Spare Brides (29 page)

She seemed to summon every fibre of her body and to direct it towards him; focused and alert, she drank him in. Up. She’d squealed, delighted, when he mentioned that he had three younger siblings. ‘I’m one of four too.’ She was plainly thrilled that they had this in common, as there was obviously precious little else. Ironically, her jubilation highlighted the amount of history and experience they did
not
share. ‘We’re four girls,’ she gushed. Edgar imagined clouds of powder and perfume lingering in the air. Swirling skirts and blushing cheeks. Silks, satins, ribbons, jewels. His life had always been more of a cocktail of the slightly toxic smells of Lysol disinfectant, Boraxo soap and Brasso; his mother had scrubbed and cleaned her way out of poverty.

‘You’re not the oldest, though,’ he stated, rather than asked.

‘No, I’m the youngest.’

‘Ah, so you are the baby, the one that’s ridiculously spoilt and indulged?’

‘Not really.’ She looked startled at the idea. ‘We were all brought up in a seen-but-not-heard environment. We didn’t bond especially. We shared a nursery and then lessons, but we existed in separate, private stratospheres. If anything, we were rather competitive with one another.’ He liked the way she’d pricked his ballooning fantasy about swirling skirts and sisterly secrets. He liked the reality of her.

‘Are your sisters all married?’

‘Yes. Lillian, the eldest, married a doctor. Papa wasn’t especially impressed. Anna did better, she got herself a baron, but he lives in Scotland. So far away from anything.’

‘Well, not far away from Eilean Donan, Edinburgh Castle or the Wallace Monument,’ he pointed out, laughing.

‘She misses society! And he’s quite a bit older than she is.’

‘How much older?’

‘Fourteen years. Mildred married a lawyer, but he’s a lot shorter than she is.’

‘In that case, you’re the victor?’

Lydia looked embarrassed; she didn’t seem to know how to answer. No doubt she was wondering how he could talk of her marriage as a triumph. How he could talk of her marriage at all. ‘They all have children. Bundles of them,’ she muttered.

‘Did all your brother-in-laws serve?’

‘The doctor was excused – essential work; the baron was too old to be drafted, but Mildred’s husband served.’

‘Did he survive?’ Edgar was used to asking this question brusquely and without excessive sentiment. Lydia looked startled.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, as though someone had just offered her a chocolate. ‘Injured out. He spent months in a sanatorium in Wales but he’s fit and well now.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

She paused and flexed her leg behind her. He wondered whether she had cramp. She most likely had blisters at least; he’d forgotten that she was in heels.

‘We should have a drink.’

A
LL SIGNS OF
the bright spring day had now disappeared. The air had cooled and showers tapped on pavements. The street lamps were lit. They gave off a halo of light, blurred by the drizzle. She liked it that he guided her through the streets. That he knew where they were going, that she did not. She gave herself up to him entirely, but for all that she was relieved that he took her to a dance hall rather than a pub. After the war they’d all become mad for dancing; pent up, wound up, they needed to spin and twirl in the opposite direction. Lydia was very used to frequenting smart nightclubs such as the Embassy Club in Bond Street, where Edwina and Dickie Mountbatten sometimes dropped by. Ava had taken her to some daring, less respectable hangouts. The Grafton Galleries boasted a band of black fellows playing jazz but closed at two in the morning, early as far as Ava was concerned. It had once been fun to spot celebrities, film stars and boxers; now Lydia knew she’d be bored by such places. Edgar led her along Tottenham Court Road and abruptly turned right and led her down some stairs. They passed through an enormous wooden door and stumbled into a vast underground cellar. As she tottered after him, she couldn’t help but notice that the walls were wet, even on the inside; the place smelt of drains and sweat. That said, it looked and felt considerably more beautiful than Lydia had anticipated. Festive rather than sophisticated. Paper streamers decorated the mirrors and lights, and balloons littered the floors. There must have been three hundred people dancing cheek to cheek, or at least with some body part or other connecting. The dancers were disordered, undisciplined and suggestive.

‘I like it here. Drinks are sold until four providing food is ordered at the same time. We could eat some eggs? Do you fancy eggs?’

