by Erica James
‘But what about offending me?’ Effie retorted.
Artie laughed. ‘Go on, I dare you to stamp your foot to emphasise your displeasure.’
Effie pouted. ‘Artie Bloomberg, I never thought I’d say this, but you’re becoming more and more like Ellis.’
‘Does that mean you might want to marry me one day?’
‘And becoming much too clever into the bargain,’ she said with a roll of her eyes. ‘Well then, in the time we’ve stood here debating the point, we could have found poor Ellis and cheered him up. Clarissa, come seek us out the minute you can, or perhaps we’ll come and rescue you. Yes, that’s what we’ll do, we’ll mount a rescue mission!’
It hadn’t taken any time at all for Clarissa to understand that Effie was used to getting her own way, just as Ellis was. Clarissa didn’t mind; she quite understood that for a star of Effie’s stature it was all part of who she was, or what she had become through fame coming to her at so young an age.
Reminders of Effie’s fame were never far away. Passengers would often stop to talk to Effie and ask for her autograph, or have their photograph taken with her. To her credit, Effie never disappointed; she willingly signed their scraps of paper, or menu cards that people brought to her table while she was eating. It was usually Ellis who would eventually drive them away with one of his fearsome looks that said, very plainly, enough was enough, that Effie was entitled to some privacy.
He would, Clarissa surmised as she located Marjorie in the dining room for lunch, make an ideal husband for Effie: he would protect her and keep her grounded – as much as anyone could.
‘You haven’t changed your dress,’ Marjorie greeted her disagreeably.
This was a familiar refrain from the older woman who, along with many other passengers, changed their outfits for every meal. Clarissa had opted to take a less ostentatious stance and change only for dinner. Just as Effie did.
‘I didn’t want to be late,’ she said, allowing their waiter to pull out her chair for her and acknowledging the other passengers around the table, a number of whom were new to her. Since surfacing from her mal de mer, Marjorie had made it her business to surround herself with a rota of dining companions she deemed appropriate, or worth knowing. Without exception they were all as dull as ditchwater.
‘Well, you failed in that instance,’ Marjorie said. ‘I make you late by a good ten minutes.’
‘I apologise; I was playing deck quoits. Have I delayed things very much?’ Clarissa knew she hadn’t; there were plenty of empty tables in the dining room and nobody was eating yet. Marjorie was tediously early for everything.
‘I suppose you were cosying up to that Effie Chase again, weren’t you?’ Marjorie said accusingly, her voice lowered while their fellow diners chatted amongst themselves and studied the menu. ‘I hope you realise you’ll have gained yourself a reputation for being a hanger-on. I would strongly recommend you be a lot more circumspect in the friendships you make when you’re in England. I really do wonder what your grandmother was thinking when she agreed to let you travel on your own.’
‘She must have believed it would be good for me, a means to broaden my horizons,’ Clarissa replied equably, though she knew this was far from the truth. And to prevent me from becoming as boring and narrow-minded as you, she thought, turning her attention to the menu, while at the same time listening to Mr Lockwood across the table from her. A New York stockbroker, he was saying that in his opinion all the talk of war looming in Europe was greatly exaggerated; moreover, he believed that Germany was to be applauded for what it was doing for its people and the economy of the country.
It was when their soup had been brought to the table that Clarissa spotted Effie make her appearance in the dining room. As always, Ellis and Artie accompanied her, but Betty was also alongside. Understandably, Betty had not repeated the experience of dining with Marjorie again, but Clarissa had enjoyed her company outside of the dining room many times. They had swapped contact details and Betty had made her swear to stay in touch. ‘I want to know all about the adventures you get up to in England,’ she’d said. ‘Not a detail is to be left out!’
