town to Hove the day before the ball to spend time with his father. Fitz, Freddie Vere, Art Stubbs, Tom and, of course, Leo, all of them friends at Oxford, had arrived for dinner on Saturday. No one had expected the chap from Hamp-stead. No one knew him or his family, though Leo had claimed great things on their behalf. At dinner, conversation had been strained. Freddie had thought it amusing to bring up the subject of a newly translated essay by Marx, ‘On the Jewish Question’. But they’d all managed to remain civil for Geoffrey’s father’s sake, who had been bewildered, thankfully, by the speed of the repartee.
By the time they’d piled into the motors at the end of the ball, the stain of the brawl in the smoking room had almost faded, and everyone, with the exception of Leo and his friend, had driven to London – to Mayfair and the 43 Club. It was past one when they’d arrived, but Mrs Merrick and her deep cleavage still presided over the door. As usual, she welcomed Fitz to the club without charge because he was heir to a peerage, a logic that had always seemed strangely flawed to Geoffrey and the others. But if the cover charge was steep, the girls had poise. A few had been debs. One was theex-wife of a colonel. He danced that night with a girl called Constance, whose pale silk gown fluttered under the ceiling fans. She was slight and very pretty, in spite of a lazy eye, and her hair was black and lustrous, though shorter than Evelyn’s. It was costly – five pounds – to take her back to one of Mrs M’s flats. He gave her more than that when he remembered that she would have to pay a pound for the use of the flat. She asked him if he’d brought a French letter, and he’d reached for his wallet again. Then he’d closed his eyes and tried to feel Evelyn in his arms.
In the gardens below, lilac, the last of the season, seemed to haunt the night, and she allowed herself to close her eyes, to store away, for harsher times perhaps, the surfeit of its fragrance. Then she turned again for a view of the ball through the balcony’s French doors. At centre stage, a singer sang low into the microphone, her hands imploring, her lips as bright as blood.
Sylvia slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t know about you, but I can’t bear to be upstaged.’
Evelyn squeezed her hand. ‘You? Never.’
When Geoffrey had suggested they invite Tom and Sylvia down from London for the night, she’d felt herself brighten for the first time in weeks. Sylvia was the reminder she needed that the entire world hadn’t lost its sense of humour; that it hadn’t given in to dread. Sylvia wasn’t afraid of anything, not of Hitler or war or of any unsteadiness in herself. Tall, willowy, a natural blonde, she never failed to be noticed, but for all her glamour, she was plain-speaking and soft-hearted with it. She treated Tom’s ancient, demented mother with a kindness the old woman had never known, and, in the last year, she had turned their house into a veritable orphanage for five East End children who had lost their parents. As Tom once said,she’d give anyone the faux fur off her back. And relentless tease though Sylvia was, she adored him. Tonight Evelyn had seen her friend’s eyes fill up when, after a waltz, Tom had taken her palm and pressed it to his lips.
Admittedly, when Sylvia and Tom had announced their engagement four years before, it had seemed incredible to Evelyn that this was the woman Tom, the discreet diplomat, had finally chosen to be his wife. Even in wartime Sylvia didn’t know how not to be showy. While Evelyn, Geoffrey and Tom sipped the rough Algerian wine that all guests were doing their best to drink, Sylvia had persuaded the bartender to produce her trademark cocktail, a Sidecar, and as she danced, glass in hand, she jingled with a riot of African bangles and beads. Her lips were plump with maroon lipstick. Her plunging velvet gown clung to her – midnight blue, backless, slinky. It
By the time they’d piled into the motors at the end of the ball, the stain of the brawl in the smoking room had almost faded, and everyone, with the exception of Leo and his friend, had driven to London – to Mayfair and the 43 Club. It was past one when they’d arrived, but Mrs Merrick and her deep cleavage still presided over the door. As usual, she welcomed Fitz to the club without charge because he was heir to a peerage, a logic that had always seemed strangely flawed to Geoffrey and the others. But if the cover charge was steep, the girls had poise. A few had been debs. One was theex-wife of a colonel. He danced that night with a girl called Constance, whose pale silk gown fluttered under the ceiling fans. She was slight and very pretty, in spite of a lazy eye, and her hair was black and lustrous, though shorter than Evelyn’s. It was costly – five pounds – to take her back to one of Mrs M’s flats. He gave her more than that when he remembered that she would have to pay a pound for the use of the flat. She asked him if he’d brought a French letter, and he’d reached for his wallet again. Then he’d closed his eyes and tried to feel Evelyn in his arms.
In the gardens below, lilac, the last of the season, seemed to haunt the night, and she allowed herself to close her eyes, to store away, for harsher times perhaps, the surfeit of its fragrance. Then she turned again for a view of the ball through the balcony’s French doors. At centre stage, a singer sang low into the microphone, her hands imploring, her lips as bright as blood.
Sylvia slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t know about you, but I can’t bear to be upstaged.’
Evelyn squeezed her hand. ‘You? Never.’
When Geoffrey had suggested they invite Tom and Sylvia down from London for the night, she’d felt herself brighten for the first time in weeks. Sylvia was the reminder she needed that the entire world hadn’t lost its sense of humour; that it hadn’t given in to dread. Sylvia wasn’t afraid of anything, not of Hitler or war or of any unsteadiness in herself. Tall, willowy, a natural blonde, she never failed to be noticed, but for all her glamour, she was plain-speaking and soft-hearted with it. She treated Tom’s ancient, demented mother with a kindness the old woman had never known, and, in the last year, she had turned their house into a veritable orphanage for five East End children who had lost their parents. As Tom once said,she’d give anyone the faux fur off her back. And relentless tease though Sylvia was, she adored him. Tonight Evelyn had seen her friend’s eyes fill up when, after a waltz, Tom had taken her palm and pressed it to his lips.
Admittedly, when Sylvia and Tom had announced their engagement four years before, it had seemed incredible to Evelyn that this was the woman Tom, the discreet diplomat, had finally chosen to be his wife. Even in wartime Sylvia didn’t know how not to be showy. While Evelyn, Geoffrey and Tom sipped the rough Algerian wine that all guests were doing their best to drink, Sylvia had persuaded the bartender to produce her trademark cocktail, a Sidecar, and as she danced, glass in hand, she jingled with a riot of African bangles and beads. Her lips were plump with maroon lipstick. Her plunging velvet gown clung to her – midnight blue, backless, slinky. It
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