His own story delighted her. He was, as she'd guessed, American, from Los Angeles, and his life seemed to have revolved around sun, sea and sand. His passion was cookery and the only books he ever opened were recipes. Beyond that there wasn't, a thought in his head apart from swimming, bodysurfing, eating, drinking and generally having a good time. There had been so little fun in Pippa's life that this young man, who seemed to make almost a religion of merriment, seemed to usher her to a new and magical world, one in which the light was always golden, the sensations exquisite and youth would last forever.
He had ambition, of a kind.
"I don't just want to be a cook,"there are plenty of them," he explained. "I want to be the cook, so I had to find something that would make me stand out from the others. I scraped together all the money I could and came to Europe, to work in some of the great hotels. I did six months in the Danieli in Venice, six in the George V in Paris, and now I'm doing the London Ritz. When my work permit's up I'll go back to Los Angeles as Luke of the Ritz. Hey, have you swallowed something the wrong way?" For Pippa was doubled up and apparently choking.
"You can't do that," she spluttered when she could speak. "Luke of the Ritz? Nobody will be able to eat for laughing."
"Oh!" he said, deflated. "You don't think they'll be impressed?"
"I think they'll chuck tomatoes at you."
The awful truth of this hit him suddenly and he began to laugh, too. The more he laughed, the more she laughed, and it became funnier and funnier.
If this were a romantic comedy, she thought, they would laugh until they fell into each other's arms. She found herself tingling with anticipation.
But Luke pulled himself together and said in a choking sort of voice, "It's late. I ought to be getting you home."
"It's not that late," she protested.
"It is when I have a 6 a.m. start. Come on."
He borrowed a battered old car from one of the other residents, and drove the couple of miles to the hostel where she lived. As he pulled up, Pippa waited for his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, his lips on hers…
''Here we are,'' he said, pulling open the passenger door.
Reluctantly Pippa got out of the car. He came with her to the front door.
"See you tomorrow," Luke said, giving her a brief peck on the cheek. In a moment his taillights were vanishing around the corner, and she was left standing there, muttering some very unladylike words.
Pippa was proud of being a modern young woman, unshackled by the prejudices and restraints of outmoded convention, free to enjoy worldly delights on equal terms with men. If she wanted to smoke, drink and pursue the pleasures of the flesh, she had every right to do so.
That was the theory. The practice was more difficult. The only cigarette she had ever tried had been in a pub with a party of friends. She'd promptly had a violent coughing fit, upset a bowl of peanuts all over the floor and been ordered out by an exasperated publican. She hadn't tried again. It had tasted disgusting, anyway. So much for smoking.
Alcohol was also a problem. She could twirl a glass bravely, but more than a little of the cheap plonk, which was all she could afford, upset her stomach. So much for drinking.
Which left sex. And that wasn't working out brilliantly, either.
She'd naively imagined that London would be filled with attractive, lusty males, all eager to meet a liberated young woman. But a depressingly large number of them were middle-aged and boring. Too many of the young ones were studious, married or gay. They talked too much. Or too little. Or about the wrong things. It was like being back in Encaster.
She wasn't short of offers. A tall, delicately built young woman with a daft sense of humor, laughing eyes and legs up to her ears was always going to turn heads. It should have been, as the song said, a matter of picking "the height, the weight, the size." But the height was too often awkward, and the weight was usually excessive. So she passed up the chance to check the size.
After two years in London Pippa was virginal, exasperated and uneasily aware that as an advertisement for riotous living she was a miserable failure. At this rate she might as well be a Victorian maiden. It was very disheartening.
She wondered if it was too late to become a nun.
But from the moment she met Luke everything changed. He won by default because he was none of the dreary things the others were. Also because his voice had a vibrant note she'd never heard before, and it produced a quickening of excitement in her. He won, too, because his eyes teased and tempted her, because his mouth was wide and mobile, and it could be tender, amused, or firm when his stubbornness was aroused.
But mostly he won because just being in the same room with him could induce a fever in her. Plus, the rotten so and so had never shown any sign of wanting to entice her into his bed. It was an insult that she couldn't let pass.
What made it more galling was that everyone at work simply assumed they were sleeping together. Luke had a reputation as a love-'em-and-leave-'ern heartbreaker.
"He calls it traveling light," one of the other maids confided. "He was going out with Janice on the third floor. Everything was lovely until she invited him to a family wedding. Big mistake. He only called her once more and that was to tell her he had to do a lot of overtime, so they'd better cool it."
Ears flapping, Pippa listened to all the gossip and made mental notes of what not to do. Deciding what to do was harder.
He never actually asked her out, but their shifts were roughly the same, and whoever finished first would wait for the other. Then they would stroll home, his arm about her shoulders, while Luke talked like a crazy man and Pippa tried not to be too aware of how badly she wanted him to stop talking and start kissing.
She decided to be subtle about it. Instead of Luke always doing the cooking, she would prepare an intimate supper, at his place, candlelight, soft music, and one thing would lead to another.
It was a disaster.
It might have worked with any other man, but Luke was constitutionally unable to sit quiet while somebody else cooked for him. With the best will in the world he couldn't refrain from suggesting that she turn the gas down and give this dish or that just a little more time.
In the end she stormed out. It was that or throw the lot over him.
Next day he was waiting for her with a posy and a heartfelt apology.
"I did you an injustice, didn't I?" he said humbly. "You weren't really going to do the creme caramel like that."
The quarrel that resulted from this remark took three days to heal. But nobody could quarrel for long with a man as sweet tempered as Luke. When he realized she wasn't going to make the first move he waited for her to leave the hotel and approached her with a finger pressed over his mouth.
"Good evening," she said frostily.
He made no sound, but pointed to the silencing finger with his other hand.
"I'm going home now," she declared.
But it was impossible. Whichever direction she took he was there before her, blocking off her exit, herding her toward the boarding house like a sheepdog with an awkward lamb.
"I don't know what you think you're playing at," she said exasperated.
From his pocket he took a small notebook on which he'd already written, "Every time I open my mouth you get mad at me."
"Oh, stop it!" she said, trying not to laugh, and completely failing.
"I'm sorry, Pippa," he said, meekly. "I just can't help it. Some people can't travel in a car as a passenger. They just have to drive. I can't be a passenger in a kitchen. I get hung up about how I'd do it and…" Catching her eye, he said hastily, "Let's drop the subject. Come home with me and I'll do the supper."