Trio by Cath Staincliffe Page B

worried that someone would think she was a working girl, a hostess who could be approached. She sat at a small table near to the toilets and avoided any eye contact. She drank her Martini too quickly and sat twiddling her glass waiting for Lena to finish. When Lena swept up to her table Joan felt she’d been rescued.
    ‘Come on.’ Lena pulled her shoulder bag over her white mac. ‘You hungry?’
    ‘Now?’
    ‘You English! In bed by ten, tea at five. You never grow up.’
    They bought fish and chips from the corner and ate as they walked.
    ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘Club I know.’
    Joan groaned. ‘Another dive?’
    ‘No, you’ll like it. Come on, live dangerously.’
    She followed Lena down a side street. A wooden sign proclaimed the Zebra Club. They went down steep basement steps to a plain door. Inside there was a large room crammed with dancers. About half of them were coloured. There had been places in Manchester where the West Indians went, but Joan would never have dreamed of going there. This seemed more mixed. On a small stage a trio were playing. At the tiny bar Lena bought drinks. Joan was aware of some of the men looking their way. Well, she thought, if Lena found a friend she should have just enough for a taxi home, if she was careful.
    After the first drink Joan found herself relaxing. The music was good, quite varied too. They played some jazz and calypso-type songs with a strong beat. Lena insisted on dancing and got Joan up too. Some of the movements the black couples were doing were quite astonishing but no one seemed to mind and the atmosphere was fun. When Lena caught her yawning she dragged her to the ladies’.
    ‘Here.’ She took a couple of yellow capsules from her pocket.
    Joan shook her head.
    ‘Stop you being tired.’ Lena put one in her mouth and bent to drink from the tap. ‘They’re great, really. Make you feel like you’re full of champagne.’
    Joan smiled.
    ‘Try one.’
    She might as well. Everyone else liked them. And it would be nice to have a bit more energy.
    She took the pill and drank from the tap.
    Hours later, almost four in the morning and in paroxysms of giggles the two wove their way, arm in arm, to Lena’s flat.
    It too was downstairs, a damp basement with a powerful smell of mildew and fungus on the ceilings. There was a main room with a tiny kitchen area in one corner behind a curtain. The toilet and washbasin were outside, in a small yard crammed with broken furniture. In the room Lena had a single bed, a small wooden table and two stools, an armchair that had seen better days and a wardrobe with a broken door. She had brightened the place up by putting multicolored crocheted blankets over the chair and bed. Posters adorned the walls: Adam Faith and Elvis.
    Joan was still tittering and then she couldn’t remember why they’d been laughing and that seemed even funnier. She collapsed on the bed, kicking off her shoes. Lena was singing as she switched on a lamp and the electric fire. She put a stack of records on the dansette in the corner. The strains of ‘Apache’ by The Shadows filled the room.
    Joan felt the bed bounce as Lena sat beside her. She felt a hand brush her fringe aside. Opened her eyes. Lena smiling, warm lips, her hair falling forward. Bending down. Lips against hers, touching her own, the faint stickiness of lipstick. Joan’s giggles quietened. Her thoughts were scrambling, trying to run without legs. No, wrong, wicked. Mustn’t. But she didn't move.
    Lena sat up. Joan’s lips were empty. A look passed between them. Lena’s eyes like silver, swimming like mercury. Joan could smell smoke on her, and perfume. She should get up, move, break the spell, claim the armchair. Soon. She parted her lips, took a breath. Lena stopped smiling. She bent down, kissed Joan, the tip of her tongue tracing the inside edge of her lips. Joan closed her eyes, felt Lena’s hand brush down her shoulder and over her breast, the lightest pressure that filled