The Tailor's Girl (34 page)

‘Indeed, that’s what most would think, myself included. So why, if Sarah is such a cunning opportunist with an unexpected windfall and a nose for style, would she still be walking around in old, unfashionable shoes, carrying a battered bag and a darned skirt?’

Ben reddened and gave no answer.

‘I have made amends for your cynical use of Sarah as your scapegoat but I’m afraid I can’t see a way for amends to be made to me, Ben.’

His expression finally changed, shifting from deliberately blank to openly sullen. ‘I gave you a second chance to be my wife, Edie, to have standing again. I swallowed my pride and all that pain, and here you are, slapping the other cheek. What I did I did for our shared good. I couldn’t have a wife who is, let’s face it, just a slightly glamorous version of a shopkeeper and potentially making a fool of herself.’

She nodded, grateful. ‘And so finally you’ve revealed the truth. I don’t know what I was thinking, Ben, and I have no intention of signing any papers that release me from my marriage to Tom, the father of my son. I know you want Tommy to be yours. I think you’d even make a fine fist of being a good father. But not to Tommy. He doesn’t need you.’

Ben laughed with cruelty. ‘He’s not coming back for you, Edie. Your father once told me he feared that if Tom could lose his memory, he could just as likely regain it . . . seems his words were wise.’

Edie stared at Ben’s snide expression and the shock of his words made it feel as though the floor had just fallen away, creating an exquisitely sharp trill of anxiety. She blanched, suddenly feeling as though she were in a terrifying dark tunnel. Uncharacteristic perspiration pricked beneath her clothes that felt uncomfortably tight. She gasped with breathlessness.

‘I can see that has your attention, my dear Edie. Poor you. Poor Tom. Or perhaps not so
poor
Tom.’

‘What do you know?’ she croaked, her lips numb.

‘My advice is you forget him, as he has clearly forgotten you. It’s very clear he’s not coming back to your cosy little cottage in Epping.’

‘You’ve seen him?’ she asked. The words hurt to be spoken.

He shrugged. ‘I read or maybe I was told something somewhere, while you were away.’

‘But you didn’t think to mention it,’ she whispered.

‘You were gone for a week. I forgot.’ She knew he lied; could see it in the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his tight throat. ‘He clearly doesn’t remember you, or his life or the fact he’s a father. So don’t ask me anything else about him, as I paid little attention.’

‘No, I won’t,’ she said retreating towards the door of the suddenly stuffy room they stood so awkwardly in. ‘We shall never speak of Tom again, you and I. In fact, we shall not speak on anything ever again. Goodbye, Ben.’

Edie did not wait for a response. She turned her back and fled down the now deserted corridor and stairs. Bursting into the cold London morning, she hurried down Cannon Street, dragging in the air, hoping its tingling cold would shake her from her stupor and help her to think clearly.

She hurried past the Italianate-design Terminus Hotel that adjoined the Cannon Street railway station and made her way through the entrance and into the station proper, where she stopped and drew breath beneath the great semicircular glass and iron atrium. Pausing here to find her handkerchief and dry the tears she hadn’t been aware of until now, she found herself beginning to laugh through her despair. And as she looked up past the glass to the overcast, near-white November sky, she felt her spirits lifting.

Tom was alive. And she would find him.

Alex jerked awake to the sound of a woman’s heels retreating and was momentarily shocked to find himself slouched in a leather armchair. He had obviously yelled something aloud too because the other members were giving him glances that ranged from annoyance to amusement.

‘Another brandy, Sir?’ said a middle-aged waiter in a droll tone.

Alex glanced to the small drinks table at his side and the near-empty crystal goblet. ‘Er, no thanks, Albert. Stir the fire, though. There’s a good fellow.’ He raised himself from his slouch, stifling a yawn, and felt someone slap his back.

‘Hope you won!’

‘What? Oh, hello, Denton. Still here?’

‘I said, I hope she won, old chap?’

Alex looked up, confused. ‘What the devil are you flapping about, Timothy?’

‘Pretty Penny. Sounded like you rode her to the finish line.’

‘Penny is my fiancée, you oaf,’ he said wearily. ‘Damn, I must have nodded off.’ He glanced at the big clock over the club’s smoking room mantelpiece.

