The Doris Day Vintage Film Club

Dominic launched into the tale of the bike and notes and the snotty upstairs neighbour. He’d only got to the bit where he’d tripped over the bike when Ellen returned, this time in a clean T-shirt, her hair down and with Sammy in his pyjamas. ‘There,’ she said, handing the boy back to his father, ‘you can deal with your son.’

Dominic raised his eyebrows in lieu of a question.

Pete grinned. ‘Anything smelly and revolting he does is apparently down to my genes. Ellie takes no responsibility for it whatsoever.’

Dominic chuckled. Ellen certainly had a point. He’d known Pete for ten years and there had definitely been a lot of smells and noises and other disgusting things at times.

‘Right, ‘Pete said, and hung his son upside down by the ankles. ‘We’re going to settle it once and for all … Where do poos go?’

‘Potty!’ Sammy yelled back. And then there was lots of giggling and shouting and squealing, mostly from the kid, as he tried to wriggle free of his father’s grasp.

‘So flipping well do them in there!’ Pete said, dropping his son head first onto the sofa and proceeding to tickle him.

‘Pete!’ Ellen yelled, from the kitchen that joined on to their large living room. ‘He’s never going to go to sleep if you get him all worked up like that!’

‘Okay,’ Pete called back breezily, continuing to tickle Sammy, but putting a finger in front of his mouth to indicate they should carry on quietly. Father and son grinned at each other, then Sammy surprised Pete by launching himself at his father and clinging round his neck like his life depended on it.

‘Luff you,’ he whispered into Pete’s neck.

‘Love you too, mate,’ Pete replied, his voice taking on a scratchy quality.

For some reason, Dominic found a bit of a lump in his throat.

‘Come on then, trouble,’ Pete said, standing then picking Sammy up round his middle. ‘Time to say goodnight. Mummy first …’

He disappeared into the kitchen and the clattering of pans stopped for a few seconds, then returned. ‘Don’t forget Uncle Nic,’ he said. Dominic expected Sammy to be shy, like he was last time he’d visited. Maybe a fist bump or a high-five would have done. But when Pete put Sammy down, Sammy rushed at him and gave him a hug almost as tight as he had done his father.

For a moment, Dominic wanted to just close his eyes and feel the warmth of Sam’s small body. ‘‘Night, monster,’ he said gruffly, as Pete picked Sammy up once more and headed upstairs. While he was gone, Dominic drifted in the direction of the kitchen in search of a drink.

He found Ellen in there wrestling a heap of pasta into a pan of boiling water. ‘Spag bol again, I’m afraid,’ she said, smiling ruefully at him. ‘I think we had that last time you came.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s home-cooked and I don’t have to reheat it in the microwave, so it wins on both counts. Besides, you make the best spag bol in Islington!’

‘Aw, you’re so sweet,’ Ellen said and left her sauce to come and give him a big squeezy hug. ‘We’ve missed you.’

Dominic hugged back. ‘I’ve missed you both too,’ he replied. And he really had. As much as he moaned about Pete, he and his wife were the one constant in his ever-changing world. He gave Ellen a kiss on the cheek and, as she pulled away, he said, ‘Can I help myself to a drink?’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, God. What must you think of me? I haven’t even offered you anything to drink! What do you want? Wine? Beer? Both?’

He smiled and opted for the beer. They chatted about nothing in particular until Pete came back down the stairs and joined them. He and Dominic rested their backsides against the counter of the galley kitchen and sipped cold lager out of the bottle. It was heaven.

‘Oh, yes!’ he said, after swallowing a swig. ‘I didn’t finish telling you about my upstairs neighbour.’ And he launched back into the story again, embellishing it here and there just to make Pete and Ellen laugh.

‘So, did she write back?’ Pete asked.

Dominic nodded, smiling. ‘You bet she did.’ He put his beer down and pulled a crumpled, folded envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Look at that.’

Pete took it from him and read it, chuckling, Ellen looking over his shoulder. ‘I’ve always thought you were “an unbearable, egotistical lout” myself,’ she said. And then the pasta boiled over. ‘Flip!’ she yelled. ‘That’s because you two are distracting me. Now get out of my kitchen so I can finish in peace!’

Pete saluted his wife and led the way back to the living room, where he and Dominic dropped down on different sofas. Pete handed the letter back.