To Clarissa’s surprise Effie came towards their table. ‘There you are, Clarissa,’ she said, ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’ Then adopting one of her most dazzling smiles, she turned her focus to Marjorie and the others around the table. ‘I have the teeniest of favours to ask of you,’ she said with a flutter of eyelashes and a breathy voice that had the instant effect of reducing Mr Lockwood to a state of open-mouthed awe. ‘My father has requested Clarissa join us for the gala dinner tonight. In any other circumstance I wouldn’t dream of being so rude as to make such a request, but it’s our last night and it would be just wonderful for us to spend it together. What do you say, Marjorie? I can call you Marjorie, can’t I? Please say yes, I’ll be utterly heartbroken if you say no.’
‘Very well,’ Marjorie replied, doubtless sinking under the weight of expectation from not just Effie, but their fellow diners who, to a person gave the impression that they would love nothing better than to dine with Effie themselves.
‘Say, why don’t we all meet for cocktails beforehand?’ suggested somebody.
The man received a withering glance of disapproval from Marjorie. ‘You’re forgetting the captain’s cocktail party, Mr Shaughnessy,’ she said firmly.
Once again Effie applied the full charm of her smile. ‘Why, that’s even better, we’ll see you there later then. Toodle-pip,’ she added with a flutter of her fingers, ‘it was just swell to meet you all.’
A first-rate performance, thought Clarissa with a smile as she picked up her soup spoon. She wondered how easy it would be for her to employ some of Effie’s tricks when she arrived in London and unpacked her new, more confident self.
The captain’s cocktail party was an event that Marjorie had been looking forward to, despite grumbling constantly that she had scarcely set eyes on the man throughout the crossing, and that when she had been invited to sit at the captain’s table he had been otherwise engaged. But now her moment had arrived and, as Clarissa watched her wait her turn to shake the elusive man’s hand as they entered the Pole Star Lounge where the party was already in full flow, she wondered whether the dreadful woman would harangue or flatter him.
It turned out she was able to do neither because no sooner had she grasped the poor man’s hand than he deftly moved her along to the purser on his left and was shaking Clarissa’s hand and engaging her in conversation. ‘I believe you are a friend of Madame Betty,’ he said in a rich French accent. ‘Such a charming woman. Have you enjoyed your stay on board the Belle Etoile?’
‘I’ve had a wonderful time, thank you,’ Clarissa replied, surprised that he was so well informed.
‘Madame Betty said that you were born in France, is that true?’
‘Yes, my parents lived there for a time.’
‘Maybe one day you will return.’
‘Who knows,’ she said, trying to sound enigmatic, ‘perhaps I will.’ And conscious, not just of the guests behind her waiting to meet the captain, but of Marjorie’s icy glare on her, she moved on.
‘If your grandmother could see you now, such shameless and improper behaviour!’ Marjorie hissed when they’d stepped away from the receiving line. ‘Monopolising the captain like that when he has so many other passengers to speak to – you have a lot to learn, young lady!’
Indeed I have, thought Clarissa happily, spotting Betty waving to her. Dressed in a vermilion creation with a matching turban, she stood out magnificently in the crowded room. ‘Seeing as I’m such a vulgar disappointment to you,’ Clarissa said, ‘I’ll spare you the embarrassment of spending any time with me and leave you to your friends.’ And before Marjorie had a chance to express her outrage, she sped off towards Betty, grabbing a cocktail from a waiter as she went.
‘I don’t care what it is,’ she sa
id to Betty, raising the glass to her lips, ‘but it’s got to be less bitter than Marjorie’s acid tongue. I swear if she disembarks the ship alive tomorrow, it’ll be a miracle!’
‘And a very grave mistake!’ Betty laughed.
They were still laughing when Effie sashayed over in an ivory silk gown that trailed the floor. Taking care not to step on the dress, Ellis and Artie followed behind, both dressed in tuxedos and looking devastatingly handsome.
‘Good gravy, don’t you all look glamorous,’ Betty cried, ‘I’m not fit to be seen in your company!’
‘Oh, stuff and nonsense!’ Effie replied, slipping her arm through Betty’s. ‘Now you are joining us on our table for dinner, aren’t you? I absolutely insist. I won’t take no for an answer, Betty.’
‘In that case, I shall be honoured.’
‘Excellent. We shall be quite a party. What a hoot we’ll have!’
