Plender Read Free Page A

to make any difference. And at least there they don’t behave as if they were in a race.”
    She tied the scarf in a bow beneath her chin. Her head looked like a wrapped cabbage.
    She squeezed my leg and grinned up into my face.
    “I expect your wife goes there, doesn’t she?”
    I smiled a sort of smile and nodded.
    “Funny if we were ever sitting next to each other under the driers.”
    “Hilarious,” I said. “Look, I think the rain’s easing off a bit. Let’s go now.”
    We got out of the Mercedes and rushed across the car park and into the alley that led into Jackson Street. I swore. The neon that said Peggy’s Bar was unlit. That meant that the alley entrance was locked. I tried it just in case.
    “Aren’t they open yet?” said Eileen.
    “They’re open,” I said. “But it means we’ll have to go in via the hotel lobby.”
    “So?”
    The silly cow. That was one of the reasons I’d chosen Peggy’s Bar because of where the entrance was.
    “Come on then,” I said.
    We walked through to Jackson Street and into the lobby of the Royal Hotel. I ushered Eileen quickly over to the winding staircase that led down to the basement and into the soft lights of Peggy’s Bar.
    The bar was empty. Except for Peggy himself setting up his bar with his usual fussy, meticulous care.
    I sat Eileen in one of the booths. The waiter service didn’t begin this early so I went over to the bar.
    “So what’s all this then?” said Peggy, coming the arch bit. “Bringing Auntie Peggy some competition, are we?”
    “Give over,” I said. “You know you love it. Gives you a chance to show off.”
    “Well, I hope she’s broadminded, that’s all I can say.”
    “So do I or else I’m on a wasted evening,” I said.
    “You married men,” said Peggy. “You’re the worst of the lot.”
    “Anyway,” I said, “I’ll have a gin and bitter lemon for the lady and a large Scotch for myself, and what are you going to have?”
    “Well, if you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll have the same as the lady’s having.”
    “You won’t, you know,” I said. “You’ll have a gin and bitter lemon and like it.”
    “Well,” he said coyly, “it was worth a try.”
    Peggy turned away to make the drinks and I took out a cigarette and thought about the evening ahead. This was the best part, really. The thinking about it, the excitement generated by the expectation, the mind’s-eye two-way mirror, clear as crystal, the clarity of the mental images blurring the physical reality which could never be so good. But even knowing that whatever happened, knowing that the let-down would come, the excitement was still real, undeniable, unmanageable, whatever the rationalization before or after the fact. It didn’t make any difference. I always jumped in feet first and ended up hoping for better luck next time.
    But this girl seemed the best better-luck-next-time for ages. The type. The looks told me. A real Top of the Popper. She should know. But would she want? Would she even if what I wanted didn’t turn her on? Some girls were insulted. A frontal attack on their pre-conditioned sexual patterns usually evoked the source; memories of mum beating out her great respectability riff squashing and squeezing the imagination of the kiddies’ games, preventing me from acting out my own stifled preadolescent frustrated fantasies. Not that they didn’t want to; they did. They’d probably seen the games, heard the hot-flushing little stories in the cloakrooms and even if they hadn’t they’d occurred in their minds, like it or not, admitted or otherwise. “But that wasn’t the same,” they’d say, “that was at school. You couldn’t behave like that now.” “Why not?” “Well, you couldn’t; if you did you’d feel . . .” “Guilty?” “Well, yes. Ashamed.” “Precisely. Couldn’t have put it better myself.” Shame. Guilt. The Protestant ethic. Hand in hand with hard work and self- restraint and self-respect and