To have found such a dress on a market stall amongst what Dulcie had described as a tangle of rubbishy stuff had indeed been wonderful. Dulcie had told her that ‘having got the good eye that I have for quality,’ she had quickly realised that the frock was exactly that, even before she had seen the label.
Tilly, who had returned home slightly later than Dulcie, explaining that she had decided ‘on impulse’ to meet up with Drew – avoiding Olive’s gaze whilst doing so – hadn’t had much to say about their shopping trip other than that Dulcie had been very lucky to have acquired the dress.
Buying and wearing second-hand clothes was a fact of life of the war, but Olive had to admit to herself that there were many, many times whilst she was sorting through the clothes that were brought in to them at the WVS that her heart ached for the possible fate of the original owners. One couldn’t give in to sentiment, though.
‘You do look lovely, Dulcie,’ she agreed. It was, after all, the truth.
‘Just wait until you see the little fur bolero I’ve got on loan that I’m going to wear with it,’ Dulcie boasted. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if them society photographers, that are bound to be at the Café de Paris seeing as that’s where all the rich posh folk go, don’t want to take a picture of me tonight. What’s Tilly doing?’ she demanded. ‘Wilder and Drew will be here soon. I just hope that Wilder remembers what I told him about him having to wear something smart, and not that leather flying jacket of his.’
‘Didn’t you say that Wilder was going to get changed
at Ian’s?’ Olive reminded her. ‘If so I’m sure that Drew will make sure that he’s properly dressed, Dulcie.’
‘Drew will make sure who is properly dressed?’ demanded Tilly, coming into the kitchen in her own evening dress. Looking at her daughter, Olive’s heart ached with both love for her and anxiety. The silk velvet, bought on a trip to one of London’s markets just after the beginning of the war, if anything looked even better on Tilly now that she was little bit older than it had done when it had first been made. The damson colour of the fabric suited Tilly’s Celtic colouring to perfection, her slender neck rising from the boat-shaped neckline as elegantly as any swan’s. Love had brought a new confidence to her daughter, Olive recognised. Tilly held herself just that little bit taller, her skin glowed with the happiness that was revealed in the shine in her eyes and the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth.
If Dulcie looked eye-catchingly glamorous, then Tilly looked truly beautiful.
Sally, coming into the kitchen on the heels of Tilly, did a small double take as she saw Dulcie.
‘I hope you aren’t thinking of appearing in that down at the hospital,’ she teased Dulcie. ‘You’ll cause a riot if you do.’
Preening herself afresh, Dulcie told her, ‘Well, I suppose I might wear it if there was to be a dance – just to show David, him going to be a sir one day and knowing what quality is.’
Sally exchanged looks with Olive. Dulcie had no awareness of irony, nor much of a sense of humour other than for her own jokes.
‘I’d better go,’ Sally told Olive, ‘otherwise I’ll be late
on duty. You’d think by now that I’d be used to working nights, but somehow you never do get used to it.’
Within minutes of Sally leaving, a knock on the front door heralded the arrival of Drew and Wilder, with a taxi waiting to transport them all to the West End and the Café de Paris.
They were setting out early at Dulcie’s insistence, because despite the fact that Wilder had booked a table she wanted to make sure that she liked its position whilst there was still time to opt for another.
‘I don’t want to be given some table stuck away in a corner like we was when you took me to the Ritz that time,’ she informed Wilder now, as he complained that no one went to a nightclub so early in the evening.
Despite all her reservations about Tilly’s relationship with Drew, Olive knew that no mother’s heart could fail to be secretly lifted by the fact that her own daughter’s escort looked so very comfortably at home in a dinner suit that fitted him perfectly, whilst Wilder, who always looked so determinedly raffish and bad-boyish in his beloved leather jacket, actually looked far less attractive in a dinner suit in which he was plainly not at ease.
Naturally the men had brought corsages for the girls, but whilst Tilly’s orchid was a perfect colour for her dress, the glaringly bright yellow of Dulcie’s brought a pursed-lipped look of disapproval in Wilder’s direction and an irritated, ‘What made you choose that colour?’
Wilder’s equally irritated, ‘You’re blonde so I thought it would go with your hair,’ didn’t do anything to mend matters.
