arm through Mattie’s.
‘So how much have we got?’
With Mattie’s three days’ pay, and what was left of Johnny Flowers’s pound note (‘Why did you let him go?’ Mattie demanded. ‘He sounds just what we need.’) they had almost five pounds. They felt like Lady Docker.
‘Food,’ Mattie said decisively.
They made straight for the nearest fish and chip shop and ordered double portions of everything.
‘That,’ Mattie sighed later as she folded up the last triangle of bread and butter and bit into it, ‘was the best meal I have ever eaten. You’re right. I have revived.’
‘So what shall we do?’
‘We—ll. We could find somewhere to stay the night …’
‘Or we could go dancing, and then we needn’t go to bed at all.’
‘You’re right.’
‘Stick with me.’
It was still early, and they dawdled arm in arm along Oxford Street, then Julia steered them south into Wardour Street.
‘I’ve just thought. Where are the suitcases?’
‘We’re going to get them. This way.’
The strip joint had done its best to shake off its depressing aspect ready for the night’s trade. The coloured bulbs were lit, and flickered bravely. The lights were on inside too, and Mickey was wedged belligerently in the doorway behind a placard reading THE SAUCIEST SHOW IN TOWN.
He spotted Julia at once.
‘Here! Monty doesn’t know nothing about no new girl.’
Julia smiled, trying to dazzle him with charm.
‘I’m sorry. It was a mistake. Can we just take our cases out of your way …’
But Mickey was staring at Mattie. ‘Now you,’ he said, ‘are the sort of girl Monty always goes for. Looking for a job, are you?’
Mattie stuck her chin out. ‘Not your sort of job. Thanks very much.’
Julia retrieved the luggage and they retreated.
‘Come back any time you fancy,’ Mickey yelled after them. ‘You with the hair.’
They turned the corner and then stopped, giggling.
‘I can’t leave you alone for a single day, can I?’ Mattie teased. ‘Without you getting involved in a strip show. Fancy earning your living by taking your clothes off for a crowd of dirty men.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Julia answered light-heartedly. ‘Easier than hammering a typewriter all day. Or selling fourteen pairs of shoes.’
Mattie cocked her head.
‘Listen.’
It was music, drumming out somewhere below their feet.
‘Mmm.’ Julia tried out a few steps on the pavement. ‘And look.’
There was a dingy doorway sandwiched between two shops, with a temporary-looking notice pinned to the door.
NOW OPEN! THE ROCKET CLUB.
That was how they stumbled across it.
They had been heading round the corner to Cy Laurie’s, but the Rocket was there and in its opening week it was offering free membership to girls. Mattie and Julia didn’t need any more encouragement.
A flight of uneven steps led down to a white-painted cellar. There were tables around the walls, a bar selling soft drinks, and travel posters stuck on the walls for decoration. There was a trad jazz combo just hotting up, and people spinning and whirling in the white space.
They forgot everything, and launched themselves into the dance.
It was easy to forget, in those days.
The club filled up, and the heat and the pulsing rhythm and the exhilaration of dancing swept them up and created a separate, absorbing world. They danced with anyone who asked them, not noticing whether they were young or old or white or black, and when the supply of partners temporarily dried up they danced with each other.
It was a long, hot night and it went like a flash.
At a table against the wall, from behind a stub of candle jammed into a wine bottle, Felix Lemoine was watching them.
There were lots of girls a bit like them, he thought, but there was something about these two that singled them out. They were striking enough to look at, although their clothes were grubby and looked home-made. The taller one with the dark hair had an angular, arresting face that was almost beautiful, and a thin, restless body. Her friend was plainer, but her foaming mass of hair shone in the candlelight and she was a better dancer. She moved gracefully, holding her head up.
It wasn’t their appearances that interested him, Felix decided. It was their vitality. He could almost feel the crackle of it from where he sat. The two girls were absorbed in themselves, in their dancing and the world they had created, and they were careless of everything else. Felix liked that carelessness. He had already identified it as style.
He took a notepad and pencil out of his inner pocket, and began to draw.
When the drawing was finished he went on sitting there. It didn’t occur to him to ask one of them to dance.
He just watched, as he always did.
It was quiet in the studio. The Saturday afternoon life class was an unpopular option. The model was a woman, and she had been sitting for an hour. Her face was expressionless and her body looked flaccid, Felix thought, as if she had gone away somewhere and left it behind. Her long hair was pinned up on the top of her head to show the lines of her jaw and throat. He drew carefully, shading in the coils of hair. That was easy enough, but the rest of her body was more difficult. The soft heaviness of it made him feel uncomfortable, wanting to look away instead of spending another whole hour staring at it.
He glanced around at the handful of other students. They were drawing intently. The tutor strolled between them, watching. When he reached Felix’s chair he stopped and murmured, ‘Your execution is good, Lemoine, but there’s no feeling. Loosen up.’
Felix mumbled his reply, and the tutor looked at the big clock on the wall. He nodded briskly to the model. She stood up, stretching unconcernedly, and pulled on a pink wrap. Then she lit a cigarette and unfolded a newspaper. She would rest for fifteen minutes and then resume her position.
Felix put his pencil away. He waited until the tutor was on the other side of the room, and then he slipped outside. Two of the other students followed him.
‘Coming outside for a fag, Felix?’
