CHAPTER
TWELVE – FLATS
Lindsay felt more than a touch elated as the British Caledonian 1-11 lined up to land at Gatwick. He had downed the best part of a bottle of champagne, glass by glass, and might well have found a new soulmate into the bargain, for he had bared his soul to Aileen between glasses, and she had made it clear that she understood his dilemma quite perfectly.
‘She’s no the girl for you.’ Aileen’s voice had brimmed with sympathy. She was having an ace day. Lindsay was a really interesting man, with what sounded like a big comfortable flat within easy reach of Victoria, and plans to be away from base for a while. She might, if she played her cards right, conceivably be able to wheedle herself in as some kind of caretaker, paying a fairly nominal rent, and solve a pressing problem. Her landlord in Crawley wanted to raise the rent of the flat she shared with Heather and Yvonne, and had complained after hearing wildly exaggerated tales of loud noises and breaking glass from a silly trio of nurses sharing the ground floor beneath them – nasty little cows. Heaven might be smiling. She could take him back to the flat, en route to London, see how he squared with the other two, and try to charm him into providing the three of them with a new home. A small warning light flashed momentarily at the back of her mind, but she switched it off. She knew she comfortably outclassed both Heather and Yvonne, and first come, first served. She would stake out proprietorial rights, Lindsay would fly off to the Bahamas and points beyond, and all would rejoice, because they would keep Lindsay’s flat spotless. It would be the least they could do in return for a nominal rent.
The 1-11 bumped down on the Gatwick runway and she composed herself quickly back into British Caledonian mode. ‘I hope you enjoyed your flight, sir.’ She paused a fraction before adding the last word. Now was the time for maximum thrust. Her chinablue eyes shone with quite delicious invitation.
Lindsay was hooked, cooked, and quite entangled. ‘Where do we meet?’
‘Oh.’ Aileen put her hand to her mouth. She had quite forgotten, in all her daydreaming, about more practical things. She spoke quickly, because the 1-11 would soon be docking.
‘Wait for the economy passengers to disembark: I’ll tell you when. Then follow the signs for the transit lounge. I’ll collect you there.’
Lindsay got to his feet, and stood waiting. He needed a token of trust.
Aileen stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. ‘Get on with ye. Get cracking. They’ll kill me if I’m found bussing a passenger.’ Then she relented, and kissed Lindsay quickly, before pushing him towards the door of the plane. ‘That’s all you get for the moment. I’ll meet you in transit.’
Gatwick was a warren of glass corridors. Lindsay followed a series of signs to the transit lounge, bought himself a cup of black coffee, and settled unobtrusively into a corner seat. He did not have to wait long. Aileen came flying in, with an official look on her face.
‘Mr. Lindsay, sir?’ She winked quickly, drooping an eyelid: she was obviously acting a role for the benefit of all possible observers. ‘Your charter is waiting down at the GAT.’
Lindsay followed as she led the way out along another glass corridor, trying not to stare at her backside twitching under her tartan skirt. She was certainly a dishy girl. The door opened onto a staircase leading down to ground level, and a second door at the bottom. Aileen fumbled with the handle and he closed up on her, circling her with his arms. But she was surprisingly strong, and shook him off deftly.
‘I told you to wait.’ She was already past the door as she smiled back at him. ‘Gatwick’s no place for canoodling.’ She paused, setting her face back into its official look. ‘Now listen. I’m taking you out through the GAT, the General Aircraft Terminal, it’s for private jets and light aircraft, stuff like that. My Mini’s parked in the staff carpark just beyond. Follow me until I reach the carpark entrance, then keep walking: I don’t want them taking an interest in you. I’ll pick you up.’
Lindsay hesitated. ‘You won’t go without me?’
‘No, I won’t go without you.’ This time she kissed him harder, pressing against him for a brief moment before twisting herself free. ‘D’you think I want to miss a free dinner?’
The GAT dozed in the late afternoon sun. A couple of Customs men sat playing a lazy hand of canasta with a Passport Control officer and the duty Terminal clerk. All four looked up as a couple walked past the open door, and returned to their cards. Airline staff used the exit as a short cut all the time. They were coming to the end of their shift, and were much too drowsy to insist on formalities.
Five minutes later Lindsay was tucked into the front passenger seat of a green Mini Cooper, travelling towards Reigate at speed. Aileen drove like a stock car racer, and Lindsay held to the edge of his seat as she beat up on corners and whacked the car into turn. Once or twice he closed his eyes and caught his breath. He prided himself on driving fast, but this girl was a real racer. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, daydreaming. He imagined Aileen in his bedroom, standing waiting for him, quite naked. Hopefully they might race together.
