Tara

  'I'm going to miss her,' Tara said thoughtfully. Hester and Miranda, the new girls here, were leggy blondes with rather superior attitudes and posh voices. She couldn't see herself becoming close to either of them.

  'You'll soon make new friends.' Josh noticed she looked a bit sad and wondered if she'd found out anything about Harry yet. He had been hugging himself with delight since he discovered what that was all about. If the whispers were correct, Harry could be going down for a long stretch.

  'Do you ever feel lonely?' Tara asked suddenly. 'I mean kind of surrounded by people, yet still feel alone?'

  'Yes, sometimes.' The question caught him off his guard, in fact he felt like that a great deal of the time. 'Why, do you?'

  'Yes.' She put her work down and smiled. 'I used to think it was because I was artistic, it set me apart somehow.'

  'Maybe that's it.' He wanted to move over to her, but it would be too obvious to move from the bed to the floor. 'I hope we can become close friends now, Tara, we've got a lot in common.'

  He hoped she was going to ask more leading questions, but instead she looked at her watch.

  'I hope so too, Josh,' she said. 'But it's getting very late and it's going to be a big day tomorrow.'

  Josh popped a pill in his mouth as he drove towards his flat in Brompton Road. Tara might be going to bed early, but he was going home to get washed and changed, then out to a club. One purple heart should be enough for tonight; two of them and he'd never get it up.

  He had a lot to celebrate tonight. The shop was ready, the press would be sniffing around tomorrow and, with luck, Tara would fall into his lap pretty soon.

  Chapter 19

  'Someone to see you, Tara!'

  'Send them up,' Tara yelled back, leaning over the table as she marked out a pattern on brown paper. She didn't want any interruptions; she had four patterns to make today for Christmas party dresses. But then Miranda had enough sense not to send anyone up unless it was important.

  The new shop had succeeded way beyond their expectations. The opening day's takings were higher than the best day ever in Bethnal Green and since then they'd gone well above the target figures daily.

  The biggest problem now was getting stock made up fast enough. Josh would come staggering in with what looked like a mountain of it, but by Saturday evening most of it would be gone. She'd been right about the mini skirts. Everyone loved them and they were selling tights like hot cakes. Josh had had a few of the beaded tops made up, too, but his manufacturer balked at the work in them and he still hadn't found someone else to take over.

  It was mid November now. Kensington High Street was crammed with Christmas shoppers and it seemed that everyone wanted a new dress to wear, the more seductive and outrageous the better.

  Her head bobbed up from the work the moment she heard laboured breathing out on the stairs.

  'Uncle George,' she shrieked with delight and ran out on to the landing to see him puffing up the stairs. 'What a lovely surprise!'

  He paused at the top, holding on to the banister. Not only was he extra red in the face, his bald patch glistening with perspiration, but he looked suddenly old and tired. Even his clothes were different, a dark grey suit with a matching waistcoat. The only time she'd seen him so soberly dressed was at Paul's funeral.

  'What is it?' She still went to hug him, but somehow his appearance didn't warrant her usual exuberance.

  'Bad news, I'm afraid.' He responded warmly to her hug, but he couldn't even raise a ghost of a smile. 'I came to tell you myself, before someone else does.'

  'Come in here.' She took his hand and led him into the workroom, aware that the girls downstairs might be listening. 'Is it Harry?'

  Since the night she'd moved into the flat he had sent her one postcard with a gorilla on it and the cryptic message 'Don't forget me!' When George and Queenie didn't mention him in their numerous phone calls, Tara decided they were as much in the dark as her and avoided the subject.

  'Yes, it's 'Arry.'

  In the clear light of the workroom she could see his eyes were red-rimmed and his collar was grubby, as if he'd been up half the night.

  'He's bin nicked!'

  'Oh, no!' Tara's stomach churned. 'What's he done?'

  'A warehouse blag back last June.' George groped his way through the boxes and packages on the floor and sat down on a stool like an old man, resting the palms of his hands on his thighs. 'A nightwatchman was killed. Do you remember it?'

  Tara's blood ran cold. She remembered it only too well. Everyone had talked about it for days and the papers had said they should bring back hanging for such a brutal crime.

