Chapter 1 #2
As he carried Clementine’s replenished glass carefully through the throngs, he saw Johnny Mullinger had slithered into his seat next to her.
Alfie stood still for a moment, shocked by the rush of adrenalin that made spots dance in front of his eyes.
The last thing he wanted was a confrontation.
Fisticuffs at the Savoy would not be a good start to the evening. But he had to do something.
‘That’s my seat,’ he said to Johnny, who raised a dark eyebrow.
‘I don’t think there’s a placement,’ he replied. ‘Everyone’s sitting wherever they like. And I like it here.’
He leaned back and looked down at Clementine’s legs with a leer.
‘It’s my fault,’ said Clementine. ‘I should have told you Alfie was sitting there.’
Johnny spread his hands and gave a shrug.
Alfie’s grip tightened on the stem of the glass.
He didn’t want to make a scene, but he could see Johnny was taking huge pleasure in the situation.
He hadn’t been to Haileybury. He was no gentleman.
There were two spare seats at the adjoining table, next to a gaggle of Nigel’s friends from his office. He was going to take a risk.
He indicated the two seats. ‘Shall we?’ he asked her.
Her eyes flickered over and she understood immediately. Was it ungentlemanly of him to force her into getting them out of an awkward situation? Johnny was smirking, quietly confident. It was only a split second but it felt like a lifetime before Clementine jumped up.
‘Oh perfect! Will I bring your drink? There.’ She patted Johnny on the shoulder. ‘You can sit there as long as you like. It was lovely to meet you.’
Alfie was almost speechless with admiration as she whisked away his half-drunk Martini and hopped over to the next table. Somehow, she had managed to execute the manoeuvre without humiliating Johnny in the least.
‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ she murmured as she settled herself down. ‘I don’t know about wandering hand trouble, but he definitely has wandering eye trouble. Ugh.’
She gave a little shudder. Alfie felt his heart rate subside. He could sense Johnny’s ire from where he was sitting. It was probably time to make a sharp exit. He leaned forwards.
‘Would you like to go somewhere for dinner?’
Her face brightened. ‘Oh yes! I’m starving, and a girl can only eat so many peanuts. I had a ham sandwich at about midday and that does not bode well for drinking cocktails. I’ll be talking gibberish by the end of this.’ She raised her glass and began to sip.
‘How about Wilton’s?’ he asked. Normally he’d go somewhere much more lively, but he wanted to focus on her.
‘Oh perfect. You clever thing. Not too noisy. I’m a little deaf.’ Her face clouded with this confession. ‘Only in one ear. Measles.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I just prefer quiet. Especially if I’m trying to get to know somebody.’
Her sapphire gaze met his grey one and they stared at each other for a moment. It felt momentous. He would remember this night for as long as he lived, he thought.
‘Should we say goodbye, do you think?’ she asked. The crowd was getting louder and more boisterous. ‘Or just slip away?’
‘Slip away, definitely. It would take too long otherwise.’
‘Well, quite. And we don’t want anyone tagging along.’ There was a little pause. ‘Do we?’
He revelled for a moment in the glow of their complicity. ‘We do not.’
She put her unfinished drink on the table, leaned in and whispered in his ear. ‘Then let’s go.’
His heart gave a little bump. How could someone you’d only met half an hour ago make you feel as if you were falling, falling, falling into the softest feather bed?
The sun was thinking about setting as they came out of the hotel onto the Strand.
A row of black cabs lined up like beetles.
Alfie wasn’t inclined to take a taxi usually, not because he was mean, but because he loved meandering through the streets on the way back to the family flat in Pimlico at night.
He relished the way London was coming back to life at long last, the music and laughter that drifted from the bars and clubs, clusters of girls dressed up to the nines, coquettish and carefree, eyeing up the sharp-dressed men.
The barrage balloons had gone from the skyline, replaced by cranes breathing new life into the ghosts of bombed-out buildings.
And the terrible smog that had hung over the city last winter, needling its way into people’s lungs, had finally drifted away. The city felt sweeter, full of hope.
He was, however, happy to invest in a cab for Clementine.
‘Taxi, or would you prefer to walk?’
‘Oh gosh, walk. I need to clear my head. And it’s a wicked waste to get a taxi unless it’s very late or you’re completely footless.’
She tucked her arm in his, quite unselfconscious about close contact.
Alfie couldn’t believe how right it felt, the warmth of her against him.
