‘All right?’ asked the men outside the club as they passed Diana and Helen to go to the end of the line.
Helen rolled her eyes or ignored them but Diana, ever her mother’s daughter, said hello to each and every one.
‘You sound a bit posh,’ said one young man with a quiff with peaks that would rival any meringue about to go into the oven. ‘You not from round ’ere?’
‘Piss off,’ said Helen.
Diana smiled at him apologetically and as he stepped away, she saw a young man behind him, with a nice suit and tie on and his copper hair smoothed back from his face.
He was taller than her but not so tall that he felt he needed to boast about it. Height wasn’t a personality trait, she often told tall boys who lorded it over shorter men.
He looked nervous as he followed his mouthy friend with the meringue hair to the back of the line. She turned to watch him walk away and he turned at the same time.
She couldn’t help herself smiling and giving a little wave. His hand lifted from his trouser pocket and he returned her wave with a small movement, which no one else saw. It was just for her and this pleased Diana. Sometimes secrets were good to hold, as long as they didn’t hurt anyone, she told herself.
The doors to the club opened and they streamed inside.
The band were playing a song that Diana didn’t know but Helen was already singing and swinging her hips in her wiggle skirt and soon they had a Babycham each, planning to nurse that until a young man bought them another one.
Diana felt out of place in her simple pink silk dress and matching bow in her hair. The shoes were the most modern thing she was wearing. She and Helen had completely different figures but even if she could fit in Helen’s clothes, she would have felt uncomfortable with those tight-fitting dresses. On Helen, with her Jayne Mansfield shape, they looked amazing.
Soon Helen was dancing and Diana laughed as she saw the way the men looked at her friend. A complete bombshell, she thought.
‘Hello,’ she heard behind her.
Please don’t ask me to dance, not in these shoes,she thought, and she turned to see the man in the suit with the copper hair.
‘I’d ask you to dance but I don’t know that I like it very much,’ he said. ‘Can I buy you a drink and we can have a seat and chat?’
His accent was Scottish – Edinburgh, not Glasgow, she thought – and he was nervous. She could tell by the way he blinked and swallowed more than necessary.
The thought of a chair made her knees almost buckle. These shoes were the silliest idea she had had all month.
‘Another Babycham?’ he asked.
Diana looked at her drink. ‘I don’t like it very much. Can I have an orangeade?’
‘That’s my favourite too,’ he said, looking relieved.
He bought their drinks and she followed him to the back of the room where there were tables and chairs.
Diana sat down with a sigh of relief.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘My feet are killing me,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’m designed for fashionable shoes.’ She put out her hand. ‘Diana,’ she said.
He took her hand and shook it firmly. She liked him immediately. Some men were afraid to shake women’s hands like equals.
‘Douglas,’ he said. ‘Douglas McKay.’
She smiled at him and took a sip of her soft drink.
‘Why are you in Newcastle, Douglas?’ she asked.
‘I’m on a motorbike ride actually,’ he said. ‘I’m going to ride down to Cornwall and then get the ferry to France and then ride through Europe.’
Diana leaned forward. ‘And then what?’