J F Vernon Blog

Snug, as a bug, in a rug.

Celia Noble was Dart One. The Fates had decided. From that moment, Robbie was doomed. Cece for short — Gosforth’s answer to Audrey Hepburn, the one girl in Kizzy’s Form Photo who looked like she’d stepped out of Harvey Nichols.

At that first Rugby Club disco, Robbie had made a real effort to make it count. He approached her, making her smile, and suggested a dance. A little later, during a slow one, he leaned in, but Cece ducked, and by the time he had recovered, another boy had claimed her.

There was a tennis encounter. She was with Diana. And Badminton, with Helen. She liked her chaperones, as Robbie saw it. Then the Second Chance — another disco. Cece had come over to their house with Momo before heading off to the party. They were closer that evening. She swayed, graceful even when she wasn’t trying. They danced briefly, intermittently; she came back to him, but had to check in with all kinds of other people, too. Robbie felt as if she were taming herself, never unleashing the jaguar Kizzy swore she hid inside. Robbie tried telepathy and thought he felt a signal. Boyish wishful thinking. She seemed half-there, then gone, too often retreating to the girls’ bathroom in a huddle to compare notes, no doubt.

There were several sightings of Cece: walking her Black Labrador Bramley past the tennis courts, slipping out of Steinway’s hairdresser, and attending ballet practice. But Cece, when glimpsed, gave nothing back. Just a glance, a smile, gone. Almost as if she wanted to be somewhere else.

Then came the breakthrough. Cece invited Robbie to her house. He met mum and dad, and they walked Bramble together on the Town Moor.

At another gathering, with the music loud and the lights dim, Cece finally leaned close enough to let him kiss her. Not a dodge this time, not a sandal strap excuse. A kiss — tentative, then sure. Robbie went home electric, scribbling in his diary: a kiss that counts. Kizzy wanted to know all. It seemed things were headed in the right direction, and the darts idea had been successful. One dart, one girl. Why even trouble with the others?

Other encounters with Cece had followed. She had Robbie, Jamie and Simon over for what she called “posh tea” — scones, silver spoons, a china pot. She went with “her boys” to the swimming baths, where each of them tried to be the one to lift her and throw her into the air so she could dive. She gave none of them special status, basking instead in the sudden fuss and attention after years of being overlooked. She smiled contentedly, knowing she was the only one there, with no competition from Momo or Helen—just her and the boys. They didn’t get into a fight over her, but she could sense it coming. Robbie wasn’t comfortable. Jamie was too eager, worse than a puppy. Simon was deadly serious.

She’d had an afternoon in the sunhouse with Robbie, just talking. Then the snug in the attic one evening, dim-lit, where he drew her. Robbie thought it was romantic, their private communion. Talking to Momo, Cece had played it down. Robbie was company, relief, a boy her own age to talk to who was trying to figure things out just as she was. And sometimes he would get a sketch pad out. She liked Robbie when he was drawing; she felt his eyes on her, enjoyed the silence that filled the space between them. She imagined she could hear his thoughts. In truth, Robbie was concentrating on line and proportion, hearing only his mother’s voice, his art teacher’s advice on shading and form.

By Friday morning, Cece felt the clock closing in. She’d been sorting the boys, quietly, in her own way, like a pack of cards: the ‘possible-maybes’, and the ‘never in a million years’. Robbie had the front running, not just because he was still there. There was more about him. Like her, he was eager to get away, he from his boarding school, she from her own life. The artist and the ballet dancer are bound for London. It wasn’t so far-fetched. She’d auditioned at eleven for White Lodge, Richmond Park, but stayed in Gosforth instead. Next month, she could apply for the Upper School in Covent Garden, but live in London, away from home.

So much was up in the air.

One by one, the boys had been spirited away: Stonyhurst first, Ampleforth the day after, then Stowe, Haileybury, and Fettes. Sedbergh was always the straggler, their bus rumbling out on the Saturday afternoon. It had to be now if she was going to allow herself a moment to experience whatever it was all the fuss was about – the kissing and stuff. Robbie was he pick. Momo approved. What she would do, though—that was the puzzle. Within limits, of course. Feelings were fair game: a kiss, a confession, maybe more. But zips and buttons would be left well alone. No tampering with a bra strap either.

So Cece invited Robbie over the night before he went back to school. Momo would be there. Robbie barely expected anything. Cece’s invitation—elegant cursive on a pale card—arrived by hand via Momo, appended with “I’ll be there too.” Was it really just tea and farewells? A profuse hug from her mother, followed by forced small talk, and then the routine he knew too well.

