Ruby Tuesday Read online

  Ruby Tuesday

  by

  Debbie Chase

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  World Castle Publishing, LLC

  Pensacola, Florida

  Copyright © Debbie Chase 2021

  Smashwords Edition

  Paperback ISBN: 9781955086592

  eBook ISBN: 9781955086608

  First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, August 16, 2021

  http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

  Smashwords Licensing Notes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  Cover: Karen Fuller

  Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

  Chapter One

  “Just back off for me, will you? Please?” asked Rose. “I’ll never get the job if you’re applying for it as well.” She must have noticed the mutinous look on my face because she said pleadingly, “Please, Ruby….”

  I shook my head. “I can’t, Rose…I really want this job. I’ve always wanted to work in the school library, and this is just too good an opportunity to miss.” I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. At her pretty face, light blue eyes framed with long black lashes set above high cheekbones, the lips shaped like a fancy bow on a gift, the lower one being as thick and fleshy as a seductive pout. A face that I gazed at every day. Oh, not Rose’s face, but my own, barely noticing it, really, though. Rose’s face was my mirror. Rose was my identical twin.

  We were in our hometown, Emsworth in Hampshire, sitting on the harbor wall, our legs, long and tanned, dangling down. A wrinkly expanse of sand spread with rock pools and seaweed sparkled in the sunshine, and boats, lopsided and abandoned, patiently waited for the tide. People carrying buckets and spades were digging deep, searching for seafood for tea, and kids with massive nets were trying to catch scuttling crabs.

  Seagulls squawked overhead, one flying low enough to try to steal the sandwich from Rose’s hand. Horrified, she batted it away and ducked her head as it gave a ghostly squeal and fluttered into the clouds. The sun, hot and yellow as a bowl of custard, scudded across the sky, pushed by a salty breeze. It was almost June, and we had the whole summer ahead of us. And today was Saturday, which was even better.

  “Who’s to say you’d get the job anyway?” I asked her, taking a bite of my own food and attracting unwanted attention from a mass of meaty gulls that hovered nearby. “Maybe neither of us will get it.”

  “You’ve already got your foot in the door,” she whined. “You’ve got a far better chance than me.”

  What she meant was that I already worked in the school, a secondary school in Warblington, at the reception desk. I enjoyed my job. I loved greeting visitors, liaising with teachers and parents, talking with the kids and telling them off when they ran along the corridors or pushed and jostled on the stairs. I got on well with my colleague, Jo, who was super-efficient, smooth and in control. I’d done okay exam-wise at school, then gone to college to do a computer course. In between, I’d passed my driving test, which I was really proud of. But the downside—do you know how expensive it is to buy and run a car?

  Rose hadn’t done too well at school and had drifted from one low-paying job to another before going to college to re-sit her failed exams, while I’d gone on ahead and gotten a job. A job that I could hardly believe was mine at the tender age of nineteen in a school, with all the benefits it entailed, including the holidays. But now, three years later, Rose, successful exam results tucked firmly under her belt, wanted a good job in a school, which just happened to be the job I wanted too. Surely there were other jobs in other schools? You’d think there would be, wouldn’t you?

  I knew that the two of us needed the money—after all, we were trying to save for a deposit on our own place. Being happy at home with Mum and Dad came second to our need for independence, and buying somewhere together was the only way we could afford to do it.

  “Will you think about it, Ruby?” she asked, swallowing the last morsel of sandwich and, crumpling the wrapper in her hand, slid down from the harbor wall and placed it in the nearby bin.

  Reluctantly, I nodded as we began to walk back down the High Street towards home, past the little gift shops, charity shops and cafes, Mum’s workplace as a PA, the solicitors “Butcher & Steele,” and the two most popular pubs in Emsworth—the rough wooden seats outside already taken on such a warm day—the Bluebell and the Coal Exchange. We attracted a lot of stares from strangers as usual, with our identical looks and clothes, but friendly nods and waves from the locals.

  I always tried to dress in private, which was difficult when I shared a room—even a room with a divider decorated with fancy butterflies and flowers set square down the middle—so I could at least be different from Rose. But as if by magic, she always seemed to know what I would be wearing that day. Ha, I suspected that she had some sort of physic powers. Today we wore matching denim shorts and T-shirts with trainers.

  “Do you spy on me when I’m dressing?” I asked her repeatedly, only for her to vehemently deny it. Today, like a couple of gypsies, we wore large silver hoop earrings. Now how could she possibly have known that without watching me?

  In fact, the only distinguishing mark between us was the large mole I had on the left of my nose. “Thank God for that mole,” Mum always said, “It was the only way me and your dad could tell the two of you apart when you were babies.”

  Of course, I’d been teased unmercifully by our so-called “friends” at school. “Oh, you mean Ruby with the mole that lives in the hole?” I remembered Leanne saying in a sing-song voice, and Claire took great pleasure in calling me Simon Templar because the hero from an old program in the seventies had a mole just like mine. Mum and Dad laughed at that a lot.

  “Look,” said Claire, showing them a picture on her phone. “I think he’s called Roger Moore.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dad. “He was Simon Templar, and the program was called The Saint. One of my favorites.”

