Free V for Violet by Alison Rattle Page A

disappears out the door. ‘My name’s Beau, by the way.’
    I quickly glance over at Dad. He’s too busy refilling the hot cupboard with freshly cooked fish to notice who I’ve been serving. Which is just as well. He’d have a fit if he knew what I’d just agreed to do.
    The last half-hour of the evening takes for ever to pass. But eventually, the final customer leaves and when I’ve finished wiping down and after I’ve locked and chained the shop door, I tell Dad I’m nipping round to Jackie’s. He won’t know any better, and Mum won’t care less. She’ll be too busy mooning over Donkey Jacket Man.
    I run upstairs and change into some clean slacks and a jumper. Then, because I haven’t got anything better to wear, I grab my old anorak from the coat hook before slipping out of the kitchen door. I can’t believe I’m doing this. He won’t be there. He won’t have waited this long for me. He’ll have just been having a laugh with himself. I bet he does this all the time; teasing girls like me and then leaving them to wait like idiots for him.
    It’s quiet out on the street, and cold. The air is fizzing with frost. It’s a clear night with a sixpence of a moon and the seven stars of the Plough twinkling like a newly scrubbed saucepan. I walk to the end of the road. My chest is tight with anxiety. It’s hard to breathe. I’ve never been this brave before and I don’t know if I can go through with it. But my feet carry on walking anyway and then I’m round the corner and there he is, waiting for me, leaning against his motorcycle, blowing smoke at the moon.
    ‘Didn’t think you’d come,’ he says. ‘But I guess you’re not as good a girl as you look.’ He pats the seat of his motorcycle. ‘Fancy getting out of here for a while?’
    I nod dumbly. I want to pinch myself, just to check I’m not dreaming.
    He climbs on to the motorcycle and indicates with his head for me to climb on behind him. ‘You’ll need to zip that up,’ he says, pointing to my anorak. I swear it’s going in the bin tomorrow and on Saturday I’ll go to the market and buy myself a proper jacket, just like the one he’s wearing.
    I slip easily on to the seat and find a place to rest my feet, then as he revs up the motorcycle’s engine, I realise I’ve put my arms around his waist. And it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
    There’s a roar, the smells of oil, leather, smoke and heat, and then the world as I know it disappears in a blur of colour and sound and light. It’s just as I imagined it would be, only a million times better. The rush of speed takes my breath away and the rush of wind tears the cloak of worries and cares from my shoulders. I feel lightheaded and free.
    We head north, leaving the streaks of Battersea’s streetlights far behind. We sail over Chelsea Bridge and I see the moon quivering on the surface of the Thames. As we speed along the black roads, the cold air makes my eyes sting. I press my face against the back of his jacket and I hear his heart thrumming as loudly as the motorcycle’s engine. We pass the grand entrance to Victoria Station where some late travellers are humping suitcases into waiting taxis. We ride through Belgravia with the gardens of Buckingham Palace on our right and rows of posh five-storeyed houses on our left. Hyde Park Corner flashes past. We cross over Oxford Street and skirt around Regent’s Park. I’m holding on to him so tightly, I can’t feel my fingers any more. I close my eyes and it’s like riding the Big Dipper. I’m ten years old again and I want to scream with fear and excitement.
    We speed through St John’s Wood and past Swiss Cottage, then, just as I think I’m about to lose my grip and be thrown back on to the road to break every bone in my body, the noise of the engine deepens and slows and the battering wind dies down to a breeze.
    We’ve stopped, but it’s a minute before I can move. All my muscles have locked. I wriggle my fingers