My heart stopped as his face drew closer. Then his lips closed in on mine. I’d read about snogging in magazines and about how magical your first kiss is, but honestly I had always thought that it sounded rather disgusting with tongues touching. It felt a bit odd when Jock’s lips came down on mine. Not weird odd. Just different odd. But I was sure I’d get used to it.
‘You’re beautiful, Betty,’ he told me. ‘When can I see you again?’
We went out every Saturday night for the next year. He began to call me his ‘wee hen’, which I found rather strange at first until he explained it was a Scotsman’s way of ‘addressing his lady’. Then it made me feel special. On my eighteenth birthday, he took me to the local Berni Inn! I’d often walked past it and admired the smart couples going in and out with their flash cars. Never had I thought I’d go into it myself.
‘Don’t mind if I order for us both, do you?’ he asked.
Thank goodness! I wouldn’t have known what to choose. We had steak (I’d never had it before!) and chips, followed by apple crumble.
As I dug my spoon in, I felt it hit something hard. I didn’t like to say anything in case it was part of the dessert. Then I gasped. It was a beautiful small diamond ring. When I wiped off the custard, it sparkled in the candlelight.
Jock got down on his knees. Everyone in the restaurant was looking.
‘Betty,’ he said. ‘Will you do me the honour of being my wife?’
I could feel my heart pounding. What should I say?
‘I don’t know if my dad will let me,’ I whispered.
‘It’s all right,’ he replied. ‘I’ve already got his permission.’
When I said yes, everyone around us clapped like we were on stage. Part of me was on cloud nine. I was going to get married! Of course I’d done the right thing in accepting. Yet at the same time, something didn’t feel quite right – though I couldn’t have said what, exactly.
‘You’ll have to wait until you’re twenty to get married,’ said my father when we returned home that night with the diamond sitting proudly on my left hand.
‘And no hanky panky until then,’ my mother added in front of my new fiancé. I’d blushed like a beetroot.
‘Two years is a long time to wait, sir,’ said Jock smartly.
Just what I’d been thinking. But I wouldn’t dare say so.
My dad’s eyes went hard. ‘My daughter’s still young. Marriage is for life. If you can’t be bothered to hang around, that’s your decision.’
I wanted to cry. ‘Please, Dad,’ I said.
But Jock placed a hand on my arm. ‘It’s all right, Betty. Your father’s right.’ Then he took his hand away and reached out to shake my dad’s. ‘You have my word. Love is worth waiting for. And meanwhile, I promise to treat your daughter with the respect she deserves.’
My parents believed him.
And so did I.
3
Poppy
Matthew Gordon is here? I can’t believe it, and yet there he is, standing right in front of me.
What do I say? Shock makes the inside of my mouth go dry and sponges up all the words that might otherwise have come out. I can smell the curiosity in the air. Everyone is looking at us. As I’ve just said, it’s not because they recognize him, since the younger ones probably wouldn’t even have heard of him. That TV drama which had afforded him a short burst of fame had been years ago, when I’d been in my twenties. Since then, he hadn’t appeared in anything major, as far as I knew. The acting profession can be like that. Loves you one minute; turns its back on you the next.
No. People are staring because Matthew has all the presence of a Hollywood star. That assured, easy stance and penetrating stare can make you feel like the most important person in the world. As I know all too well. The spotlight is also on him as a new face in a room where nearly everyone is acquainted with everyone else in this industry. And unless I’m careful, people will want to know exactly why this distinguished-looking man has headed straight for me and – more importantly – why I am standing here like a complete goof, unable to talk. In fact, why am I? He is the one who should be nervous about meeting me again.
‘Hi,’ I squeak, finally finding my voice. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Actually …’ he starts to say, but before he can finish, Jennifer rushes up, followed by Doris.
‘I loved you in Peter’s Paradise,’ she gushes. ‘I used to cut your face out of the Radio Times and stick it on my bedroom wall. I wept buckets when my mother tore it down and your forehead got ripped. I looked everywhere for you after that.’
‘Me too,’ Doris says breathlessly. ‘I wanted you for my toy boy! All the checkout girls had the hots for you. Where did you go? Hollywood?’
Matthew laughs. He used to have several versions but I remember this one. It’s a laugh designed to conceal embarrassment. That had been part of his charm. When I first saw Matthew, I thought he was far too good-looking and confident to talk to me. But when we got to know each other better, I discovered how touchingly vulnerable he was underneath. At least it seemed touching, back then.
‘Actually, I did audition for some roles in LA,’ he says, ‘but I didn’t want to leave the UK.’ He glances at me. ‘My wife was keen to stay over here and family has to come first.’
‘Ah,’ coos Doris. ‘That’s so nice. But what have you been doing?’
I want to take her to one side and gently explain that she can’t ask these kind of questions. But Matthew doesn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he likes being recognized again. ‘This and that,’ he says airily. ‘A few small roles here and there. A bit of teaching too at drama school. These young actors need all the help they can get nowadays.’
He manages to sound almost philanthropic. I remember now how adroit he was at being nice to others while at the same time putting himself in a good light. I also recall how he would encourage me to do something for ‘my’ benefit when it was really for his. So why, when I know what this man is like, am I feeling so ridiculously jittery?
‘How good of you,’ gulps Jennifer, brushing against him, no doubt in the hope of catching some of his magic stardust. ‘I’m always saying that diction simply isn’t what it was!’
Matthew puts his head to one side as if considering this. ‘That is sometimes true.’
‘I heard,’ adds Jennifer eagerly, as if encouraged by his partial agreement, ‘that you’re looking for a vicar role! I must say that I can see you as that dishy priest if they remade something like The Thorn Birds! SO sexy!’
I want to sink into the ground in embarrassment but Matthew appears flattered. ‘That’s very kind. Actually, you heard wrong. I’m not really the vicar type.’
You can say that again.
‘So why are you here?’ demands Doris, who usually comes straight to the point where men are concerned.
Matthew fiddles with his open collar for a second and then stuffs his hands in his pockets. Both are acting techniques for delaying replies on stage and in real life, as I’m well aware. ‘A casting director friend suggested I came along to network. In fact, I’m thinking of becoming an agent myself.’ He pats my bare shoulder. (I’m wearing an emerald-green halter-neck top, tucked into my borrowed trousers. The colour, or so I was once told, goes well with my hair.) My skin burns at the touch. ‘And who do I find here? My old friend Poppy.’