A Royal Affair

by Allison Montclair

  There was applause. Gwen tried to gauge whether it veered more towards politeness or genuine enthusiasm.

  “Damned good, Titan,” said one of the pipe-smokers. “A shade Shavian, not at all Cowardly. The moment I heard ‘affair’ in the title, I was worried that we would be down for ‘Lengthy Encounter’ or some such, but this was much grittier.”

  “I’ve noticed that you’ve toned down Muriel’s bisexuality considerably,” observed Iris.

  “That would have made things awkward at work in the morning,” said Gwen.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Iris, batting her eyes at her. “It might have livened them up for a change. But did you do that for fear of censorship?”

  “Not at all,” said Sally. “I thought that I didn’t need to push that angle so blatantly for it to play. I threw in the reference to the club at Shepherd Market. I thought that would be enough.”

  “I didn’t get that reference,” Gwen whispered to Iris.

  “That’s the club where all the best lesbians go,” Iris whispered back.

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Of course you hadn’t.”

  “Do you think it’s commercial enough?” asked a man. “All we have going on the West End are high-brow classics and low-brow sex farces, minus any real sex. Here you are pushing the collapse of British morality, and you don’t even have a decent drawing room scene.”

  “I am sick to death of drawing room scenes,” said Sally heatedly. “Every high-minded attempt to depict so-called real life has a bloody drawing room and servants rushing about serving comic relief with the tea. That’s not the way things are anymore.”

  “New forms are what we need!” shouted Alec in a thick Russian accent. “New forms!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chekhov,” said Sally. “My point is, the affair here happens because the war destroyed the old ways of class structure like nothing has before, and those who obstinately cling to them will be unceremoniously dumped into the dustbins of history.”

  “If you’re going to quote Trotsky, you should at least use a Russian accent like Alec did,” said Iris.

  “I wasn’t quoting Trotsky, I was quoting Petrarch,” said Sally.

  “Petrarch said ‘rubbish heap.’ Trotsky said ‘dustbin.’”

  “It all depends on the translation. If you had read it in the original—”

  “I have,” said Iris. “Both of them.”

  “Where’s the wine?” Gwen whispered to George. “Once they get going like this, they’ll be on for the duration.”

  “Capital idea,” George whispered back. “Follow me. We’ll make a break for the sideboard.”

  The room split into small knots of discussion and debate. George and Gwen threaded their way through to where a half dozen bottles of cheap red stood amongst stacks of paper cups purloined from a commissary somewhere. George filled two, handed one to Gwen, and held his up.

  “To our ‘Affair,’” he said, and tapped his cup against hers.

  “We’ll keep that in quotes,” she replied.

  “Of course,” he said, his eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “All of that was acting. I don’t find you attractive at all.”

  “Thanks very much,” she said, laughing.

  “Especially when my wife is seated right over there, looking daggers,” he added in a lower tone.

  “Tell her I find you repulsive as well. I was only acting, too.”

  “And may I say, from one amateur to another, you were very good.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “No, I mean it. You had that cool exterior down pat, but when the shell cracked, the inner turmoil came through quite authentically.”

  “That may not be acting,” she confessed. “That may be how I am.”

  “Then Sally knows you well,” he said.

  He glanced over to where Sally, Iris, and several others were in full debate.

  “Look at the two of them,” he observed. “Just like it was ten years ago, with no war in between. That’s why they’ve stayed friends.”

  “You were at Cambridge with them, I take it.”

  “Indeed I was. She was a whirlwind back then. He was her rock. One of those giant stones you see off the shore, standing tall and solid while the waves crash around it.”

  “Mr. Weatherby, you are a poet.”

  “I scribbled some pretentious lines when I was young and foolish,” he admitted. “That was then. Well, better carry a peace offering over to the wife if I’m to avoid sleeping on the sofa tonight. Until the next draft, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

  He poured another cup of wine and wandered into the scrum.

