Doctor Who_ Atom Bomb Blues - Andrew Cartmel [11]
‘No thanks. I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Oh come on now. Just because Oppy insists on sweltering in that ridiculous jacket of his doesn’t mean you have to.’
‘Well it’s just that, er, I’m not really dressed for a party.’
‘Oh fiddlesticks. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’
‘No, really –’
‘Come on now. Oppy’s only wearing those smelly old tweeds because he’s too drunk to get out of them.’ The woman giggled and plucked at the belt of Ace’s raincoat. Ace realised that the woman was also drunk. She had hold of the belt now and before Ace could stop her, she’d unbuckled it and thrown the coat open.
The conversation in the room stopped again, with just the record player wailing away in the silence, as everyone stared at Ace. Everyone except the Doctor, who shrugged and smiled apologetically again. Ace could feel all the blood gathering in her cheeks as she went bright red. With the raincoat spread wide, everyone could see what she was wearing. Which was a tasselled leather skirt with gold trim and big silver stars, a broad snakeskin belt adorned with silver dollars, a western style shirt in bright red cotton with black shoulder 20
patches, mother of pearl buttons and deep pockets in a virulent shade of blue.
Over this she wore a sleeveless suede vest decorated with beads.
In short, she was dressed like a cowgirl.
A fat, oriental-looking man with a goatee blundered drunkenly past Ace.
He was wearing a beret, shorts and a brightly coloured shirt decorated with a strange abstract zigzag pattern. ‘Dig Annie Oakley,’ he said loudly as he lumbered towards the fireplace and scooped a martini glass off the mantelpiece.
A red-haired man frowned at him and tried to take the glass away.
‘That’s my drink Morita.’
‘I don’t think so, Henbest.’
‘It certainly is.’
‘Forget it man. You’re just projecting.’ The fat oriental man chuckled. He lurched away, grinning and pouring the drink into his mouth so hastily and clumsily that half of it ended up running back down his shirt in a broad dark stain. He didn’t seem bothered. The red-haired man cursed succinctly but inaudibly behind his back. Ace was grateful for the altercation. It had taken everybody’s attention away from her. She looked at the woman who had opened up her raincoat. She was smiling at Ace and gently eased the coat off her shoulders. Ace didn’t resist. The woman took the coat and folded it carefully, as if it was something precious.
‘You must have been sweltering under that thing,’ she said. ‘What’s that vest made of? Suede?’
‘Hey,’ said Ace. ‘I know I look like a complete idiot.’
‘You look wonderful!’ The woman didn’t seem to be lying, but then she was drunk as a skunk.
‘The thing is,’ said Ace, hearing a quaver of emotion in her voice and feeling tears begin to gather in her eyes. ‘I thought he said we were going to the Alamo.’
The woman saw the tears and heard the quaver and swiftly guided Ace out of the room, down a cool hallway and into a big tiled kitchen, where a young dark-skinned woman was busy at the stove, black hair tied back in a bun and a sheen of sweat on her smooth forehead. She was stirring a pot of some reddish concoction, which smelled so good that Ace’s mouth watered and she forgot all about crying.
‘Let me fix you a drink,’ said the woman who was still carrying Ace’s raincoat. ‘My name’s Kitty, by the way. Kitty Oppenheimer.’
‘What’s that cooking on the stove?’ said Ace, speaking loudly enough to cover the eager rumbling of her stomach.
‘Speciality of the house,’ said Kitty. ‘Chilli con carne. We’ll be serving it up soon, to stop those jokers next door from getting too drunk. Would you like some?’
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‘Yes, please,’ said Ace. Kitty was selecting a martini glass from an assortment that were drying on a white towel spread beside the sink. She took the glass over to a brown ceramic bowl half full of a strange gelid-looking yellowish mixture. She dipped the glass into it. ‘What’s that?’ said Ace.
‘Lime juice and honey. Another speciality of the house.’ Kitty carefully smeared the rim of the glass with the mixture then took Ace by the elbow