Olive recognised that for all that she herself often felt irritated by Dulcie, and even critical of her, just as though
she was Dulcie’s mother and not merely her landlady, the sight of someone else betraying that irritation brought an immediate surge of protective emotion towards Dulcie and an increase in her growing dislike for what she often considered to be the less than gentlemanly way in which Wilder treated her.
As she hugged both girls before they left she whispered discreetly to Dulcie, ‘You could always “forget” about your corsage and leave it in the cloakroom by mistake. To be honest, Dulcie, the diamantè on your dress mean that neither it nor you need any added enhancement.’
Dulcie had been right about the fur bolero, Olive acknowledged, as she waved the quartet off. It suited the style of her gown perfectly. It was, though, once again the sight of Tilly’s shining happiness that lingered in her mind after they had gone, and she and Agnes had settled down together to a quiet evening of listening to the wireless and knitting squares of unravelled wool to make blankets for those in need.
‘Doesn’t Dulcie look lovely in her new dress?’ Tilly asked Wilder loyally as their taxi rumbled toward their destination. He hadn’t yet paid Dulcie any compliments on her appearance. The Cafe de Paris was housed in the basement of a five-storey building, and, recently refurbished, it was claimed by its owner to be safer from bombs than any other nightclub in the whole of London.
In response, Wilder gave a grunt and announced, ‘If you were to ask me I’d say that we could have had a better night at somewhere where the real action is.’
‘But the Cafe de Paris is
the
place to go,’ Tilly protested.
‘Yes it is,’ Dulcie agreed. ‘David was saying the last time I saw him that all the upper-class set go there.’
If Dulcie had hoped to provoke Wilder into some jealous comment about David, she would be disappointed, Tilly recognised, when instead Wilder simply shook his head, and told her, ‘Who gives a damn about the upper class and where they like to go? Give me somewhere that’s got a decent game of poker going or a roulette table over that any day.’
They’d reached their destination, Drew paying off the cabby. Coventry Street, where the Café de Paris was, was just off Piccadilly Circus, and it hurt Tilly to see everywhere looking so dull and dark under the blackout. It was so sad to see one’s much-loved city reduced to such grimness, Tilly thought, as she tucked her arm through Drew’s.
As they headed for the nightclub she noticed that, unlike her and Drew, Wilder and Dulcie were walking at least two feet apart.
Once they were inside the building they had to go down a long steep staircase to the nightclub itself, where they were greeted by an elegantly coiffured redhead with the longest red nails Tilly had ever seen, who took their names, ignoring Tilly and Dulcie – although not Dulcie’s dress, Tilly noted – to flash a warm smile at both Wilder and Drew, but especially at Drew, Tilly saw indignantly.
In the cloakroom they both had to part with a sixpence to hand in their coats, the levy of such a charge causing Dulcie to start objecting that she thought she might prefer to keep her own fur on, ‘seeing as this place is really a cellar and my Norman Hartnell is sleeveless. Everyone knows that cellars are cold and damp.’
Despite this statement being delivered in an accent as close as Dulcie could manage to the accents of Selfridges’ more well-to-do customers, the cloakroom attendant was patently unimpressed, giving a silent sniff that somehow conveyed her opinion that young women who were ready to argue about parting with a sixpence were not in a position to criticise somewhere like the Café de Paris, even if they were wearing a Norman Hartnell.
‘Who does she think she is, acting all high and mighty with us?’ Dulcie complained to Tilly as they left the cloakroom, in a wave of the expensive scent she had sprayed liberally on a piece of precious cotton wool after nipping into Selfridges before returning to number 13, and which she was now wearing tucked into her bra.
‘I dare say she could tell that we aren’t upper class,’ said Tilly comfortably. Not being thought of as out of the top drawer didn’t worry her at all. She was perfectly happy as she was.
Predictably, given the time, they were the first to arrive. Having been shown to a table which, as Dulcie had requested, was slap-bang at the front of the very small dance floor, Dulcie still tried to argue for one right opposite it. That table, she was informed, was already booked by someone else and no, it didn’t make any difference that they had arrived first.
‘Well, I suppose it will have to do,’ Dulcie conceded.
Drinks were ordered and the menu studied, Wilder announcing grimly, ‘It doesn’t matter what we order, it will still be the same crap.’ He looked at Drew. ‘Wouldn’t you just give anything for a proper American steak?’
