The Granville Sisters (12 page)

For the second time, everyone looked at Juliet in surprise. Not many girls of seventeen would even take an interest in the situation, far less ask pertinent questions.

Henry smiled at her with a look of tender pride. ‘You’re quite right, darling. But now it seems it was not so much a peace treaty, as a declaration of a twenty-year armistice.’

‘My dear Duff, won’t you have some grapes?’ Liza gushed, in a desperate effort to lighten the sombre mood.

‘And it’s only a matter of time before the Germans ignore the treaty completely,’ Duff said, ignoring Liza. ‘Then you can expect the worst. Civilians will be affected this time, too. Cities will be bombed. London in particular will be targeted. I’ve heard the Luftwaffe have sufficient bombs to flatten the city in the first few days.’

As everyone took in the enormity of what had been said, and the consequences another war would bring, there was an atmosphere of almost palpable apprehension in the room.

Liza decided to make a last desperate bid to jolly up the party. ‘Diana, have you ordered your outfits for Ascot yet?’ she trilled, without missing a beat.

For a long moment Henry stared at her, appalled. Then, with an effort, he recovered himself. ‘Liza, is that a signal for our lovely lady guests to retire,’ he asked gallantly, his smile strained, ‘while we men set the world to rights?’

Liza flushed. He’d called her by her name instead of ‘darling’.

‘I’m … I’m sure that’s what they’d like,’ she said, falteringly. ‘Shall we …?’ She glanced distractedly around the table at the women guests. ‘Shall we …?’ she repeated.

Rosie leapt to her feet, glad not to have to listen any more to such depressing opinions, but Juliet stared at her mother coldly.

‘
Such
a gloomy discussion,’ Liza prattled nervously, as she led the way upstairs to her bedroom.

‘But a very interesting one,’ Lady Diana observed darkly, wondering why on earth Henry Granville had married such a silly little woman.

Juliet regarded Rosie’s wedding preparations with quiet amusement, as opposed to jealousy. Charles was no great catch. She was determined to do better. But her sister had become obsessed with every tiny detail of the Great Day.

‘What does it matter what colour knickers you have in your trousseau?’ Juliet demanded. ‘Only Charlie is going to see them, and he’d probably prefer you didn’t wear any at all.’

Rosie blushed violently. ‘His name’s Charles, not Charlie,’ she corrected, ‘and I’ve always heard that white underwear represents love; other colours are for sex,’ she added with pursed lips.

Juliet threw back her head, screaming with laughter.

‘Where on earth did you hear that? When I was in Rome, I managed to sneak down to the shops in the Corso, where I bought the most heavenly black satin brassieres and knickers. And a couple of black nightdresses. They’re too divine for words.’

‘Well, that just about says it all, doesn’t it?’ Rosie retorted, pettishly. ‘I must say you’ve changed a lot since you’ve been in Rome.’

‘The world has moved on; you’ve just stayed still.’

‘How can you say that? I’m engaged to be married, and there’s
nothing
more grown-up than that.’

‘That depends who you’re marrying.’

Rosie looked indignant. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You and Charlie are a couple of inexperienced children beside the people I met at the Principessa’s. She may have been strict, but she did include me in her dinner parties. And her friends were
fascinating
.’

‘But … weren’t they all very old? Like her?’

‘They were all in their fifties, I suppose. But both the men and the women were sophisticated and stylish. Much travelled and well read. Knowledgeable about the arts. About politics. About
life
. All you and Mummy ever think about is clothes, and who’ll be at the next party. Mummy only likes going to the opera because it’s smart. These people know all about opera, ballet,
and
music. They all speak perfect English, which was very polite, because they knew I hardly understood any Italian. I’m going to take more lessons, though. And brush up my French.’

‘Quite the little intellect,’ Rosie bitched peevishly. Then she picked up a swatch of different shades of blue silk. ‘I’m not sure which to have for the bridesmaids’ dresses.’

‘I hope you’re not expecting me to be a bridesmaid.’

‘I’m having my six best friends, and Louise, Amanda and Charlotte, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Juliet sniped sarcastically. She’d have quite liked to have been asked, if only to have the satisfaction of refusing, but instead, to her secret surprise, she felt quite hurt at not being included. She was at a loose end these days. Liza was submerged in Rosie’s wedding plans, the younger ones had their own nursery and school life. Henry was working hard at Hammerton’s, and in the evenings going to various political meetings.

