Authors: Fiona McIntosh
The music stopped and the restless twirl of dancers sighed to a halt. People clapped, some began drifting to the sides of the ballroom to cool off, to light up, others back to the glow of lamplit tables, or to find friends, and order more champagne that seemed to be flowing with frenzy this evening. Wasn’t the world supposed to be in economic crisis? Hadn’t her father taken his life and her mother’s with him over the financial crash? Apparently no one in this ballroom cared too much about the state of the world’s economy. All that mattered was that the Great War was behind them and even the sinister, invisible Spanish flu that had killed more than the war could, had also burned itself out.
Around her women slanted conspicuous gazes at other women’s outfits but Stella suspected no one would use hers as a benchmark. Nor did she care – she was happy to move through them like a blackbird in the shadows of peacocks. Black was her shade still. Black was her mood despite the twinkling of fairy lights and the dazzle of chandeliers reflecting sparkles of colour.
‘Well, thank you,’ she murmured, immediately parting and pretending to look for Madge, but knowing something gracious needed to be exchanged. ‘It’s a treat to dance with someone who doesn’t tread on my toes.’
He straightened his white bow tie. ‘Speaking of tea, do you fancy a pot?’
She had to meet his gaze square on now – no more dodging it. In the lower light of the dance hall his eyes looked black and shone like the patent leather of his formal wingtip shoes. A whisper of the scent of coconut oil ghosted past her as he leaned forward to impress that there was no guile to his invitation. He waited for her answer as she searched her memory and recognised the smell of Murray’s Hair-Glo, a pomade from America that wealthy men preferred for its sleek effect. She had watched the paperwork for countless tins of the hair cream pass through the office. Englishmen of less extravagance – like her father – used the locally made Brylcreem.
‘Why?’ she finally said.
‘Why not? You obviously enjoy tea?’ he challenged with a soft shrug. He guided her away from the floor.
‘Mr . . . ?’
‘Monty,’ he assured.
She frowned. Why did she not trust that name? ‘Well . . . Monty, it’s kind of you but I’m not that sort —’
‘Nor I that sort of man,’ he finished. ‘I’m thirsty, Stella, and you’ve just told me you don’t wish to be here and that you rather like tea. So,’ he said, straightening with an airy sigh, ‘share a pot of it with me in the hotel’s salon and I will put you in a taxi to your home – alone or with Madge, which I shall pay for. If you’d prefer not, that’s fine but you look like you need to talk, not dance.’
‘Why?’
His grin widened. ‘Which bit?’
‘Why do you want to share my sorrows?’
‘Because I’m tired of examining my own; I’m a good listener and something about you intrigues me and I too am bored of all this,’ he said, giving a small sweep of a slightly bronzed hand as though he’d been out in the sun longer than most. ‘Now, I’m guessing you have your siblings to get home to.’ He reached for the gold fob watch, whose chain glinted as he lifted the dial towards him. ‘It’s not even nine yet and it gives you a perfect excuse to flee the dance floor early.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I must admit I’m thirsty too.’
‘Let’s go,’ he said, and offered an elbow.
Madge had given Stella a look of such arch amusement when her friend had murmured that she’d meet her in the lobby in half an hour that Stella felt a flush of embarrassment flood her body. Nevertheless her cheeks had cooled by the time they were seated in a quiet nook near one of the large picture windows. Stella and her dance partner were hidden by alabaster pillars and the quiet level of their voices lifted to the high ceiling, far enough to be lost. Several other couples and groups were enjoying a similarly private break from the liveliness in the ballroom, which made her feel immediately less conspicuous.
‘I might have a coffee, actually,’ he said to the waiter before he glanced towards Stella who gave him a mocking glare. ‘But my guest may prefer a pot of tea . . . ?’ She nodded and let her companion order.
He sat back and smiled briefly in reassurance so she caught only a glimpse of teeth gleaming ivory like the starched brightness of his waistcoat. ‘I’m really very sorry to hear about your family troubles, Stella. Why would parents do such a thing, or is that too inquisitive of me?’
