They were meeting in the basement bar of the Ritz and there was a horde of new faces all staring in her direction: boys called Jock and Biff, Nigel, Pongo and Paddy, gangling young men in tails,
escorting their sisters and friends called Hermione, Cecilia or Annabelle. Pam brought her sister, Poppy, and Clemmie, her cousin, Belinda.
Pam looked her up and down with a smile. ‘Golly, Callie, you look the bee’s knees. Midnight blue suits you.’
Everyone was knocking back gins and fizz. Somehow she found a glass in her hand and soon she felt a warm glow inside. It was late when they headed out to Leicester Square. The club was close to
the Alhambra Theatre, in a basement that was a subterranean world of soft lights and smoke where you could dance all night.
The walls were covered in red silk and velvet curtains. There were plush banquettes at the sides, and gilded standard lamps and single candles on the dining tables. It was packed. Callie was
expecting a ballroom with chandeliers but this was much more exciting and glamorous. The band was playing from a stage while couples circled round the floor. Young, old, everyone seemed to know
each other. Perhaps the boys were at school together and the girls had shared nannies and walks in the park.
‘Gosh, I hope Daddy’s not here with his girlfriend,’ whispered Belinda. ‘I don’t want Mummy to know. He’s supposed to be working late in the
Commons.’
Once seated, they started to pair off, dancing to the swing music that the coloured musicians did so well. ‘You can trip round the floor with me, if you like,’ said Nigel, offering
Callie his hand. ‘But I must warn you, I’m not much good at this stuff.’
Never was a truer word spoken, thought Callie, as she limped back to the seats with bruised toes. Perhaps it was better to sit the next one out, but it turned out to be a tango.
‘Come on, Callie, let’s show them what we’ve learned,’ yelled Pam above the noise. ‘You be the man, you’re the tallest.’ They tried to recall
Jem’s instructions but, without his discipline, made a pig’s ear of it. Then a couple took to the floor who really knew their steps. He looked dashing in tails, while she was in a
slinky red dress with a slit up the side, showing her perfect thighs.
‘Are these exhibition dancers?’ Callie asked.
‘No, that’s Toby just showing off. Quite the mover. The Welsh wizard, we call him. Now he is definitely N.S.I.T.,’ Pam smirked. ‘Just look where his hand is, heading
south . . .’
Callie couldn’t take her eyes off the couple as they took centre stage. They were electric with their haughty, smouldering eyes and their dramatic poses. ‘How come he dances so
well?’
‘Toby comes and goes; lives abroad. Look at his tanned face and those shoulders . . . bit of a mystery man. Do you want to meet him?’
‘Oh, no!’ He scared Callie, with that magnetic look in his eyes as he swirled his partner round, seemingly oblivious to everyone else. The girls stepped back to join the others, but
then the tango finished and suddenly Pamela headed out to the beautiful couple and brought them across.
‘My friend wants to meet you,’ she smiled, all innocence. ‘Mr Toby Lloyd-Jones . . . Miss Caroline Boardman.’
Callie was furious, remembering her own humiliatingly bad dancing. ‘We were just admiring your technique,’ she stammered. ‘We’re trying to learn, but if I had a hundred
classes I’d never dance like you two.’ She turned for support but the girls had melted away.
‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ Toby replied, eyeing her with interest.
‘I met Clemmie and Pam at school in Belgium. This’s quite a place and the music is terrific’ Callie was trying to sound casual but it wasn’t working. He looked at home in
the dark recesses of the club while she felt like an ingénue. He was older than her crowd – at least thirty, judging by the creases in his face.
‘This is Pearl, who’s attached to the band.’ The girl with coffee-coloured skin and big black eyes smiled at Callie. ‘Better be off now. I’ll be singing
soon,’ she excused herself. ‘Bye, Toby, darling.’ She kissed him on the lips.
Callie tried to back away but Toby blocked her path. ‘Like to dance with me? Looks like you’ve been deserted by your partner.’ Without waiting for a reply he swept her into a
quickstep that had her shoes polishing the floor. He led her with ease and she relaxed, realizing he knew what he was about.
‘So you’re not used to the fleshpots of London, then?’ he asked.
‘I prefer Scotland; we have a house up there. But my aunt’s ill – she has a dance studio – so I’m helping in the office for a while.’ She knew she was
gabbling, trying not to stumble. He smelled of aftershave, tobacco and something rich and exciting she couldn’t put a name to.
