She looked like a cow. And she had terrible, terrible taste in clothes.
No, thought Betty, absolutely not. She was a woman and Amy Metz was a woman, and no woman should ever find an excuse for a man to have cheated. Ever.
She set her jaw as she thought this, cementing it into her psyche, and then she headed home.
14
1919
ARLETTE FELT THE snow beneath the thin soles of her boots. It was soft and slippery as butter, and she held onto the wall with an outstretched hand to prevent herself from falling over. She wore a cloak with a fur trim and a hat made of grosgrain velvet. The Christmas lights of Carnaby Street gleamed in the creamy slush and the windows of public houses glowed like embers. She had completed her last day at Liberty before the Christmas holiday, a busy day of last-minute adjustments to party dresses and cocktail gowns, of harried husbands looking for gifts, and acres of tissue paper and garlands of ribbon, echoing carols and the coiling aromas of cinnamon and aniseed. Arlette could not imagine a more enchanted place to spend the day before Christmas Eve than the Liberty department store. More carol singers rejoined her once again to deck the halls with boughs of holly as she turned the corner on to Regent Street: a small group of men and women, rosy-cheeked and clutching lanterns, conducted by a man in a top hat upon which lay a thin layer of frozen snow. There was something odd about the energy being exuded by this group of people, something strangely frenetic and unnatural. They seemed as though they might be drunk, yet did not look at all like the kind of people one would expect to be drunk in public. They were well-dressed, fashionable, cocksure. The man in the top hat spun round ostentatiously as he coaxed the last rousing note from his band of bright-eyed carollers and the crust of frozen snow from atop his head spun away from him, like a clay pigeon. It landed as a pile of glitter at Arlette’s toes and she smiled.
‘Merry Christmas!’ said the top-hatted man, and he removed the hat from his head with a theatrical flourish. Beneath his hat he had a head of dense dark curls. He ran the fingers of a gloved hand through the curls, and looked at Arlette curiously.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Arlette returned the greeting. She smiled again, a tight, modest smile, and then continued on her way. But as she walked she was aware of the man’s eyes still upon her.
She heard one of the lady carollers call out to the man, ‘What next, Gideon? “Silent Night”, “We Three Kings” …?’
‘Yes,’ she heard him reply absent-mindedly.
‘Well, which one is it to be? Your choristers await …’
‘One minute,’ he said. ‘Just one minute. Wait!’
Arlette turned. As she’d suspected, the man in the top hat, Gideon, was walking urgently towards her. ‘I want to paint you,’ he said, his eyes taking in every contour of her face.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m an artist. My name is Gideon Worsley. I want to paint you. You have the most remarkable face. The bones … just so delicate … like the bones of a tiny bird.’
She blinked at him.
‘It would require very, very tiny brushes, one or two hairs at most. My goodness. How do you not break? How do you not shatter into a hundred tiny pieces?’
Arlette couldn’t help herself; she put a hand to her cheek, trying for herself to imagine what he saw. And then she looked up at him and saw again what had unnerved her before: the fire in the eyes, not normal, not quite sane. He was not drunk, she could see that much. He was not slurred or unfocused quite the opposite: he was electrified, possessed.
‘Excuse me, if you would, Mr Worsley, I’m in rather a hurry.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t hurry, not in these treacherous conditions. You might fall, and if you fell you might break. You must walk very, very slowly, taking great care.’ He offered her the crook of his arm and she heard a caroller from behind calling, ‘Oh
God
,
No, thought Betty, absolutely not. She was a woman and Amy Metz was a woman, and no woman should ever find an excuse for a man to have cheated. Ever.
She set her jaw as she thought this, cementing it into her psyche, and then she headed home.
14
1919
ARLETTE FELT THE snow beneath the thin soles of her boots. It was soft and slippery as butter, and she held onto the wall with an outstretched hand to prevent herself from falling over. She wore a cloak with a fur trim and a hat made of grosgrain velvet. The Christmas lights of Carnaby Street gleamed in the creamy slush and the windows of public houses glowed like embers. She had completed her last day at Liberty before the Christmas holiday, a busy day of last-minute adjustments to party dresses and cocktail gowns, of harried husbands looking for gifts, and acres of tissue paper and garlands of ribbon, echoing carols and the coiling aromas of cinnamon and aniseed. Arlette could not imagine a more enchanted place to spend the day before Christmas Eve than the Liberty department store. More carol singers rejoined her once again to deck the halls with boughs of holly as she turned the corner on to Regent Street: a small group of men and women, rosy-cheeked and clutching lanterns, conducted by a man in a top hat upon which lay a thin layer of frozen snow. There was something odd about the energy being exuded by this group of people, something strangely frenetic and unnatural. They seemed as though they might be drunk, yet did not look at all like the kind of people one would expect to be drunk in public. They were well-dressed, fashionable, cocksure. The man in the top hat spun round ostentatiously as he coaxed the last rousing note from his band of bright-eyed carollers and the crust of frozen snow from atop his head spun away from him, like a clay pigeon. It landed as a pile of glitter at Arlette’s toes and she smiled.
‘Merry Christmas!’ said the top-hatted man, and he removed the hat from his head with a theatrical flourish. Beneath his hat he had a head of dense dark curls. He ran the fingers of a gloved hand through the curls, and looked at Arlette curiously.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Arlette returned the greeting. She smiled again, a tight, modest smile, and then continued on her way. But as she walked she was aware of the man’s eyes still upon her.
She heard one of the lady carollers call out to the man, ‘What next, Gideon? “Silent Night”, “We Three Kings” …?’
‘Yes,’ she heard him reply absent-mindedly.
‘Well, which one is it to be? Your choristers await …’
‘One minute,’ he said. ‘Just one minute. Wait!’
Arlette turned. As she’d suspected, the man in the top hat, Gideon, was walking urgently towards her. ‘I want to paint you,’ he said, his eyes taking in every contour of her face.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m an artist. My name is Gideon Worsley. I want to paint you. You have the most remarkable face. The bones … just so delicate … like the bones of a tiny bird.’
She blinked at him.
‘It would require very, very tiny brushes, one or two hairs at most. My goodness. How do you not break? How do you not shatter into a hundred tiny pieces?’
Arlette couldn’t help herself; she put a hand to her cheek, trying for herself to imagine what he saw. And then she looked up at him and saw again what had unnerved her before: the fire in the eyes, not normal, not quite sane. He was not drunk, she could see that much. He was not slurred or unfocused quite the opposite: he was electrified, possessed.
‘Excuse me, if you would, Mr Worsley, I’m in rather a hurry.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t hurry, not in these treacherous conditions. You might fall, and if you fell you might break. You must walk very, very slowly, taking great care.’ He offered her the crook of his arm and she heard a caroller from behind calling, ‘Oh
God
,
Similar Books