She took an audible breath and shook her head. ‘It’s the logical question. My father was an accountant and money advisor – a good one; he really cared for the people who trusted him with their money. The financial crisis, cost of the war . . . it took it all, everything we had that he’d invested for our future and on behalf of other families.’
He looked down and gave a muttering groan. ‘You don’t need to say more. She looked up at him from her hands. ‘The time we live in says enough. Did he really think his brutal actions would solve anything?’
‘I suppose it solved a problem for him in not having to face the failure and its repercussions. He’d survived the war, kept us safe from Spanish flu and other troubles, but he couldn’t protect us from the outside forces of the Depression. And Mum was a gentle soul. She’s French . . . was French,’ she corrected herself. ‘She adored my father and obviously preferred not to face life without him.’
‘So gentle that she’d leave her three children?’ He tried to cover his dismay but Stella heard it nonetheless echoing between them as he cleared his throat and looked down. ‘Forgive me, that’s none of my business.’
‘It’s not,’ she agreed, ‘but it’s also complicated to explain and I’d have to know you better to want to try. All I will say is my mother faced enough emotional challenge in her early life and as Dad was the rock she built her life upon, she chose the more permanent solution than feel that rock crumble away from her.’ He held her gaze for a fraction longer than she thought polite and his silence forced her into an uncharacteristic hurry to fill it. ‘Nevertheless, in their cowardice they left me with a raft of new problems that go beyond money.’
‘Such as your brother and sister?’
‘Rory and Carys . . .’ She shook her head. ‘They’re so young. I’m effectively their mother now and I don’t feel equipped.’
‘Then don’t try.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean don’t try to be their mother. Remain authentic and do the very best you can as their big sister. Children are surprisingly perceptive. They’ll know how hard you’re trying.’ She nodded at sage words cutting through the blur of anxiety. ‘Control what you can, Stella. The rest, work it out as you go along. They’ll never lack for love, I suspect, and perhaps right now it’s your affection that counts more than anything.’
‘Oh, they’re very easy to love. They’re even easy to raise. They don’t complain, they don’t give me cheek, they’re doing their damndest to help. Dear little Rory puts on our father’s boots and clomps out to the coalscuttle, telling me he’s the man of the house now and has to think like Dad would.’ She forbade the tears that were threatening. ‘It breaks my heart that he’s already worked it out and the saddest part of all is that I’m relying on him to take out the rubbish, to take Carys to school when I can’t, to remember to tick off lots of little chores that a lad of his age probably shouldn’t be concerned with.’
‘He’ll be a better man for it.’
‘But I don’t want him to grow up too fast. I want him to have the childhood he deserves. I don’t want Carys crying herself to sleep because she wants our mother to sing the French lullaby that she sang to each of us at Carys’s age. I don’t have the French accent!’
The corner of his eyes wrinkled again with amusement but one that told her it was filled with sympathy. ‘You can’t turn back time, Stella, but if you’re strong, make sound decisions for your family, you can navigate the path.’
She gave a low sigh. ‘My life had . . .’
‘What?’ he asked tenderly.
‘Trajectory,’ she shrugged. ‘I knew what I wanted, I knew how to get there. I’ve been knocked off course.’
‘Get back on course,’ he replied rather obviously.
Her eyes welled and she reached quickly into her bag for a handkerchief but he was quicker, flicking out the perfectly ironed white square linen from his outside pocket.
‘Please,’ he urged when she hesitated, but unlike most he offered a thought beyond the obvious. ‘Self-pity delivers no answers.’
She felt the sting of rebuke but knew he was right. He continued speaking as he glanced over a shoulder searching for the waiter before returning his attention swiftly. ‘Do something else for a while that gives you a chance to stand back from your problem and study it. You’ve heard the saying about ways to skin a cat, no doubt.’
She nodded.
