The Blue Rose (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

THEY met Clare at the new shop at eleven o’clock the next morning. Three men were working there and it was pervaded by the smell of freshly sawn wood and plaster. Everything appeared to be in a state of chaos and Rose wondered how they could possibly open in three weeks’ time as they planned; but in truth the structural alterations were almost completed and the decoration could be done quite quickly. While Clare was talking to the workmen in the front room where the customers were to sit and the bar was to be, Rose wandered into the room behind, which had been fitted up with a sink and a cooker. They were not going to serve hot meals—merely hot soup, open sandwiches and bowls of salad. The onion soup was to be a speciality and was to be served from eleven in the morning until midnight. The sandwiches would be made up as they were needed and the salads prepared first thing in the morning. Rose was looking forward to making the sandwiches—she had all kinds of ideas for them. She began to be impatient for the place to open. It would be pleasant to get back to a routine and to regular hours of work. She was annoyed with herself because her depression of the evening before when she had left the party had persisted, and she was still aware of a vague sense of having missed something very precious.

Derek called out to her that they were going upstairs to look at the flat and she followed them up the narrow staircase. It would make a very nice flat when it was finished
—
one big sitting-room, a large kitchen with dining unit, two bedrooms and a bathroom.

“This will be your room,” Francie said to her, indicating the smaller of the two bedrooms.

Rose felt that this was the moment to make her protest and she declared her intention of getting a room of her own. It wasn’t fair on Francie and Derek that she should live with them. A couple needed privacy more than anything.

“Well, you can pay us rent for it if that’s how you feel,” Francie said.

“That’s not the point. Of course I’d pay you rent, but I’m just not going to live with you.” She found herself unusually firm that morning.

“All right,” Derek said. “Let’s leave it at that for the time being. It will be a long time before we get in here anyway.”

The flat was to take second place. The important thing was to get the bar open as quickly as possible. They planned to have a party and perhaps get some actress or film star to open it.

“Well, I must leave you now,” Clare said. “I shall look in again to-morrow
...
By the way, to-morrow evening Stephen Hume has got some people going in after dinner for a little music and he asked me to ask you all if you can come.”

Rose’s heart began to beat quickly.

“Oh, what a shame,” Francie said. “We’ve got to dine out. But could Rose go with you? She’s not coming with us.”

“I’m sure Stephen would be delighted. I’m afraid I can’t take her with me because we are dining there, but do let her come in afterwards.”

“I couldn’t by myself,” Rose said.

“Of course you can,” Clare replied. “I shall be there and shall be expecting you. At about half past nine then? I’ll tell Stephen you’re coming. He’s in the telephone book. It’s just out of Smith Square
...
I must rush,” and she went off to her own car.

“There,” Francie said. “So he does want to see you again! That’s much better than pushing you on to him last night.”

“I can’t go alone,” Rose protested.

“Of course you can.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes, of course, but you needn’t go if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, but I do want to. I love music,” she added hastily. “I wonder what kind of music it will be? I wish I’d asked.” What was the matter with her? This nervousness, this pretending that it was for the music that she wanted to go
...
How was she going to face that moment of entering the room alone? She didn’t know herself. She had never been shy like this before. Where was her sense of adventure?

Later, when they were alone together, Derek said to Francie: “We don’t really know anything about this chap. He’s obviously making a dead set at her but what are his intentions? We don’t want her to go and get her heart broken. I can see why he’s attracted by her—apart from you, my sweet, she stood out in that room last night like a new penny. He’s probably never met anything like her before—a brand-new taste to a jaded palate—but is he serious?”

“How do I know?” Francie replied with a little frown.

“I suppose he’s very attractive to women?”

“Yes, terrifically.”

“Hey, you!”

“I’m immune to anyone but you as well you know!
...
But what do you think I ought to do? I don’t like to interfere
...”

“Just warn her that even if he gives her a big rush he may not mean anything by it. Warn her to keep her head.”

“All right, I will.”

And the next evening she did so. She called Rose in to help her dress for dinner and while Rose was changing the things for her into her evening bag she said as casually as she could: “I’d be a little bit on my guard against Stephen Hume if I were you. I know nothing against him, mind you, but as I said yesterday these young men in London do get so terribly spoilt. They’re awfully apt to take a girl up just because she’s a novelty and go through all the fun of conquering her, and then, when she’s fallen, drop her like a glove. Just be on your guard.”

“You needn’t worry,” Rose said a little grandly. “There’s no danger of my falling for him—and besides I’m sure he hasn’t noticed me. He’s not likely to notice a country bumpkin like me when you say all the girls in London are running after him.”

“Well, he did want to see you again.”

“Not me necessarily. He asked Clare to ask us all. Or perhaps he didn’t really ask us at all. Perhaps Clare asked
him
if she might bring us. She’s so kind and she said I ought to meet as many people as possible and she would see what she could do about it.”

Francie made no comment on this. At least she had warned Rose. There was really nothing more she could do, but it was enough, she believed, because few girls like to think they are easy to get.

Left alone, Rose’s courage began to fail her. If only she had been going with Clare Frenton—if only she had been going with anybody. It was the cold-bloodedness of setting off all alone after dinner which was so alarming. At one moment she made up her mind not to go but at the next she started to change. She couldn’t very well wear again the skirt she had worn the other evening, so what was she to put on? She finally plumped for a plain navy blue taffeta that her mother had always liked her in.