  “When you’re an old lady,” Rose said one sunny day as we played in the garden, “You’ll have long spiky hairs growing from your mole, like a wicked witch.” That comment made me cry, and I ran to Mum in a frenzy, tears pouring down my cheeks.

  “You won’t say anything about the job to Mum and Dad, will you?” whispered Rose, bringing me out of my reverie, as we walked up the garden path and entered the house through the wide-open back door. There was a lovely smell of cooking, and Mum, May Deacon—named for the month she was born—turned from the stove and smiled, telling us that tea wouldn’t be too long.

  “We’ve just had a snack,” I told her. “So we can wait.”

  She frowned, and I suspected was just about to tell us off for eating so soon before tea but changed her mind and said, “How’s Emsworth on this fine sunny day?” She peered over her shoulder and fixed us with her dark brown gaze, so unlike mine and Rose’s light blue eyes. Without a doubt, we inherited them from our dad, Doctor Stan Deacon, who was at work as we spoke in his small GP practice—just three partners—in nearby Havant. Our dark hair definitely came from Mum, though.

  “Crazy busy as usual,” we said in unison.

  “I’ll call you when it’s ready,” she replied, “When Dad’s home.”

  “Well?” asked Rose as we climbed the stairs to our room. “You won’t, will you?”
<
br />   “No, I won’t say anything to anyone,” I whispered back. “But I need time to think, Rose. I’m really interested in this job.”

  Sitting down on my neat and tidy bed, I noticed that Rose’s side of the room was a mess, as usual. Piles of books littered the floor, along with screwed-up tissues and empty chocolate wrappers—even though she said she was always watching her weight. It drove me mad!

  I went to the window and, opening it wider, looked out on the garden that was bursting with colorful flowers. Bees buzzed amongst their silky soft petals, collecting nectar for the yummy honey that I drizzled over my breakfast every morning. The lawn looked ragged, the grass being slightly too long and needing mowing, which I was sure would be Dad’s first job when he got in from work. Yeah, even before he sat down to eat, which was just as well, as the sandwich I’d eaten earlier lay heavy as a stone in my full stomach.

  Throwing myself back down on my bed, I wished for the hundredth time that I had a room of my own. But as we lived in a two-bedroom house, there was no chance of that any time soon. Okay, this house was small, but as it was in Emsworth and overlooking the harbor, it was much sought after. Mum and Dad had lived in it for years, even before we were born, when the whole row of two up, two downs were nondescript, tumbledown, even considered poor dwellings. But they’d done right to buy it, as it was now worth more than double the original price.

  The smell of salt from the sea wafted through the window, and something else too, so I wrinkled my nose. Mud, streaming in on the breeze from Langstone. Langstone on the mud. We’d had fun there as kids, squelching in the slimy stuff like basking hippos, plastic shoes on our feet, or sitting with our cousins in an old discarded fishing boat, screaming as crabs scuttled around in the water, and slimy seaweed long as a mermaid’s hair tangled around our legs.

  “Have you got a text from Vanessa?” asked Rose, interrupting my nostalgic thoughts.

  Scrabbling in my bag for my phone, I went to messages. “Yeah, meet tonight in the Coal Exchange? No, I don’t think I’ll go. Not in the mood.”

  Rose’s face peered, frowning, over the top of the divider. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Just as I said, not in the mood.” I knew it would be the same old, same old. Same old group of people. Same old pubs and places. And as well as that, even though I loved my sister, did I have to go everywhere with her? I’d tried getting involved with separate groups of people who had interests that I had, like writing and art, but Rose always followed me, turning up unannounced and, being the more forceful personality, like an eclipse of the sun, she soon put me firmly in the shade. I didn’t think she meant to do it, but it always seemed to happen.

  “James will be there,” she said cheekily. “He really likes you, Ruby….” She paused for a minute and then said, “Don’t you think it’s weird that he likes you so much when we look so alike?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, why can’t he settle for me? What’s the difference?”

  “Rose, “I said indignantly, “It’s not just looks. We have our own personalities, of course.” And then, as an afterthought, although genuinely wanting to know, I asked, “Would you like James to take an interest in you?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she replied, “Although he is pretty cute but too tall for me, I think my neck would suffer eventually—and anyway, I like shorter, stockier men. But anyway, what’s the use, it’s you he likes? I think he’s turned on by your mole.”

  I smiled and shook my head. God, that mole! I’d thought so many times of having it removed, but how would people tell us apart if I did?

  My thoughts turned to James. James Lister. We’d known him and his sister, Lara, since school. He lived nearby, only a couple of streets away, and worked in an engineering firm in Emsworth called Sonic, on the aptly named Seagull Lane.

  As Rose had said, he was cute and very tall, so much so that I always had to crane my neck to look up into his face. A face that lit up like a switched-on light bulb every time he smiled. With deep brown eyes and long, long lashes, all of this was framed with shoulder-length black hair and a fringe that often grew too long. He was always—nervously it seemed, especially when I was around—pushing it out of the way with his fingers.

