'Charlie Priest.'
'Hello Uncle Charles. It's me.'
'Sophie!' One of those exploding birthday cakes went off inside me, with a great bang and a puff of smoke, and six dancing girls in silver lame costumes high-kicked down the hallway. 'How are you?' I picked up the phone and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.
'I'm fine. How are you?'
'Brilliant. Where are you speaking from?'
'I'm on a train. I've tried ringing home but nobody's in. Could you possibly pick me up at the station, please?'
'No problem. What time do you arrive?'
'Ten to seven in Leeds, but I'm not sure about the connection to Heckley.'
I looked at my watch and did a quick calculation. 'Don't bother hanging about for the connection, I'll pick you up in Leeds.'
'Are you sure?'
'Positive.'
We chatted for a few minutes until I said I'd better be on my way. My instinct was to ring Dave and Shirley to tell them that their beloved daughter was coming home, but it occurred to me that Dave might insist on collecting her himself, depriving me of that pleasure, so I didn't. It would be all the more of a surprise when I produced her on their doorstep. I had a quick shower and teeth-clean, changed my clothes and set off for the station.
They'd made some changes there. The tunnel under the lines was gone, replaced by a bridge that linked the platforms. I was early, but by the time I'd worked out which platform she would arrive at the train was due in. I stood near the ticket barrier, watching as the bridge disgorged gaggles of travellers who flashed their tickets to the disinterested clerk, wondering how much Sophie had changed since I last saw her.
As soon as she appeared at the top of the stairs my legs turned to spaghetti. She was wearing a short skirt, high heels and a blouse with a high collar. Mandarin, I believe it's called. A bag hung over her shoulder with a leather jacket looped through it, and she turned slightly sideways as she came down the steps, feeling for each one, as if afraid she might topple over. Lovely Sophie hadn't quite mastered the art of walking in four-inch stilettos. She saw me and waved.
'You look sensational,' I said, pecking her on the cheek. She was wearing Mitsouko, by Guerlain. The only perfume I recognise and one that brought back memories that I didn't need. Not then or at any other time.
'You don't look bad yourself, Uncle Charles,' she replied.
I just stared at her, happy as a sandboy, and said: 'Huh!'
'I've been reading about you in the papers.'
'It's not true. I never touched her.' She wouldn't let me take her bag as we wandered out of the concourse into the gloom of the evening. In the car I said: 'Hungry?'
'Mmm, a bit.' She drew her bare legs under the seat and tipped her knees in my direction.
'Nice suntan,' I said.
'Thank you.'
'Cap Ferrat?'
'That's right.'
'With all the old folks. Will a pizza be OK?'
'Lovely!'
'Right. I'll show you that sophistication exists outside the hallowed groves of Oxbridge.'
It was only a short drive to Park Square, where Terence Conran has one of his restaurants. The furnishings are art deco, the waiters and waitresses look as if they come from central casting and the pizzas are the only ones I've ever had that I could honestly say I'd enjoyed. Sophie beamed her approval, and that was good enough for me. We had a glass of wine each and she told me about Cap Ferrat and Cambridge over our quattro stag-gioni and pepperoni with black olives. Her blouse was made from a heavy silk material, embroidered with dragons and pagodas, and when I admired it she said it was a present from China. The pearls for buttons were in pairs, close together, and the high collar and her piled-up hair emphasised her height. Halfway through the meal, after she'd called me Uncle Charles for the tenth time, I raised a disapproving finger and said: 'A ground rule.'
'What?' she asked, suddenly serious.
'Well, now that you're almost qualified as a… whatever it is you're almost qualified as, I think you ought to start calling me Charlie. I know I'm old, but Uncle Charles really rubs it in. All these people think I'm a sugar daddy out with my girlfriend, and it would really destroy my credibility if they heard you call me Uncle Charles, so could you please indulge in an old man's whim and call me Charlie? Please?'
'Oh, OK then,' she said, 'Charlie it is,' and kicked me on the shin.
I winced, and she said: 'Was that your leg?'
I nodded confirmation between the waves of pain.
'Sorry, I thought it was the table,' Sophie giggled.
I took a sip of wine, grimacing as I said: 'Purely for anaesthetic purposes,' and replaced my glass next to hers. She'd left a smear of lipstick on its rim. I'd never known her wear lipstick before.
'That was a lovely meal,' she said, as we crossed the road outside an hour later. 'Thank you. I'm glad Dad wasn't in.'
'So am I. It's a nice place. Conran has them all over but that's the only one I've ever eaten at.'
As we stepped on to the pavement I swapped sides and placed my hand in the small of her back as I crossed behind her. She took my left arm in hers and hugged it, resting her head on my shoulder, like Suze Rotolo on the cover of Freewheelin'. I felt like a teenager, didn't want the evening to end.
In the car Sophie retrieved her phone, pressed a button and held it to her ear.
'No reply,' she said after a few seconds. As we approached Heckley she tried again, with the same results.
'Do you have a key?' I asked, and she said she hadn't.
After another try she said: 'We could always go to your house for a coffee.'
Why didn't I think of that? 'Sounds a good idea,' I agreed, switching lanes to head away from her home.
I filled the kettle, plugged it in, switched it on. Milk from the fridge, sugar from the cupboard, biscuits in the tin. Cups, saucers, plates. Was that it? No. Spoons. We needed spoons. Spoons from the cutlery drawer. I placed them all on the table, where I normally breakfasted, and turned to rest against the work surface as the kettle hissed and grumbled into life. Sophie was leaning on the doorframe, watching. She came over and stood before me, her head bowed. I'd a feeling that she was about to say something portentous. I reached forward, taking hold of her elbows and said: 'What's the problem, Sophie?'
'There's no problem,' she replied, looking up into my face. She'd slipped the shoes off and was back to her normal height, which was still tall. 'Except…'
'Except? Except what?'
'Except, I've lied to you. Don't be mad at me, Uncle Charles.'
'Charlie.' V,
'Sorry.'
'When did you lie?'
'Just now, in the car. And earlier. I didn't try to ring Dad, because I don't want to go home. I want to stay here with you, just for tonight.'
I ran my fingertips up her arms and held her by the shoulders. 'Why, Sophie? Why are you doing this to me?' My voice sounded like it was coming from a well at the far end of a tunnel.
'Because… I don't know. I wanted someone to talk to. Someone I loved, and I love you.' She slipped her arms around my neck and I pulled her close. I leaned my forehead against hers, squashing her nose with mine, until we both turned our faces a fraction to bring our lips into that perfect, bewitching angle with each other's.;
Chapter Six