  One of the men in uniform immediately took his place.

  “You were jolly good up there,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “So you and Sparks work in the same office, do you?”

  “We do.”

  “Lucky boss to have a pair of lookers like the two of you coming in every day,” he said. “Wouldn’t mind being in his shoes, I must say.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Gwen sweetly. “Which boss would that be?”

  “Why, your boss. You know, the fellow you two work for.”

  “There is no fellow we work for.”

  “Now I’m the one who doesn’t understand,” he said.

  “The two of us own the business,” said Gwen. “The two of us run the business. You are now addressing a boss.”

  “How very novel,” he said. “I have gone and put my foot in it, haven’t I?”

  “Both, I would say.”

  “I’ll just slink away and lick my wounds, then,” he said. “Cheers.”

  “We have an opening for a secretary if you’re interested in applying,” she called after him. “Do you type?”

  He moved as far from her as the crowd and the size of the room would permit.

  She heard a low, appreciative laugh, and turned to see another man standing a few feet away. Also in uniform—a captain, she observed.

  “Grenadiers?” she asked, noting his insignia.

  “Got it in one,” he said. “Captain Timothy Palfrey, Second Armoured, at your service.”

  “Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge,” she replied. “How do you do?”

  “I enjoyed your performance. Both of them, in fact.”

  “Both?”

  “Your brush-off of that military assault just now. Superbly done.”

  “How poor a soldier he must be to undertake such an action without assessing the defenses first.”

  “Ah. You must be a soldier’s daughter.”

  “And a soldier’s widow,” she said.

  “My condolences,” he said, holding up his cup in salute.

  She grimaced for a moment.

  “Was that the wrong thing to say?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” said Gwen. “You were being polite. Condolences are always polite. And politeness is always correct. But it’s tiresome.”

  “You did bring it up,” he pointed out.

  “Because I saw you glance at my wedding ring,” she said. “And you were wondering how to play the game.”

  “The game?”

  “The game where two men size up a woman and decide who will go after her. One goes first and deliberately fumbles badly, then the second swoops in to look dashing by comparison. I’ve known that dodge since I was sixteen. I saw the two of you together when I came in, a pair of matched Grenadiers. He’s batted out, and you’re the new striker. Am I correct?”

  “Madam, your defenses are indeed formidable,” he said, bowing slightly. “My bails have been toppled. I admit defeat. Rather than retreat to the sidelines, would you permit me to continue the conversation sans romantic objectives?”

  “On that condition, yes,” said Gwen. “How did you like Sally’s script?”

  “Condolences again,” he said, raising his cup. “To the death of the ‘well-made play.’”

  “Really? I thought it was very well-made.”


  “That’s a term of art, kicking around since the last century. Some fellow declared that the ‘well-made play’ must contain certain required elements.”

  “Like a drawing room?”

  “That, the sudden third-act revelation through discovered documents or letters, and secret identities revealed. It’s the sort of thing Wilde parodied so brilliantly. You know Earnest?”

  “My name is Gwendolyn. People have been shoving that one at me since early childhood.”

  “Naturally. Well, I’m no critic, but that sort of thing is old hat, and what Sally is attempting to do is something new. I don’t think he took it far enough, to tell you the truth. He’s trying to rip the covers off the world, but he’s still stopping short. He has to let the anger out if he really wants to make a mark.”

  “An angry Sally would be truly terrifying.”

  “Yet it’s in him,” he said. “Ever since he came back. He hides it under this persona, but if he can ever tap the source, he’ll write something great, instead of merely good.”

  He sipped his wine thoughtfully.

  “Or he’ll kill someone,” he added. “But my money’s on the play.”

  “I hope so,” said Gwen, shuddering.

  “One thing, at least,” said Palfrey. “He’s no longer writing about his not-so-concealed desire for Sparks. That was almost embarrassingly obvious back in Cambridge days.”

