Secrets in the Dark
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Synopsis
The ultimate glamorous, escapist blockbuster - perfect for fans of Melanie Blake, Jackie Collins and Shirley Conran's Lace.
'Campbell's warm, wise bonkbuster...transports you to the sexual free-for-all of the 1970s... There's an upbeat honesty in the writing that reminded me of Jilly Cooper' Rowan Pelling, Daily Mail
'A rip-roaring, gold-plated, sizzling bonkbuster - this is one for Jackie Collins fans everywhere who are missing the glitz!' Fiona Walker
Glamour. Deceit. Sex. Deadly ambition.
They have the world at their feet.
And they want it ALL.
Innocent Phoebe has only known a life of privilege.
Street-smart Paula has had to make her own way in the world.
When the two girls meet as teenagers, they form a deep sisterly bond, recognising in one another a yearning for love and for lives that are different from the ones they were born into. But when they each suffer a personal trauma, they are torn apart and set out on very different paths.
So begins a rollercoaster journey throughout the 1970s of extreme highs and lows for Phoebe and Paula, as they travel from the epicentre of cool on the Kings Road, Chelsea, to the glamour of Paris, LA and the South of France.
It's a scandalous world of sex, drugs, celebrity and wealth - alluring, addictive...and deceptive.
Listeners adore Secrets in the Dark!
'For those of you missing the fabulous Jackie Collins, look no further than Ceril Campbell's debut novel' 5* reader review
'The perfect escapism...easy to read, full of luxury, romance, style, fashion and rock and roll. Highly recommend!' 5* reader review
'Anyone interested in what made swinging London cool would enjoy this exciting, action-packed narrative - it is both a love letter to London and a tantalizing mystery' 5* reader review
'Loved, loved the story and could not put the book down' 5* reader review
'Terrific mystery that has you guessing till practically the last page. Highly recommended' 5* reader review
'The new Jackie Collins' 5* reader review
'A great debut novel with a clever twist at the end. Recommend as a brilliant holiday read' reader review
(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd
Release date: April 15, 2021
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 496
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Author updates
Secrets in the Dark
Ceril Campbell
Phoebe hated being thirteen. It was so hard to fit in with the girls at school, particularly with her bossy mother wielding her own agenda on how her only daughter should behave and dress.
‘Dahling,’ her mother began, at least fifteen times a day. Phoebe knew she wasn’t important enough to her mother’s egocentric life to actually be called by her own name. It was always ‘dahling’ – her father was ‘dahling’ too.
‘Dahling, it’s so important to always be properly turned out. People will make assumptions about you, based on what you wear. You wouldn’t want them getting the wrong idea, would you?’
What wrong idea might that be? Phoebe wondered. But she didn’t stop her mother to ask, instead letting her carry on without drawing breath. It was better that way, as she never needed or wanted a reply.
‘You never know who you might run into. Remember that story I told you of how your father and I first met, when I was a young fashion model back in the fifties?’
How could Phoebe ever forget? It was a story her mother liked to tell at every opportunity.
‘As the Hon. Mrs Michael Clarke it’s so important to keep up appearances. You know, I’m always in the society pages – Tatler’s Jennifer’s Diary, the Daily Express’s William Hickey. You will be too, when you’re older, dahling. People will judge you.’
The cool girls in her year group already had, Phoebe thought despondently. They’d already formed a judgement about her, and it wasn’t a positive one. She dreaded the start of each new term, when classroom desk positions needed to be bagsied. She always wondered where she’d end up, as the cool-girl group shotgunned the back rows. She didn’t want to always be in the front row – the goody-two-shoes girl, lumped together with the geeks and the swots.