Cece spent the morning pacing her living room, rehearsing—not a ballet, but how to be… found. Then she went to Stienways, smoothing her hair and wondering if her plan was foolish. Once Robbie was there, she’d place him at the far end of the house, a few doors away from her parents at least. She had it planned. Momo would be on guard duty.

Kizzy chose a green paisley shirt from Marcus Price for Robbie to wear —neither too formal nor too casual—and she helped him wash his hair twice. He tucked a pencil into his pocket, a talisman against uncertainty. If nothing else, he could draw Cece.

Inside the snug, Cece got Momo in and arranged everything with precision. She tipped a pile of records onto the rug, sleeves fanning out like tarot cards. Bramley gave them a sniff and slumped down with a sigh.

Momo raised an eyebrow. “You’re really doing this? For Robbie Foster?”

“Not for him,” Cece said, sliding ‘Rumours’ out of its sleeve. “For me. He happens to be the boy on shift tonight.”

Momo laughed, flopping onto the sofa. “Shift? You sound like Miss Rowbotham marking homework.”

“Exactly,” Cece said. “There’s a timetable. At eight-thirty, Mum and Dad are glued to ‘The Good Life.. That’s my first window: twenty minutes, maybe less. Then the news kills the mood. We wait for ‘Parkinson’ at quarter to ten for a second go. After that, he has to be gone.”

“You’re ruthless.”

“I’m organised.” We start with ‘Wuthering Heights’. “Kate first — I’ll dance. You can join me. He’ll gawp. Then Bowie, because he’ll think I chose it for him. Then Fleetwood Mac, and if he’s not kissed me by ‘Songbird’, I’ll give him a hint.”

“I’ll take the cue from Bowie and leave,” Momo interjects.

“With Bramble,” Cece adds.

Momo plucked up ‘Je t’aime… moi non plus’ and waved it. “And this?”

Cece snatched it back, grinning despite herself. “Insurance policy. If things get too… safe.”

‘You don’t worry, your Mum might get confused about what you’re up to? And Donna Summer? Laying it on a bit thick.”

Cece slipped “‘Love to Love You Baby’ under the pile. “Final exam. If we dare.”

Momo leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “So I’m what, lookout?”

“You’re guard dog.” Cece ruffled Bramley’s ears. “If Mum heads upstairs, you bark. Loudly. You both do.”

“Your father?”

“He’ll not budge.”

Momo chuckled. “You’re turning this into theatre.”

Cece smoothed the stack of records, deadly serious. “Exactly. If I’m going to kiss Robbie, it’ll be because I staged it, not because he blundered into it.”

She glanced at the clock—twenty past seven.

“Curtain’s up in an hour.”

Cece changed into a pale blue cashmere jumper and jeans, leaving her feet bare to warm on the carpet. A narrow gold bracelet glinted on her wrist; the scent of bergamot trailed her fingers. Her hair knotted softly, a halo of restraint. She warmed up, drawing into pliés, pressing tension out. If this was insane, at least she’d be ready.

She left her mother on the phone with Mrs. Mackesy and settled her father in front of the TV for his favourite Friday evening viewing: ‘Tomorrow’s World’, followed by ‘The Good Life’, ‘The Nine O’Clock News’, and ‘Parkinson’. Mum would join Dad for ‘The Good Life’. Momo would sit with the Bramley. She’d have plenty of time to get up to whatever she had planned for Robbie.

When Robbie arrived, Momo opened the door.

“We’re in the snug,” she said. “You’ll know when you’re in.” Robbie’s chest tightened. He nodded, confused. Robbie crossed the sitting room and hesitated at the snug’s threshold. Inside, Cece knelt, legs folded beneath her like a dancer pausing mid-rehearsal. Brambles lay by her side, tentative, like a body guard.

“Shoes off.”

He obeyed, his stomach fluttering.

“Sit!” Cece called out, pointing at the chair. Both Robbie and Brambles looked over to the sofa and obeyed the command. Robbie took the sofa, and Brambles sat at his side—her two good, obedient boys.

Momo closed the door and joined her friend. With Wuthering Heights perfectly timed on the record player, the two girls began a routine which soon had Robbie enthralled. Afterwards, Momo put Brambles on a lead and left.

The record deck dropped the next record. Roxy Music ‘Love is the Drug’. This time Cece stood, took Robbie’s arms and encouraged him to dance.