It was time, she decided, to get back into the swing of things, even if her contemporaries were going to seem a bit juvenile compared to the Principessa’s friends.

First she telephoned Archie Hipwood.

‘Hello,’ he responded, coolly.

‘What are you up to these days?’ she asked breezily. ‘Any good parties we can gatecrash?’

‘I don’t think … there aren’t many parties, because of the King’s death.’

She knew it was an excuse. Archie had been particularly shocked by the way she’d dropped Alastair Slaidburn, and his subsequent suicide.

‘Oh, well … I’m back from Italy and catching up with friends … See you soon.’

‘Perhaps.’ Archie sounded cautious.

Juliet phoned Colin Armstrong next. He was another one who had been at the Frobishers’ ball when they’d all heard about Alastair’s death.

‘Are you back from Italy already?’ he said, in surprise. He didn’t sound welcoming.

‘I returned a couple of weeks ago. What are you doing with yourself these days?’

They’d had such a laugh last summer, she and Colin. Creeping into parties through the kitchens, drinking and talking into the night, sharing a last cigarette as dawn crept stealthily over the chimney pots.

‘I’m very busy,’ he replied briskly. ‘Working in a law firm. No time for partying these days.’

‘Poor old you. How about the weekend? Why don’t you come down to Hartley?’

‘No can do,’ he said with finality. ‘Got to rush. ’Bye, Juliet.’

She replaced the receiver very slowly, and felt immensely hurt and shocked. She’d thought Archie and Colin were real friends, but it appeared that was no longer the case. Should she risk one more snub and telephone Edward Courtney?

She picked up the receiver and dialled his number, KNI 3467.

‘I’m afraid Mr Courtney is out,’ a housekeeper informed her when she got through. ‘Can I tell him who called?’

‘It’s Juliet Granville. He has my number. Could you ask him to telephone me when he returns?’

‘Certainly, madam.’

She trawled through her address book. It was not pleasant to be
persona non grata
. What she wanted was an amusing young man who would take her out; give her lunch at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, tea at Gunter’s, cocktails at the Berkeley, dinner at the Ritz, then on to a nightclub like the 400 or the Orchid Room. She wanted some
fun
. Now she was no longer a débutante, she wanted to get out and live a little.

Ten minutes later she’d compiled a list of young men she’d met, but didn’t know as well as the others. She decided to give a small cocktail party, adding a few plain girls to the mix. Surely one or two of them would ask her out? The thought that they might not was too scaring for words.

It did the trick. Within weeks, Juliet had collected a coterie of eager young men, and quickly gained the reputation of being a man’s woman, rather than a woman’s woman.

Other girls bitched about her, jealous of her beauty, her money, and her success with the opposite sex.

They criticized her clothes for being ‘too showy’, and said she looked ‘too actressy’, which she took to be a huge compliment. Other young women were becoming afraid of her. She took that as a compliment too.

As a result, and just to tease, she flirted with their boyfriends, flirted with their fathers, and flirted with other women’s husbands. If the wives were stupid enough to think she would actually want to
go off
with their husbands, they were bigger fools than she’d imagined.

Once, when challenged by an irate hostess, whose best friend had locked herself in the bathroom because her husband seemed to have forgotten he had a wife, Juliet retorted frankly, ‘I don’t go to bed with other people’s husbands – I don’t even kiss them; but I know how to keep them on the dance floor all night.’

Which in many cases was more than even their wives could achieve, and they knew it. Her secret lay in her innate sex appeal and her lively and intelligent conversation.

One man told her, stressing it was the greatest compliment he could pay any woman, that what he’d really like would be to spend a night with her – just talking.

It was true. She dazzled, she was witty and articulate, she looked stunning, and she made men adore her – and all without losing her virginity.

She wasn’t stupid enough to throw
that
away on a meaningless relationship.

Then she met Daniel Lawrence.

The jazz club was dark and smoky, dense with people and loud with music.

‘Who have we got here?’ The man’s voice was as deep as a mineshaft.

