“Gawd! I hope you’re in disguise, gel! I wouldn’t want to think you were letting yourself go. I took you for your mother until you smiled.” She looked about her at the other diners, noting their correct evening dress and general air of understated affluence with satisfaction. Phyl fitted in seamlessly. “We’re a bit mismatched, you and I. Not out of the same bandbox tonight.”
“That’s quite all right. If anyone wants to know, I’m taking my rich publisher, that’s you, out to dinner—so kill the Cockney. I’m aiming to persuade you to look favourably on my latest romantic oeuvre. I’ve written up the first two chapters already. No kidding! It’s been pretty boring watching his nibs over there … Yes … the good looking dark bloke, fidgeting with his gardenia, at the far table.”
Phyl unobtrusively located the target. “Oh. You’re supposed to keep an eye on him all evening? Not one of your more demanding jobs, then. I see he’s got his champagne chilling and his engine revving. But he’s nervous. Or perhaps just excited.” She flicked another glance sideways as Mr. Fitzwilliam looked at his watch for the third time in thirty seconds. “I see why he’s having an early dinner … not so much going on as going up?” Phyl raised her eyebrows suggestively. “I expect if you checked, Lil, you’d find he has a sumptuous flower-bedecked suite booked upstairs. I’ve seen him somewhere before … Let’s hope she doesn’t keep him waiting long. This is fun! I didn’t know you were doing divorces, Lil! Do we expect fireworks and a floor show? Anyone I’ll recognise?”
They fell into a natural conversation about Phyl’s exploits at Ascot as the maître d’hôtel eased by their table, leading a young girl. She looked ahead eagerly and smiled as Fitzwilliam leapt to his feet in welcome.
“Oh, my! A pair of love birds! Is that what you were expecting, Lil?”
“Well, no. I was prepared for one of Herr Hitler’s generals, the Russian ambassador or Lady Astor. Possibly all three. What do you make of her, Phyl?”
Aunt Phyl, Cockney-born and proud of it, was known professionally as Madame Claude, Couturière, Londres et Paris, and could sum up a woman’s character and class and tell you to a penny how much her husband had in the bank from one brief look. She was completely trusted in these matters by Lily. “Early twenties. Very pretty. A bit tricky to read. A lady, definitely, but I’d say not out of the top drawer. More Bloomsbury than Berkeley Square.”
“That’s a nice dress, though. Well cut, unpretentious …”
“Victor Stiebel, dear. Clinging but flared at the hem—that’s flattering. Shows off her neat waist and ankles. Navy silk with a flash of peacock blue. A nice touch. Not expensive but it looks the part. Like the girl in it. She’s no debutante. Never was. There’s something about that unnatural walk they train those girls to do. As though the top of their head is attached to the ceiling by a string. Now, my mannequins—the moment they knock off, they relax and slouch about like anything, but being a deb does permanent damage to your spine. That girl swings when she walks and she’s not wearing stays. No whalebone and not much elastic either under there … French knickers and that’s about all, I’d say. I can’t imagine her dropping a curtsey. Not a tennis player by any chance, do you suppose? They’re beginning to arrive for Wimbledon and there’s a contingent of women this year. She’s got short hair and good shoulders. I can imagine her whacking a ball.”
“She may need a stinging back-hand by the end of her evening. I’d say he was head over heels and on mischief bent, wouldn’t you?” Lily noted the glance that sent the sommelier away, leaving the ice bucket by Fitzwilliam’s elbow, and she tried to lip-read the toast he whispered as they raised their glasses.
The two women took it in turns to observe their man and reported back to each other anything that caught their interest. They’d done this before. Two females chattering together was an arrangement that never aroused suspicion.
By the time the Dover sole was served, Phyl had made up her mind. “You can come off watch, Lil. The girl’s not unwilling. I thought at first she didn’t want to be here—nervous, looking about her, checking her exits—but she soon settled down and they’re having a really good talk. Funny pair though. This whole set-up shrieks seduction but no one’s flirting. No eyelash batted, no moustache twirled. They’re just chatting. Give and take. He’s really listening to what she’s saying—and that’s plenty—and he’s making her laugh. You know, Lil, I think they’ve known each other for years. She just passed him the salt a split second before he asked for it. You don’t do that with a stranger. It’s sort of … intimate.” Phyl watched and came to a conclusion. “They’re in love. Now, why’s it taken us so long to come out with that? You can see it from here, even with your pa’s glasses on.” She sighed. “Lucky girl, I’d say. He’s a cracker.”
“Brides-in-the-Bath Smith was charming and personable,” Lily said. “I’m staying alert.”
“Here comes the moment critique,” Phyl whispered. “They’ve both refused dessert and cheese and asked for coffee. He’s lighting a cigar. If he calls for a brandy, assume the worst. Always beware of a bloke who finishes his evening with brandy—it perks him up where he wants to be perked and you can bet he knows that from experience. Ah, he’s signalling the waiter.”
A prepared tray was instantly brought to their table bearing a bottle and two glasses. A small package done up in silver paper, tied up in white ribbons and topped with a fresh white rose accompanied the Napoleon brandy. Fitzwilliam poured out the drinks then handed the package with mischievous ceremony to the girl. A birthday present? Lily tried to put an innocent explanation on the appearance of such a sumptuously decked-out offering but there was a discordant note in the girl’s reaction. Her surprise appeared genuine and she shied away with a distancing flutter of her hands. Lily could only read from her lips: “But why? You shouldn’t have! No need … really …” as she tucked the rose into her neckline and set about untying the ribbons.
Annoyingly, Lily couldn’t make out the contents when the wrapper was discarded. It appeared to be a pair of items … earrings, perhaps? She caught a flash of gold. The girl was holding the objects, one in each hand, looking with astonishment from one to the other. Fitzwilliam drew his chair closer to hers until their heads were touching, slipped an arm around her waist and leaned into her shoulder talking quietly in her ear. What he had to say stunned and moved the girl. Lily could have sworn there were tears in her eyes as she looked down at the gift, looked back at him with some tenderness, then shook her head and spoke slowly in reply.
“Whatever he’s suggesting, she’s turning him down,” Phyl murmured. “Silly cow!”
His response to the show of emotion was to take the girl’s hands in his and speak even more urgently.
She seemed suddenly to crumble under the pressure and got to her feet, picked up her bag, made hasty excuses and set off across the room heading towards the ladies’ cloakroom.
Lily leaned towards Phyl. “Do you still carry a sewing kit around with you? Good. May I?”
She took the offered box and slipped it inside her own bag and, after half a minute, set off in the wake of the fleeing girl.
Entering the magnolia-scented washroom tucked away down a short flight of stairs, Lily first greeted the attendant in charge. A whispered, “I’d like a few minutes in private with my daughter if you wouldn’t mind, Miss …” and a half crown slipped into the ready hand removed the audience.
The girl was standing, holding onto a washbasin, staring at her image in the mirror above and not much liking what she saw, Lily guessed. Sadness? Despair? Disgust? She took the rose from her dress and carefully inserted it into the small bouquet decorating the counter.