The evening proved to be tremendous fun and, as with previous nights, culminated in the Rhapsody Bar. Clarissa knew that she had drunk more than was good for her, but she was enjoying herself too much to care.
‘I think I like you better when you’re a little drunk,’ Ellis said when they were dancing and he held her tightly against him.
She laughed gaily and wagged her finger at him. ‘I’m tipsy. Not drunk. There’s a distinction.’
He smiled. ‘And how would a well-brought-up girl like you know a thing like that?’
‘Because I’m not as well-brought-up as you believe! And you know, I think I like myself a little better when I’m tipsy. I should drink too much more often.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’
She tapped her forefinger against the starched front of his dress shirt. ‘I shall do as I damn well like, thank you very much!’
His eyes widened. ‘I can’t decide whether to slap you for your behaviour or kiss you.’
‘Be warned, if you slap me, I shall slap you back.’
His lips curled into a smile of amusement. ‘In that case you leave me no alternative.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Good gravy, as Betty would have said, don’t tell me you let that scoundrel take such a liberty with you, Mrs Dallimore?’
The old lady laughed at Lizzie’s question. ‘I most certainly did, my dear.’
‘You saucy minx, you!’
‘Who’s a saucy minx?’
It was Mr Sheridan, shambling in with what Lizzie now recognised as his customary air of rumpled affability.
‘Just someone I used to know,’ said Mrs Dallimore, giving Lizzie a small conspiratorial smile. ‘What’s that you have in your hands?’ she asked Mr Sheridan.
‘A list of activities and outings for the coming weeks that I picked up on my way back from the medical wing. There’s a trip to the theatre in Cambridge planned, fancy it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, come on, Mrs D, live a little. Don’t you want to escape Woodside for a few hours? We could even sneak off and enjoy an illicit drink together. What do you say?’
‘I’d say my sneaking-off days are well behind me; why don’t you try one of the younger, more spritely ladies?’
‘What, and have them run me ragged? I’d sooner take my chances with you.’
If they were sixty years younger Lizzie would have been inclined to tell them to get a room, but leaving them to their amusing banter, she went to find out what needed doing next.
Stripping beds and room-cleaning was the answer. With one of the cleaners off sick, matron had asked if Lizzie would help them out for the day. ‘I know it’s not what you volunteered to do, but I’d be enormously grateful if you would help,’ Jennifer had explained. Armed with a trolley of bed linen and a ton of cleaning things, including a vacuum cleaner with a snaky hose that had a mind of its own, Lizzie set to work.
The first room she had to clean was Mrs Dallimore’s and as she stripped the bed, she thought of a tipsy Mrs Dallimore smooching on the dance floor with a green-eyed man she’d only known a few days. What further liberties had the young Mrs Dallimore allowed the badass bounder to take, Lizzie wondered with a smile? And if any man threatened to slap her, even in jest, he’d get short shrift and make no mistake!
The bed made, she moved on to vacuuming the room, and, not that she would have skimped in another person’s room, she did find herself taking extra care because it was Mrs Dallimore’s, pushing the end of the vacuum cleaner as far under the furniture as she could reach. There’d be no dustballs on her watch!
Woodside prided itself on running a ‘relationship-centred’ care home – a description Lizzie had previously dismissed as no more than marketing hype, but now, and although she had only been here a few days, she had a sense of already having formed a relationship with Mrs Dallimore. Over the years Mum had often spoken about the residents she had got to know and how upsetting she found it when they died; on more than one occasion she had come home in tears. Lizzie had once asked her mother why she put herself through the torment when there were plenty of other voluntary jobs she could do that wouldn’t be so upsetting. Mum’s answer had been that the privilege of getting to know these people far outweighed any sadness she experienced.
Lizzie was beginning to get a glimmer of that feeling herself. These people mattered. They’d experienced all manner of life’s ups and downs, joys and disappointments, and all had their own stories to tell. They weren’t just faceless nobodies, as she’d previously thought: they were real people who counted.
