Cece at the Gosforth Rugby Club Disco March 1978
No one asked for ID; half the bar staff were underage themselves. Drinking was a Tyneside tradition, posh suburb or not. Boys downed McEwan’s Exhibition, Newcastle Brown, or rum-and-Coke; girls sipped Babycham, Cherry D, lager and lime, or shandy.
The DJ, a Bob Harris wannabe with long hair and a drawl, spun Mud, the Carpenters, Roxy Music, Queen, Thin Lizzy, even splashes of punk—The Jam, the Stranglers, the Sex Pistols—before lurching into slow numbers to encourage coupling.
Cece was by a speaker, bobbing slightly. She was a willowy figure with soft auburn hair and a wrap dress that made her look like she’d just stepped out of Harvey Nichols. For a heartbeat, she caught Robbie’s eye. Brushed her hair back. Glanced at someone else. Looked back.
A signal?
Heart racing like a trapped budgie, Robbie approached.
“Hi,” he said.
Cece blinked. Once. Twice.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” Mild disappointment softened into a polite smile. She smiled, polite, not cold, but guarded. Eyes flicked past him, tracking the room.
Half the room had eyes on Cece.
Robbie blurted, “I read somewhere that standing by a speaker for too long lowers your IQ.”
Cece tilted her head. “That explains my Maths mock.”
He laughed—too loudly. She didn’t. He winced.
The DJ queued up Orleans – “Dance With Me.”
He offered a hand. “Dance?”
Cece finally looked properly at him. “Not to this’ and she laughed—not at him, but at the music.
“Drink, then?”
She could do that.
He guided her through the throng to the bar, hand lightly on her elbow, feeling like he might burst. He’d gone with the Manwatching plan: eyes, talk, touch – just a hand to the shoulder said something. He couldn’t help but enjoy the way she moved. Girls moved in beguiling ways. He missed that at an all-male boarding school, where the only movement was the lollop of thuds of masculine limbs.
Conversation was easy. Robbie kept his eyes on hers, not her neckline. Kizzy took mental notes from the sidelines.
When Steely Dan’s “Do It Again” came on, Robbie suggested that they dance, and they did. He caught her eye a few times; they found a way to synchronise their moves. Kind of. She didn’t reveal her inner ballerina. She might have. He wondered why she didn’t. It was as if she preferred to keep the inner jaguar tamed. She had a superpower but didn’t want to use it. With Boston’s “More Than A Feeling,” Cece excused herself, promising to be back. He noticed her scurry off to the bathroom, he assumed. She took a second girl with her for a conference. Robbie had a conflab of his own. Kizzy came over. She grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait. You need more context.”
“Now?”
“She’s not just ballet. She speaks French. Fluent. Her dad’s something with trade delegations. Cannes every summer. Last year? A French boy. Major swoon. Kept it quiet. No one knows. I had to trade two Benson & Hedges and a Babycham story to get it.”
Robbie blinked. “She… what?”
“French, Robbie. And romantic. But modest. Doesn’t boast. You can’t go in with a brag. Lead with curiosity, not charm. Use the French angle. Ask if she’s heard of Téléphone.”
“That’s a band, right?”
“Jesus. Yes. Just… try not to sound like a holiday rep.”
Cece was back as Roxy Music’s “All I Want Is You” began to play. Cece joined him, and Robbie floated. The lyrics couldn’t have been better. He felt that Cece was distracted, though. He tried asking her about Téléphone. It didn’t go down well. What on earth was he going on about? When Boz Scaggs’ “We’re All Alone” came on, he drew her close.
Cece was light in his arms. He imagined holding her close. He tried to continue the conversation. Tried to find something to make her laugh. She wasn’t having anything of it. If she cuddled, it was to use him like an umbrella, as if she were hiding from something, or someone.
As the song ended, and they edged apart, he leaned in for a kiss, only for Cece to bend down and fiddle with her sandal strap.
Was it tactical? Probably.
From behind Cece, Kizzy gestured wildly: “Engage mouth and lips!” Robbie froze, misreading her signal entirely.
The moment evaporated. Another boy swooped in. Cece let herself be rescued. That had been her plan. She’d been making it clear to this other boy that someone else would take her from him if he didn’t pay attention.
Retreating to Kizzy’s side, Robbie groaned.
“Right, lover boy,” she said, taking his hand. “Time for a pit stop.”
They dashed home down the Great North Road, into their house, and to Kizzy’s bedroom. She peeled the battered Form Photo off its card backing, smoothing it flat.
“Dart two,” she said, handing him the darts.
First shot: miss.
Second shot: thwack.
“Helen Laidlaw,” Kizzy announced, peering at the impact.
Keeps a horse. Collects commemorative thimbles. Youngest in the form. Birthday: late July.”
Robbie stared at her. “You’re making this up.”
Kizzy grinned. “For Cece, you might need a dog. For Helen, start riding. Develop an interest in antique thimbles.”
“I didn’t think it was going to be this complicated,” he muttered.
Back at the disco, Kizzy scanned the crowd.
“None of the girls from Wylam or Riding Mill made it,” she said. “No, India Armstrong-Jones. You’d like her. Tracey’s skulking about, though.”
Robbie spotted a girl glancing away sharply. Tracey McAdam? Hard to tell. No one looked like they did in uniform.
Kizzy pointed. “There’s Helen. Dad’s probably around. He played fly-half for Gosforth, once.”
Robbie was about to ask how Kizzy knew that when Helen approached. Kizzy slipped behind the bar to help Donna, leaving Robbie to fend for himself.
“What’s Kizzy like in class?” he asked Helen, trying to break the ice.
“Mischievous. Her and Momo—surprised they get any work done,” Helen smiled.
They chatted about music. “No more David Soul, please,” Robbie pleaded. Then, Robbie realised Helen’s dad was the DJ, explaining her presence and occasional winces.
Village People’s “YMCA” got the girls stomping in flares, arms aloft. Robbie grinned at Helen from the edge of the dance circle. She grinned back.
They danced. Drank. Danced again.
It wasn’t bad. Not Cece, but not bad.
Then, during a slow one, Helen dropped the bomb:
“I have a boyfriend.”
Robbie’s heart sank. Genuine boyfriend, or polite brush-off? He’d never know.
Helen drifted away, towards a cluster of older lads. Robbie, smarting, headed for the bar.
Across the room, Tracey McAdam watched him—sharp and calculating, with the look of someone recording everything for later.
Robbie smiled awkwardly. Didn’t recognise her.
Tracey kept staring.
She’d seen it all: Robbie bouncing between girls, checking in with Kizzy like a soldier reporting to HQ.
Something was going on.
The DJ switched to punk. Boys pogoed like lunatics. Robbie joined them out of sheer bloody-mindedness.
Later, as he and Kizzy crossed the car park for home, they passed the stone bus shelter where couples snogged obliviously.
Robbie spotted Tracey. Mark Jackson, a rugby player, latched onto her neck like a vampire.
He turned away, laughing.
They didn’t know they were being followed.
Tracey had extracted herself from Mark as the No.45 bus arrived, bundled him aboard, and doubled back. Her instincts buzzed.
Whatever Robbie and Kizzy were up to, Tracey intended to find out.
And maybe—just maybe—she’d find a way to get Robbie. Just as Robbie was trying to align himself with Miss Celia Noble.
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