Afterwards, she beckoned for him to sit. Not being a ballet dancer who wasn’t sure he could tuck his legs in quite like that, but he got onto the thick pile carpet and did his best. He mimicked her pose. Silence thickened.

David Bowie, ‘Life on Mars’ followed.

Then she leaned forward and murmured, “On se fait la bise ?”

They kissed swiftly, then sat still, knees almost touching on the tartan blanket she’d earlier discarded. That wouldn’t do at all. It made them laugh. They tried again. Sitting side by side. Poised for a long one. An inner voice constantly troubled Robbie, arguing about what he should or should not do next. His fingers trembled slightly as he remembered Tracey’s instructions and Kizzy’s warnings. ‘Coming up to breathe’ would have been a good one.

Fleetwood Mac, ‘Rumours’ came onto the deck.

Gradually, as if pulled by invisible threads, they leaned toward each other again—this time their lips met properly, hers tasting faintly of mint and something sweet he couldn’t name. Her eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, butterfly-light. His hand hovered at her hip, feeling the warmth radiating through indigo denim, the ridge of a belt loop beneath his thumb. She didn’t pull away but arched slightly toward him, her breathing shallow.

Serge Gainsbourg & Jane Birkin – “Je t’aime… moi non plus” came on. Cece regretted it. She blushed terribly. Robbie was lost for words. They looked at each other for a long time. Mesmerised by each other, they couldn’t believe the song. Robbie is incredulous at Cece’s nerve. Cece staggered with herself, but was not about to change the record. They entered the fray once more with greater gusto. They kissed and held each other like sloths who’d fallen into the rapids above the Niagara Falls. For the next four minutes, they held each other tight.

They found a rhythm as ancient as the sea: press forward, retreat, press deeper, retreat less. Cece’s pulse raced visibly at the hollow of her throat, a frantic flutter beneath pale skin. She shifted her weight, thigh pressing against his, and he instinctively mirrored her movement. The friction between them sparked something electric, and her breath caught—a small, startled “oh” that seemed to hang suspended in the dim light of the snug.

When the music stopped, they kept going.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice trembling. Robbie obeyed and he watched as Cece’s shoulders stiffened, her eyes fluttered shut. Her fingers dug into the carpet. A slight, startled sound escaped her—a frightened chord that snapped the fragile spell.

She jerked upright, scrambling a little, at Brambley’s distant jingle sounded like thunder.

Momo tapped on the door and let in the dog. Bramley was all over the young couple, feeling their buried excitement.

“It’s the News. Your Mum wants to bring tea.” Momo said.

Cece clutched her jumper as though it could obscure her raw edges. “I didn’t…” she began, face flushed, then stopped, unable to find the words.

They’d been kissing for ages. That was new. It meant something. More than a snog, if that were possible. Momo could see they still had business to attend to and offered to go and help with the tea. Cece said she’d be down in a sec.

Robbie propped himself on an elbow, mouth parted, wondering if he could help Cece finish her sentence. “I didn’t …,” he said softly.

Cece came close, whispering as if in a confessional, hoping the softness of her words would lighten the truth. But she had to say it. She wanted to say it. Or share a bit of it anyway. About how it felt, how it made her feel. All over.

“I didn’t think I’d … “

Cece couldn’t find the words and gave up. Instead, she leaned into him and resorted to nuzzling her head below Robbie’s chin like a cat showing affection.

“Can he be mine,” she was thinking, “just mine.”

She’d have to go downstairs. There wasn’t long to savour the moment. A kiss like that. At last. Maybe she now understood what all the fuss was about.

The thrill and delight of it all agitated with such intensity in Robbie’s head that he couldn’t hear a word he was thinking or make out what Cece wanted to say. It didn’t matter. A little squeeze. They both got up.

Cece stood, smoothing her jumper, regaining poise like a dancer after a fallen pirouette. She reached for Bramley, who was eager to get in on the action. They both fussed over him; they both giggled, and she stepped towards the door. Robbie rose, shoulders tight under his shirt. At the snug door, Cece paused, one hand resting on the carved lintel. The moment hovered like a tennis ball tossed into the air before a serve. Robbie felt her breath, the faint echo of lemon. Cece slipped past him, calling after Momo so that they could share a word, leaving Robbie to gather his thoughts, which were now fizzing like sparklers in a child’s gloved hand.

Once home, Robbie stayed awake for hours; he didn’t undress, her scent clinging to his shirt. Was this love? It felt like it. Something precious. Worth tending to, caring for.