She was pushing the hose of the vacuum cleaner under the bed when it bumped against something hard. On her hands and knees, she took a look and saw a small old-fashioned brown leather suitcase. Pushing it to one side, she carried on and with her head near the noisy end of the vacuum cleaner, she didn’t hear the door open. It was only when she was reversing away from the bed that she started. She wasn’t alone; Mrs Dallimore was there in her wheelchair, the door closed behind her.
Lizzie switched off the vacuum cleaner. ‘How did you get here?’ she asked, knowing that the old lady didn’t have the strength in her arms to wheel herself round.
‘Mr Sheridan kindly gave me a push.’
‘I think you’ve won an admirer there,’ said Lizzie with a smile.
‘What nonsense.’
‘Not nonsense at all, he’s definitely sweet on you.’
‘I think the excitement of seeing your boyfriend tomorrow has gone to your head. I’m surprised to see you cleaning, I didn’t think befrienders did that.’
Lizzie explained she was doing it as a favour to help out. Getting to her feet, and smoothing out the wrinkles in her jeans at the backs of her legs, she suggested she came back later to finish.
‘No need for that,’ Mrs Dallimore replied. She turned to the small bookcase on the wall next to the French doors. ‘I have a sudden urge to reread something I loved as a young girl, Little Women. My mother used to read it to me. And that, before you dare to think it, does not mean I’m reverting to being a child.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of thinking such a thing,’ said Lizzie, going over to manoeuvre the old lady nearer to the bookcase. She then picked up a cloth and set about dusting, trying hard not to appear as though she was snooping and checking out the woman’s few possessions. Next to the bed was a very old leather photograph frame, the sort that contained two photographs and could be folded shut. It took all her powers of restraint not to study the faded black and white pictures in detail. From what she could see there were two young boys in one photograph and an even younger little boy in the other. She would have loved to ask who they were, but in view of all the rooms she had to clean she didn’t dare prompt a conversation she wouldn’t want to stop.
‘You can ask me who they are, you know,’ said Mrs Dallimore, ‘I shan’t mind.’
‘Sorry,’ Lizzie said, ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
&n
bsp; ‘I know that. I like curiosity in a person; it shows an interest in something other than oneself. The boy on his own is Nicholas, my son, and the other two are Thomas and Walter, two boys who I looked upon as sons.’
Mrs Dallimore stopped the obvious question on Lizzie’s lips – where were those boys now? – in its tracks. ‘I’ll tell you about them another time,’ she said firmly, ‘for now I mustn’t keep you. But if I could trouble you to open the French doors and push me outside to the patio, I’ll sit there out of your way.’
Lizzie did as she said, then went back to her cleaning, but not before taking another look at the black and white photographs of the three boys. She sensed that whatever Mrs Dallimore told her about them, a happy ending would not be forthcoming.
Chapter Twenty
How wonderful it was to be back in London. ‘Here I am, everyone!’ Lizzie wanted to shout. ‘Have you missed me? Because I’ve missed you!’
She fairly bounced along Shoreditch High Street to where Curt had asked her to meet him. It was a bar she’d never been to before, a mile or so away from the building Starlight Radio had been broadcasting from since its creation eight years ago. They had always been careful where they’d met for their secret rendezvous and though a part of Lizzie had felt guilty, the thrill that they were escaping into a world that existed only for them had always accompanied their moments together. Initially she would have been happy for the secrecy and exclusion to go on forever, enjoying having Curt all to herself as well as fooling her friends with enigmatic answers to their questions about what she was getting up to when she wasn’t seeing them, but then, out of the blue, had come the need to share Curt with her friends, to show him off. ‘See,’ she’d wanted to say, ‘this is the reason I’ve been so secretive lately, isn’t he fantastic? Don’t you just love him?’
She took a deep breath to quell her excitement at seeing Curt again, an excitement that was tinged with apprehension because this was an important and defining moment between them, she was sure of it. Maybe from today there would be no more secrecy; no more would she be branded the other woman. She made no apology for descending to the depths of Hallmark card thinking – every bit of her was convinced that this really was the first day of the rest of their lives together.