‘I know, that’s what made it funny,’ Denton continued in a jolly tone. ‘She may be your fiancée, but Pretty Penny was also a great filly a few years back. Never lost a race. Someone must have made a fortune on her because she came out of nowhere.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I had my chance. Wish I’d taken it. Night, Wynter.’

Pretty Penny?
Had he really yelled that? He’d never bet on a racehorse in his life . . . not to his knowledge, anyway. He groaned. And the sound of heels still echoed distantly.

Alex sighed, stared at the flames that had been enlivened into fresh action by Albert, and thought about tomorrow. Would the tailoring house offer any further insight? He reached for the goblet and the alcohol’s vapours gave him a notion of fresh flowers and ripe apricots. He drained the dregs of the brandy and a smooth but fiery toffee flavour hummed gently through him. Alex made a decision. He knew he was living a double life – the one that was getting ready to take on a wife, set up a family life as a good husband, and then there was the other one, the darker one, that lived in the shadows and hankered after misty thoughts about a different woman he wanted to know again, needed to see again . . . Those teasing thoughts had the power to undo him, destroy his potential to achieve equilibrium and, finally, return to normality. Unless he learned who he had been, where he had been, he was concerned the doubts would never rest and he could potentially destroy any chance of his and Pen’s future happiness. She deserved better than this half of a man. What was the significance of Pretty Penny and all the other tiny, seemingly meaningless items of flotsam and jetsam that might lead him to the owner of the red handkerchief?

Decide, Alex
, he commanded silently as the flames danced and reminded him of another fire in a far smaller room that was elegant and cosy . . . and filled with love. He held his breath. He wasn’t mistaken; memories were definitely edging closer. Was the amnesia losing its grip or was he a victim of his own desperation? Was any of it real?

Enough!
How much longer could he tolerate his own dithering? Real or not, the wedding banns were just a few weeks away and he could hear the strains of the wedding march. Wasn’t he too far down the aisle already with Pen? He loathed the indecision, frustrated by his half mind, half life, and the half man that he’d become.

As Alex stared into the flames he reached a pact with himself. If the meeting with Percival Fitch revealed not a single lead, then he was going to set this search aside, put it behind him and forge ahead with the life he had on offer with Pen. How many poor Tommies would give their souls for a shot at what he had – the second chance? How many times had he heard them mutter in the trenches, while preparing to go over the top, that they would give an arm or a leg for one last day with their loved ones? He felt sickened by his lack of gratitude. The planets had aligned for whatever reason to give him this second chance . . . why risk it?

Alex could have stayed at the family apartment in Belgravia but preferred the convenience of the club and climbed the stairs to the guestroom. He slept in his clothes, barely loosening his collar, and dreamed of a garden toolshed and a timber framework that looked to be an infant’s cot.

_______________

Madeleine had been helping Edie drown her sorrows, listening to her friend’s slurring, halting words.

‘I’ve never known Ben to be cruel. That’s what hurts.’

‘Oh, people do strange things when they’re in love, darling. He’s not immune, nor is he a saint. He’s a man, after all!’ This amused Mads and she began to laugh alone to herself, then she focused on her friend with drooping eyes. ‘Eden, I am so tipsy I shall have to sleep at your place tonight.’

Edie glanced over at the empty champagne bottle and chuckled, remembering her friend’s advice: ‘You never lament the end of a love affair,
ma cherie
. You simply toast the next.’

‘Of course. Find a place and sleep,’ she slurred. ‘Mads, am I drunk?’

‘I do hope so. Then it means I’m not the only one spinning.’

They laughed but Edie wasn’t sure why she sounded so jolly because she was suddenly feeling deeply queasy. ‘I’ve got to check on Tommy.’

‘Tommy sleeps like a tree,’ Madeleine replied and Edie couldn’t be bothered finding the energy to correct her. ‘But we must get our beauty sleep. You know the Aubrey-Finch party is in tomorrow.’

‘Oh, no. Say it isn’t so,’ Edie groaned, burying her face in a cushion. ‘What time?’

‘Ten.’

