Robbie’s first week back from ‘posh prison’ in Gosforth, Easter 1978
Robbie tugged at Kizzy’s sleeve as they reached Blackett Street. First stop: Salon 66, an Italian barber’s lair perched above Reid & Son jewellers. Inside, the scent of talcum powder mingled with faint ammonia, and an Art Deco aquarium glowed against peeling pine panelling. Fifty-somethings in threadbare cardigans slouched over broadsheets—shooting and hunting magazines splayed across their laps. Robbie remembered perched on grandad’s knee years ago, pointing out iridescent guppies and counting the silent bubbles rising from the ceramic grotto. Now he squirmed in the vinyl chair under the barber’s razor-comb, shards of hair clinging to his collar. Kizzy hovered by the door, wide-eyed, whispering, “Let’s get out before someone asks about your father.” He felt the blade’s nickled teeth — rebellion in each slice of hair.
Next: Marcus Price, a jewel-box emporium they dubbed “Newcastle’s Carnaby Street.” Kizzy clicked through racks of paisley shirts and velvet jackets; each garment shimmered under brass spotlights. Robbie fingered a silk-lined green velvet blazer and turquoise cords so bright they seemed illuminated from within. Kizzy wrinkled her nose. “Too much?” he grinned. “Exactly right,” he declared, slipping into the jacket and buttoning it like a royal cloak. At the till, he capped the look with a spritz of Brut aftershave—cheekbones tingly, chest coated in icy alcohol.
Kizzy dashed to the phone box in Eldon Square—no landline at home—while Robbie crossed Percy Street to The Kard Bar in Handyside Arcade. Inside, the air was thick with patchouli and dust motes dancing in high windows, like a Victorian glasshouse repurposed for kaftan-clad hippies. Posters of Bowie and Roger Dean landscapes pressed against cracked plaster. Bare feet padded on creaking floorboards to the hypnotic loop of “White Rabbit.” Robbie tried on an army-surplus trench coat so oversized it swallowed him whole, then eyed a pair of too-tall cowboy boots. Mum would freak, but he bought them anyway—boots or Docs, he decided.
They rendezvoused at the bus stop opposite the University Theatre. Kizzy brandished her notebook. “Important intelligence: Cece studies ballet. Apparently, she’s brilliant.” Robbie’s pulse fluttered—ballet, pliés, ethereal lifts. “Also: Labrador,” she added. “Had him since he was a puppy – named Twitchit because her brother managed to jam his tail in the garage door. Robbie laughed, picturing the squealing pup.
Back home, Kizzy propped Robbie’s head over the back of the rocking chair, the blow-dryer’s hot breath ruffling his new cut. “Hold still,” she muttered, fingers combing through his damp hair. Manwatching lay open beside them, dog-eared at page 47. “Listen to this,” he said, pointing to a paragraph. “‘When approaching a woman at a party, a touch to the shoulder lasting precisely 1.4 seconds indicates interest without threat.’” Kizzy rolled her eyes.
Later, sweat beaded on his forehead beneath dark goggles as the sunlamp hummed above. Now he had Shere Hite’s book balanced on his knees, the pages slightly warped from humidity. His pencil hovered over the margin next to a paragraph about female pleasure. “If she asks if I’m a virgin…” he whispered, then crossed out his first attempt at an answer. The towel slipped; he grabbed for it, face flushing beneath the artificial sun.
Kizzy, meanwhile, read Jilly Cooper aloud in an exaggerated posh accent until Robbie squirmed away from passages about trembling thighs and nights of passion.
Finally, Kizzy swooped in with the Brut. Robbie turned, aimed, and splashed his crotch. The zipper caught delicate skin. He yelped, cross-legged, hobbling to the cloakroom. Kizzy arrived, wielding long fingers like forceps, peeled open his jeans, and freed him with the delicacy of a bomb-disposal expert. Robbie dabbed at the spots of blood with loo roll, mortified. Kizzy pointed upstairs. “Underpants now!”
Then, “Cece’s not the sort you win with charm,” she says, “You’ll need strategy, polish… and deodorant.”
One last thing, Cece pulls out the Brut and ensures Robbie gets a generous covering.
“It won’t guarantee you get a girl, but it’ll make sure you don’t smell like a male rugby club locker room’ says Kizzy.
Robbie angled away from Kizzy, the Brut bottle cold in his palm. He unbuckled, splashed the cologne liberally below his waist, and yanked his zipper upward. A white-hot pain shot through him. His breath hissed between clenched teeth. The zipper teeth had caught flesh—actual flesh—where underwear should have been. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he hobbled bow-legged toward the cloakroom, each step sending fresh jolts up his spine. Behind the locked door, his fingers trembled too much to help himself. Kizzy’s knock came soft at first, then insistent. “Rob?” When he finally unlatched the door, she averted her eyes, arms extended like a surgeon awaiting gloves. “Don’t look down,” she commanded, voice clinical. “Look at that crack in the ceiling.” His knuckles whitened against the sink edge. One sharp tug later, he bit back a scream. Blood bloomed in tiny crimson dots. He pressed toilet paper against himself, the paper sticking to damp skin as Kizzy backed away, hands raised as if from contamination.
When he emerged, Kizzy pointed upstairs. “Underpants. Now!”
Then it was down the drive, around the corner, virtually next door, to the Gosforth Rugby Club disco, which was held in front of the bar above the changing rooms and plunge baths. It had the vibe of a private party at the yacht club. More decorous, with too many adults leaning on the bar eyeing up the ‘totty’ for the teens to feel comfortable.