She stared at herself in her bedroom mirror. Curly red hair and a freckly round face stared back at her. It seemed to lack potential. How could she make herself popular and interesting? If only she could have just one proper friend at school. As an only child, she was used to her own company at home, but at school she knew it just made her seem like a weirdo. Maybe if she transformed the way she wore her pristine new, slightly-too-big school uniform, she could win some new friends. She rolled the waistband of her grey pleated school skirt over and over, until it no longer ended at her knees but sat around mid-thigh. She then clinched the snake clasp of the grey elasticated purse belt over the rolls of skirt fabric at her waist. She stared at her reflection again. It was definitely an improvement.
She’d always felt ‘less than’. Not good enough, lacking. Maybe it was because she had such a perfect-looking mother. When she’d been really young, she could remember standing in her mother’s dressing room. It was like a special, magical Aladdin’s-cave world, smelling of musky perfumes and mothballs. She’d loved it in there. She would drape glittering diamond necklaces from her mother’s jewel box around her small, stubby fingers and stroke all the silky fabrics and furs, which felt so beautiful to touch. She’d slide her little feet into her mother’s Ferragamo evening shoes. She couldn’t quite reach the hangers to try on any dresses, so she’d just hold a handbag and imagine her favourite gown. She always hoped she’d see a mini version of her tall, blonde, beautiful, slim mother looking back at her in the mirror. The only reflection she saw was of a short, chubby, red-haired child, with overcrowded teeth (at least she now had braces), tortoiseshell spectacles (recently swapped for painful contact lenses) and a navy velvet hairband losing the battle to hold back her curls. The trouble was, apart from the braces and the lenses, nothing much had changed over the years. She wasn’t that much taller, still on the plump side, and her hair was still red and impossibly curly.
Phoebe forced it into two wonky plaits and surveyed herself one last time. This new look would have to do, or she was going to be late for school. She picked up her stiff, shiny brand-new brown leather satchel and ran downstairs, where the family’s chauffeur, James, was patiently waiting in the hall to take her to school.
‘Can you drop me round the corner, James? I’d prefer the girls not to see me in the Bentley with you.’ Phoebe leant forward over the driver’s seat back and added anxiously, ‘Please? Promise you won’t tell my parents?’
James caught her eye in the rear-view mirror. He had soft brown eyes and a rolling Scottish accent. ‘Don’t you worry, Miss Phoebe, I won’t say a word. Good luck at school today.’ He was always kind to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, sounding relieved. She knew she could trust him.
She had deliberately planned to get to school early today, to try and bag a desk right in the middle of the cool-girl group. Not in the back row – she wasn’t that brave. A middle row would do.
She took a deep breath and walked into the classroom. But the popular group she longed to be part of were already there.
‘Hi, girls, is it okay if I sit here?’
‘Oh, hi, Phoebe.’
The girls had said hello back to her. Her hopes briefly rose.
‘Sorry, Phoebe. I’ve bagged this place for Kate.’
‘What about here?’
‘Sorry, Louisa’s there.’
Phoebe moved further along the row. ‘Here?’
‘Sorry, Phoebe – Susie and Emma are there.’
She tried one more time.
‘No, that’s Joanna’s place.’
So it was back to the front row again. She’d so wanted to be part of the cool-girl gang. Inside her, something turned over and formed itself into a steely determination.
She wasn’t sure how, but one day she’d be so cool, famous and successful that they’d regret not including Phoebe Clarke.
At break time, her classmates didn’t exclude her but they didn’t welcome her either. She sat on the edge of the small group, trying to overhear their weekend gossip. She had no idea what they were talking about. So she just listened and smiled when they laughed. Most of their gossip was about sex. She only knew the very basics of what her mother called ‘the birds and the bees’. The girls seemed to be learning more advanced stuff from their parents’ paperback books. They pored over their illicit adult contraband in the playground.
‘Let’s find all the naughty bits.’
‘Okay, my book’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.’
‘Mine’s The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. We could be the crème de la crème just like in the book, couldn’t we?’
But the cool girls knew they were already. Phoebe watched them huddled around their biblical tomes of sexual information as they proceeded to read the juiciest bits out to each other. Although she knew more words in French than the ones they were using, she’d never heard of anything they were discussing – it was like another language. If all this was to do with ‘the birds and the bees’, her mother had never mentioned it. It all sounded strange to her. Her classmates didn’t enlighten her either. They thought she was way too babyish; she didn’t even wear a bra yet.
