Читать книгу The Doris Day Vintage Film Club - Фиона Харпер - Страница 8

The Doris Day Film Club met on Tuesday evenings in the upper room of The Glass Bottom Boat, a shabby little pub on the fringes of Highbury and Islington that had, as yet, escaped the clutches of developers who wanted to transform it into yet another fashionable and minimalist wine bar. Some of the other pubs in the area were cool and grungy, the kind with bare plaster and sanded floorboards that had live music and open mike nights. The Glass Bottom Boat was just plain grungy.

There was no air conditioning in the upper room, just walls covered with red flock wallpaper, a carpet guaranteed to make one’s eyes hurt and rickety tables and chairs that had been stained with dark varnish in an effort to make them look ‘rustic’ instead of just old and broken. The only way to get more air into the room was to wedge the two large windows open as wide as they could go, which wasn’t far, seeing as they were almost glued shut with four decades’ worth of paint and half the sash ropes were missing.

It was a small space, only needing twenty people to fill it to the rafters, so on this muggy evening, the eight members of the Doris Day Film Club fitted in quite comfortably.

The room’s saving grace, and the only reason the club continued to meet here month after month, was the massive, state-of-the-art 52-inch flat-screen TV that almost filled one wall. The landlord had installed it when the last World Cup had been on, and had intended to play sports on it twenty-four-seven, but on Tuesday nights it belonged to the Doris Day Film Club and them alone.

On the table nearest the window was Bev, dressed in a pastel blouse and beige slacks. She was giving a younger woman the highlights of her last visit to the chiropodist. Candy, a yummy mummy in her late thirties, was suitably grossed out but trying to hide it, while simultaneously studying her own stiletto-encased feet under the table and wondering if bunions were looming perilously close in her future too.

On the table next door were Kitty and Grace, two vintage fashion queens in their early twenties, who thought anything retro was cooler than cool and never left their houses without their eyeliner wings and crimson lipstick. Kitty was flirting with George, bless him, the lone male of their intimate little society. Everyone had assumed he was gay at first, but it turned out he was just a sweet old bachelor who’d fallen in love with Doris at the age of eleven when his mother had bribed him with a quarter of gobstoppers to accompany her to the flicks to watch Move Over, Darling. He’d never been able to find a woman to match Doris after that, so he’d never tried, didn’t think it would be fair to his bride to always play second fiddle to such perfection. Of course, he didn’t mind it when a pretty young thing like Kitty gave him a bit of attention, even though it made him blush furiously.

Finally, gathered round a square table that had one of its legs propped up by a folded beer mat, were two of the three-strong committee. Claire sat in the central chair and stared at the gossiping group with vague dismay. It was getting harder and harder to start on time nowadays. Quite a few unlikely friendships were budding. Never in her life had she been in more need of a loudhailer.

‘Ladies!’ she began.

‘And George …’ Maggs, her vice-president, sitting beside her, interjected.

‘Ladies and George!’ Claire said, just that little bit louder.

The din continued. Claire sighed.

Maggs tutted beside her. Two years ago they hadn’t had this kind of problem, but two years ago she, Maggs and Claire’s grandmother Laurie had been the only members of the club. Now it was a victim of its own success.

Claire had never actually volunteered for the position of president; she’d kind of inherited the role after her grandmother had died. Gran had started a Doris Day Appreciation Society back in 1951 and had roped her best friend, Margaret – always known as Maggs – into being the second member.

The society had been hugely popular in the fifties and sixties, filled with members who’d been drawn to the independent and charismatic woman they’d seen on the cinema screen, but numbers had dwindled in the seventies, when Doris had stopped making films and it became less than cool to have a squeaky clean image.

Maggs had insisted that Claire take up the mantle of president when the position had become vacant. In honour of her grandmother, she’d said. Claire had been flattered at the time, but now she suspected Maggs preferred the vice-president’s role, because she got to boss people around without actually doing very much.

Claire hadn’t really minded. Watching Doris Day films with her grandmother had been the happiest moments of her childhood, afternoons when she’d escaped the tense atmosphere of home, when she hadn’t had to watch what she said and did or be careful that she wasn’t too noisy. Gran had never minded if she wanted to sing or skip around the flat or laugh out loud.