She didn’t want to eat, not really. In fact she doubted she would be able to, around him, but she nodded eagerly all the same. The important thing was to be near him; to feel the heat of his body through his jacket, through her own. She wished she’d been able to change into something more glamorous. She had so many beautiful evening dresses, and whilst she’d given an enormous amount of thought to her day dress (and had alighted on the most perfect frock for a visit to a museum), the pretty cotton and lace looked almost virginal and distinctly out of place in the smoky good-time club. She nervously fingered the ribbon around the dropped waistband. He noticed, grabbed her hand and – palm upwards, fingers still curled – dropped a kiss on her fingertips. She quivered.

‘You look beautiful,’ he told her. It wasn’t said as a compliment, more of a fact. She’d heard it before, but she’d never believed it in the way she did now. ‘Champagne?’

The hard-faced barmaid informed them that champagne cost 22s. and 6d; £2 after legal hours.

‘As much as that?’ gasped Lydia. She didn’t usually have to care what drinks cost, but she knew they were being substantially overcharged. She felt uncomfortable letting him pay, but it would be unforgivable to offer to pick up the tab. Edgar glanced at her in a manner that assured her he would manage. She turned away from the bar and started to look for a seat. She picked a table tucked in the corner. Secluded. She should not try to impose anything on him, not even fiscal caution. She didn’t want to. She was attracted to his unruliness, his masculinity, his confidence, his spontaneity, his impulses. He was a living, breathing party; all her Christmases and birthdays rolled into one. Why would she try and change a thing?

They drank the bottle, then ordered another. The air in the bar felt muggy and used, as the place became raucous and crammed. Groggy, gin-fuelled men lurched, slurring their words and thoughts. They leered at the women, who were smoking, dancing, and shrilly swapping stories about their day or their lives. As the temperature rose, the women’s noses and foreheads began to glisten; barely breaking their conversations, they reached for their compacts and dabbed on flattering powder. Lydia found she enjoyed the rough nature of the pleasure everyone was wallowing in.

So far Lydia and Edgar’s relationship had been staccato: abrupt, disconnected sounds, then terse silences. Now, the applause came. Thunderous and continuous. Finally, they found one another. Relaxed, they found one another. They talked and talked; thoughts, memories and jokes tumbled out and splashed in amongst the puddles of champagne and the cigarette butts. They shouted over the crowds when the bar was rammed and they hoarsely whispered to one another when the crowds finally thinned and the night nudged into the next day. He was interested in her. He asked question after question. Rat-tat-tat, like a machine gun. He wanted to know about her childhood, her weekend, her friends, her maids. He had full lips that naturally seemed to want to grin and kiss. She made him laugh. Out loud. Big, hale and hearty. He flattered her. His laugh made her heart split. And although it wasn’t the first time she’d heard ‘You fascinate me. You’re exquisite. You’re incredible,’ it had never sounded better.

Lydia was keyed up, animated. She oozed desire and desirability. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mottled Victorian mirrors that hung above the wooden panelling where they sat. It struck her that she’d never looked so glamorous and sparkly. Her eye make-up had smudged, but she didn’t care, because she remembered he liked it that way. Her eyes seemed deeper, her brows sharper, just the correct and fashionable weight and arch. Her arms seemed toned, her neck longer. And him? He was delicious. Everything about him was mesmerising. The power of his thighs crammed under the round table, the whisper of whiskers emerging in a blue-black shadow over his strong chin, the shape of his lips: plump, pink and eager. He was breathtaking. Heart-stealing. Life-changing.

‘Shall we dance, darling?’ she suggested breathily.

He smiled, amused; her endearment was almost too obvious and yet perfect. ‘Would you like that?’

‘I’ve thought about it from the moment I saw you.’ She grinned playfully. They stood up together: the northern hero, the southern debutante. Nothing in common. In every way alike. She had so much attitude. Suddenly she was bright and enthusiastic in a way that she’d never before been. In a way she had always been. She knew it; she’d just never known who else she might let in on the secret. The truth was, she was wild and thoughtful, sexy and unsure; a mass of contradictions. She was all of it and nothing at all. But it was hers to play for, to sway for. Liquor and a flame burning inside her gut. She didn’t place her hands in his, or on his shoulders or his waist. She put her hands on his head and ran her fingers through his hair. She nodded her head and swayed her hips. Her breasts were hard and upright, her stomach flat and lean and her bum pert and high; it was all on display, visible – in reach – but not in contact. She was teasing. Promising.

