A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga)
Page 24
As usual she was heavily made up. The slash of scarlet lipstick, the heavy use of rouge and mascara making her seem at once exciting, exotic and slightly dangerous.
Hastening over to her he apologised for being late.
“Oh that’s all right.” Irene looked up, and smiled her lazy, relaxed, reassuring smile. She would never put a man down or make him feel uneasy. You felt that she had experience beyond her years gained, undoubtedly, during the Bohemian life she had led in Berlin.
He sat down opposite her and produced his cigarette case. “Did you at least order a drink?”
“I only just arrived. Really.”
Alexander looked around the Savoy Grillroom and beckoned to the waiter.
“Shall we have champagne? Or would you prefer something else? A cocktail, perhaps?”
“Champagne sounds marvellous.”
“A bottle of your best Krug, please,” Alexander instructed the waiter. “Pre-war if you have it.”
“Yes, Mr Martyn.”
“You know about champagne?” Irene cocked her head on one side, her eyes behind the gossamer-fine veil shining tantalisingly, a little teasing perhaps.
“A bit. Many negociants of course didn’t get going again for a long time after the war. Prosper had a very good cellar, a lot of pre-war vintages, and I’ve been studying wine – in what spare time I have,” he added as an afterthought.
“How’s Kate?”
“Kate is simply beautiful. She’s in the country at the moment with Lally. Lally wants to meet you again, oh and your mother of course. She asked me to bring you both down.”
“Sounds lovely.” Irene nodded with an approving smile.
The waiter arrived with a bottle in an ice bucket and two glasses and, while he skilfully removed the cork, Alexander offered Irene a fresh cigarette. Surreptitiously observing her face, as he lit it, he wondered at the source of his growing interest in her, and if it was reciprocated.
They had met half a dozen times since her unexpected visit to him, ostensibly for him to report progress on Bart’s complicated and top-secret negotiations in Germany. There had been dinner at the Café Royal, dancing at Ciros and a visit to the Criterion to see the new Rattigan play French Without Tears. She was a stimulating, knowledgeable companion, but she also liked a good time. She was fun. She was not at all like Mary, not in the least, but there was an indefinable attraction about her, a sexuality and maturity that his dear little wife had completely lacked, and which he found intoxicating. This was a woman you felt you wanted, yet who you would never completely know. So far there had been no intimacy, but only because he held back. He felt that, in being fascinated by another woman, he was being disloyal to Mary. But, after all, she had been dead for three and a half years. Was it wrong for a man to try and find happiness again after a suitable period of mourning?
Alexander thought that if he waited too long he might lose a chance of happiness with a woman who, surely, must have many admirers, real or potential.
The waiter finished pouring the wine and after handing them their glasses left them.
“Are we celebrating something?” Irene looked at him eagerly and carefully drew back the veil – as though it had formed a slight barrier between them – and tucked it nonchalantly under the brim of her hat.
He had already hinted on the telephone that the news might be good.
“We have found your father.” Alexander leaned so far towards her across the table so that their heads were nearly touching. “He is in Sachenhausen concentration camp.”
As one of Irene’s hands flew to her mouth Alexander quickly reached for the other, pressed it reassuringly. “We are getting him out with the help of contacts Bart Sadler knows. With any luck your father will be here within weeks, if not days. I am afraid that he will never recover his property or money, but that, I think, is a small price to pay, perhaps for his life.”
Her fine eyes brimming with tears, Irene took hold of both Alexander’s hands and held them tight.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I’ll think of something,” he said, and brought her fingers to his lips.
Her skin was white, soft and perfumed, her scarlet nails glistening wickedly in the candlelight. He wanted to draw her to him and kiss her, but he knew that would come later. Without any doubt he was on the brink of falling in love.
And Irene? As he looked at her her rapturous expression suggested that she felt the same. Their gaze spoke volumes. He pressed her hands again and kissed them, aware of an answering response.
Because the future was uncertain the present was so very precious. The moment had to be seized, held on to, savoured. Momentarily the dark clouds surrounding them seemed to have parted, and let in the sun.
Contents
A TIME OF HOPE
Publishing History
About the Author
By the same author
Synopsis
Contents
Part One
The Moment of Truth
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two
A Great Tradition
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen