The Girl from the Savoy (16 page)

“Everything might be the start of something wonderful, but it usually turns out that it isn't.”

A
fter a week of juggling my regular chores and fitting in the requirements of Mademoiselle Delysia, I'm relieved when my afternoon off comes around again. Since it was Clover's birthday at the weekend, we both pay for a sixpenny dance with a male instructor at the Palais. I'd forgotten how lovely it feels to be whisked around the dance floor with confidence and poise and strong arms. I let the dizzying sound of trumpets, banjo, and piano envelop me as the instructor's arm circles my waist and he guides me around the dance floor.

Clover has new paste beads. A gift from Madam for helping with a large luncheon. Life at Grosvenor Square has certainly improved since I left. I don't remember staff ever being given a gift apart from the traditional one on Boxing Day. Still, I can't begrudge Clover nice things, not on her birthday. Sitting down for a short break, we talk about our week, but I can't concentrate. I can only think about my meeting with the musical composer in the tearooms.

Clover tires of repeating herself as my thoughts continually wander. “What's got into you, then?” she asks. “'Cause something's
on your mind.” And then she remembers. “It's today, isn't it? Your meeting with the composer.”

I stare into my tea. “Yes. Four o'clock at the Lyons' Corner House on Coventry Street.”

She leans back in her chair and blows out a long trail of smoke. “You're still going then?”

I nod.

“Who is he anyway?”

“I've no idea. That's why I'm meeting him. To find out.” She says nothing. Her silence is unsettling. “I don't have to meet him again if he's dreadful,” I continue. “And it's a public place, so there's no danger of him kidnapping me or anything else you're imagining. He might be a perfect gentleman, Clover. This could be the start of something wonderful!”

She sighs and takes hold of my hand. “I wish I could have some of that optimism of yours, Dolly. Everything might be the start of something wonderful, but it usually turns out that it isn't.” She looks deep into my eyes. “But I know you well enough by now. There's no point me saying anything. I can tell you're set on meeting him.”

“I am.”

“Then go. Have a cup of tea and a slice of cake. See what he wants his
muse
to do, but don't say I didn't warn you if it isn't as straightforward as he makes out in that little notice of his.” She sees a flash of doubt in my eyes. “I'll come with you if you like. I'll hide around the corner. Keep an eye on you. Make sure he doesn't follow you back to the hotel or get up to any funny business.”

I like the idea. I
am
apprehensive, although I won't admit it to Clover. “Would you do that? Really?”

“What are friends for, eh? You can give me a signal if you think he's genuine.”

“What sort of signal?”

“I don't know. Drop something and pick it up. Jump up and down. You can sing the bloody national anthem for all I care. As long as you're happy, Dolly, that's all that matters. And I know you're never happier than when you're chasing those dreams of yours.”

For the first time that day I notice how tired she looks. “Is everything all right, Clover?”

She pushes a loose hair behind her ear and stands up. “'Course it is. Come on, then. I've been practicing the new Charleston step. Let me show you how to do it properly, and then we'll go and meet this mystery man of yours.”

We laugh and rush to the dance floor and let the music transport us to a place where dreams always come true and everyone is the perfect gentleman.

W
e arrive at the Corner House twelve minutes early. I'm bursting for the lav and jiggle around, my nerves not helping matters. I glance at my watch again and again, but the minutes drag along. Now I know why I'm never early for anything—waiting around is awful.

With Clover lurking a little distance behind, I distract myself by admiring the window display of biscuits and cakes and handmade chocolates that all look too good to eat. I linger in front of a florist's shop beside the tearooms, watching a lady dressed in black who fusses and tweaks at blooms in tall vases although they seem perfectly arranged to me. The flowers are a lovely splash of color among the gray murk. They remind me of a rainbow and a summer rainstorm when me and Teddy had watched the rain pelting against the kitchen window while I grumbled about not being able to get out for our picnic. He'd kissed the frown lines from my forehead and lifted my finger to chase the raindrops down
the glass. Then we blew warm breaths onto the windowpanes and drew shapes with our fingers. “Some days try to suck the color and joy from everything and everyone, Dolly,” he'd said. “Same with people. Don't let them. Don't let them spoil things for you.” We had our picnic in the end, rain and all. Soggy sandwiches. Damp cake. Cold tea. Clothes that clung to us like weary children and a perfect rainbow arching above us as the rain stopped and the sun peered through sulky clouds.