Juliet turned around with curiosity. He was looking straight at her. Over six feet tall, and in his early thirties, he had a strong jawline, thick black eyebrows and hair, and quizzical eyes. The thought that sprang to mind as she took in his full-lipped mouth and quirky smile was,
My God, this is an
homme fatal
.

The aura of energy and power that emanated from him was almost palpable.

‘I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name?’ he asked, although she hadn’t said anything.

Juliet gave her wicked smile, liking him a lot. ‘Juliet,’ she said simply.

It was two o’clock in the morning, and after an evening of dining and dancing at Ciro’s, she and several friends had gone on to the Black Cat in Soho.

‘Mine’s Daniel Lawrence. What are you drinking?’ He’d moved closer, cutting her off from her friends.

She raised her glass. ‘Pernod.’

He screwed up his face. ‘Ugh! I hate aniseed. Let me get you a decent drink.’ He gently but firmly removed the glass from her hand. ‘A White Lady, please,’ he asked the barman. Then he took her elbow and gently pushed her away from the bar to a small table in a dark corner. ‘It’s quieter here.’

Juliet sipped the gin, cointreau and lemon juice cocktail, and reached for a black Sobranie in the gold cigarette case she’d secretly borrowed from her mother.

‘I know your face,’ Daniel said, producing a lighter. ‘I’ve seen your picture somewhere.’

‘I very much doubt it,’ Juliet replied, raising her chin defiantly, showing her long neck and jawline to perfection.

Enlightenment suddenly filled his eyes. ‘You’re one of the Granville sisters, aren’t you? A débutante. And that young man …’ He stopped, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, that must have been awful for you.’

Juliet nodded, glad in a way he knew everything without her having to explain herself, but also realizing, with a pang, that she was probably always going to be associated in people’s minds with Alastair’s suicide.

‘One wishes there was a nice way of saying no,’ Juliet remarked, as if to explain the situation. ‘But there isn’t. And there’s never a right time either.’

‘You’re right.’ He spoke with feeling and Juliet imagined that, with his looks and charm, there was probably a string of wrecked relationships and broken hearts in his wake.

‘What are you doing with yourself now?’

Juliet shrugged. ‘Trying to free myself from parental claustrophobia.’

The quirky grin deepened, crookedly. ‘Sounds interesting.’

‘I can assure you, it’s not.’

‘Kicking over the traces, are you?’

She drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘Something like that.’

‘Isn’t your sister getting married soon?’

‘Yes, God help her.’

Daniel chuckled, his dark eyes sparking with amusement. ‘I gather you don’t like her intended?’

‘It isn’t me who’s marrying him, so it really doesn’t matter.’

He raised one dark eyebrow quizzically. ‘So who do you plan to marry?’

She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘No one I’ve met so far,’ she replied firmly, rising as she spoke. ‘You must excuse me, I must go back to my friends. Thank you for the drink.’

‘I hope I’ll see you again.’ He’d risen also, and seemed about to follow her.

‘Who knows?’ Her tone was amused and careless. A moment later she vanished into the dimly lit club, swallowed up by the crowds and the smoky atmosphere.

Daniel Lawrence looked thoughtfully after her. He always got what he wanted, and he didn’t intend to fail this time.

‘What is wrong with the Granville family?’ Edward Courtney remarked, as he and Colin Armstrong wandered around the Chelsea Flower Show one afternoon, looking at the magnificent displays of roses in one of the marquees.

They’d just bumped into Liza Granville, with Rosie and Charles in tow, and all she’d talked about was the forthcoming wedding, and all the parties leading up to it, and how exciting it was that the London season had come round again so quickly, and were they going to the Eton and Harrow match at Lord’s on Saturday?

‘They’re English,’ Colin replied, as if that explained everything, overlooking the fact that he and Edward were also English, as English as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, or eggs and bacon, in fact. ‘Mrs Granville’s in complete denial about
anything
unpleasant. Alastair’s suicide, Juliet’s current wild behaviour, even the goddamn way Hitler has sent thirty-five thousand troops to invade the Rhineland … she simply doesn’t want to face reality. I’ve heard it drives Henry Granville mad; nothing but yatter-yatter-yatter about meaningless trivialities. I don’t know how he stands it.’

‘He’s very loyal,’ Edward pointed out, raising his hat to a passing lady he knew. ‘And he does spend a lot of time at White’s, and at meetings of the League of Nations.’