  All she could do was nod.

  'Harry didn't shoot the old man, you must believe that.' George's voice sounded strangled.

  'But he was part of the gang?' she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. She had imagined everything from protection rackets to bank robbery, but never something like this.

  George's head sank down on to his chest.

  ' 'Ow can I explain.' His voice was low. 'See, I know my son, Tara, and 'e ain't a wicked lad. 'E planned this job all right, and I can't even claim someone talked 'im into it. But 'e never intended any violence, 'e weren't tooled up, that ain't 'is style.'

  'But what happened? Who shot the man?'

  'I can't tell you that because I don't know.' George reached out for her hand, a pleading look in his eyes. 'All I know is what he told me back then.' Arry got out of the van to open the gates as they was leaving. 'E says the driver drove the van right at 'im and the old man and he pushed the old geezer away for safety. 'E 'eard a gun shot, thought it was the old bloke firing and jumped back in the van. Only then 'e discovers it was the driver what 'ad the gun.'

  'But who was the driver?'

  '' Arry won't name 'im.' George shrugged his shoulders. 'All this time 'e's bin trying to track 'im down. But now someone's grassed 'Any up. The police think 'Arry done the shooting. They've charged him with murder!'

  Tara slumped down on to a bolt of fabric, covering her face with her hands.

  'He was on the job, fair do's, he deserves punishing for that,' George said. 'But he ain't a murderer, Tara. He ain't.'

  'But surely all he's got to do is tell the police who did do it?' Tara looked up at George.

  'You know the unwritten laws round our way!' George pursed his lips. 'Thou shalt not grass even if the plod are kicking yer 'ead in and the person who did the crime is a shit of the first water.'

  'What are we going to do?' Tears began to trickle down her face.

  'You, sweetheart, are going to do nothin',' George said firmly. 'You've got a good job and having your name linked with a murder suspect won't 'elp it. I'm getting' Arry a good lawyer and we'll just have to pray the police don't fabricate any evidence. 'E's going to get sent down, love, whatever 'appens. But 'ow long for depends on whether our brief can prove 'Arry didn't own, or fire the gun.'

  'I must do something, Uncle George.' Tara went over to him and perched on his lap, laying her head on his shoulder.

  ' 'E don't want you nowhere near 'im.' George patted her back as if she were a small child. 'I saw him in the cells just now, and 'e said to tell you you're not to write or attempt to visit him. I'll be seeing 'im so you can send messages through me if you like.'

  'He hinted something was wrong when he moved me in here.' Tara struggled to compose herself. 'But I never expected it to be anything as bad as this. It's like Dad all over again.'

  This was part of the reason George hadn't let on before. He could see similarities himself, and Tara had been through enough. He and Queenie had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that the right man would give himself up, or be found by the police. But they'd seen no sense in casting shadows over Tara's happiness.

  'I'll tell you something now, sweetheart.' George blew his nose vigorously. 'I always hoped you and 'Arry might end up together. I know 'e cares a lot for you and I see a spark of something in you, too. But even though 'e's my son and I love him, I'
d disown him rather than see 'im screw up your life.'

  'He said he was going to prove himself to me.' She bit her lip. 'I think he knew that he'd gone wrong, but he meant to sort it out.'

  'I just hope 'e can, then.' George shook his head sorrowfully. 'You see, your dad weren't such a bad lad, either. He got in with the wrong crowd, was tempted by easy money. I just 'ope our 'Any don't go the same way.'

  'He couldn't, Uncle George!' She looked up at him with frightened eyes. 'Could he?'

  'A long stretch does strange things to men.' George reached out for her hand and rubbed it between his own. 'Some 'ate it that much they never steal as much as a pin when they come out, but most of 'em are corrupted beyond 'elp. It's a sewer, is prison.' George paused, as if wondering whether he should be saying all this.

  'Harry won't get corrupted,' Tara said confidently.

  'I hope not, darlin'.' He got up from his chair. 'I gotta go now. I left Queenie on the stall and it'll be busy today, so I'd better hurry back.'