It was the loveliest picnic we ever had. It was also the last.

“Excuse me. I don't suppose you would be Clover Parker?”

I turn around at the sound of the voice behind me. I recognize him immediately.

Gray eyes stare back at me. A sandy mustache curves into a broad smile. “My goodness! It's you!”

He remembers me. After all this time, he remembers me. “Mr. Clements!”

“Miss Lane, isn't it?” he asks, holding out his hand.

My relief at seeing his familiar face is so immense that I grasp it as if I am drowning and might never let go. “Yes. Dorothy Lane. Dolly, for short.”

He holds on to my hand longer than necessary. Perhaps he is drowning too. “Dorothy Lane. The girl who knocked me to the ground.”

“The girl who helped you to your feet.”

He laughs. “And that, Miss Lane, is the fundamental difference between people—the manner in which they experience things.” He looks at me, as if trying to work something out while I feel myself falling into those gray puddles. “I must apologize, Miss Lane. You'll think me awfully rude, but I'm actually here to meet someone.”

I glance down at my feet. “I know. Clover Parker.”

He releases my hand. I put it deep into my coat pocket and wrap my fingers around the photograph.

“Yes. Clover Parker. How on earth . . .”

“It's me, Mr. Clements.
I
replied to your notice. I had no idea it was you, and I'm ever so glad that it is.” We stand and grin at each other. For a moment we are back in the rain on the Strand. “I used a friend's name,” I explain. “I'm not really sure why.”

He takes off his hat and runs his hands through his hair. I still want to touch it. My heart hammers. My mouth is as dry as paper. I think about the pages of unplayed music beneath my pillow and I want to hear the melody more than ever.

He whistles through his teeth. “Well, I'll be dashed.”

“Me too.”

My words are making no sense. I catch a glimpse of Clover over his shoulder. She is pointing at him and waving frantically but I'm too distracted to acknowledge her.

“So, shall we have that cup of tea? Of course, I quite understand if you would rather not. Now that you know who wrote the notice. I'm sure you think it most irregular. I'm really not in the habit of advertising for such things. It was all my sister's idea. She's an actress. They have ridiculous notions like that rather too frequently.” I can think of nothing sensible to say as he opens the door and stands to one side. “Perhaps I can explain a little better inside.”

I walk ahead of him. He smells of musk and lemons and Scotch. With all thoughts of sinister men forgotten, I hold my head up high and walk into the tearooms. I forget to give Clover the signal. Like the most dreadful friend, I forget about Clover entirely.

T
he Corner House is lovely. Far nicer than the places Clover and I usually go. There's a gentle background noise of polite chatter, and a soft fog of cigarette smoke adds an intimate atmosphere. I feel
horribly underdressed as the waiter takes my coat; my plain navy cotton shift has seen better days. I'm grateful for the sweep of Sissy's Vermillion on my lips.

We sit at a jolly little table beside the window. Mr. Clements moves a vase of red carnations to one side so we can see each other without having to peer over them. We both order coffee and he orders two slices of cherry cake. He drinks his coffee steaming hot, while I stir sugar into mine and send half of it sloshing into the saucer. I fidget in my chair, crossing and uncrossing my ankles beneath the linen tablecloth as if I am knitting with them. I knock over the pepper pot as I reach for the milk.

He lights a Gold Flake. “Do you?” he asks, offering them to me.

“I shouldn't really, but I do.”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“They say cigarettes help to keep us ladies slim.”

I take one and lean forward as he strikes a match and lights it for me. My fingers are trembling so much that the cigarette bounces up and down on my lips. I take a long drag. It is much stronger than the cheap cigarettes I'm used to and the rush of nicotine goes straight to my head. I admire the imprint of red lipstick on the tip.