‘The music here is the best in town and it’s a great place to meet up. Pity is I can’t get here too often.’
‘Pamela says you work abroad,’ Callie offered.
‘Did she now? I come and go, helping people invest in developing projects. In fact, I’m pushing a development in Cairo, along the Nile river. We’re hoping to expand. I must
have a word with her brothers . . .’
‘Egypt – how wonderful. I’ve read a lot about Tutankhamun and the tombs of the Pharaohs.’ She tried to impress him with her slender knowledge.
‘You have to take a camel ride to see the pyramids at sunrise over the desert to get the real scale of the tombs,’ he replied, looking down at her.
‘Really, I’d love to see that. I’ve seen Mont Blanc and the Eiffel Tower, but nothing like that. You are lucky.’ She was enjoying every second of dancing in his strong
arms. It was a shame that the music had to end.
‘Let’s find a seat and I’ll get drinks,’ he offered.
‘I really ought to go back to the others,’ she said, knowing it was only polite to stay with her crowd, though the pull of his attention was tempting. She felt flattered that he
wanted to talk to her. ‘OK, just one drink then. Thank you.’
He found a quiet corner and an empty banquette, then went to the bar for a bottle of champagne. Clemmie took this opportunity to dash across.
‘There you go again, snatching the best catch in the room tonight. How do you do it?’
‘Do what?’ Callie whispered. ‘We’re only having a drink. He’s a bit old for me.’
‘Nonsense. It’s good to have someone who knows what’s what. Not seen him here for ages. You’ve struck lucky. Here today, gone tomorrow is Toby, so enjoy him while you can
. . . and tell us all on Thursday.’
Callie didn’t know what was going on. She’d only come to dance, not to pick up the first man who danced with her, but Clemmie was right, Toby did have the knack of making her feel
special. She thought of her little holiday romance. This man would not have a mother breathing down his neck, but he might be married. There was something too good to be true about Lloyd-Jones and
she meant to dig it out. When he returned with the champagne and glasses she began her interrogation with a smile. ‘Do you have family in London?’
‘In Wales. My parents retired to their country house for the quiet life. I’m their only child,’ he said, tapping his cigarette on his gold case.
‘So no family of your own then?’
‘Good Lord, married, me . . . not yet. Got to find the right girl. They keep escaping me.’ He gave a rich throaty laugh, looking straight into her eyes so she had to turn away,
feeling silly and obvious.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘You’re right to check.’ He looked around. ‘Who knows what sordid little secrets are hidden in this crowd tonight? Now you might have some young buck chasing after you,
too.’
‘Gosh, no, not me,’ she replied a little too quickly. ‘Plenty of time for all that ball-and-chain stuff. I’m only eighteen.’
‘There we go then, both of us fancy-free and looking for fun.’ This time he caught her gaze and held it a little too long. ‘You do know you are a very attractive young lady and
I think you know what you want – and how to get it.’
Callie felt herself going hot and a
frisson
of tension shot through her body as he reached out to touch her arm. ‘I must see you again. Not here, but for supper. There’s a
place I know where we can dine in peace without everyone watching every move.’
‘I’d have to ask Aunt Phee. I live with her in Marylebone,’ she replied.
‘Then I’ll come and meet her. She can check my credentials and my bank balance, if it worries her.’
Now he was flustering her. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine and I’d like to have supper with you.’
‘That’s settled then. We’ll meet up and perhaps go shopping. You can help me choose some stuff for my new apartment. It’s not ready yet so I’m renting a room. Not
sure when I’ll be heading back to the heat and dust of Cairo. It depends . . . got a few more appointments. Come on, let’s dance the night away . . .’
Later, he put her in a taxi with a promise to meet her on Wednesday in Burlington Arcade. ‘Good night, and be good,’ he smiled, pecking her on the cheek. ‘Just a little on
account . . . I’m so glad you came tonight.’