‘Ah, I think your new pen pal is sweet,’ he said, giving Dominic a patronising look. ‘And she certainly is getting feisty in her old age! Maybe you should go and knock on her door, ask her out to an early bird dinner?’

Dominic looked at him. ‘Don’t be stupid. Why would I want to do that?’

Pete shrugged. ‘Because this is the closest thing you’ve had to a relationship in ages.’

The grin Pete wore as he finished his sentence got right up Dominic’s nose. He put his beer down on an end table and stared at his best friend. All traces of laughter had gone and his mouth was a thin line. ‘If you’ve got something to say, just say it.’

Pete held his hands up in mock defence. ‘Whoa,’ he said laughing. ‘What’s got your knickers in a twist?’

‘You,’ Dominic said simply. ‘You’ve been churning out the same old gag for years now. It’s getting a little old.’ Pete shook his head, still smiling, but there was a narrowing in his eyes. ‘It was just a joke, mate.’

Dominic picked up his beer again, took a long hard swig. ‘Well, it feels like more than that when you just won’t leave it alone. If this is your way of trying to tell me you think I need to find a woman and settle down, just come out and say it. Doesn’t mean I’m going to listen, but at least have the guts to be honest about it.’

Pete looked back at him warily. Dominic knew his friend well enough to know that Pete was weighing up whether he should just blow the whole thing off by making another joke, or be serious about it. Dominic was secretly hoping he’d do the former. Why on earth had he picked this fight? It was all that snarky letter writing going on between him and Ms Claire Bixby, probably. For some reason she’d got him all riled up.

Pete eventually cleared his throat and looked down at the rug, the exact spot where the poo had been when Dominic had arrived. ‘Well, I do think you’d be happier if you’d just—’

‘For crying out loud!’ Dominic waved the letter at him. ‘I’ve got one bloody busybody trying to run my life already. I don’t need you making it a double act!’

Pete’s rather bushy brows drew together and lowered. He glared at that spot on the carpet now. ‘Stop being so bloody oversensitive!’

‘I’m not being oversensitive,’ Dominic said tightly. No one had ever labelled him a drama queen – far from it – and he wasn’t going to let his best friend start now. ‘But it’s hardly surprising, is it? I only see you once every couple of months and it’s always that – or something like that – that are the first words out of your mouth. Admit it. You think there’s something wrong with me, just because I don’t want what you’ve got.’

Pete, whose expression was normally as jolly and open as a teddy bear’s, frowned and his jaw tensed. ‘Well, maybe there is something wrong with you. You’ve got to admit it, you’ve been on a romantic losing streak for a long time. It’s been years since you scared Erica away. She was a great girl, you know.’

Silence, thick and complete, fell in the living room.

Dominic saw Pete’s Adam’s apple bob. He knew he’d stepped over a line.

‘Well,’ Dominic said, draining the last of his beer and standing. ‘If you really think that, I might as well go.’ He was tempted to throw the bottle at the wall, but he knew that would upset Ellen, so he just put it down carefully on the end table and walked towards the door.

‘Nic! Mate!’ Pete began to rise.

Dominic ignored him. ‘Don’t you “mate” me,’ he said, as he passed his friend and walked out the door. ‘Mates don’t judge each other! Mates don’t tell each other what to do! Mates support each other’s decisions even if they don’t agree with them.’

And then he walked out the front door and into the annoyingly warm night. He’d have really liked the salve of cold air on his skin.

Ellen rushed into the living room, wooden spoon still in hand. She looked at the open door, and then at her sheepish husband sitting on the sofa. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said wearily. ‘What did you go and say this time?’

*

Dominic rode his bike home with little regard for traffic lights or pedestrians. He was really tempted to throw his bike in the hallway and be done with it, but he hauled it back into his spare room, muttering under his breath as he did so. The computer was sitting on the desk, its blank screen staring at him. He might as well check his email …

But he didn’t check his email. Instead, he opened up his web browser and went to Facebook. He spent a while faffing around reading things on his timeline – ‘meaningful’ quotes, status updates about friends’ pets, silly quizzes that everyone knew were silly but still did anyway. He discovered his knowledge of rock lyrics was legendary, that his Hobbit name was Ogbutt Merryfoot and that if he were an ice cream flavour he’d be vanilla – which he was quite upset about.

