'Yeah … with a few touches here and there you could be the spit,' Micky continued, oblivious to her thoughts. 'My favourite flick with her in was called Johnny Eager, back at the beginning of the war. I took that old slag – 'scuse my French – Sheila Belcher, to see it. Course, I didn't see much the first time round …' Micky smiled crookedly in the driving mirror. 'But when I went again with a mate, me eyes were riveted. She's not called the Sweater Girl for nothing. That flick really blew me socks off.'
Bella was engulfed by a wave of jealousy. She wasn't certain whether it was the mention of Lana Turner or Sheila Belcher that made her feel so bad. Lana Turner was blonde and a sex symbol and it would take a mountain of make-up to create even the slightest resemblance between them. As for Sheila Belcher, she remembered her clearly. She still had the vivid memory of seeing Sheila and Micky together, kissing and cuddling on the couch at Piper Street. Through a kid's eyes Sheila had been as voluptuous as Lana was now, all blonde hair and smouldering looks. At least that was how it seemed then. If Sheila was an old slag, then Bella hadn't known it then.
'I wouldn't mind seeing The Postman Always Rings Twice,' Micky added casually. 'Lana's a real eyeful in that one.'
Bella had always thought that if she looked like anyone, it was Rita Hayworth who had long, auburn hair and a flawless complexion. Lana Turner wasn't a favourite of hers and anyway, she had always prided herself on being unique.
'Lana Turner's hair is a different colour to mine,' Bella said as she lifted her hand to touch her own. 'It's much lighter.'
'Yeah, but it's that look in your eyes, you know, when you sort of half close them. A bit of red lipstick and you could be a dead ringer.'
'I never wear red lipstick. It looks common.' Micky hadn't ever said anything personal about her appearance before.
Micky turned the wheel, a smooth whoosh coming from beneath his fingers. 'Forgot to say, Ronnie's coming with us tonight.'
Bella soon forgot about Lana Turner. 'Why's that?'
'Thought a foursome would be nice. He's bringing a lady friend. You need have a chat with her, Bells. There's no flies on our Joyce.'
"Joyce", was news to Bella. 'What does she do?'
'Oh, a bit of this and that.'
'How long have you known her?'
'As I said, she's more Ron's friend than mine. Joyce King.'
In all the time Bella had known Micky she hadn't heard a mention of Joyce. Not that she knew everything there was to know about the Bryants but she had always kept her ears and eyes open as Micky himself had taught her to do. She'd often called round to Piper Street and awaited hers and Terry's orders, not exactly orders, but Micky's instructions. When the air raids had lessened after the Blitz, he found a new job for them, "running" for the kennel-boys at the dog tracks. She and Terry had carried small parcels in their pockets and handed them over to the boys outside the grounds. They were told these were dog biscuits intended to help the greyhounds run faster. But when an animal had died after eating one of these so-called biscuits, Micky had moved them back to the doodlebug watch and scouting on the debris. But as far as she could recall, Bella had never heard mention of Joyce in the Bryant household.
'Joyce is a cracker, you'll like her,' Micky assured her now. 'She's a woman of the world, if you get my meaning.'
Bella decided to wait and see what was in store for the evening. Micky disliked being questioned. If ever anyone pressed him about something he didn't want to discuss, he would either walk off or get shirty. She would just have to swallow on the fact they weren't going to the Indigo on their own and that Ronnie and Joyce would accompany them.
Bella glanced over her shoulder at Terry who was sitting on the back seat, his big eyes never leaving her. What would this woman of the world called Joyce think of her and Terry?
She snuggled down in her seat, determined not to let the appearance of an unfamiliar female disturb her. She was with Micky and that was what counted. Her beautiful new black dress looked and felt good. Added to which she was wearing a new bra and silk knickers, all hurriedly purchased from a spiv's suitcase at the market last week.
The Indigo was buzzing. Bella gazed through the dizzying trails of cigarette smoke to the other tables. She was on a high of excitement.
This was a real revue club, with real fan-dancers and silk stockinged girls that kicked high to the music on the stage flooded with coloured lights. Pretty usherettes sold cigarettes and cigars from stacked trays as they moved flirtatiously amongst the party-goers in their skimpy silk skirts and high-heels. There were bubbles bursting from the champagne glasses, including her own, and there wasn't a woman in the room who didn't look like someone famous. Off the shoulder evening gowns and upswept hair-dos abounded and the men all resembled Clark Gable or Victor Mature.
Bella had never tasted champagne and it was flowing headily through her bloodstream. Neither did she smoke, but tonight was an exception. Joyce used an elegant tortoiseshell cigarette holder that she held constantly and Bella felt she couldn't refuse a cigarette from the delicately engraved silver box that she flipped open.
The slight anxiety that Bella had felt as Micky had driven them to Piper Street had disappeared the moment she had met Joyce. She was a petite Londoner, nearer to thirty than twenty, with carefully bobbed dark hair and a direct gaze. She