‘Well, I’m falling asleep right here,’ she admitted, her voice drifting.

‘Then I shall take your bed, darling, because I’m the one who must model her honeymoon wardrobe.’ Madeleine blew her an unsteady kiss. ‘I’ll check Tommy.
Bonne nuit, ma cherie
.’

‘Bonnie,’ Edie slurred, fully believing she’d spoken perfect French, and drifted off dreaming of eating apple and blackberry pie in a bathtub with Tom, while church bells rang for a wedding that was his but not hers.

_______________

The sound of the kettle whistling hurt her head. Edie groaned softly as Madeleine ran in to turn it off, cursing.

Edie looked up from sunken, bloodshot eyes. ‘If you ever get me tipsy again,’ she began before suddenly lurching forward, making a gagging sound. ‘Quick, out of my way!’ She scraped the chair back, pushed Tommy’s porridge bowl at her and ran for the bathroom.

Madeleine raised her eyebrows at Tommy as he sat patiently in his high chair awaiting the next mouthful. ‘Here, beautiful boy. You have a go with this spoon. That’s it, clever Tommy. You’ll be two soon and Mummy can show off how well you eat with no help. I’d better make her a pot of tea.’ She began searching for honey and lemon. Tommy amused himself by drawing with his porridge, squeezing it through his small fingers and smearing it on the tray of his high chair.

When Edie returned, her complexion looked waxy and her normally lustrous black hair hung in damp strands. ‘Tommy! Look at this mess.’

Madeleine sniggered. ‘A sponge and water cleans that up in a wink. Stop worrying. He’s happy, he’s eating. Here, drink this.’

‘Absolutely not! I will never drink anything that is handed to me by you again. Morning sickness was so much easier than this,’ she murmured.

‘Except this will pass, my darling,’ Madeleine said, archly, returning with a warm flannel for Tommy.

Edie smiled. ‘What would I have done if you hadn’t come into my life? You’re always picking up the pieces of my desperately bad choices.’

‘Neither was a bad choice, Eden. But Ben has let you down. You’ve hurt each other. It’s over.’ She shrugged. ‘Tomorrow may bring another man.’

Eden gave her a scathing look. ‘I told you what Ben said. I plan to discover what he learned about Tom.’

‘Perhaps he was lying,’ Mads mused.

‘No, he knew something. I’ll start with the newspapers on Fleet Street. Maybe he read an article.’

‘You have no name, no details. Where to begin?’

Edie shrugged. ‘He’s out there. I will find him. What is this drink, anyway?’

‘Honey . . . sugar always helps with a hangover. The lemon is vitamin C – didn’t your granny teach you that?’

‘Yes, I was taught
zat
,’ she mimicked.

‘And a surprise ingredient that is the key. Nothing harmful,’ Madeleine assured. ‘Drink it and you will feel better in about half an hour.’

Edie tipped her head back and swallowed the liquid with a wince. She looked up at Madeleine in accusation and then her eyes widened with the new prickling sensation on her tongue that Madeleine knew would be turning instantly hot. ‘What the —’

‘Cayenne pepper, darling. Chilli relieves pain, believe it or not.’

Edie coughed, and then started to splutter.

‘Trust my French granny’s recipe,’ Madeleine said. ‘Now, it’s not quite seven-thirty, and you need to meet Miss Aubrey-Finch at ten. That’s plenty of time —’

Edie kissed Tommy’s head before slumping again on the kitchen table. ‘No, Mads,’ she groaned from beneath her arms, which cradled her head. ‘I cannot see her. Not in this state.’

‘You will be fine.’

‘I won’t. I feel nauseous. My head hurts. I will be retching again in a moment. Isn’t Sarah in today?’

‘She is.’

‘I’ll call Mrs Miller to sit with Tommy for an hour until I can see straight. Can you both handle the fitting?’

‘I’m sure we could, but Miss Aubrey-Finch will be disappointed. And what if changes need to be made, or she’s put on three hundred pounds?’

Even though it hurt to, Edie laughed.

‘Well, ring her now from here and change the appointment. Blame me. Tell her I’m sick.’

‘Oh, Eden. She was going to pay the balance today, no?’