He felt as if he was floating along the pavements as they headed towards the Embankment, watching the sun sink into the Thames as if it, too, was in a cocktail haze, a little woozy.
He loved April. Its promise of the next season to come.
The first cut of lawn. Cardigans sliding off bare arms and loosening ties.
Pimm’s on the terrace. For a moment, he longed for Foxwood, which would soon be shimmying into summer clothing, the first rose buds flashing pink.
The cuckoos would be calling, the swallows swooping –
Suddenly they were turning into Jermyn Street and the familiar facade of Wilton’s was in front of them.
It wasn’t Alfie’s usual kind of haunt for a date – he preferred a more casual trattoria – but it was a family favourite and for some reason he wanted the security of formality.
It wasn’t that he wanted to impress Clementine, but he wanted to concentrate on her and not be distracted by high jinks and shenanigans.
Their coats were taken, and the ma?tre d’ led them to a discreet corner, where the head waiter greeted them.
‘Good evening, madam.’ He turned to Alfie. ‘Mr Arbutus.’
Alfie saw Clementine’s eyes flicker with interest as she heard the name.
‘Good evening, James,’ answered Alfie as they sat down and opened their menus. ‘What do you recommend tonight?’
‘The asparagus is exceptional.’
‘Of course.’ The asparagus season was just beginning. He could imagine the bunches on the table in the kitchen at Foxwood, freshly cut, Daisy snapping off the woody ends, whipping up a buttery yellow sauce.
‘And the Dover sole. Your favourite, I think?’
‘Everyone’s favourite,’ chuckled Alfie. ‘What do you think, Clementine?’
‘Both of those sound absolutely perfect. I don’t need to look any further.’
She shut her menu decisively.
‘Asparagus and Dover sole for two, then, please, James. And a bottle of …’ Alfie ran his eye down the wine list. ‘The Pouilly Fuissé.’
‘An excellent choice, sir.’ The waiter took the menus from them.
Once they were alone, Clementine looked at him.
‘Arbutus,’ she said softly. ‘Are you related to Edwin?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He was my brother.’
To Alfie’s surprise, her eyes filled with tears. She put out her hand to cover one of his and squeezed it. He felt a lump in his throat, moved by her perceptiveness, her openness, her compassion.
‘You have the look of him,’ she said.
Their family resemblance had always been striking.
Alfie and Edwin both looked like their father, with that sweep of thick hair springing from a widow’s peak, combined with pronounced cheekbones and a full mouth.
Edwin had had their mother’s colouring – burnished gold hair and green eyes – which made for a dazzling combination.
Alfie was a more subdued version – light brown hair; grey eyes.
‘Perhaps a little,’ he said now.
‘You do,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve seen photographs. The ones in the paper.’ She squeezed his hand again. ‘I’m so sorry. The beastly war.’
‘We weren’t alone in losing someone.’
‘I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier, does it? My mother lost her first husband in the Great War. She’s never really got over it, though she adores my father.’
He could see there were tears in her eyes. They made the blue even brighter.
‘We miss him,’ was all he could think of to say.
‘It must have been a big honour, to be chosen as a war artist. Your parents must have been very proud.’
‘Yes.’ He thought his mother had been more relieved than anything.
Not that being a war artist was a safe option, for they were commissioned to capture the reality of war as far as they could, which often meant being in the thick of it.
But drawing or painting the sweat, blood and smoke somehow felt safer than fighting.
Alfie was fifteen the last day he had seen his brother.
Edwin was ten years older than him, allocated to the Admiralty, home on leave before setting off for Iceland to capture the Allied occupation on canvas.
He had thrown his arms around their mother, kissing the top of her head as nonchalantly as if he was heading off to the Trout Inn for a bitter shandy before dinner.
He’d waved an arm in the air before galloping down the steps and into his yellow soft-top Alvis where his kit bag and artist’s materials were already in the boot.
Alfie had moved towards his mother to put an arm around her shoulder, but Elizabeth had stepped away from him, turned and fled up the staircase, leaving Alfie to watch Edwin’s car disappear off down the drive, paralysed with uncertainty as to what to say, or do, or feel.
That was the trouble with war. It was overwhelming but you had to put on a brave face and pretend everything was normal, no matter how you felt.
‘It’s good of you to talk about him,’ he told Clementine. ‘People usually avoid mentioning him as much as they can.’
She frowned. ‘You don’t stop talking about someone just because they’ve died, surely?’