Maybe that was another way forward?
She asked Abby – Mrs Abbott, the housekeeper – to buy her a bra. Abby was always there for her, unlike her mother. Mrs Abbott triumphantly produced a Woolworth’s nylon Ladybird bra – a 32A cup, with a rosebud print all over it. Phoebe excitedly tried the bra on in her bedroom, and although she didn’t yet fill it out, she felt properly grown up, just like the rest of the girls. She experimented with padding the cups out with cotton wool and discovered that this was the final part of the no-boobs-to-boobs conundrum. She knew that no boy was going to be putting his hand inside her bra any time soon, so the cotton wool felt like a pretty safe option. It just needed not to fall out, and especially not in front of any of her classmates. So she made sure she always undressed for gym facing the lockers, and she never added the padding unless she knew it was completely safe. When it came to swimming she told the sports teacher she had the curse. She’d heard the other girls using that word as an excuse, but she hadn’t got hers yet, so it was just another fib to add to the ever-growing list.
Another school year passed and nothing much really changed in Phoebe’s world. The cool girls still huddled together in the playground, sitting in the only sunny corner. Phoebe sat in her usual position, on the fringes of the group, saying nothing. The girls just acted as though she wasn’t there. Like an annoying fly that didn’t go away, even after it had been repeatedly swatted. The girls chattered on, oblivious to her presence.
‘Wasn’t Way In at Harrods groovy last weekend? It was so fun there with all the pop music and flashing lights. What are you going to wear next time? Tell you what, I’ll phone your home to see what you’re wearing before we leave and then we can wear the same. Shall we go to the Chelsea Drugstore afterwards for a milkshake on the way home?’
The girls’ cycle of group chats continued, while Phoebe remained always on the outside, looking in. She spent a long time considering what she could do to join in; she so wanted to go to these places too, and then do more than just sit and listen.
One day, suddenly, it came to her. She’d create a pretend life that would mirror theirs – an alter ego – with a boyfriend. She’d pretend to be somebody she wanted to be, until she finally became that person. She chose her moment carefully, selecting Louisa to tell, as she’d always been a little kinder to her than the others.
‘Louisa, don’t tell anyone, but I’ve got a boyfriend I’ve been seeing.’ Phoebe tentatively whispered the news to her at the end of one break time.
Louisa looked at her, mouth open, gobsmacked. ‘Really? You? I don’t believe you!’ She abruptly walked off, immediately catching up with her girlfriends, who were chatting in a group a few yards ahead.
‘Hey, girls, guess what . . . ?’
Phoebe walked meekly behind them, already prepared for the fact that Louisa would be eager to convey this extraordinary news as soon as she was able. The girls would then digest it and come and ask for more. Phoebe knew exactly how these girls worked together – she’d watched them for long enough. When they came, she’d be ready. She felt sure she’d hit on the way into the sacred inner sanctum of the cool girls. Now she just needed to make up stories about what she’d been doing with this imaginary boyfriend. But if she was going to make it all up, she needed to know what she was talking about, and how could she do that if she’d never done anything at all? She knew she needed to be convincing, and to have as much knowledge as possible for when they started quizzing her. Phoebe’s alter ego was everything she wished she herself could actually be – sexy, sassy, outgoing, confident and popular with everybody.
After lunch the cool girls sat in the playground, in their usual sunny corner, and for the first time ever Phoebe was in the circle too; it felt good that she was learning how to assert herself as Phoebe Version Two. It seemed that the difference between try and triumph was just a fib or two. She didn’t really like lying – but look where it was getting her.
‘So, Phoebe, tell us . . . everything.’
‘Well . . .’ Did she really have all five girls’ attention? It seemed she did. ‘I met this boy Paul in the holidays.’ Giving this fictional character a name seemed to make him more real.