Eventually, though, he clicked through to what he’d really come here to look at, even though he’d been kidding himself he hadn’t.

Erica’s profile popped up in front of him. She’d changed her picture, he noted. One of her on holiday, looking tanned and relaxed. She’d smiled at him like that at the beginning of their relationship.

His finger hovered above the mouse button. He should unfriend her, he knew. He was going to. It was just … It seemed a bit petty, especially as they’d been broken up almost four years now. There wasn’t any venom left between them. She’d moved on. New husband, twins, a house in the suburbs. And he’d moved on too.

Hadn’t he?

Even though he knew he shouldn’t, he clicked on her photos tab. Instantly, scores popped up. Erica out with the girls. Erica cuddling her babies. Erica smiling with her new husband.

Obviously, he hadn’t had trouble giving her what she wanted, what she needed. What she’d eventually told Dominic he was incapable of.

You can’t do it, can you? she’d levelled at him. You can’t go anywhere beneath the surface. Or you won’t … and I can’t spend my life with a man like that, a man who refuses to open up to me and doesn’t want me to open up to him. So I’m sorry, Dominic, the answer is no. I can’t – I won’t – marry you. Not unless you can change.

He closed his eyes and inhaled.

God help him, he’d tried. Really tried. But it hadn’t been enough for her and eventually she’d left, and he’d just got the offer to do that filming job in Madagascar, so he’d left too. Just started travelling. Hadn’t really, truly come home again. Not in his head and his heart anyway. It was easier this way. Why kill yourself trying to do something you weren’t cut out for? Better to stick to what you were good at, and what he was good at was travelling – and making films.

He didn’t want it anyway. That’s probably why he was rubbish at long-term anythings.

With a sigh, he realised he hadn’t been angry with Pete because he’d been wrong, but because he’d been right. He was going to have to apologise, wasn’t he? But Pete would just have to leave it alone after that, not go digging in that wound just because he could. It had been okay to rib each other like that when they’d both been young, free and stupid, but the dynamic had changed now.

He shook his head, shut Erica’s profile down and turned his computer off. Look who was poking at old wounds just because he could. Pete had nothing to do with his little pity fest just now.

Stupid man, he told himself. You’re happy as you are.

But, as he wandered into the kitchen to eat yet another tiny box of cereal – a poor substitution for Ellen’s spag bol – he couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like to have a little mini version of himself like Pete had, and just whether that might plug the growing hole inside him, the one that seemed to widen every time he got on an aeroplane.

Chapter Eight

Teacher’s Pet

They’d already started watching the film when Claire heard someone slide in the door and shuffle into a seat at the back. She waited a few moments then glanced nonchalantly over her shoulder.

Abby. That was a surprise. When she’d been absent at the usual start time, Claire had assumed they’d seen the last of her.

As Teacher’s Pet rolled on, Claire found her thoughts returning to the newest member of the Doris Day Film Club more than once. Although Abby seemed out of place in their little group, Claire couldn’t help thinking that maybe fate had brought her their way. There was a lost quality about her that made Claire think of a scared stray animal.

If Abby’s mother was as demanding as she sounded, Claire suspected they were on a losing mission right from the start. However, Abby had come to them for help, and for that reason alone they would try. Doris herself would almost certainly approve – although the strays she championed since her retirement from Hollywood tended to be the furry, four-legged kind.

In a strange way, Abby reminded Claire of the Clark Gable character in Teacher’s Pet. He played a ‘tough as nails’ journalist who had a chip on his shoulder about other people getting the education he’d been denied. While Claire didn’t think Abby had a chip on her shoulder about being a girl, she’d done what the hard-nosed newspaper man had done – instead of trying, she’d just given up and turned her comfort zone into a fortress.

‘God, how I love that film,’ Candy said, as the lights went back on again and the credits rolled. ‘I love the fact that Doris was playing intelligent career women who could hold their own against any man back in the late fifties, before it was really fashionable. That scene where she tells Clark Gable off in the lift is pure gold dust.’

Bev and Maggs murmured their agreement.

‘Despite the huge age gap between Clark and Doris, it still works as a romance,’ Peggy said, joining the discussion. ‘The characters are unusually three-dimensional for a romantic comedy.’

Kitty giggled. ‘My favourite bit is when Clark kisses Doris in her office, taking her by surprise, and her legs buckle under her when she walks back to her desk.’