“I suppose your friends thought you were meeting some sort of lunatic?”

I laugh. “Yes! They're expecting to find me floating in the Thames tomorrow morning. You can tell me now if that's your plan and I'll finish my coffee and be off.”

He leans back in his chair. “I can assure you I have no intention of going anywhere near the Thames. Never did care for the water. I'm not a great swimmer.”

“Me neither.”

“Then let's stay on terra firma, shall we? I get the feeling we would be quite hopeless at rescuing one another.”

That familiar feeling I had the first time I saw him comes flooding back. There is something about the way he talks. So assured and precise. I want to tell him about the music that I fished out of the litter bin. I want to tell him it has been beneath my pillow and in my thoughts—that
he
has been in my thoughts—ever since. But I don't.

We talk easily as we work our way through the slices of cherry cake. He tells me about the music he has written and the theaters he has played in. I listen, wide-eyed, hooked on every word. I tell him about life at The Savoy and how I love to dance at the Palais on a Wednesday. The conversation is easy and comfortable. We laugh, we smile, we blush in awkward pauses and show the very best of ourselves. He is awkward and bumbling at times. Cracked and flawed. Not the perfectly polished gentleman I'd imagined him to be. He is far more interesting than that. I haven't felt this relaxed in a man's company since Teddy.

Teddy.

After all these years, there is still a sense of betrayal within me when I think of him; a voice that wants to be heard. I gently close that door in my mind. For now, I want to focus only on the man sitting opposite me.

Time passes quickly in Mr. Clements's company. I drink far too much coffee and have to excuse myself to visit the conveniences. When I return, he isn't at our table. Presuming he has taken a trip to the gentlemen's room, I settle back into my chair. But he doesn't appear, and after sipping on the dregs of cold coffee and feeling rather silly, I catch the waiter's attention.

“You didn't see the gentleman I was with, did you?”

He nods. “He asked me to give you this, miss.”

He hands me a folded sheet of paper. I wait for him to busy himself at another table before I open it up.

Dear Miss Lane,

It was very kind of you to meet me and I appreciate your time. How strange that we should meet again! However, I'm sorry to say that you are not quite what I am looking for. I need someone with more experience in the theater. I am terribly sorry for wasting your time. I thought it might be easier to explain in this short note and save you the embarrassment of a protracted farewell.

I do hope you can forgive me and I wish you well in your position at The Savoy.

Peregrine Clements

The color drains from my cheeks and sinks through my body all the way to my feet. I don't understand.

The waiter appears at my side. “Is everything all right, miss? Can I help you with anything?”

I stare at him. “No. No, thank you.”

“The gentleman paid the bill before he left. Should I fetch your coat?”

“Yes. Please.”

He can't bring my coat soon enough. I rush outside, desperate to get away from the whispers and curious looks. I stand on the pavement, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but he has vanished. Clover is nowhere to be seen either and only now do I remember that I was supposed to give her a sign.

I read the note again . . .
you are not quite what I am looking for . . .
We were getting along so well. What did I do wrong? What did I say?

Scrunching the paper into a ball, I throw it to the ground and stamp on it in a temper. Peregrine Clements may consider himself
to be a gentleman, but he has made me feel as cheap as a backstreet prostitute.

I walk away from the tearooms, my feet thudding against the wet pavement, tears pricking at my eyes. I was a fool for believing in fairy tales. Piggy Griffin was right. I am a girl who will never get on in life. Never become anything. Never be good enough.

As I walk, an omnibus passes me, splashing filthy rainwater all over my stockings and shoes. I stop walking. All the bravado of grand adventures and new beginnings seeps out of me like spilled milk as tears of frustration fall down my cheeks. Nearly two months have passed since I started at The Savoy and here I am, back where I started, alone in the street with sagging stockings and wet feet. I am no closer to finding him. No closer to making a better life for myself. No closer to my dreams.