The probing questions came fast and furious.
‘How old is he?’
‘I think the same age as me . . . fourteen,’ Phoebe answered with confidence.
‘Blonde?’
‘Dark?’
‘Tall or short?’
‘Good-looking?’ The girls couldn’t get their probing questions out quickly enough, but so far these were all easy questions for Phoebe.
‘Blonde, good-looking, taller than me – but that’s not difficult, as I’m only five foot two.’ Phoebe attempted to make a joke and giggled self-consciously. Gosh, this was working, the girls were laughing with her too.
‘Where did you meet Paul?’ The girls were now relentless in their interrogation and there was no letting up.
‘The ballroom dancing classes at my parents’ club. Paul asked me to go with him to the Teenage Ball there.’ This was all nearly true. She’d gone to holiday dance classes, and there had been boys there too. However, they hadn’t talked or danced with her; she’d stood on the side of the room with no partner, and had to dance with the teacher. Her alter ego would never have suffered such indignity. ‘Paul and I danced for ages in the disco and when we were too sweaty, we escaped to the fresh air outside, walking to the jetty by the river. It was sooo romantic. That’s where we had a quick snog and he offered me a cigarette.’ Phoebe hoped she was using the correct terminology and that it all sounded realistic. She must be doing okay, as the girls were looking impressed. Gosh, she was surprisingly good at telling these stories.
‘Wow, Phoebe, you had a snog? How was it with your braces, didn’t he mind . . . didn’t he say it hurt his tongue?’
Phoebe now found herself with a dilemma – how to answer with authority, as she still hadn’t kissed anyone yet – but she was on a roll and she wasn’t going to stop now. ‘No, he didn’t say anything . . . but it was really brill.’ Then she had a sudden moment of inspiration, ‘But while we were out there, some parents came past us just as he was about to put his hand inside my bra . . .’ She paused for optimum effect.
‘Oh my God, Phoebe . . .’ The girls were now hanging on to her every word. ‘What happened then?’
Phoebe realised she might have nailed the story now. ‘They told us we weren’t allowed to be outside, and to go back inside the party rooms immediately.’ She thought this sounded plausible, but maybe less exciting.
She needn’t have worried; the girls seemed suitably impressed.
‘Wow, Phoebe, and you were smoking too!’
‘Yes, Consulate Menthol.’ She knew that was the brand some of the girls smoked. All her listening was paying off.
‘Phoebe, you’ve really changed, this hols. Come and sit with us in the playground next break, so we can hear more, absolutely everything . . . all the gory details.’
She’d cracked the cool-girl code; now she just had to keep going. But she became obsessed with wanting to experience everything that she was describing. She wanted to know more about sex – whether it was all that it was cracked up to be by the girls. She wanted to come to school hiding love bites. She wanted to know what the girls meant by ‘soixante-neuf’ and finger screwing. She wanted to transform into her alter ego.
Phoebe’s subsequent plan of action was to buy Honey and Jackie teen mags and avidly devour them from cover to cover in search of the important details that would add gravitas to her stories. Any little nuggets of detail that she could find out about sex were her way forward to improve and embellish her stories. She forensically examined every single teen magazine problem page so she could sound like she really knew her stuff.
She also learnt the names of all the pop singer crushes whose photos she’d heard the girls say they’d stuck up on their bedroom walls. She carefully scrutinised the make-up, hairstyles and high street fashion pages, which seemed to be nothing like the styles she’d seen in her mother’s magazines. She’d often snuck downstairs at night and borrowed her mother’s copies of Vogue, which lay next to the perfectly aligned stacks of expensive, glossy coffee table books. She read the magazines under her eiderdown, with a torch, so Mrs Abbott wouldn’t see a light coming from under her bedroom door. Phoebe always returned them to the exact position they’d come from, as she knew her mother would notice anything minutely out of place in her carefully curated, perfect rooms.