Tilly could tell from Drew’s expression that he hadn’t liked either Wilder’s language or his comment, but before
he could say anything it was Dulcie who reminded Wilder fiercely, ‘We’ll have none of that sort of language, thank you. And I’ll thank you to remember too that we’re on rations here in this country because we’re fighting the Germans.’
The room was beginning to fill up now, with elegantly gowned women and their male escorts, many of whom were in uniform, drifting in to find their tables.
The nightclub was very small – Tilly didn’t want to think disappointingly small, out of loyalty to her city – the air heavy with cigarette smoke and expensive scent. The red and gold décor was certainly very rich-looking, and she felt a small tingle of anticipation in her tummy when the master of ceremonies came down one of the pair of stairs that led up to a small balcony area, to announce the imminent arrival of the the West Indian Orchestra led by the fabled Ken ‘Snakehips’ Johnson.
Immediately the waiting diners began to clap, a group of three couples who had arrived late momentarily blocking Tilly’s party’s own view of the space where the orchestra was assembling. One of the women – a brunette with hard eyes, on the arm of a much-medalled naval officer – hesitated just as she was about to walk in front of them. Later, Tilly wondered if it had been fate that had made Dulcie look up at the woman; some inbuilt female instinct. Whatever it had been, the look on Dulcie’s face was enough to have Tilly reaching for her arm when she stood up and announced sharply, ‘Well, look who it isn’t! Mrs David James-Thompson, but not, it seems, escorted by the gentleman I saw her booking into the Ritz with for the night, not so very long ago, never mind her own husband.’
There was a pause that Tilly truly thought could quite rightly be described as ghastly. The nightclub was only small, and Dulcie had a voice that carried quite a long way when she chose to make it do so.
‘Dulcie …’ she begged, but Dulcie shrugged off her attempt to tug her back down into her seat.
An angry tide of red was spreading over the brunette’s pale, heavily
maquillée
face, the hard-looking eyes hardening even more. The two couples she and her escort were with were giving Tilly’s party coldly dismissive looks.
Dulcie, though, didn’t care. From the minute she had recognised David’s wife, Lydia, Dulcie had been filled with righteous indignation on David’s behalf, not to mention the chance to have a go at her old enemy and put her in her place.
‘Oh, I say,’ the young naval officer was protesting, tugging at his tie as he did so, plainly feeling uncomfortable in the way that men did when faced with warring women.
‘Told you about the husband she’s dumped because of the wounds he got defending his country, has she?’ Dulcie asked him, whilst Tilly looked helplessly at Drew.
This time the young officer’s ‘Oh, I say’ was decidedly muted, whilst the two other couples exchanged looks that suggested they had not known.
‘Lydia, sweetie, surely you don’t actually know this person?’ one of the other women asked.
‘Know her? Certainly not,’ Lydia told them. ‘She’s just a little shop girl from Selfridges. A frightful type – dreadfully common.’
Tilly held her breath. To call Dulcie common was like waving a red rag at a bull. ‘Drew,’ she pleaded, but it was too late.
Dulcie pushed back her chair and walked to the front of the table, raising her voice to make herself heard above the sound of the orchestra tuning up.
‘Common, is it? And me wearing a Norman Hartnell frock. You don’t get one of them for being common.’
‘Goodness, yes, it is a Hartnell. I remember seeing Honoria Fanshawe wearing the same model the other week,’ one of the two women with Lydia acknowledged.
‘Well, we all know the only way that a girl like you could possibly end up wearing Hartnell. Your … friend … is obviously very generous in return for your favours,’ Lydia told Dulcie with a coldly contemptuous look.
‘What? You dare to say that to me when I saw you, as bold as brass, booking into the Ritz with that old chap who most definitely was not your husband.’
‘Why, you …’ There was no mistaking Lydia’s fury. She stepped towards Dulcie, who was looking more as though she was thoroughly enjoying the confrontation than feeling shocked or upset by it.
‘Poor David,’ Dulcie continued, very much getting into her stride. ‘No wonder he says that he’s well rid of you. According to him you never was much of a wife in that department.’
‘Charles, I think you’d better call the manager,’ the older of the two women with Lydia announced acidly. ‘I can’t imagine how these people have been allowed in here.’