  “He told me about that. Do you think it’s over and done with?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “If I were to analyse the script for unconscious desires based upon the creation of characters and how he cast it, I would guess that his attentions have shifted elsewhere.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  He smiled at her.

  “Sometimes, one’s defenses can be too good,” he said. “The walls can become so thick that you never hear anyone approaching. Mrs. Bainbridge, it was a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps you will permit me to call upon you in the future?”

  “You have regrouped, I see, Captain.”

  “The sappers have been at work,” he said. “The walls may yet crumble in time. What say I take you to the opening of Alec’s play? That’s in October. You have three months to think about your answer.”

  “My life is complicated at the moment,” she said.

  “Every life is complicated at every moment,” he replied, handing her his card. “I’ll look for you when autumn comes. Until then, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

  He crumpled his cup and tossed it into the waste basket, then fetched his cap, and left, the first Grenadier joining him as he went, to her absolute lack of surprise.

  Others took this as a signal to follow. Alec came over to Sally and reached up to clasp his shoulders.

  “It’s a good start, Sally,” he said. “I’ll send you my notes when I’m sober.”

  “You’re not sober now?” asked Sally.

  “I am, but I am in need of getting drunk and don’t want to wait. Call Kenny, won’t you?”

  “You know how I feel about that.”

  “But it’s time for you to resume treading the boards.”

  “I trod the boards, and the boards cried out in anguish. I can show you the clippings.”

  “Call Kenny,” urged Alec, patting him on the cheek. “For me.”

  “All right,” said Sally.

  As the stragglers filed out, still chatting away, Sally began to fold up the chairs and lean them against the pile of tables.

  “We’ll help,” said Iris. “Won’t we, Gwen?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks,” said Sally. “I should be going out to the York Minster and getting hammered. I might still.”

  “Who is Kenny?” asked Iris.

  “Kenny is a director,” said Sally. “He wants to cast me in a new production.”

  “That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Gwen. Then she saw his expression. “It’s not wonderful?”

  “Caliban,” said Sally. “He wants me to play Caliban. Another stupid, ugly giant. I could make a decent living playing nothing but Caliban, Frankenstein’s monster, or that mental deficient in that American play we saw.”

  “Of Mice and Men,” said Iris.

  “I don’t want to play monsters,” said Sally. “That’s why I’m hiding behind my scripts. Let the masses rise cheering at the end, ‘Author! Author!’ and I’ll leap out and yell, ‘Boo!’ and watch them run screaming from the theatre. Ideally, they’ll run screaming from the words, if I can ever get them right.”

  “You got them right in this one,” said Gwen.

  “Most of them,” said Iris.

  “Well, I don’t feel like throwing the scripts into the fire, so that’s an improvement,” said Sally as he collapsed onto the center of the sofa. “Is there any wine left? Pour the dregs into a cup for me, if you would be so kind. Spare the hemlock. I choose to live another day.”

  “On it,” said Iris, locating an unused cup and filling it from two bottles.

  She brought it over to him, and he gulped it down.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Pontificating leaves me parched. Come, ladies! Come cuddle with the playwright.”

  He threw his arms out over the back of the sofa. Iris slid under one and curled into him. Gwen hesitated.

  “You should try it, Gwen,” said Iris. “He’s very comfy.”

  “And there are no appearances to be kept up,” added Sally. “It shall be our illicit secret.”

  “First you have me committing adultery. Now cuddling. I shall never be able to look anyone in the eye again,” said Gwen as she sat down and leaned into him.

  He enveloped her gently, and she felt herself drift into a memory of her grandfather reading poetry to her as she nestled into the crook of his arm, letting the gentle rumble of his voice carry her wherever Tennyson was taking them.

  “He is comfy, isn’t he?” said Gwen.

  “Told you so,” said Iris. “Now, tell me about all those men who swarmed you.”

  “The Grenadiers attempted to try me on,” said Gwen. “The first seemed MTF. The second was definitely NST.”