Phoebe cut up all her teen magazine pages; mixing, matching and pasting outfits into fashion scrapbooks. She added styling changes and notes about fabrics and colours with little sketches of her own. No one would ever see them, they were her secret. She didn’t want to be laughed at, she just wanted to be liked.
Halfway through the term, a new girl unexpectedly appeared.
‘Girls, please meet your new classmate, Paula. She’ll be joining us from today.’ The teacher introduced a tall and skinny, moody-looking girl who was standing beside her in the doorway of the classroom.
The girl looked sulkily back at her new classmates. Phoebe watched her sweep her long hair back with one seemingly well-practised single movement. The girl’s blonde, very straight, thick hair fell back off her face for a brief moment and then rippled heavily down over her shoulders. In that fleeting moment, Phoebe noticed over-plucked eyebrows framing the bluest but saddest eyes she’d ever seen. The new girl stood with her arms crossed sullenly across her generous bosom. Her sourness and disengagement detracted from the prettiness of her features.
‘Please go and sit there in the front row, next to Phoebe,’ directed the teacher in a kindly tone.
The girl didn’t bother to acknowledge the teacher or her neighbour as she sat down. Phoebe decided she had nothing to lose by being friendly. The cool girls had already dropped her from their inner circle again, once they’d realised that she had no more personal gossip to feed them, side-lining her as quickly as they’d picked her up. Loyalty wasn’t big on their teenage agenda.
Phoebe overheard them discussing the new girl immediately after lessons ended. They didn’t hold back in their immediate and negative assessment of this unknown girl.
‘Have you chatted to that strange new girl, Paula, yet?’
‘Where do you think she comes from?’
‘What school was she at before this . . . a state school?’
‘She won’t say, maybe she got a scholarship . . . but what’s she good at?’
‘Dunno – she doesn’t talk to anyone.’
‘Boring!’ That was the girls’ summary of Paula, before they completely wrote her off.
Phoebe could understand how Paula’s ‘don’t care, don’t mess with me’ attitude had stopped anyone engaging with her. Phoebe didn’t care where Paula came from, or how she talked, or that maybe she wasn’t posh. She knew what it was like to be an outsider looking in, and to always be on your own.
‘Hi, Paula, I wondered if you’d like to walk down the King’s Road with me after school tomorrow on your way home?’ Phoebe tried using her braver alter ego persona, hoping to break through Paula’s icy demeanour.
Paula looked surprised at the unexpected approach and swept back her hair before she started to speak. Phoebe wondered whether it was a studied and contrived affectation, or a nervous habit.
Paula took a few minutes to consider the question before she answered. ‘Why me? I thought you was mates with that cool gang.’
‘No, not any more.’ Phoebe’s own reply was immediate.
She could see Paula’s hesitation before she allowed a flicker of a smile. ‘Okay, tomorrow then, Phee.’
No one had ever shortened Phoebe’s name to Phee before. Maybe Paula could become her friend, a proper friend, the first one she’d ever had. A friend who wouldn’t judge her, would keep her secrets, and who would always be there for her.
Their friendship started from that afternoon. They walked together after school, down the King’s Road to the bus stop by the Chelsea Drugstore, where Paula caught a bus home. Phoebe thought she’d mentioned her home was in Fulham, but Phoebe had no clue where Fulham was. The girls never chatted on the phone or invited each other to their respective homes, but their friendship seemed to work well like that. Phoebe secretly blamed her mother’s small-mindedness towards anyone whom she deemed common or ‘vulgar’, but she knew nothing about Paula’s reasons, as her new friend offered so little insight into her life. Their social arrangements were always made in the school playground at break times.
‘I know where we can go after school today . . . Kensington Gardens . . .’ Phoebe gabbled excitedly.
Paula, more measured, stared expectantly at her new friend, shielding the sun from her eyes as they sat together in the corner of the playground.
‘Why?’ she asked, loading myriad questions into the single word. She was the mistress of ‘less is more’ when it came to their conversations.