Callie returned home in a dream. She’d never met anyone like Toby before: sophisticated, wealthy, worldly but charming. He’d not pushed himself on her in any way. He’d made her
feel special and desired, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Phoebe could see the change in Callie after that first night with her friends in the 400 Club. It had put a blossom in her cheeks and she was taking such care with her
appearance, becoming quite the fashion plate. Gone was the girl in kilt and gumboots. She’d gone into town and came back with an exquisite silk scarf in muted pastel shades, so tasteful and
expensive. She’d been out for dinner with her crowd and dancing at the Embassy, the Florida, nightclubs Phee knew of but had never ventured into. Her companions were good types from county
families, just the sort she’d wanted for her daughter, knowing she could hold her own with any of them in looks and accomplishments. The investment in Callie’s education had paid off,
which was cheering when everything at the Gibbons School of Dance was going downhill. Maisie was confined to bed now and needed constant nursing. The noise from the ballroom had to be muted so as
not to disturb her. Phoebe’s heart was full of dread.
Callie worked wonders in the office, bringing order out of chaos. What would happen when Maisie died no one knew. Phee hoped they could carry on the lease, as the classes were full, yet she
dreaded the loss of her old friend and the ending of an era. At least Caroline wasn’t moping around. She was hardly at home and there was something about her that made Phoebe suspect she
might be in love.
‘Who are you out with tonight? I didn’t catch his name,’ she ventured, making light-hearted banter.
‘I didn’t say it was a he, did I?’ Caroline flushed.
‘Don’t be so shocked. I don’t mind if there’s a special boy. I was young once. At your age I met Arthur, and I’m not in my dotage yet,’ Phoebe laughed, but
Caroline tensed up.
‘He’s not a boy. His name is Toby and he’s from Wales, but he’s going abroad soon . . . to Egypt.’
‘Is he a soldier . . . an officer?’
‘No, he’s in business, an investor in a development company.’
‘That sounds important. Why don’t you bring him for tea one day?’ Phoebe was still trying to sound casual but she was aware that this was a step forward for Caroline.
‘I’m not sure. He’s very busy. He’s nice, good-looking, you’ll like him.’
‘I can see you’re quite smitten. How old is he, then?’
Caroline shifted her gaze. ‘Older than me, of course, but age doesn’t matter, does it?’
‘It depends.’ Phoebe felt a flicker of unease. Caroline was being cagey about his age. She was young and inexperienced, and Phoebe hoped she’d not be let down by a man far more
worldly than she.
A week later, late in the evening, Caroline bounced into Phoebe’s bedroom with a grin on her face. ‘Toby’s invited us to the Ritz for luncheon. I told him you were anxious to
meet him so he suggested this. He’s very generous, but please don’t wear that fussy hat with the netting. It’s ghastly and doesn’t match your two-piece.’
Phoebe had always loved that hat. This was an important meeting so she must look the part, curious to meet the man who was making her daughter critical and fussy about appearance.
‘And don’t go on about me being hopeless at school,’ Callie added.
‘I’d never say that, and you weren’t hopeless, just not academic like Primrose. I don’t suppose you want me to tell him I was born in the backstreets of Leeds
either?’ She couldn’t help the jibe.
‘And don’t spoil it with all your questions.’
Phoebe froze for a second. ‘Do you want me to come or not? From where I’m sitting, I can see you have a bad case of the jitters. He must take me as I am or not. It’s not me
he’s interested it. I’m only the mother . . .’
‘Actually, he thinks you’re my aunt. I didn’t want all that stuff coming out yet . . .’ There was an awkward silence.
‘I thought we’d got over all that.’ Phoebe said quietly. She was trying to stay calm but she felt hurt that Caroline was hiding their relationship. ‘Why didn’t you
tell him I am a war widow? It is better to be straight with people, darling.’
‘Listen who’s talking.’ Caroline backed away, shutting the door.
Clearly this was no jolly boyfriend but someone who really mattered to Callie. That twinge of fear stabbed Phoebe again, twisting her gut into knots.
How do I play this one, then?
Toby Lloyd-Jones was waiting for them at the bar: a stocky, youngish man in a smart handmade suit. His features were even, with strong chin and piercing eyes, and he had that dark curling hair
she’d seen on many Welsh actors. His striking face was coarsened by the sun.
He held out his hand smiling. ‘Miss Faye, I’ve heard all about you. One of the gorgeous Gaiety Girls much admired by my papa. I am so glad you could come today.’
He was not what she was expecting; much older than she’d wish.
They ate a splendid lunch: smoked salmon mousse,
poulet rôti
and good wine in a glittering dining room. Caroline was nervous, looking lovely in her powder-blue dress and jacket
with a hat that framed her features to perfection. Someone had helped her choose this outfit and Phoebe could guess who.