Coronation Wives by Lizzie Lane Page A

dark-eyed and his smile seemed to span the bottom half of his face. He introduced himself. ‘Jonathan Driver.’ His face was familiar. ‘We met when you were with him at a hospital charity benefit. He introduced us.’
    It was as if a spell had been broken. ‘Oh yes!’ She
knew him
and so did her father. Suddenly she felt safe.
    ‘Wasn’t the party to your liking?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘Not really. Too much noise. Too many drunks.’
    ‘And that was just the women?’ His smile broadened. Janet saw the joke and suddenly found it easy to laugh. ‘Ladies on the loose. Snooty about street parties, but better at behaving badly than any factory girl.’
    ‘A wise observation that I have to agree with.’ Janet felt herself wanting to continue the conversation. ‘So why did you leave?’
    He shrugged. ‘I found myself sober and alone. How can you celebrate anything by yourself?’
    The taxi driver chose that moment to interrupt. ‘Excuse me, chum. We’re on Queens Road. Where do you wanna go now?’
    ‘Well?’ said Janet’s fellow passenger. ‘Shall we have our own party? I know a coffee bar on the corner of Penn Street that keeps very odd hours and it has a jukebox. Do you like modern music?’
    ‘Like Doris Day?’ Janet said grimly.
    He laughed loudly, throwing back his head and showing a mouthful of perfectly white teeth.
    ‘Certainly not Doris Day. In my opinion she’s just too sugary for words. I like this new stuff from Bill Haley and Jerry Lee Lewis. Have you heard of them?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She had. Bill Haley sang ‘Rock Around the Clock’. Jerry Lee Lewis sang … she couldn’t remember, but oh boy, was she interested. Different music, a different kind of person. He was taking her to a place that was ushering in a different era.
    Jonathan directed the cab driver to the coffee bar and paid the fare when they got there. If occurred to her to offer to pay her half. She didn’t want him getting any ideas. Then she remembered that Dorothea had only given her enough money to get home. From the coffee bar to Clifton wasn’t that far, but enough to take care of the money she had.
    Frothy coffee was served in cups the size of soup dishes on trendy metal tables with red Formica tops that were slotted into booths between red vinyl bench seats. The air steamed as much as the chrome-plated coffee machine that hissed like a railway engine each time a fresh cup of coffee was drawn off. Pat Boone was crooning ‘Love Letters in the Sand’ when they first sat down. A few minutes later and the Wurlitzer, a splendid affair of multicoloured plastic, sparkling chrome and pink neon, flipped onto Nat King Cole and ‘The Twelfth of Never’.
    What a fool she felt sitting there in a full-length skirt with enough net to curtain a small house. Curious eyes had scrutinized them on entering, but turned away once they’d attained the privacy of the booth, though Janet still looked at them, fascinated by their make-up, their clothes, their hairstyles.
    ‘I like ponytails, and those skirts and sweaters,’ she said wistfully, then suddenly realized she must sound silly, evenweak. She didn’t want him to think that. ‘But I’m not frivolous, you understand!’
    He had a look on his face that she couldn’t quite interpret, initial surprise swiftly turning to interest. ‘You’re a doctor’s daughter. You couldn’t possibly be frivolous.’
    It was the right thing to say. She became less defensive. ‘So we met at a charity event. I take it you’re a doctor.’ She turned in her top lip in order to suck away a residue of milky froth.
    He sat straight and said proudly, ‘Absolutely! I work at the sanatorium at Pucklechurch.’
    Janet controlled a shudder. ‘Contagious disease?’
    ‘Polio actually, though years ago it was used for TB sufferers. And you work in paediatrics, I believe?’
    She nodded. ‘But only as a secretary.’
    ‘You sound as if you’re apologizing for not following in your father’s