Phoebe didn’t lose her enthusiasm for the idea of a jaunt, even when faced with her new friend’s response. ‘It’s a park. I used to go there a lot when I was a little girl, and we’d feed the ducks at the Round Pond at the top of the hill there.’
‘Who’s we, Phee?’ Paula was now looking confused.
‘Whoever was looking after me then.’ Phoebe decided not to elaborate; she didn’t yet know Paula well enough to tell her everything, and she didn’t want Paula to judge her like everyone else had done. So she simply continued. ‘Sometimes I was allowed to take my bicycle and I’d pedal all around the pond and then freewheel back down the hill—’
Paula uncharacteristically interrupted her. ‘Blimey! Our lives were so different. Me and my bruv just played in the street.’
Phoebe momentarily became silent with amazement that Paula had actually made a comment about her own life. Then she took up her story again. ‘I so looked forward to those afternoons with the ducks at the Round Pond. My life was so sheltered that it was exciting to leave the house for anything. I didn’t even mind if it was raining, as that meant I could splash around in the puddles, even though I knew I’d make my mother angry if I dirtied my smart White House wool coat with its velvet collar.’
Paula looked at Phoebe incredulously. ‘Never heard of your White House place, but a coat with a velvet collar sounds proper posh. You must’ve been a right little madam.’ She smiled as she said it, as if hoping that Phoebe would realise she was teasing.
‘Maybe I was a little madam – but if so, it was unintentional. I am trying to change now.’ Phoebe secretly crossed her fingers, hoping Paula would agree that she’d noticed changes.
‘Mmm, maybe you have, just a bit.’ Paula was now looking away as she spoke, so Phoebe couldn’t see her friend’s expression, but she guessed that ‘just a bit’ probably meant ‘quite a lot’ in Paula’s vocabulary. Phoebe could feel a warm glow of happiness inside her, realising that her new friend had just paid her a compliment.
The following Saturday was the girls’ next planned trip, taking a number 14 bus to Harrods Way In. A thought suddenly struck Phoebe as she gazed out of the window from the top deck. ‘This is only the second time I’ve ever been on a bus.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Paula looked back at her in shock.
‘No, I’m serious. That’s how my childhood was – and the first time was with Abby.’ Phoebe decided to drip-feed a little more information about her home life.
‘Abby?’ Paula was starting to wonder how many people lived in Phoebe’s house with her.
‘Abby’s always looked after me, and her real name is Mrs Abbott. I think I was about six then.’ Phoebe wondered whether she should sound apologetic as she continued. ‘Usually, I was driven everywhere in Daddy’s car by James – you know, I told you about him, the one who dropped me off round the corner from school.’
Paula gawked at Phoebe and raised her eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I did spot you once in that flash Bentley car. You didn’t get away with that, Phee.’
That’s annoying, Phoebe thought to herself, as she’d tried so hard to be discreet. But now that she’d started explaining about her life, she wanted to continue. ‘The thing is, everything I tell you may shock you. But please understand that, however wonderful it sounds, it wasn’t. It was like living in a gilded cage. Do you know something? I’d much rather have been you.’
‘Nah, trust me, you wouldn’t,’ Paula responded definitively.
‘Yes, I would. I know you don’t believe me. Anyway, back to how I ended up on the bus. Abby took me on the bus to Marble Arch to the Lyons Corner House, the “Maison Lyons” I think she called it. It was so exciting.’
‘Going on the bus was exciting?’ Paula was now looking at her friend as though she was completely mad.
‘No, the Corner House, duh. It was so big, a bit like Harrods. It was a huge building with lots of restaurants in it, with names like The Grill and Cheese, The Bacon and Egg and the Wimpy Bar, all linked together by one central kitchen. We could even look through the glass wall into the kitchens where chefs were cooking eggs in every way possible, served up with chips. I’d never seen anything like this sort of food before and was mesmerised by the kitchen staff stirring, flipping and tossing eggs around. I had never seen anyone cooking, not even in my own house, as I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen by Cook. My mother never went into the kitchen either – unless it was to check a dinner party menu, or talk with Cook about the week’s meals.’
