know that Queenie has a terrific crush on you?”
The side of his mouth twitched in bemusement. “Queenie?”
“She’s mad for you. You should ask her to dance.”
Clive shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes found Queenie across the room. “Queenie’s not for me.” Then he looked back at Violet, and his brow creased as though he’d had an unhappy thought. “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes sad. “I won’t . . . We’re still friends, aren’t we, Violet?”
“Nothing more, nothing less,” she said lightly.
He nodded, then turned and headed off towards the drinks table. Violet felt sorry for him, but was relieved nonetheless that he finally seemed to have accepted that their romance—however brief and faint—was over. She studied the people in the room. Laughter and dancing feet. She hadn’t the heart for more dancing but didn’t want to ruin the party by taking her gramophone away. Nor would she leave it behind for Clive to bring back—not with her precious note from Sam in it. So instead, she shrugged back into her coat and went outside into the cool, late-afternoon air and sat on the stairs where two other girls she’d never met were smoking.
“Cigarette?” one of them said, holding out a filigree cigarette case.
“Thank you,” she said.
The other girl, the one with too much lipstick on, lit it for her, and she drew back the smoke then blew it into a narrow stream.
“That brooch is divine,” the first girl said.
“Thank you. Somebody special made it for me.”
“Made it?” Lipstick girl snorted. “Hardly. I’ve seen them for sale on the main street for ninepence. An old lady who lives down at Leura makes them for tourists. It’s a local flower, see. A rush lily petal.”
Violet’s face almost stung with mortification. “Did I say ‘made’? I meant ‘gave.’ ” They could surely tell she was lying, but they politely didn’t point it out. So, Sam hadn’t spent hours gluing and lacquering the brooch. He’d spent exactly ninepence on her.
She sat and smoked and waited for the party to finish, which it eventually did when the sun fell behind the horizon. Then she packed up her gramophone and noticed Clive was gone, so she carried it back to the Evergreen Spa, with Myrtle and Queenie for company. Queenie was in tears because Clive had rebuffed her, and when Myrtle kindly told her Clive was a cad and wasn’t worth her trouble, Violet bristled.
“Clive Betts is not a cad,” she said forcefully. “Just because he isn’t interested in her doesn’t mean he’s a bad person. He’s one of the sweetest men I know.”
Myrtle was taken aback by the heat in Violet’s voice. “Yes, but he’s rejected poor Queenie here and—”
“That’s life,” Violet said. “That happens. To everyone.” Then she forged on ahead of them, even though Myrtle’s shoes were pinching at her toes. She regretted being so beastly to Queenie, but since meeting Sam her moods had swung so wildly she felt she could no longer find their edges and pin them down.
The Evergreen Spa was a tall silhouette ahead of her now. She knew she’d have to face Queenie and Myrtle again in their shared bedroom, but she hoped by then to have had a long bath to calm herself. Lights were coming on in the hotel windows, and she looked up at the second floor again, her eyes ranging from window to window, just in case . . .
There he was. He sat by the window looking down, an expression of dreamy melancholy on his face.
She willed him to see her, wondering if she dared pick up a pebble to cast at the glass in the hope it would draw his attention.
She needn’t have worried. Something about her pale dress in the gloom must have caught his eye. His face lit up. A smile broke out on her lips in return.
He lifted his hand and waved, just once. She waved back, then stood gazing up at him gazing down on her, until she feared Myrtle and Queenie would catch her up and she reluctantly went inside.
Her heart was
The side of his mouth twitched in bemusement. “Queenie?”
“She’s mad for you. You should ask her to dance.”
Clive shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes found Queenie across the room. “Queenie’s not for me.” Then he looked back at Violet, and his brow creased as though he’d had an unhappy thought. “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes sad. “I won’t . . . We’re still friends, aren’t we, Violet?”
“Nothing more, nothing less,” she said lightly.
He nodded, then turned and headed off towards the drinks table. Violet felt sorry for him, but was relieved nonetheless that he finally seemed to have accepted that their romance—however brief and faint—was over. She studied the people in the room. Laughter and dancing feet. She hadn’t the heart for more dancing but didn’t want to ruin the party by taking her gramophone away. Nor would she leave it behind for Clive to bring back—not with her precious note from Sam in it. So instead, she shrugged back into her coat and went outside into the cool, late-afternoon air and sat on the stairs where two other girls she’d never met were smoking.
“Cigarette?” one of them said, holding out a filigree cigarette case.
“Thank you,” she said.
The other girl, the one with too much lipstick on, lit it for her, and she drew back the smoke then blew it into a narrow stream.
“That brooch is divine,” the first girl said.
“Thank you. Somebody special made it for me.”
“Made it?” Lipstick girl snorted. “Hardly. I’ve seen them for sale on the main street for ninepence. An old lady who lives down at Leura makes them for tourists. It’s a local flower, see. A rush lily petal.”
Violet’s face almost stung with mortification. “Did I say ‘made’? I meant ‘gave.’ ” They could surely tell she was lying, but they politely didn’t point it out. So, Sam hadn’t spent hours gluing and lacquering the brooch. He’d spent exactly ninepence on her.
She sat and smoked and waited for the party to finish, which it eventually did when the sun fell behind the horizon. Then she packed up her gramophone and noticed Clive was gone, so she carried it back to the Evergreen Spa, with Myrtle and Queenie for company. Queenie was in tears because Clive had rebuffed her, and when Myrtle kindly told her Clive was a cad and wasn’t worth her trouble, Violet bristled.
“Clive Betts is not a cad,” she said forcefully. “Just because he isn’t interested in her doesn’t mean he’s a bad person. He’s one of the sweetest men I know.”
Myrtle was taken aback by the heat in Violet’s voice. “Yes, but he’s rejected poor Queenie here and—”
“That’s life,” Violet said. “That happens. To everyone.” Then she forged on ahead of them, even though Myrtle’s shoes were pinching at her toes. She regretted being so beastly to Queenie, but since meeting Sam her moods had swung so wildly she felt she could no longer find their edges and pin them down.
The Evergreen Spa was a tall silhouette ahead of her now. She knew she’d have to face Queenie and Myrtle again in their shared bedroom, but she hoped by then to have had a long bath to calm herself. Lights were coming on in the hotel windows, and she looked up at the second floor again, her eyes ranging from window to window, just in case . . .
There he was. He sat by the window looking down, an expression of dreamy melancholy on his face.
She willed him to see her, wondering if she dared pick up a pebble to cast at the glass in the hope it would draw his attention.
She needn’t have worried. Something about her pale dress in the gloom must have caught his eye. His face lit up. A smile broke out on her lips in return.
He lifted his hand and waved, just once. She waved back, then stood gazing up at him gazing down on her, until she feared Myrtle and Queenie would catch her up and she reluctantly went inside.
Her heart was
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