On the way to Stephen’s house she was several times on the point of stopping. (She was indulging in a taxi because there was a strong wind blowing and she didn’t want to arrive looking untidy.) Up to the very last moment of turning into his street she told herself that she was not really going, and as they drew up outside the house she was just about to tell the driver to take her straight home again when the front door opened, almost as if someone had been waiting for her, and there was nothing for it but to get out.

She noticed that she was in a row of enchanting small Queen Anne houses, all with little porches and discreet black-painted doors. Stephen’s house had a shining brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin, and standing at the door, holding it open for her, was the same white-coated butler who had let them into the Frentons’ flat the other evening. (She was to discover that he was one of a married couple who looked after Stephen—they were Italians—and that he had only been lent to Clare for her party.) He gave Rose a dazzling smile of recognition as she stepped into the little square, pine-panelled hall. He took her coat from her and opened a door leading out of the hall. She was greeted by a haze of cigarette smoke and a buzz of voices. The room seemed full of people, but suddenly Stephen was beside her and both her hands were in his. “You’ve come,” he said in a low voice and there was a world of relief in his tone.

The next thing she remembered was Clare coming up to her. Then a glass was put into her hand by Stephen and she was introduced to a few people. Then Clive Frenton came up to her and said how very pleased he was to see her again. The thundering of her own heart was so loud in her ears that she was quite bewildered by it and it took her a little time to realize that she was the only person in the room who was not in evening dress—the men were in dinner jackets and all the women wore dinner dresses—and when she did realize it, it did not help to put her at ease.

“Let’s sit down,” Clare said. “The music is going to begin. Here, sit on the arm of my chair.” Rose was only too pleased to do so. She now saw that there were about twenty people in the long panelled room which was probably two rooms knocked into one, but as there were not enough chairs for them all, some of the younger ones were sitting on cushions on the floor. At one end there was a baby grand piano, and presently a tall dark man came and sat down at it. “That’s Kurelek, who’s going to play for us,” Clare whispered. “He’s brilliant. He’s Polish.”

Silence fell and Kurelek began to play. Rose suddenly realized that Stephen had come up quietly and was standing just behind her with his hand on the back of Clare’s chair. Rose moved up to make room for him to sit down beside her on the arm of the big chair but he smiled slightly and shook his head, indicating that he preferred to stand. She relaxed and tried to give herself up to the music, but what Kurelek was playing was unfamiliar to her and she found her mind wandering and her eyes straying round the room.

Yes, this was evidently two rooms knocked into one, for there were windows at each end and two fireplaces. Both rooms had the same beautiful pine panelling as in the hall; the floor was of polished boards strewn with old rugs. Heavy green velvet curtains covered the windows. She wondered what the windows looked out on to at the other end. This end would be the street. She noticed the carved pine mantelpieces with the pair of landscape pictures above them. She wondered who they were by and what they were of.

Kurelek stopped playing to a burst of applause and almost immediately started on something else equally unfamiliar to Rose. Clare leaned across and whispered to Stephen: “He’s terrific.” Stephen nodded and remained standing where he was, just behind Rose. Rose was very conscious of his close presence and she wished she could see his face. She had a feeling that he was looking down at her rather than at the pianist across the room. It was all she could do not to turn round and look at him, and directly the music stopped again she could resist the temptation no longer. His eyes caught hers and held them. He was applauding automatically but the whole of his attention was riveted on her. They might have been alone in the room. She found herself blushing and reluctantly withdrew her eyes.

The pianist had got up but the applause was such that he sat down again. This time he played some Chopin and Rose was able to realize how good he was, for she had heard this piece played dozens of times on the wireless.

When it was over she turned to Stephen with a smile. “You like Chopin,” he said.

“I suppose one always likes what one knows—in music anyway.”

For the moment at any rate there was to be no more playing, and people began to circulate, getting up from the floor and from their chairs. Stephen went back to his responsibilities as host. Rose stayed close to Clare and when she moved over to speak to Kurelek Rose went with her.

Presently Stephen came up to her again. “Come and have a drink,” he said.

“I’ve got one.”

“It needs filling up.” He took her glass from her and she followed him over to a table where drinks of various kinds were set out.

“You were going to tell me the story of the blue rose,” he said.

“Oh, yes.” Her heart was beating again so fast that her speech sounded thick. “I am sorry I haven’t got on proper
clothes,” she said. “I ought to have rung up Clare to find out what to wear.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “You’re perfectly dressed. But why were you so late?”

“I nearly didn’t come at all.”

“Why not?”

“I was shy of coming all alone.”

“How absurd conventions are! I had to organize all this just in order to see you again. Just because I didn’t like to ring you up. Imagine what I should have felt if you hadn’t come.”

“You gave this party just in order to see me again?” she asked incredulously.

“If I’d asked you out by yourself the first time what would you have thought of me?”

“But what if I hadn’t come this evening?”

“I would have had to organize a bigger, better party. Get some film star here—someone you wouldn’t have been able to resist! Get you here somehow. What precious time one wastes because of these idiotic conventions. Please don’t let’s waste any more. Will you have dinner with me to-morrow?”

“Yes,” she found herself answering simply.

“Where?”

“Anywhere you like. I don’t know many places in London.”

“I daren’t ask you here. Convention again. If I asked you to dine alone with me here people would warn you against me, and I’m certainly not going to waste any more time by asking anyone else, so it will have to be somewhere out. Let’s say the Mirabelle, shall we? That’s in Curzon Street. At eight o’clock.”