‘Phee, how can you never have been in your kitchen? And what’s a dinner party, or whatever you called it? I have tea on a tray in front of the telly when I come home from school, and sometimes I cook a roast dinner on a Sunday for me, my bruv and my dad. Your life’s like a whole other world.’
‘Paula, I know, your life shocks me too.’
The two girls looked at each other, equally stunned and bemused by the information they’d just swapped about their lives.
The bus slowed down as it approached a bus stop. The pale pink Harrods building loomed into view.
‘Phee, we’re here. Quick, come on down the stairs, otherwise we’ll miss the stop. I’ve already rung the bell.’ Paula grabbed Phoebe’s hand and scrambled with her down the stairs, but the bus lurched forward again into the traffic. ‘Oh no, we’ve missed it now . . . never mind, we’ll get off when the bus next stops in the traffic . . . quick . . . now . . . jump!’
Phoebe was finally doing all the same things she’d listened to the other girls in class talking about doing. She was seeing all the cool shops in Chelsea and Knightsbridge, and all the fashions that were so far removed from what her mother wore. She and Paula managed to sample milkshakes in Harrods Way In, and they found Laura Ashley on the Fulham Road, where they tried on the Victoriana-style print smock dresses and maxi skirts. Phoebe suddenly felt so grown-up, it must be the Paula effect rubbing off on her.
Phoebe never questioned paying for both of them on their outings together; she knew Paula had no money. She felt a tiny flicker of worry that her new best friend might only be with her because she funded everything. She hoped she wasn’t just buying her friendship . . . no, that could never be possible, and she quickly dismissed the thought.
One day, Paula unexpectedly came up with an invitation of her own. ‘Fancy a pop concert at that posh Albert Hall gaff? A friend’s just given me two tickets for Deep Purple playing with the Royal Phil-ham-something band . . . orchestra . . . dunno. Didn’t ask how he got them. What do you think?’
Phoebe tried not to show how excited she was. This was her first ever concert, but she had absolutely nothing suitable to wear. Her wardrobe had always been chosen for her by her mother. She now wanted to channel the ‘groovy hippy chick’ vibe she’d seen photographed in all her magazines. Kensington Market was exactly the place to find the perfect outfit. She knew Mrs Abbott would definitely say no to her going there, and Phoebe had no idea how to get there on her own. Maybe James could take her and pretend it was an errand for a school homework project?
He swallowed her story – she was getting really adept now at fibbing. James waited for her outside Barkers department store. She went in through the nearest side door and snuck out again at the front, on to Kensington High Street. She had to stop outside to breathe it all in for a minute. She could smell Kensington Market before she even walked in. If she could have bottled the smells, she would have mixed together old musty leather, Indian spices, wet dog, maybe a bit of horse manure and pot pourri. It wasn’t just the smells that were so amazing, it was the random arrangement and colour of the stalls, with narrow passageways leading deeper into this heady other-worldly place, and an eclectic mix of fashions she’d never seen before. Once inside, she realised the mix of smells had very precise origins. The furry Afghan coats stank of dung; patchouli oil and incense sticks were everywhere; and piles of mouldy old clothes were being sold as vintage, adding to the musty smell.
She couldn’t decide where to start, as she only had a short time while James waited for her. She pushed past stallholders and browsing shoppers who all seemed to be functioning at a long-playing 33⅓rpm gramophone speed, unlike her speedy 45rpm teenage self. There were so many nooks and crannies and hidden stalls to navigate her way around. It was so exciting, but she wished she was sharing the experience with Paula. Phoebe fell upon a perfect turquoise three-button granny T-shirt, costing a pound, and teamed it with a pair of purple loons – that’s what the stallholder called the wide-bottomed trousers. Phoebe guessed the size she needed, as there was no way she was going to try them on behind a poorly draped she
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