  I knew he liked me, but I was restless lately and needed a change, and becoming romantically involved with a local boy was perhaps not what should be happening at the moment. Maybe it was a good thing Rose wanted me to “back off,” as she’d said, from applying for the library job. Maybe I should leave the school altogether and go travelling.

  A sudden idea came to me, exploding in my head like a firecracker, and I thought, But I wouldn’t have to leave the school. The six-week summer holidays are coming up very soon. Instead of staying local with Rose and going on days out to places like Southsea, Hayling Island, and the Witterings, or even Prinstead, why don’t I go off alone to…? I don’t know. Several countries raced through my mind before I came to the obvious one, the nearest one, one that was easy to get to from Portsmouth, France! Excitement gripped me, and my heart started beating really fast as if I’d been exercising hard with one of those kettlebell things. I could get a ferry from Portsmouth to either Caen or St. Malo. St. Malo would probably be best. I’ve always wanted to go there, and now this is my chance.

  I glanced at the room divider, imagining Rose lounging on her bed on the other side, nonchalantly scrolling through her phone, head bent, staring at the screen, and making plans for tonight. Thinking about what she was going to wear, wondering what boys would be there. I knew she quite fancied James’s friend, Steve, and would probably home in on him just to brighten up the evening a bit while I was planning a holiday miles away from here. What would she say? I knew without a doubt that she would be mad, that she would try to stop me. She wouldn’t be able to go with me because of a lack of funds, so I would have to keep it a secret. My own little secret.

  While she was out tonight, I would google ferry crossings, work out costs and travel dates, and look at accommodations in St. Malo. Yes! A big grin split my features until I felt sure I looked just like one of those yellow smiley face patches that Mum painstakingly sewed on her jeans in the nineteen seventies.

  Feeling eyes boring into me, I glanced up to see Rose once again peering over the divider.

  “What are you grinning at, Ruby Tuesday? You look like the cat that got the cream.”

  “Maybe I have,” I said teasingly, feeling buoyed up with the excitement of my big secret.

  Hearing the whirring of the mower, I jumped up again and peered from the window to see Dad, still wearing his suit trousers, shirt sleeves rolled up, trundling backwards and forwards, leaving smooth cut grass in his wake. Our dad, who in his mid-fifties looked at least ten years younger, and with his piercing blue eyes and razored greying hair, bore the nickname at his little GP practice of “Silver Fox.”

  “Dad’s obsessed with that lawn,” said Rose lazily, coming to stand at my side. She stood quietly for a few minutes before saying, “James will be sure to ask about you tonight. As I said before, he really likes you. Do you think he stands any chance at all?”

  I glanced at her and said, “No, not at the moment. I don’t want a local boy. I—” Mum’s shout up the stairs telling us to come down for tea interrupted our conversation, although I just had a few seconds to change the subject and say, “I won’t stand in your way, Rose. I’ll back off from the library job as you asked me to.”

  Surprise opening her blue eyes wide, Rose replied, “Oh wow, Ruby, thank you.”

  “It doesn’t mean you’ll get it, though, Rose. Other people in the school, far more qualified people, are interested in it too, you know.”

  She nodded and squeezed my hand in another thank you as we left the room and sped down the stairs to the dining room. Thoughts whirred around in my head like clothes in a washing machine. An ugly green imp suddenly appeared on my shoulder, whi
spering in my ear. What have you done giving up on applying for the job so easily? You wanted that job—it could have been yours.

  Be strong, I thought as I turned my head, and with difficulty, glared at the ugly green imp, thinking, Yes, but I might not get it anyway, and I need an adventure before I turn old and sour. France beckons.

  “You okay, Ruby?” asked Rose, giving me an odd look as we took our seats and gazed around at the dishes that stood on the table, steaming dishes full of vegetables and potatoes and the pièce de résistance, Mum’s special chicken casserole.

  I nodded my head. “Of course I am.”

  “Ha,” said Dad happily, clapping his hands together, a smile creasing his face. “My girls, my double the trouble. What adventures have you been up to today?”

  Double the trouble. The tale of Dad at our birth was legendary and had been told many times at family gatherings.

  It always went like this, with Dad holding a captive audience right in the palm of his hand. “Right in front of my startled eyes, the first one, Ruby, popped out.” He’d look around at the audience then, blue eyes glittering, and say, “I knew it was Ruby because of the mole.” This always got a good round of laughter. “And, after peering closely and shaking my head, I said, ‘Hmm, a girl. One is trouble….’ And then the second one, Rose, slipped out and, peering closely at this one too and shaking my head again, I said, ‘Hmm, another girl. And two is double the trouble.’”

  Of course, as Rose had been born second, she’d always been known as the afterbirth, the placenta—which, not at all amusing to her, made me smile every time. And then, of course, there were our names. I was Ruby Tuesday because Mum and Dad had always been really big fans of the Rolling Stones. And Rose was Rose Marie because of their love of country music! “That’s not the only reason,” Mum always told us. “You were both so precious to us. And a ruby is a precious jewel, and a rose a precious flower.”

  “Well?” asked Dad, as Mum encouraged us to take plenty of vegetables. “Adventures? Come on, girls, let’s hear about your escapades today.”