Kiss Read Free

was only rented, of course, but Izzy had thrown herself into redecorating with her usual enthusiasm and flair for the dramatic the moment they’d moved in eighteen months earlier. And although she might not have been able to afford the luxury of wallpaper she had more than made up for it with richly shaded paints, striking borders and her own dazzling sense of style. Many hours of multi-coloured stencilling and artful picture-hanging later, the effect had been as spectacular as Katerina had known it would be and within the space of four days the flat had become a home.
     
    It was one of Izzy’s more unexpected talents and if Katerina had been less loyal, she might have wished that her mother would consider a career in interior design, or even good old painting and decorating. Admittedly, it wasn’t likely to bring her fame and fortune beyond her wildest dreams, but it was decent, gainful employment and was even rumoured to bring with it a reasonably regular wage . . .
     
    Katerina simply couldn’t imagine what it might have been like, growing up with a mother who didn’t sing. As far back as she was able to remember, Izzy had always been there, careering from one financial crisis to the next and at the same time eternally optimistic that the inevitable big break was just around the corner. When she was very small Katerina had perched on beer crates in dingy, smoke-filled pubs and working men’s clubs, sipping Coke and listening to her mother sing while all around her the audience got on with the serious business of getting Saturday-night drunk. Sometimes there would be appreciative applause, which was what Izzy lived for. At other times, a fight would break out among the customers and Izzy’s songs would be forgotten in the ensuing excitement. Periodically, the hecklers would turn out, either joining in with bawdy alternative lyrics or targeting Izzy directly and laughing inanely at their own imagined wit. Katerina’s eyes would fill with tears whenever this happened and the longing to land a seven-year-old punch on the noses of the perpetrators would be so great that she had to grip the sides of the crate upon which she sat in order to prevent herself from doing so. In her eyes, her mother was Joan of Arc, a heroine hounded by ignorant peasants. Afterwards, Izzy would laugh and say it didn’t matter because she’d earned £3.40, she would press the 40p into her daughter’s small hand and give her a hug. It didn’t matter, she would explain cheerfully, because everybody needed to start somewhere; that was a fact of life. And anyone who could survive an evening in a working men’s club on the outskirts of Blackpool was going to find Las Vegas a doddle in comparison.
     
    At school the next day, Katerina’s teacher had found her poring over an atlas in search of that elusive town. In answer to the question, ‘What’s it like in Las Vegas?’ Miss Brent had replied with a disapproving sniff, ‘It’s a town where everybody gambles,’ and Katerina had been reassured. Lambs gambolled in fields. In her imagination, Las Vegas became one big, emerald-green field, with all its inhabitants skipping and bouncing and smiling at each other. ‘My mum’s going to take me to Las Vegas,’ she confided happily. ‘When we get there, I’m going to gamble every day.’
     
     
    Las Vegas, needless to say, hadn’t happened. Izzy’s big break had stubbornly failed to materialise and life had continued its haphazard, impecunious course, although at least working men’s clubs were now a thing of the past. Platform One, where Izzy had worked for the past eighteen months, might not be Ronnie Scott’s, but it was situated in Soho and the clientele, on the whole, were appreciative. Here, in London, as Izzy always maintained, there was always that chance of a chance . . . one never knew who might walk through the door one night, hear her singing and realise that she was the one they needed to take the leading role in the show