Thinking of noise brought her back to the decibel level of the current moment. That, and the fact that Maggs jabbed her in the ribs with a bony elbow. She was one of those wiry old ladies, the sort whose strength belied their tiny frames. ‘I used to be able to do a wolf whistle that could stop traffic three streets away,’ she said, looking from noisy club member to noisy club member. ‘It hasn’t been the same since I got my false teeth, but I could always give it a go?’ She raised her eyebrows and began to lift two fingers towards her mouth.

‘Not a good idea,’ Claire said wearily. ‘If they shot out and hit someone, we could be sued, and funds are low enough in the kitty as it is.’

‘Might be worth it, just to get some peace and quiet,’ Maggs muttered, surveying their unruly members with disdain. She turned her focus to the empty chair on the other side of Claire. ‘Talking of money … Where’s our new treasurer, anyway?’

‘She’ll be here any second.’

Right on cue, the door flew open and Peggy burst in, wearing the same pink dress she’d had on earlier, so tight it only just allowed her to trot in her five-inch heels.

‘You’re late,’ Maggs said, switching her laser-beam stare from Claire to Peggy.

Peggy just grinned at her. ‘That’s because my first job as treasurer was to negotiate next year’s rent for the room with the landlord. Not only is the price staying the same, but he’s agreed to throw in a round of cocktails each meeting too.’

Claire’s eyes widened. She was about to ask just how Peggy had managed that – Bruce, the landlord, had never been anything but surly with her – but then she got a prime view of Peggy’s rear end as she bent over to put her vintage handbag on the floor and pull out her notebook, and she had a sneaking suspicion just how their new treasurer had accomplished it.

Maggs nodded sagely. ‘I knew there was something I liked about that girl. I’ve always been partial to the odd gin sling.’ As if to prove the point, she pulled a hip flask from her handbag and added more ‘va-va-voom’ to the already generous gin and tonic in front of her.

Claire decided not to remind the older lady just how vocal she’d been when Claire had suggested Peggy for the post of treasurer. She’d called Peggy a ‘slip of a thing’ and had campaigned long and hard for Bev, who she’d strong-armed into coming from her Pilates class, to take the job, even though Bev had said flatly that she didn’t want to do it.

Maggs leaned across Claire and held out her hand. ‘Can I borrow one of those for a second?’ she asked Peggy, nodding at her shoes with the polka-dot bows. Peggy opened her mouth to ask why, but Maggs waggled her fingers impatiently. In the end, Peggy just sighed and handed one exquisite shoe over.

Maggs took it by the toe and rapped the heel on the table three times so loudly that the whole room fell silent. ‘There you go,’ she said to Claire, and handed Peggy back her shoe.

All eyes turned to Claire. She stood up. For just a split second nothing came out of her mouth.

It was stupid. She should be over this by now, not only because she’d been leading these meetings for almost a year, but because her previous job had required her to give numerous presentations. However, while she was good with people, fabulous one-to-one, there was always this jab of panic every time she got up to talk to a group. It hadn’t worn off in the slightest over the years. There was something about this intense moment of silence, when every eye was trained on her, that made her feel like an insect on a microscope slide. Her throat always went dry and her fingers tingled.

She breathed in through her nose and cleared her throat.

She smiled at the small group of women – and George – in front of her, nursing their Diet Cokes and their warm white wines. ‘Hi, everyone. Welcome to this month’s meeting of the Doris Day Film Club. First, an order of business before we get going with tonight’s film: we’ve had a suggestion … Instead of running film night once a month as usual, we’ll meet weekly and have a Doris Day Film festival over the summer: twelve weeks, taking us from now right through to the end of July. Would all those in favour please raise—’

She was cut off as someone gave the slightly temperamental door behind her a shove then barrelled into the room, almost sending her flying. The whole group turned to look at the newcomer. Their visitor, a young woman, stared back at them with undisguised terror.

‘Is this the Dor—’ Her gaze darted from face to face. She paled as she spotted the red lips and eyelashes of the vintage crew and started to back away. ‘Um … Never mind. I think I’m … um … in the wrong place.’