The car stopped in front of a small modern townhouse in a quiet treelined street. Aileen swung herself out of the car, smiling in at him. ‘Did you enjoy the ride?’
Lindsay took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got grey hairs.’
She looked pleased. ‘Good. That should keep you quiet for a while. Wait here while I go and see if the others are at home. I must change as well.’
‘You’re not going to leave me here?’
She laughed, her eyes flashing, and Lindsay was sure she was quite the prettiest girl he had seen for a very long time. Well, since his flight to Berlin. ‘You can come up if they’re in. Otherwise you stay in the car. I don’t want you trying to help me dress.’
‘Undress?’
‘Or that.’ She giggled, and was gone.
Aileen, Heather and Yvonne shared the flat as a furnished let on a short lease. It was nothing to crow about, functional and almost bare: with Heather and Yvonne sharing one room, Aileen occupying a tiny back bedroom on her own, and one larger front room serving as living room, diningroom, and general meeting place. The flat also had a tiny kitchenette and a rather cramped bathroom. She did not care for it much, because she was used to better things – her father was an Edinburgh doctor with a good-sized house in a generous garden. But it was cheap, and close to Gatwick. All three girls had often talked of finding somewhere better, roomier if perhaps a touch dearer, but talk had so far come to nothing. So they lived on, more than a little cramped, and dreamed of finding somewhere really good, and squabbled from time, and occasionally screamed and smashed glasses.
Aileen ran up the stairs, and burst into the front room. Heather and Yvonne sat side by side on the sofa, with the television colourful in front of them. They were both casually dressed in t-shirts and jeans, and barefoot. The livingroom was a mess.
‘Come on.’ She was quick in her excitement. ‘I’ve got a man outside, and he could provide us with a new home in London if we charm him.’ She began to tidy bits and pieces into place. ‘Come on, come on. Get this place tidied a bit. He’s got a big flat in the Kings Road, he’s been sharing with a model. She’s gone off with another man, and he’s away to the Bahamas for a wee while. He’s going to need flatsitters.’
Heather and Yvonne stared up at her, and suddenly her words connected. They both leaped to their feet, and the flat suddenly blazed with action. Girls ran here, girls ran there, and chaos began to transmute into a kind of order. Heather rapidly tidied the remnants of lunch into the kitchenette, and began to wash up. Yvonne raced round, retrieving stray bits of underwear from behind armchairs to stuff them hurriedly into drawers. All three surveyed their wardrobes, and changed quickly into summer dresses. Magic worked a spell as time stood still, and the flat was seemly in the blink of an eye. Well, perhaps quarter of an hour later.
‘Ok.’ Aileen looked round, and nodded. ‘I’ll go down and bring him up, and you two can entertain him while I get ready.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘And no funny stuff. I found him: I keep him.’
Lindsay smiled politely as he entered a rather cramped livingroom. Two girls sat on a small sofa in front of a television, inspecting him with great interest. Neither of them was a patch on Aileen, but they both looked presentable: one slim and dark and rather intense looking, the other rather more placid and auburn haired. He thought of his need for a flatsitter, or flatsitters, to keep Melanie out, and wads of dollars burned in his jacket pocket. He felt generous. Dinner for four? A man and three girls? Perhaps they would fight over him. He set out to charm, and both Heather and Yvonne were bewitched. They rapidly decided that Aileen’s new discovery ranked streets ahead of anything Reigate and British Caledonian could offer, and his flat in the King’s Road sounded like paradise. Some deft, but tactful, questioning mapped it out quickly, and they realised that each of them could have a room of their own. They had to keep themselves under tight control to prevent the excitement going to their heads.
Aileen took a little time to dress, because she was set on dressing to kill. She had a wee blue silk shirtwaister dress quite exactly matching her eyes, and she brushed and brushed at her hair until it shone like spun silver. Her bra and panties toned exactly, and so did her shoes, whilst her stockings were wholly free from snags. She swirled in front of her mirror, to check for knicker line, and her backside was quite unblemished. Then she opened the door from her bedroom into the livingroom.
Lindsay and her two flatmates were now chatting companionably. But they looked up as Aileen made her entrance, and she felt triumph surge within her. She could see that Lindsay was plainly transfixed. He was in the middle of speaking as the door opened, but his words died away lamely. She did not have to say a word. Just a quick smile, and she held him in the palm of her hand.
