The Debutante (23 page)

She put a tenner on the bar. ‘Jack Daniel’s, please.’

Without even bothering to sit, she downed it in one. She needed courage.

She signalled to the barman again. ‘Another please.’

‘Take it easy,’ a voice said.

She looked up. He was older, in his mid-forties, nursing a beer.

‘Mind your own business.’

He laughed. ‘Quite right. Nice dress, by the way.’

‘With all due respect, fuck off.’

He grinned.

There was something about him—the way he looked at her. From the very first moment, she felt as if she were a small glass marble rolling down a hill towards an inevitable conclusion.

She turned back to her drink.

‘English, huh?’ He tapped the end of a pack of cigarettes. ‘It’s the way you guys say it that’s so charming.’

She tossed the second shot back, put her money on the bar.

‘Only, if you’re going to drink like that, you really shouldn’t drink alone,’ he pointed out, offering her a cigarette.

She ignored it. ‘The company’s better on my own. Besides,’ she decided, ‘I’m going home.’

‘Good idea.’ He put two cigarettes into his mouth, lit them both and passed her one.

She leaned against the bar. Already it had hit her; hot, burning the back of throat, easing its way down to her stomach. And already her head was that fraction slower. The pressure valve had been located and any minute now it was about to be released. She felt dangerous, free. ‘What if I don’t smoke?’

‘Then I guess I’ve made an ass out of myself,’ he smiled.

He wasn’t even handsome. She remembered thinking that at the time: he’s not even good-looking—that is, not in any traditional sense. But he was so sure of himself.

She slid onto one of the bar stools, took the cigarette. ‘Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?’

He shook his head. ‘I figure you’ve had enough.’

She took a deep drag, exhaling slowly through her nose. ‘All this and a mind-reader too.’

‘Where’s your date?’

‘Dancing with someone else. And yours?’

He flicked a bit of ash into an ashtray. ‘No doubt doing the same thing.’

‘Well, it is a ball.’

‘My name’s Alex, by the way.’

‘Cate.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m an artist.’

‘Would I know your work? Are you famous?’

‘Oh, sure.’ She looked at him sideways. ‘Now’s the time to invest, before my value hits the roof.’

He laughed. ‘Is that so?’

‘What about you?’ She leaned her chin in her palm. ‘Are you famous?’

‘Yeah.’ He took a drag. ‘Rich and famous.’

‘So why don’t I recognise you?’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘What do you do?’

He looked across at her. ‘You really have no idea who I am?’

‘Sure. You’re the guy who won’t buy me a drink.’

He nodded to the barman, who poured out another two shots. Again, Cate tossed it back in one go. ‘Thanks.’ Then she stubbed her cigarette out, slid off the stool and picked up her evening bag. ‘Have a nice night.’

‘That’s it?’ He slipped his cigarettes into his breast pocket, stood up too.

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

‘What’s your last name?’

‘What do you care?’

‘Are you always this rude?’

‘Think of it as direct.’

‘Do you ever eat?’

‘All the time.’

He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels. ‘How do you feel about strange men?’

‘They’re my favourite kind.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘Yeah,’ she nodded. ‘And I like them to stay that way.’

Turning away, she smiled to herself, as she walked out of the bar.

Back in the ballroom, the party was in full swing. The whiskey gave her courage. By now her dress had ceased to be a novelty anyway. Derek was flitting around Hailey Cashelle and her table, refilling her glass, leaning forward to attend to every comment she made and laughing loudly. He had the glow of someone who’d made it. She’d served her purpose. Now was probably a good time for her to make her apologies and leave.

She was heading through the crowds towards him when someone caught her hand. She turned.

He fixed her with those dark eyes. ‘May I have this dance?’

‘I was just going to—’

He pulled her close. ‘Shut up and dance with me.’

He smelled good, his hand caressing her bare back,
swaying to the music. He twirled her round. ‘I have a commission for you.’

‘You don’t even know me or my work!’

‘So what?’

‘And I don’t know you.’

‘What do you want to know? My favourite colour is black. I like dogs not cats. If I have a star sign, I don’t give a shit about what it is. And I don’t believe in luck, I believe in balls.’

‘Clearly. Where’s your date?’ she asked again.

‘She’s not my date. Don’t you want to hear my offer?’

‘No.’ She pulled away. The other couples turned and swayed on the dance floor, their images reflected in the mirrors that surrounded them.

‘I see. Some people are afraid of success. Afraid of really being alive.’ He was taunting her now.

‘I’m not afraid of anything.’ She walked away, made her way out of the crowded ballroom without saying goodbye. She knew if she wanted to escape entirely, all she needed to do was move with slightly more purpose; a little more speed.

But she didn’t. She moved languidly, aware that he was bridging the distance between them, that in another moment he would catch up to her.

When he did, he took her arm

‘What are you doing?’ she laughed, allowing him to ferry her down the hallway. ‘I have to go home!’

He was leading her into the foyer, towards the exit. ‘Do you?’

She turned to him, leaning too heavily on his arm, pressing her body against his. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked again, softer this time.

‘I’m abducting you.’

‘What if I don’t like you?’

‘What makes you think I’m so fond of you?’

‘Do you abduct every woman you meet?’

‘No.’ His eyes were unblinking. ‘Never.’

They were outside now, standing on the pavement. It was dark, the air cool. A doorman stood focusing on the middle distance, ignoring them.

He put his hand in the air and a long black Mercedes pulled up.

She laughed incredulously. ‘Don’t tell me that’s yours!’

‘Yeah.’

‘So, you’re one of those guys who has their own private driver?’

‘Yeah, that’s me. Own Private Driver Guy.’ He swung the door open. ‘Get in.’

