‘Well, I’m off. See you at the weekend,’ she called and slipped jauntily into her Audi. I watched her drive away before I set off on my walk.
It was a cold, crisp day and I turned my collar up and walked past the car showroom. They had a bright yellow Lamborghini in the window. I walked down Park Lane, crossed the road, and entered the park.
The afternoon sun had come out from behind the clouds. The blades of grass looked as clear-cut and bright as jewels. I strolled to a bench and sat down. The park was peaceful with only a few people hurrying along the path. I looked at the bare trees waiting for spring to clothe them again, and sensed inside me a puzzled wonder.
Why exactly was I so troubled by what Daphne had revealed?
And then I knew. It pained me to think of him suffering. More than anything else, I couldn’t bear the thought of him in distress. The sun dipped behind thick clouds again and the temperature began to drop fast.
I stood and left the park, now filled with lengthening shadows. I made a wide circuit round it and came out of the screen of fluted Ionic columns of Aspley Gate. As I hurried away the last rays of the weak evening sun flared briefly on the windows of the Hilton across the road. Then it was gone. I clutched the edges of my coat, and carried on past Green Park Tube station. Up ahead I crossed the street and entered the Ritz.
The heat inside brought a delicious languor to my frozen limbs.
Shaking my fingers to bring some warmth back into them I went up to the concierge’s station. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a booking but…’
‘Lady Olivia,’ he greeted so loudly and obsequiously that people turned to look. ‘But of course we have a table for you.’
He signaled to a passing waiter who escorted me into the splendidly lavish Palm Court with its walls of beveled mirrors, trellises, marble pillars and its apricot and cream palette. He led me to a table to the left of the elaborately sculptured gilded central fountain—Ivana’s favorite table, actually. With an effusive smile and a smooth flick of his wrist he lifted the sign that said RESERVED from the table and, pulling out an oval-backed chair, seated me in it.
Some people I knew waved and nodded and I returned the gesture. I ordered high tea. It was the least I could do after they had given me someone else’s table. Tea was served in a silver teapot with a silver strainer. I poured it out and held the cup in my hands and sighed with the simple pleasure of its warmth. I took a sip and felt the scalding brew flush into my body.
I planned on staying there under the lofty ceiling listening to a quartet play until my body warmed right through. Lord Merriweather and his wife stopped by my table.
‘Hello, dear. Are you here on your own?’ he asked, leaning heavily on his walking stick.
‘Yes. I thought I’d treat myself,’ I said, looking up with a smile.
Both smiled back warmly.
‘How are Wombat and Poppet?’ Lady Merriweather asked.
‘They’re fine,’ I replied.
Wombat and Poppet were my father’s and Ivana’s nicknames. We all had infantile nicknames in our circle. We were all Bow-wow, Cookie, Pip or Squeak or something just as babyish. The names were derived from our childhood days and carefully preserved through old age.
So my father was Wombat, because his first name was William and when he was taken as a toddler to Australia he called himself Willie Wombat. Ivana was Poppet. She was not born a lady. She met my father when she was nursing my mother and it was his nickname for her, so when he married her after my mother died, everyone was so eager to please him they quickly adopted it.
This immaturity generally served two purposes. Not having one would instantly announce you as an alien to our set. In fact, even the act of using another’s first name would imply a lack of intimacy, a suggestion that you met after their childhood days were dispensed with, and were therefore not of the same class. The second and more important purpose means an outsider could never become part of the set.
‘I’ll give her a buzz this weekend,’ Lady Merriweather said.
‘She’ll love that, Lilibet,’ I replied. Her nickname was Lilibet because she couldn’t pronounce Elizabeth when she was a child.
After they shuffled away, I ate finger sandwiches of smoked salmon, cucumber, and chicken from the silver cake stand. They were delicious. I was hungry. Really hungry. Next I tucked into a warm soft scone that I generously filled with a thick layer of silky cream and jam. A rose macaroon followed that, and finally an inch of a sinfully gooey chocolate layer cake.
When I could eat no more I was ready. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and no one was going to stop me. Least of all well-meaning, disgraced, horribly unhappy, silky-haired Dr. Kane.
17
Marlow
If you want to hit a man in the chest, aim for his groin.”
—Bat Masterson
Beryl had just gone and I was sitting there staring into a glass of whiskey when the door suddenly opened. I looked up and there she was, a goddamn gorgeous goddess.
For a moment we stared at each other. Me startled and with pulses racing and her with strangely gleaming eyes.