Grace sighed. ‘I want to be kissed like that one day.’

Everyone turned and looked at her. It was the most she’d said all evening.

‘Don’t we all,’ Maggs added dryly, and the whole room had a chuckle, including Abby, who then flushed and looked at the floor.

Claire stood up. ‘Before we all head off tonight, I want us to put our heads together and see if we can find a way to help our newest member.’ She glanced at Abby, who now looked as if she was about to slide off her seat and under the table. Claire understood the urge to squirm when one was the focus of attention better than anyone, but there wasn’t any other way, and this was what Abby had asked of them, after all.

‘Watching films is all well and good, and we all know Doris had impeccable style, but I think we probably have it within our small group to offer some practical help too.’ She turned to look at Candy specifically, who had a very sensible head on her shoulders and always looked stylish, but Kitty started bouncing in her seat.

‘We’d love to help, wouldn’t we, Grace?’

Grace nodded coolly.

‘We’ve already talked about it,’ Kitty added.

Abby looked warily from one to the other. ‘You have?’

The vintage girls, both in red and white polka dots this week – Kitty with white on red, Grace with red on white – looked at each other before continuing.

‘If you’d let us … We’d really like to give you a makeover.’

Abby looked shocked, as if she’d just been announced the next Miss Universe, and maybe just as tearful. ‘You’d do that? For me?’

Both girls nodded. ‘You’d be helping us really. We love doing makeovers,’ Kitty said, ‘but Grace says she’s getting bored doing them on just me. What we really need is a fresh canvas.’

‘Fresh meat, more like,’ Maggs muttered under her breath.

‘Are you up for it?’ Kitty asked, nodding encouragingly.

‘Um … I think so.’

‘Great!’ Kitty said, clapping her hands together. ‘How about we do it before the next film club meeting?

Abby looked nervously between them. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘We’re going to have so much fun,’ Kitty said brightly, as she stood up, and she and Grace linked arms and scurried away, plotting furiously as they disappeared down the stairs.

The rest of the club members started to drift after them, but before Abby escaped, Claire went over to her. ‘Are you okay with the whole makeover idea? It’s fine to say if you’re not.’

Abby looked grim for a few long moments. ‘I’m as fine as I’m ever going to be with it, and I’ll never get those tickets if I don’t, so I suppose I’ll just have to do it, no matter how I feel about it.’

‘Is it a special match?’

Claire expected Abby to nod just as emphatically, but instead she looked flustered and her cheeks grew pinker. ‘Kind of …’ She looked at her trainers as she scuffed the offensively patterned carpet with one of them. Eventually, she looked up at Claire from under her hair. ‘It’s not so much who’s playing, but who I was hoping to ask to go with me.’ And then she blushed even harder.

‘A boy?’

Abby’s eyes stayed on the carpet. She nodded. ‘I’ve known him since we were in primary school together. We bonded over a shared love of football and we’ve been friends ever since, it’s just … every time I look at him, things seem to go a bit weird.’

Claire nodded. She remembered feeling that way about boys when she was Abby’s age, that swirly feeling in her stomach when you thought about them. The little kick of your pulse when you knew you were going to see them.

‘Does he feel the same way?’

Abby’s face told Claire everything she needed to know. ‘I’m just “Abs” to him, his mate with the killer left foot, but I thought maybe if we could get away from the other lads, have some time on our own …’

Ah, it was all starting to make sense now: Abby’s sudden and desperate need to embrace her hitherto undiscovered feminine side, why she’d come back to the Doris Day Film Club.

‘Can’t you talk to your mum about this? If you told her why you wanted the tickets, she might understand.’

Abby shook her head, her lips a thin line. ‘All she wanted after two boys was a daughter she could fuss over and dress up and go shopping with, and instead she got me. I’m just one huge disappointment to her. She just thinks Ricky encourages me in my tomboy ways.’

Claire gave Abby what she hoped was a sympathetic look. ‘Well, we – the club and I – are going to do everything we can to make sure you prove her wrong at that party. If you want our help, we’ll pull out all the stops to make it happen.’

Abby stood up, looking concerned. ‘Do you really think you can help me look like a girl?’

I’m sure we can,’ she said, smiling.

Abby smiled weakly back. ‘Thank you, Claire.’