  “What on earth are you on about?” asked Sally.

  “Deb code,” explained Iris, snickering. “MTF means Must Touch Flesh, and NST means Not Safe in Taxis.”

  “Good God,” said Sally. “Have you reduced them to their essences so quickly?”

  “Friends of yours?” asked Gwen.

  “Bresnahan’s an ass,” said Sally. “Palfrey’s not a bad fellow when you get to know him.”

  “He wants to take me to that play Alec’s in when it opens.”

  “Blast,” said Sally. “I was hoping the three of us could attend together.”

  “I’d much rather go with the two of you,” said Gwen. “Tell me honestly—how much of this was a setup?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve been lured into a room containing wine and eligible men,” said Gwen. “I feel the unseen presence of benevolent ulterior motives.”

  “That was not my intent,” said Sally.

  “Nor mine,” said Iris. “I’d be direct about it. Declare your availability, and I will have the best men in London queued up at your doorstep in a trice, flowers in hand.”

  “Then forgive me,” said Gwen, unconvinced.

  “I’m glad we’ve got that settled. Sally, I want to pick your brain about something,” said Iris.

  “My brain? There’s nothing remaining of it after tonight. I’ve left it all in those pages.”

  “Let me draw upon your memories, then. Do you recall a fellow named Talbot? Showed up during training?”

  “Talbot,” mused Sally. “The name’s familiar. Anything more to go on?”

  “Possibly Sir Gerald Francis Talbot,” said Gwen, pulling her notebook out of her handbag. “KCVO, CMG, OBE. Got himself knighted on the fourteenth of December 1922.”

  “Where did you get that?” asked Iris in surprise.

  “Burke’s Peerage,” answered Gwen in a lofty tone. “Where does anyone get anyth
ing about anyone if not there? He was naval attaché in Athens at the end of the Great War.”

  “Was he?” exclaimed Iris, sitting up and peering over Sally at her. “That’s interesting.”

  “How so?” asked Gwen.

  “Naval attachés are usually British Intelligence. It’s one of the standard posts.”

  “And what’s a CMG? I know the KCVO is Knight Commander of the Victorian Order.”

  “You ask me a question, then you ignore me,” complained Sally. “I am not accustomed to being ignored on my own sofa.”

  “Do you know what a CMG is?” asked Gwen.

  “Companion of the Order of St. Michael and St. George,” said Sally promptly. “An honour given to someone who did something for the Crown while overseas somewhere.”

  “Like Athens,” said Iris.

  “Like Athens,” agreed Sally. “And I remember the chap now. He was—Wait. Are we allowed to talk about this in front of Mrs. Bainbridge?”

  “Why can’t you?” Gwen asked indignantly.

  “Because it involves topics that we’re not supposed to talk about,” said Iris.

  “Exactly,” said Sally. “On pain of prosecution by the Crown.”

  “Damn you both,” said Gwen. “Shall I leave the room?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Iris. “Sally, there are exactly two people in the world whom I trust, and they are both sitting on this sofa. We can talk about this with Gwen. I’d trust her with my life. So would you.”

  “You’re not including yourself in that total?” asked Sally.

  “I don’t trust myself,” said Iris. “Sally, darling, we are not asking for state secrets. We are vetting a marriage prospect for a client, and this Talbot fellow came up as a possible reference. I remembered you mentioning him to me back in training. You thought he was amusing.”

  “Amusing and useless,” said Sally. “Fine, to hell with the Official Secrets Act, you Mata Hari. But if I end up swinging for it, I will take you with me.”

  “Agreed,” said Iris. “We can have our last meal together, only I’m choosing the wine. Tell us about Talbot.”

  “This was back before they knew where they were going to send me,” said Sally, lying back with his eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling. “I was being trained for either Italy or Greece. It turned out that my Greek was more classical than colloquial, but that’s another anecdote entirely.