  She couldn't bear to see him so sad. Her own feelings about Harry were swinging wildly between disgust that he'd been stealing, anger that he was foolish enough to shield the real villain and love because of all he meant to her. But Harry was George's whole life. He didn't deserve this kind of anguish.

  'Give Queenie my love.' Tara held out her arms for one more hug. 'And Harry, too. Could I write just one letter to him?'

  'OK, just one. But send it to me, not Brixton. I'll just slip it in a book or something. I expect 'e'll send something to you the same way, but 'e won't want anyone making a connection between you two.'

  After George left, Tara tried to return to her work, but all she could see was Harry's face the night he'd moved her here.

  'You can't get involved with a jail-bird,' she whispered to herself. 'You know how it will end!'

  It all came back, things she thought she'd wiped from her brain when they ran away from her fattier. The heavy feet of the police on the stairs, the shouting and the scuffling until he was subdued and handcuffed. Those interminable train rides to visit him in prison, Mum trying to hide her tears as they came home.

  She could never allow her children to witness seeing their home torn apart in a search, or the humiliation of being pointed out at school because their father's name had been in the paper again.

  Josh came into the workroom just as the shop was closing, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a bottle of vodka in the other.

  Tara looked up questioningly. He usually burst in like a whirlwind, shouting instructions, rummaging through boxes, demanding everything from coffee to the figures for the week. But now he was just looking at her, as if preparing for something.

  'I've got those four designs finished,' she volunteered. 'I did a little jacket, too, I thought it might go well with those plain black cocktail dresses we bought from GlamourWear.'

  'I'm sure they'll all be fabulous,' he said. 'But that isn't why I came. I'm here to offer a bit of sympathy, to cheer you up and tell you not to worry!'

  'You know already?'

  'It's in all the papers,' Josh said gently, weaving his way through the many boxes and putting the flowers on her drawing board. 'He didn't shoot that old man, Tara, he couldn't do something like that.'

  She knew that, of course, but Josh's opinion was confirmation she was right. Harry and Josh had known each other since childhood, who better to assess Harry's character?

  'George came over this morning,' she explained. 'He's devastated.'

  Josh put a hand on her shoulder.

  'Come on,' he said. Tut these flowers in water, then let's go and have a few drinks. You can't help Harry by sitting there moping about it, and he wouldn't want you to.'

  'This room reflects your personality,' Josh mused as he downed yet another glass of vodka and lemonade.

  He had been through the whole commiserating bit. He had told her all his stock of anecdotes and now he hoped the subject was laid to rest.

  'What do you mean?' She was slurring her words, even Josh looked a little blurry.

  'Well, we've got all the arty bit...' Josh waved his hand at a series of brilliantly coloured modern-art posters tacked to the wall. 'We've got the superb needlewoman bit in those amazing cushions and curtains.' The huge floor cushions all featured appliquéd animals – a lion complete with loopy wool mane, a tiger in fur fabric, panda, giraffe and zebra all amongst appropriate foliage.

  'But the bit I find the most illuminating is the collecting and hoarding.'

  The room was like a treasure trove. Old theatre posters, illustrated musical scores, even advertisements covered the wall round her rug-draped bed. Strange lamps, candlesticks and pieces of sculpture vied for space on the many shelves with tiny animals, boxes, even jewelled hatpins.

  'I don't know what you mean.' Tara poured herself another drink.

  'All those art books.' He gestured towards a shelf crammed with books in glossy jackets. 'Your collection of jewellery, I bet you've never worn half of it. All those old bits and pieces. I reckon it's some kind of security blanket.'

  Tara giggled. She loved collecting unnecessary things, anything from old fans to paperweights, inkwells, and eggcups. At night when she was alone she liked to arrange them all, days off were spent scouring Chelsea antique market and the junk shops further afield in Fulham, Shepherd's Bush and Acton.

  'I think it stems from when I was little,' she said dreamily. 'We never had anything much in our flat, no books, no pictures, just a few cheap china animals Dad won on a rifle range at a fair. Sometimes the man at the paper shop gave Mum a pile of old glossy magazines. I used to soak up the pictures of posh houses. I think I wanted them more than smart clothes.'