She attempted to reverse, but hadn’t counted on the fact she’d moved a little bit sideways as she’d fallen into the room and she ended up backing into the wall and hitting her head on a wall light, almost dislodging its tasselled orange shade.

‘No, you’re in the right place,’ Claire said softly. ‘This is the Doris Day Film Club.’ She indicated an empty chair next to Kitty, the nearest of the vintage girls. ‘Please join us.’

The girl remained frozen. Claire realised she was younger than she’d first thought, maybe only in her late teens. She wore a football shirt and shapeless jeans with battered trainers on her feet. There wasn’t a lick of make-up on her face and her thin dark hair was parted severely down the middle and hung lank down either side of her face.

‘We’d love to have you.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Claire, the president of the club, but that doesn’t mean much except I do the boring stuff and get custody of the library of films we watch each meeting.’

The girl looked at her hand as if it were a live cobra about to strike. Panicked, she glanced at the door, but Claire had stepped forward when she’d starting talking to her and was now blocking her escape route.

Eventually, the girl’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’m Abby,’ she said, so quietly that Claire hardly heard her above the noise of the drinkers who’d spilled out onto the street below the open windows, eager to escape the cloying heat of the pub’s dark interior.

Kitty straightened her spine and twisted to stare at Abby as she bypassed the empty seat next to her and scuttled round the back of the tables and chairs to find a spot in the corner tucked away behind Bev and Candy.

‘Hang on, I know you, don’t I?’ she said.

Abby didn’t answer, just dropped into the chair, hunched over and folded her arms tight.

Claire looked between the two of them. A couple of the others were scowling, thinking Abby a bit rude, but it hadn’t been disdain Claire had seen on Abby’s face. It had been fear. Strange, because Kitty was a friendly, open-hearted girl of twenty-three, whose passion for all things vintage was unrivalled, her only flaw a tendency to open her mouth and let whatever entered her head spill out of it.

Despite the snub, Kitty grinned at their new member. Abby, however, didn’t see it, as her eyes were fixed steadily on the beer mat on the table in front of her.

‘Abby Preston, that’s right. You used to go to St Joseph’s, same as me. My younger brother Gus was on the football team with you. He was always moaning that you got to play centre midfield instead of him. He was well miffed that you were the best on the team!’

Abby looked up. Her long straight hair had partially fallen over her face and she didn’t brush it out of the way. ‘Really?’

Kitty nodded. ‘Really.’

Abby looked down again at the table, but Claire noticed that she now wore the barest of smiles.

‘Well, it’s lovely to have you with us for the evening, Abby,’ Claire said, as she took her seat, ‘and don’t worry, if it’s not your cup of tea, you don’t have to come back next time.’

Much to everyone’s surprise, Abby shot to her feet again, sending her chair skittering backwards into the wall. ‘But that’s just it! I do have to come back next week!’

Claire gave a slightly nervous laugh. ‘No … honestly. We won’t make you stay!’

Abby shook her head. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about,’ she explained, with a wobble in her voice. ‘It’s my mum. She’s blackmailing me.’

‘Blackmailing?’ Claire repeated quietly.

Abby nodded, her jaw tight. ‘She says she gave birth to and raised a little girl and that she’s tired of me going around looking like a football hooligan and that it’s high time I learned to be a bit more ladylike.’

‘I see,’ Claire said slowly, not really sure she did.

‘My mum says exactly the opposite,’ Kitty said brightly. ‘She keeps asking when I’m going to stop showing her up by dressing up like a pantomime dame!’

There was a murmur of sympathetic laughter from around the room.

‘My mother was always going on about the fact my slip was showing,’ the old lady sitting next to Abby said. ‘She said I was the untidiest child she’d ever seen.’

Claire watched Abby take in Bev’s spotless pink blouse, the crease in her nylon trousers and her perfectly permed hair. Bev smiled back at her. ‘Mothers and daughters,’ she said. ‘Some things never change.’

Claire frowned. ‘The demanding parent thing I get, believe me. But what I don’t get is why it has anything to do with us … the Doris Day Film Club?’