Claire watched her trail down the stairs, looking slightly less forlorn than when she’d arrived, and then she made sure everything was shipshape, switched off the lights and closed the door.

Much to her surprise, she found Maggs waiting for her on the landing. ‘Well …’ Maggs said. ‘Have you read it?’

Read what? Claire almost said, and then she remembered. She hadn’t used that handbag since last week and she’d made herself forget about the letter. Besides, she’d had other letters on her mind since then – a string of notes going backwards and forwards between her and her cheeky neighbour. On the one hand, he was driving her crazy, but on the other, she had to admit he had quite a way with words, and sometimes he could be quite funny.

No, she thought to herself. Do not be sucked in by surface charm. That was how her mother had got snared by her father. He’d seemed lovely while they’d been going out, courteous, strong, principled. It was only after she’d married him that she’d discovered just how iron-clad those principles were, and just how exacting he could be if anyone failed to meet his standards.

Okay, her downstairs neighbour was nothing like him – mainly because he had no standards whatsoever – but the advice was good all the same. Always look deeper. Always look beneath. Exactly what she hadn’t done with Philip.

Her ex-husband proved her point quite nicely. He’d seemed the polar opposite from her father when she’d met him. He’d been romantic and affectionate and thoughtful, but she’d still fallen into her mother’s trap. Maybe she wouldn’t have if Mum had been around to warn her. Gran had tried, but Claire had pigheadedly refused to listen, and then, after a few years, when she’d really realised what he was like, she’d been too stubborn and proud to admit she was wrong.

Anyway, she didn’t want to think about Philip. It was over. In the past. She was moving on, just as she had done with her father.

They started walking down the stairs, and Claire could feel Maggs looking at her. ‘What?’ she asked.

‘Well? Have you read it?’ Maggs said, rather impatiently. It was only then Claire realised she’d been so lost in thought – hijacked first by Mr Dominic Arden and then her ex – that she’d forgotten to answer her.

‘Sorry,’ she said laughing. ‘Away with the fairies. And, no, I haven’t read it. I don’t intend to. I told you that last week.’

Maggs didn’t say anything. Didn’t mean she wasn’t communicating heaps.

‘I know you think it’s a mistake,’ Claire continued, ‘but I can’t do it. What happened, happened, and I have no desire to revisit it. What was it that Doris’s brother said about her? Something about her never being concerned beyond what the momentary problem was … That’s how she’s managed to say stay so bright and sunny in the face of everything that happened to her, and I think I’m going to adopt that philosophy.’

Maggs just grunted softly. ‘That all sounds very pretty, but don’t forget … the past has a habit of coming back to bite you in the derrière whether you want it to or not.’

‘Don’t you worry about my derrière,’ Claire said, as they emerged into the lounge bar of The Glass Bottom Boat. Kitty, Grace and Abby were sitting at a small table, the vintage girls talking animatedly, Abby looking slightly bemused. George was hovering near the door. He looked as if he was about to say something as Claire and Maggs approached, but Maggs just gave him a little wave and carried on out the door.

‘Claire said she’d give me a lift again this week,’ she said, as she swept past, too late to see George’s expression turn from hopeful to crestfallen. Claire didn’t miss it though.

She almost said something to Maggs, but Maggs was wearing that inscrutable, don’t-try-to-mess-with-me expression that Claire knew only too well. She’d say something, all right, but with Maggs timing was everything. She’d just have to pick her moment carefully.

They walked slowly down the street in silence. This week she hadn’t been able to find a space near the pub, so she’d had to park down the side of the playing fields opposite, but it was a nice night for a walk – warm, not as sticky as recently, and the proximity to midsummer meant that it wasn’t fully dark yet and a slash of turquoise edged the horizon, despite the fact it was past ten.

Claire walked, trying to keep her mind on the sound of her shoes on the cracked paving stones, on the hum of a city summer night – dogs barking, neighbours arguing, someone somewhere playing a radio too loud so the music drifted between the houses and out into the almost-deserted park. But her mind refused to focus on these concrete, present day things. Now that Maggs had brought him up, it kept drifting back to her father, images of him, memories. She felt as if her mind was a runaway car, which kept veering slowly off in the wrong direction and then she’d notice and grab the steering wheel and coerce it into going back onto the route she’d planned for it.