  'I thought you lived on a farm?' Josh had not only picked up on the word 'flat' but also on the picture of extreme poverty.

  Tara gulped. All this time she'd been so careful, now with too much drink inside her she'd let it slip.

  'I'm talking about when I was very small,' she said hastily. 'We moved to my grandmother's place in Somerset when Dad died.'

  'I'm sorry.' Josh looked sheepish. 'I never liked to ask before. What did he die of?'

  'A heart attack. But I don't like talking about it.'

  'So where was the flat? In London?' Josh was suddenly very attentive, sitting up on the floor and leaning towards her where she lounged back on the cushions.

  'Acton. I can hardly remember any of it now,' Tara snapped, suddenly sober.

  'OK, so you don't want to discuss it' Josh wriggled round so he was nearer her. 'I don't like to think about the place we had down by Cable Street, waking up to see a rat by my bed, or hearing other kids calling me a dirty Jew. There's no shame in being born poor, only in not improving your own lot. Dad and Mum think they've arrived now they've got the house in Golders Green and a Daimler. I want more than that!'

  'Like what?' Although plenty of other people had talked about his origins, it was the first time Josh had spoken of it, and the admission seemed to make them equal.

  'It's not just money. I want fame.' Josh turned on his side, supporting his head on his hand, looking right into her eyes.

  She looked exhausted, and very drunk, with a violet tinge beneath her lovely eyes. Even in jeans and an old shirt, with no make-up and her hair all tousled, she still looked more desirable than any other girl he knew.

  So much of Tara was hidden. Through her designs he sensed a sensual woman, the way she kept her flat showed she was a home-loving person, yet he had never been able to fathom exactly what it was she wanted. He hoped by opening up to her, she might reciprocate.

  'I want to be a celebrity, Tara. I want people to nudge each other when I walk by and say," Hey look, there's Josh Bergman, he's only thirty and he's a multi-millionaire already".'

  'You haven't given yourself long.' Tara giggled.

  Josh had made her feel so much better. Maybe it was just the remnants of her childish crush that had made her think for a moment that Harry was for her. She was grown
up now, she had a right to reach out for what she wanted, without feeling indebted to people from the past.

  'I'm well on the way.' His eyes were full of fire now, face flushed with more than just the vodka. 'I want a plane of my own, holiday homes in exotic places and beautiful women on my arm.'

  'Do I come anywhere in this dream?' she asked. 'Is your designer important or will you replace me?'

  'You are part of the dream.' He lowered his voice and his hand moved to stroke her cheek. 'Together there's nothing we can't do, we'll rise up like shooting stars to conquer the fashion industry.'

  Tara was very aware of his hand on her face, but his words thrilled her even more.

  "That would be so wonderful,' she breathed. 'It's not money, is it? It's people looking up to you.'

  His lips were moving slowly down towards hers, fleshy, pink and succulent, his dark eyes soft with tenderness. 'I'm hungry for you, Tara!'

  His lips were so warm and soft against hers, his fingers in her hair soothing away any last doubts. There was no threat in his touch, just sweet warmth, lulling her into relaxation.

  His kisses were thrilling, slow and teasing. At some point, though she never noticed when, he moved her slightly, placing another cushion under her head, and his fingers were slowly unfastening the buttons on her shirt. Flashes of lovemaking with Simon came back to her, memories of how she'd responded and the realisation she wanted that again.

  'Tara, you're so beautiful,' he breathed softly against her neck as he opened her shirt and slid his hands round her back to unfasten her bra. 'I've dreamed of seeing your breasts since the first day I met you.'

  A flush of desire washed over her as Josh's lips came down towards her nipple. She saw his face soften, his eyes half close and his lips move into a kiss. She watched as his lips took her pink nipple, his tongue snaking out to lick it, and her body arched involuntarily towards him.

  She pulled out his shirt, running her fingers up and down his spine, pressing herself hard against the lump in his trousers she so much wanted to touch. But instead he moved back to her lips, kissing her again as he covered her breasts with her shirt. 'I must go home,' he whispered, tracing round the outline of her lips with his tongue. 'I won't be responsible for my actions if I stay.'