‘So, approach your dream from a different direction. It’s perspective, Stella. And who knows, you may discover something wonderful along the way; you may think entirely differently about matters; you may meet interesting folk you otherwise would never have met . . .’
‘Like whom?’
‘Like me,’ he grinned and she smiled sadly, feeling her eyes water helplessly at his kindness.
The waiter arrived with a pot of coffee, another of tea and began laying out the cups, jugs and sugar bowl. She dabbed her eyes surreptitiously and blew as if fighting a mild cold. As she did so she smelled the liquor again, this time from the handkerchief, and once again it didn’t add up, especially now as he spoke so lucidly.
‘We can pour,’ he said to the waiter and tipped him to go away. ‘Are you all right, Stella?’
‘Yes, yes. I didn’t think I had any more tears left. I’m sorry. You’ve been kind, thank you.’ She sniffed as they waited for the tea to draw. ‘Do you have family?’
He nodded. ‘I’m married, yes.’ At her raised eyebrows, he smiled. ‘I’m simply keeping a friend company. I’m not in the habit of trawling dance halls and paying girls to waltz with me.’
‘I’ll bet you don’t,’ she snapped.
‘Damn, that came out wrong. I meant no offence, just wanted to assure that I have no intention of making any improper advance. I don’t even want to be here. Oh, bloody hell, I’m digging a deeper hole, aren’t I?’
Stella laughed at how visibly mortified he looked. ‘No offence taken.’ She held up a hand to reassure. ‘Truly.’ She nodded to say that the conversation was complete. ‘So . . . family?’
‘My parents have passed on, and unlike you I have no siblings to care for.’ He trotted out the details without emotion.
‘Where is home?’
‘Good question.’ He sighed and began pouring her tea. It looked strong, as she liked it. ‘I’ll leave you to add your preferences.’ He smiled and she couldn’t fault his obvious attractiveness. She was aware of women turning in their direction, stealing surreptitious and admiring glances at the dashing stranger she was taking tea with.
‘So, Stella, I’m certain you know a sixpence or two isn’t the solution,’ he continued, cutting deeply to the core of her fear.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘But I’ve recently buried both my parents and I need some time to think without panicking. I know I have to sell the house; we may even have to move away from where we’ve all been raised. My head spins with worry. But despite my tears, I am much stronger than I appear.’
‘I can imagine.’ He blew on the black coffee he’d poured and sipped.
She liked the sweep of his expressive lips that were neither full nor narrow; in fact all of his features were like that – so clearly defined she could draw them – and yet hard to describe because they were the idealised shape of eyes, nose, mouth. And like a chorus of individuals suddenly singing together they formed a whole song of beauty. She had to look away but not before noticing that he hadn’t bothered to shave this evening, which the stubble around his jaw attested to. There was something exciting about this fellow and his slightly mysterious, definitely non-establishment ways – both of which she was sure he was hiding.
‘Can you?’
‘What?’ he said, swallowing his coffee but she caught the bounce of his Adam’s apple as though he knew he’d been caught in a lie.
‘Can you really imagine my situation? I suspect you’re not short of a penny and you certainly can’t be short of dance partners, so why you have to pay for it is anyone’s guess. That aside, how can a wealthy man possibly understand my situation? You are rich, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose.’
She gave a murmur of disdain. ‘You suppose,’ she said softly. ‘There you go again.’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘What am I doing again?’
Stella added a cube of sugar and a splash of milk to her tea. She stirred gently with the silver spoon and focused on the whirlpool of bronze liquid. It felt dangerous to bait him but she was feeling in a careless frame of mind, knew the anger of self-pity was behind it and frustrated that he’d managed to unleash it again by encouraging her to talk about her situation.
‘You’re lying,’ she said, fixing him with an accusatory stare.
‘Pardon?’