The Mini Cooper was a trifle cramped as it raced towards London. Lindsay sat in the best seat, or possibly the most dangerous, in the front at Aileen’s side. Heather and Yvonne moaned softly from to time in the back seat, gripping each other by the hand, both wishing that they had fortified themselves with strong drink before leaving.
They found Wheelers less than half full. Lindsay knew the restaurant well, for he was fond of fish, and had taken the precaution of borrowing Aileen’s phone to call ahead and book a table, because he knew it would fill up later on. The head waiter welcomed him like an old friend, with no thought of demanding a handful of banknotes, and he bent to stroke the restaurant’s grey Persian cat. It was like a little homecoming. They ate whitebait, though Yvonne opted for soup, before moving on to different kinds of salmon and Dover sole, with a couple of bottles of Puligny-Montrachet to help the fish swim, and then a bottle of Sauternes to help float away crème brulee and strawberry tartlets. Lindsay proposed a bottle of champagne to close, because his money was burning a hole in his pocket, but Aileen shook her head firmly, because she had taken a peek at the restaurant wine list and been shocked at some of the prices. So they settled for coffee instead, but Lindsay swallowed a quick brandy, to give him courage while Aileen was driving.
Then they all crammed back into the Mini, heading for the Café des Artistes, a cellar way out towards Fulham. The Café boasted a live band, and a healthy surplus of young men on Saturday nights. Lindsay twisted with all three girls in a tight little knot, watching benevolently as young hopefuls homed in to lure Heather and Yvonne, and then jived with Aileen, smiling beatifically as she dipped and turned at the end of his outstretched arm. He felt cool, though the cellar was hot and cramped and foggy with cigarette smoke. But he did not dance close, because he had a bulge under his armpit that might have proved hard to explain.
The music broke off, to allow the band to refresh itself, and dancers stood around looking a little lost. Heather and Yvonne made their way back towards Lindsay and Aileen, and a man joined them. Lindsay knew him well, a financial writer from the Sunday Times called David Fulton. He had been at Lindsay’s party, but had left early. Lindsay beamed. Fulton was a gossip, and generally well informed.
Fulton stared at him quizzically, and then at Aileen. ‘I thought you went to Berlin.’ His voice was a mere drawl, but he looked as though he had scandal poised at the tip of his tongue.
Lindsay nodded non-committally. ‘I’m back.’
‘Been back to the flat?’
Fulton plainly had something to say, but seemed a little embarrassed. Lindsay stared at Aileen, who stood watching the newcomer with deep suspicion. It was plain Fulton did not want her sharing. She took a couple of steps back. But she did not move far, because she noted one or two girls hovering close by. She was in guard mode, and woe betide poachers.
Fulton eyed her admiringly. ‘Nice chick.’
Lindsay was short. ‘What do you want, David?’
‘Melanie talked of taking advantage.’ Fulton looked sly, the look of a man harbouring a thousand untold secrets. ‘She told Vicky Bligh she planned to take Cormack back to the flat for the weekend, while you were away.’ He barely murmured his words, because the Café des Artistes hosted many sharp ears.
Lindsay scowled. Vicky was another gossip, a chubby girl from the provinces, and not worth a light. But he counted Cormack, the photographer from Lindsay’s Friday night party, a menace. Cormack had connections, and Melanie had ambitions. He spoke sharply. ‘What flat?’
‘Your flat, I think.’ Fulton smiled thinly. ‘Melanie likes to bat on a home pitch, and you always keep a good stock of booze.’
Lindsay listened, and felt his blood chill. Melanie also knew the stores where he kept credit accounts, and might prove ruthless. He beckoned to Aileen, reprising Fulton’s comments quickly.
‘You want to go and turf them out?’ Aileen’s eyes gleamed. She could think of no better way of gaining a foothold in a flat than by ousting a resident girlfriend.
Lindsay hesitated. ‘What I am going to do with you three?’ He feared to leave them on their own. Many rich young men prowled the Café’s cellars, all of them with bad intentions.
‘Och, we’ll be in there with with you.’ Aileen turned to her two flatmates. ‘Won’t we?’
‘We’ll send them flying.’ Heather and Yvonne both spoke together. They could read Aileen’s mind.
‘We’d better go.’ Lindsay looked for Fulton to thank him, but the Sunday Times man had vanished. He shrugged. Maybe he would have another party, when he returned from his travels. He squared his shoulders, looking at Aileen and her two companions. ‘Are we fit?’
The three British Caledonian girls looked fierce. They could see high stakes on the table, and they planned to collect. Aileen’s chinablue eyes flashed. ‘We’re going to mince them.’ It was plain that she meant it.