The notes drummed through their bodies. Relentless. Throbbing. Carefully they danced around one another. He kept his hands wide but the air slipped between them, heavy with possibility.

The atmosphere clotted with smoke and yearning. They returned to their seats but began to fidget and wriggle on their chairs. She repeatedly crossed and uncrossed her legs; he tapped his fingers on the table, on his glass, on the back of her seat. His fingers, her crossing legs, they were linked somehow.

‘Shall we have another bottle?’ It would be their third.

‘I think I shall be sick.’

‘Then what?’

‘Let’s go to a hotel.’ She whispered her suggestion. Electrified with excitement and certainty.

‘That your husband will pay for?’ Edgar shook his head. Despite talking about her friends, relatives, acquaintances and associates all evening, Lawrence, as a topic of conversation, had been noticeably absent.

Lydia was irritated by this nicety. This unnecessary show of male peacocking, misplaced pride. It made no sense that he’d comfortably take Lord Chatfield’s wife without any show of a twinging conscience, but would not take his money. A small amount of money that Lawrence probably wouldn’t notice anyhow. Did Edgar value money so? More than he valued her? Perhaps that was why he couldn’t believe she imbued it with next to no importance. Her head began to swim; she felt flushed. She didn’t know what else to offer. She just wanted him. ‘It’s only money. It doesn’t mean anything,’ she pleaded.

‘Those with money never respect it in the way those without it do. As they should,’ he replied quietly. It seemed a very sober thing for such a drunk man to say.

She felt chastised. Childish. The air had become taut and tetchy. All she wanted was a suitable place to beat out their longing. Somewhere close by. If he offered, she’d be taken here on the small polished table, in amongst the discarded, congealed scrambled eggs and empty champagne bottles. Convenience had begun to overwhelm any thoughts of caution or care. This was to be expected from him but was distinctly perilous for her. ‘Don’t you want me?’ she asked with the sulky patheticness that all drunks can muster.

‘Very much.’

‘Well then.’

‘We could go to my place. It isn’t what you are used to, but—’

‘Yes. Yes. Now.’

They caught the tube and got off at Aldgate. They walked down thin, wet passageways. They carefully stepped around men begging on the streets and others tumbling out of pubs, locked in brawls or embraces. The East End was the ripe underbelly of London that Lydia was not aware of. Trembling, tipsy on her heels, she leaned into him, clung tightly to his arm. They’d drunk far too much; she didn’t want to fall over and embarrass them both. She was relieved when he stopped, even if it was at the door of a terraced house with chipped blue paintwork. He pulled out a key, then put his finger to his lips. ‘Shush, I don’t want to wake my landlady. I’m not supposed to have women upstairs in my rooms.’

Lydia followed his instructions because she didn’t want anything to spoil her moment of fulfilment, which was evidently at hand, but she could not imagine a grown man taking orders from a woman in curlers and an apron, which was how she imagined his landlady, all landladies. Specifically, she could not imagine
this
man doing so. She was so used to being the one who gave instructions that she assumed everyone had the same luxury.

They sneaked in and up. She giggled when the wooden stairs groaned, a telltale on their intended debauchery. He smiled indulgently but put his finger to her lips. Instinctively she slipped out her pointed red tongue, licked him. Two spots of cerise colour appeared on his cheekbones. A feminine, surprising hue. The mark of excitement, not embarrassment. He picked up his pace as he leapt up the steps.

Like Lydia’s servants, he lived in the eaves of the house. His room spread across the entire floor. Its air was too tidy to be described as bohemian, but the contents were too shabby to be described as respectable. It was more than Lydia had hoped for but still far less than anything she’d ever been entertained in before. The kitchen area flowed into the living area, that poured into a space where the bed dominated. She could not see another door that suggested there was a bathroom; she supposed he shared with other lodgers on the floor below. There was at least electric light, a tap over the sink, and a coal fire which Edgar attended to immediately. Then he turned out the metal overhead light that blasted the room with a blue-white shock, and lit four candles. The candles didn’t give much illumination or heat; just a gentle orange glow, but she preferred it. There were clean pots draining next to the deep stone sink: a plain green plate, saucer and cup, one knife, one fork. Two splintered wooden chairs stood next to the small table, but one was piled high with a stack of dusty, yellowing newspapers; she thought she was probably his first and only visitor. Neither the Duchess of Feversham nor Lady Renwick nor any similar woman could have been invited; she was sure of it.