‘Why?’

‘So I can escort you home.’

She looked up at him. For a moment, he reminded her of her father, the smell of him, the swagger, the danger and sex that rolled off him in waves, indiscriminate, corrupting. It was disorientating; yet familiar. She felt exhilarated, alive with desire and nerves. ‘I don’t do that.’

His voice was low but clear. ‘Sure you do. But only with me.’

How long had it taken from the time she’d walked into the bar to the time she was lying in the darkness of the back seat, kissing him, fingers lacing through his dark hair?

An hour?

How much longer until the green silk gown was crumpled in a heap on the floor and he was pressing into her, as if he owned her; would always own her?

A bus pulled up to the stop, its doors creaking open.

‘You getting on?’ called the driver.

He had loved her, hadn’t he? In his own way.

‘Hey, lady,’ he called louder, ‘you getting on or what?’

Cate looked up, at the driver’s red, sweaty face, at the tired faces of the people behind him, staring at her in irritation.

‘In or out? On or off?’ he elaborated.

She shook her head and the door slammed shut; the bus pulled away.

Now she was sitting here, with nowhere to go, chasing after ghosts.

It didn’t take long to fuck up your life.

5
St James’s Square
London

3
June
1936

My little Bird,
Anne and I are to have a flat together! I have finally persuaded She Who Must Be Obeyed that Anne will be the most wonderful stabilising influence and that working alongside her in the bookshop will be excellent for my character. The Old Guard, as you can imagine, is only too happy to be rid of me. So we shall live in the most delightful little hovel on Birdcage Walk, which has glorious views and very little actual floor space. I cannot tell you how excited I am! It’s only a few blocks away from the Belmont and within spitting distance of Fortnum’s (does one spit and go to Fortnum’s?), so we shall never want for either good company or tea and fresh crumpets.

Oh! And thank you so much for the badges from the Sunderland School for Girls—they are too, too perfect with their fantastically cryptic slogans! Anne and Nick and I have been wearing them everywhere and now even James is in on the joke … It is simply the best tease ever and everyone believes we have suddenly become terribly serious and politically minded and all are dying to know what it all means! We have even devised a kind of ‘secret’ salute which drives the press insane with curiosity. Serves them right—especially that foul little paper The Week. Of course Paul is mortified as Anne has been seen everywhere with James Dunning, that very funny, very rich MP who is simply tossing diamonds at her which she catches eagerly and with both hands. She says she’ll marry for money this time, as marrying for love has no earthly use. I think Paul’s father has forced him to get a job in banking to pay the alimony. So gone are the days of the little red kerchief and the brown felt hat. Ho-hum.

Long live the decadent bourgeoisie!

BB xxx

Jack hadn’t been sure, even as he stood on the train platform, if he would actually go. He had his briefcase with him, in case he changed his mind and decided to go to the office instead. But when the train pulled in, he felt himself get on—travelling in the opposite direction from people heading into the City.

Part of him knew, that if he didn’t do it, he’d regret it. And yet he’d wrestled with the idea; the complicated mass of feelings. And mostly the anger. It was monumental, like the stones that surrounded him now, heavy, dark marble, in the leafy calm of the Fortune Green Cemetery.

Here was one that looked like an angel, arms crossed over its chest holding a single lily, head bent, a filmy veil across its face. Was that what grief was? A sheer filter through which the beauty and hope of this world could no longer be perceived? He passed a cumbersome family crypt, bolted with black wrought-iron gates. On top there was a great stone urn, wrapped in winding drapery. This was the common theme; in death, the living were cut off from their loved ones by doors that were shut forever, the great mass of despair covering them like thick folds of fabric, weighing them down.

He walked up the wide central pathway, stones crunching beneath his summer shoes. The air was clear and the sunlight glorious. There were a few people walking their dogs; a pair of white Labradors panted and frolicked off their leads, playing chase between the headstones, their
exuberance and vitality strangely not at odds with the dark solemnity of the place.

He’d forgotten it was so beautiful. And so quiet.

There was a flower stall by the front entrance of the chapel. He stopped. He hadn’t brought anything. He needed to mark the day, but not in any traditional sense. He had a feeling that if he could just see, finally, that it was over, that she was gone, he would be released. And he wanted to be free now. He needed badly to put it behind him.

The word ‘forgiveness’ came to mind. Inwardly, he balked. His anger had protected him; seen him through the first annihilating year and given him the only energy he’d had to move forward. He was afraid to let it go, for fear of what lay behind it. But now it felt like the encroaching tentacles of tough ivy winding up the boughs of a slender tree, taking over, until the thing it clung to was obliterated from view.

He walked on.

Heading down a sloping side path to the far edge of the cemetery, his heart beat a tattoo, a queasy half-excitement, half-dread running like ice water through his veins. Could he see it? Would he recognise the headstone? He’d selected it with her father. It had been an awkward, excruciating task. Neither of them had been able to look at the other. But Jack would never forget her father’s face, frozen in a grim mask of unbearable determination to do the thing he dreaded most, by way of saving his wife the pain.

Then it was in front him.

Or was it?

He frowned, blinked. Then felt the hot flush of rage fill him.

It was the right stone. Only someone had been there before him.

The bouquet of full white roses wasn’t from the stall by the chapel. They were expensive, hand-tied, their ivory petals tinted with a subtle, translucent green. And they were scented, their tender perfume rising in the growing heat, filling the air around him. Encased in a small emerald vase, they were the kind of sophisticated arrangement that could only be purchased from a West End florist. And they were flawless, romantic. Not the kind of flowers her parents, Donald and Fay from West Sussex, would ever have bought.