Abby sighed. ‘She often pops in downstairs for a drink and she’s seen you all going through the pub looking …’ she broke off to glanced around the room ‘… well, looking like girls, and last week she came home with a flyer for your meetings and stuck it to the front of the fridge with a magnet. She says it’s this or a spa weekend.’ Abby paused for a moment to let a shudder ripple up her spine. ‘And since neither of us have got the money for one of those, here I am.’

Claire shook her head, but she was smiling at the same time. ‘I’m sure she’s not going to actually—’

‘Oh yes she is!’ Abby blurted out. ‘She’s hired the whole pub out for her fortieth birthday party in six weeks’ time, and she says she’s getting desperate. No way am I allowed to show her up in front of her friends.’

‘Stand up to her,’ Peggy said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘She can’t force you, can she?’

Abby looked quite fierce. ‘Actually, she can. She bought tickets to the Arsenal–Man United game for me when I was broke. I’m saving up to pay her back, but now she’s holding them hostage. If I don’t turn up at her party in a dress with …’ she didn’t elaborate, twirling of her fingers near her head ‘… hair and … m-make up, she says she’s going to flog them on eBay.’ And then she sat down on her chair with a thump, looking more miserable than ever.

Bev, who had six grandchildren and was always hoping for more to mother, leaned backwards and patted Abby’s hand in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she told her. ‘If there are two things this lot aren’t short of, it’s advice – whether you want it or not – and fashion sense.’

‘I’m not sure any amount of fashion advice is going to help me,’ Abby said mournfully, ‘but thank you.’

Bev nodded. ‘Don’t you get het up about that right now. You got here for the meeting, just like your mother asked. We’ll start worrying about the rest of it next time. All you need to do now is sit back and enjoy the film. You can do that, can’t you?’

Abby gave her a weak smile and nodded.

‘That’s sorted then,’ said Bev, and turned back around to face the front of the room.

Claire took her cue. ‘Right … we might as well get on and watch tonight’s film. I was going to go for Tea for Two, but now I’m wondering if we should go for one that will give Abby some good fashion ideas.’ She opened a large zip-up case that held her entire collection of Doris Day DVDs in sleeves and flicked through it. ‘Any suggestions?’

‘The Pajama Game!’ said Kitty loudly. ‘It’s based on the fashion industry, after all.’

Maggs snorted at the young woman. ‘Don’t be daft. It’s hardly as if Abby needs a nightie for her mother’s party, and Doris spends a lot of the rest of the film in factory work clothes.’

Kitty pouted. ‘It was just a suggestion.’

‘What about Do Not Disturb?’ Candy said. ‘I remember how that dress she wore to the party at the hotel took my breath away the first time I saw it.’

‘Oh, my, yes!’ Kitty said, almost jumping out of her seat, sulk forgotten. ‘All those sequins! And do you remember …? The lining of the coat matched!’

‘Maybe …’ Claire said as she continued to thumb through her collection, frowning slightly. For some reason she wasn’t sure that this floor-length dress in orange sequins was going to be Abby’s thing.

‘I know,’ Peggy said firmly beside her. ‘Pillow Talk.’

There was a general buzz of agreement. Claire looked up. Almost everyone was nodding – except for Abby, who was looking at them all as if they were talking a foreign language.

‘Pillow Talk it is,’ Claire said, smiling as she slid it from its sleeve. ‘Great choice, Peggy. Jean Louis created the whole wardrobe for that film. It shows Doris in some of the most spectacular creations of her career – smart, simple, elegant. In other words, perfect.’

She dimmed the lights and a reverent hush fell over the room.

The opening credits rolled and a sense of both peace and nostalgia swept over Claire as the jaunty little title song played and an anonymous pyjama-clad couple threw pillows back and forth at each other from their respective beds. She let out a long breath.

It had been a long day, and she hadn’t realised she’d need this moment to switch off and unwind until it had come upon her. Now, for a glorious ninety minutes, she could sit back, relax, and lose herself in a world where wrongs were always righted, love always triumphed and even the most scheming scoundrel could be redeemed.