‘Don’t blame me. This is all your fault, anyway. Oh, make the call, Mads, please,’ she urged, then dragged herself to her feet. ‘I’ll be resting in the bathroom this morning.’

_______________

When Madeleine returned from dropping Tommy downstairs to Mrs Miller, she found the salon’s diary that Edie had brought home last night and looked up Miss Aubrey-Finch’s number. She checked the time. It was just past eight.

A few minutes later she tapped on the bathroom door. ‘Eden?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Do you need help?’

‘That chilli burned all the way back up.’

‘Then you’ll need another slug later. Get into bed.’

‘My bedroom feels like a million miles away.’ She opened the door, dishevelled and with a bloodless complexion.

‘I’ve rearranged the appointment for tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Mads.’ Edie headed for her room.

Madeleine watched Edie fall into bed and pull the covers around her gingerly. ‘And she said she’d have payment brought around today.’

‘Told you it would be fine,’ Edie yawned, eyes closed.

‘Telephone the salon when you finally get up,’ Madeleine suggested. ‘Be well, Eden.’

She left her friend’s top-floor apartment in Chelsea and took a taxi back to her own, where within an hour she emerged immaculately groomed to step inside a horse-drawn hackney to take her the short distance to the salon. She arrived moments before Sarah.

‘
Bienvenue
.’ She beamed. ‘Welcome,’ she added, to the girl’s lost expression. ‘First-day nerves?’

Sarah nodded. ‘I feel sick in my tummy.’

‘Well, so does Miss Valentine. She won’t be in, I’m afraid.’ She watched Sarah’s shoulders slump.

‘Oh? Nothing serious, I hope.’

Madeleine shook her head. ‘Headache. She’s taking a well-needed rest.’ She put her head to one side. ‘You look extremely lovely.’

Sarah had taken off her coat and now straightened her skirt self-consciously. ‘Oh, I’m happy you approve, Miss Delacroix. And . . . I didn’t really get the chance to thank you for coming to find me that day. You were like an angel sent from heaven. I hated my work at the restaurant, but this is a new world,’ she said, admiring the racks of clothes covered in muslin bags. ‘Is this the Aubrey-Finch collection?’

‘Yes. Well done on remembering. But we shan’t be unwrapping it today. However, there’s always plenty to do. Do you want to try on your new uniform? It’s going to do your darling figure wonders and go with those new shoes perfectly. Oh, and please listen out for a messenger who will be delivering payment for Miss Aubrey-Finch . . .’

_______________

Alex had woken with a distant, dull headache and remembered the brandy of the previous evening. The jangling phone made him grind his teeth and he sat on the edge of the bed, realising he was still in yesterday’s suit. It was Pen on the line, asking a favour.

‘I’ve already sent the envelope to your club with a driver. If you’re out and about and could deliver it, it would save me some faffing,’ she said.

‘That’s fine, I can deliver it for you.’ He yawned. ‘What about tonight?’

He listened to her ideas for their evening entertainment. ‘I don’t think I’m in the mood for a show,’ Alex replied and waited for her inevitable soft grumble. He knew she’d wanted to head to the theatre but he couldn’t face it, and offered an alternative. ‘How about that new jazz club you told me about?’

‘Do you mean Murray’s?’

‘That’s the one,’ he answered. ‘We could have a drink there and then go on to the Cecil Hotel?’

‘Fine with me,’ she approved. ‘Alex, I can hear how sleepy you are. Don’t forget the payment. I promised.’

‘I’ll deliver it this afternoon,’ he confirmed.

‘Thanks, see you at seven, darling. I’ll pick you up in the taxi. I love you.’

Alex put the phone down and blinked at her effortless expression of love, while he had yet to bring himself to respond in kind. He knew it wounded her but his mother had cannily summed it up: ‘Penny has the patience of a crocodile.’

He picked up the telephone receiver again and made a call, confirming his appointment in Savile Row. It felt like an important day after last night’s decision: a watershed. By midday he would be letting go of the past. After today’s meeting with Mr Fitch and the likely news that there was nothing to lead him any further into his past, he would simply let it go and allow it all to drift away like a lost balloon at a fairground.