‘Monty – if that’s even your real name – let’s just share that I think you’d make a fine conjuror.’ He smiled uncertainly and she knew she’d hit a nerve. ‘You’re adept at finding out about me but you clearly don’t believe I’m owed your respect of telling the truth. I’ve been honest with you – too honest, I suspect – and while we don’t come from the same social backgrounds I don’t deserve your scorn. I’m nothing to you, I know that; a girl in a dance hall with dreams of making something of herself, who thinks sixpence is worth humiliating herself for.’ As she said it she knew she would never sell herself cheaply again. She could see his jaw grinding at her quietly spoken but heartfelt tirade as the steam from their drinks mingled, curling and twisting around each other from barely touched china. ‘Thank you for the tea but I’ll leave you to enjoy your coffee alone. Perhaps if you see Madge, you could let her know I found my way home.’
He sat forward, about to say something.
‘No, please, really. I don’t need your money or a taxi. Goodnight . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she shook her head, hoping in that final gesture he picked up that she already regretted her attack.
‘You’re right,’ he said, and then murmured something to her back that she didn’t catch.
She turned. ‘Sorry?’
‘I said it’s not Monty . . . at least not the name I prefer.’
Stella stared at him, waiting.
‘My name,’ he continued, ‘the one that people who loved me once called me by is Rafe.’
Rafe. Now, that did sound like it belonged to him. Simple, elegant and as straightforward as his suddenly open expression appeared and her shoulders relaxed in apology to see a hint of horror in it.
‘I appreciate your telling me – wasn’t that hard, was it?’ She frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Very few people know it. I’m frankly surprised I shared it.’
‘Why is your name a secret?’
‘It’s not,’ he said, standing, and she was aware – as surely were most of those envious women staring – again at how well the dress suit hung off his shoulders and hips. ‘It’s just . . . private.’ He took her arm. ‘Come on, I’ll see you into that taxi or I’ll hate myself forever.’ He signalled to the waiter and signed for their refreshments.
‘Do you have an account here?’ she said as they walked to the main entrance.
He laughed. ‘No, but Fruity does.’ He helped her on with her coat. ‘I hope you have gloves?’
She pulled the small leather pair from her coat pockets with a smile of triumph. ‘Fruity?’
‘Sorry. Basil. His surname is Peach, can you believe it? Poor fellow. School must have been hard for him.’ Stella chuckled, relieved that they would not part on her harsh words. He must have heard her thoughts. ‘I’m glad we could say farewell with a smile, Stella. I do regret making you feel anything but valued. If it’s any consolation, I loathe events like this,’ he said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the ballroom. ‘My mood is always slightly off when I’m forced into my penguin suit.’
He paused at the cloakroom and handed in a ticket. Moments later he shrugged into an overcoat but pulled his bow tie looser and undid the top button. She looked away, suddenly shyly aware of how dashing he appeared. There was no doubt he wore his ‘penguin suit’ with an effortlessness suaveness, but that gesture of undressing made her blush and she hadn’t felt the full weight of his attraction steal up and tap on her shoulder until this moment.
Stella cleared her throat and glanced towards the concierge, who opened the door so they could step out to wait at the top of the three shallow steps at the entrance to the Berkeley and into a bone-shakingly cold spring evening.
‘Cab, Sir?’ the man asked, breath swirling in a fog around him.
‘Please,’ Rafe replied, clapping his now gloved hands together.
‘Where to, Sir?’
‘Er . . .’ he glanced at Stella.
‘Just off Clapham Common,’ she said to the man and the concierge touched his cap.
‘Right away.’ He smiled and moved away to blow into a whistle as she hugged herself to conserve warmth. Her toes already felt like Jack Frost was gnawing on them.
She began to move from foot to foot. ‘Why come to these dances if you loathe them?’ she asked.
‘Fruity enjoys them. I’m sure it didn’t escape you that he likes a drink or two; he also likes women and is starved of female companionship, I suspect . . . of the young and extremely pretty kind. Poor old Fruity is caring for his invalid mother.’
‘And you don’t drink, do you?’ she queried, sensing a jigsaw piece fitting into its rightful place.