Kizzy provides one last instruction while she thrusts him into the throng: “Current strategy: you approach Cece like Desmond Morris would approach a shy gazelle, quote Germaine Greer to show you’re ‘aware,’ pull a plié without spraining your knackers, and, if all else fails, talk about Labradors.”
Robbie, “If that doesn’t get me a kiss, nothing will.”
“Dart one,” Kizzy declared, “Let’s see if she was worth it”.
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? he wondered.
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, courteous, 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. “I heard it messed with a boy’s sperm count. So who knows, if you stand with me for long enough, you might become infertile.”
Robbie 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; she wasn’t going to dismiss him that easily. “Not to this’ and she laughed—not at him, but at the music.
“Drink, then?”
She could do that.
He guided Cece through the throng to the bar, his fingertips barely grazing the crook of her elbow, each point of contact sending electric jolts into his arm. The Manwatching plan unfurled in his mind like a tactical map: eyes locked on hers for precisely three seconds, then away; casual conversation pitched just loud enough to be heard over “Stayin’ Alive”; and now the touch—3.4 seconds of pressure on her shoulder, the duration he’d practised counting in his head. She moved like water through the crowd, all fluid curves and subtle shifts of weight, her auburn hair catching amber flashes from the disco lights. At Sedbergh, boys only ever moved in straight lines (usually clutching a rugby ball), their bodies clattering against each other like pinballs, all elbows and knees and thudding feet that made the floorboards groan.
Conversation with Cece 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, which he assumed was her intention. She took a second girl with her to 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 that story.”
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, but 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 any 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, from behind Cece, Kizzy gestured wildly: “Engage mouth and lips!” Robbie froze, misreading her signal entirely. He leaned in for a kiss, only for Cece to bend down and fiddle with her sandal strap.
Was it tactical? Probably.
The moment evaporated. Another boy swooped in. Cece let herself be rescued.
“Right, lover boy,” she said, taking his hand. “Time for a pit stop. That had been her plan, all along. She wanted you to get this other boy jealous enough to act – and he did.”
Retreating to Kizzy’s side, Robbie groaned.
While sipping cans of McEwan’s, Kizzy briefed her brother, keeping an eye on the dance floor. She could see that Cece was lingering around some of the older boys, who found her about as interesting as a cold chips wrapped in newspaper – without the chips. Then she saw that Cece was talking to Helen Laidlaw, the youngest in the class. Just then, Kizzy caught Cece directing Helen in Robbie’s direction and ducked.
Kizzy grabs the opportunity.
“Helen Laidlaw. The consolation prize.” Kizzy announces to Robbie, “Just your type, a little younger than the others, but you’re only hoping to hold hands.
“No dart?” Robbie asked.
“No time. Chance is the operative word. She keeps a horse. She collects thimbles, if I recall. What use that is to you, I do not know. Youngest in the Form. August Birthday.”
Robbie turned to look for Helen, didn’t spot her approaching from the other side of the room and told Kizzy she was making it up.
As Helen approached, Helen muttered to Robbie, “For Cece, you might need a dog. For Helen, start riding and develop an interest in antique thimbles.”
“I didn’t think it was going to be this complicated,” he mumbled as Kizzy found a way to push both Helen and Robbie onto the dance floor as Kate Bush’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ sparkled into play, and both found themselves out of their depth. If Robbie had wanted to prove to the world he couldn’t dance, he did a good job of it. Helen was suitably amused at his efforts. At least he gave it a go; most of the boys ogled and goggled from the dance floor, nursing a pint and uttering crude thoughts.
If Kate Bush didn’t work for them both, “Barracuda” from Heart had a far better rock ‘n roll blast with female leads. Helen could enjoy this. Then, Elvis Costello’s “(I Don’t Want to Go to) Chelsea” was a hit, which they both enjoyed. Next, a timely slow one was played, Cliff Richard’s “Miss You Nights,” which Robbie would enjoy if Helen did, all while avoiding the cries of shame from faces he knew. He was getting a slow dance, they weren’t even Cliff Richard could be tolerated for that.
To conclude, he should now turn this close waddling about the dance floor into a kiss. Kizzy gestured that he should do as much. He blamed his failure on the timing, but Helen had no intention of letting his lips near hers. She was a distraction, that was the exact word. Cece had instructed Helen to keep Robbie away from anyone else, so she could claim her for herself if she chose to later that week, after deciding whether Peter, the ‘public school grot she apparently detested’ was ‘on’ or ‘off’.
Diana Simpson found him loitering by the cloakroom. Robbie recognised the face. He was getting to know them. She was on the Form Photo somewhere. On the far end with Donna. Her, the Donna, or the other way around. He wasn’t about to give the game away by asking.
Diana smiled politely, the sort of smile Cece might flash before handing him off. They shared a quick dance to Fleetwood Mac, her perfume faint but grown-up. Robbie leaned closer, hopeful.
“You’re good,” he muttered making a keen start.
“I’ve got a boyfriend,” she said lightly, almost apologetically, as if returning a library book.
He blinked. “Oh.”
She gave a small shrug, as though to say that’s the way it is, and slipped back into the crowd.
Robbie watched her go, feeling the echo of her absence more than the moment itself.
Across the room, Tracey McAdam watched him—sharp and calculating, with the look of someone recording everything for later. Robbie smiled awkwardly. He 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 up.
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