Chapter 4
‘No! No, no, no! Absolutely not.’
‘But it’s my favourite.’ Clementine twirled around and looked winningly over her shoulder, smiling at her friend. ‘And it’s not too anything.’
‘It’s too white, is what it is. One blob of raspberry jam and you’ll be done for.’
‘I’m not six. I don’t drop my food. And they’ll have napkins.’
‘I wouldn’t risk it.’ Henrietta shook her head disapprovingly from her place on the sofa. She was in her dressing gown, dunking endless digestive biscuits into a cup of tea. Their fellow flatmates were still slumbering. ‘What about your blue silk?’
‘That’s too formal for a birthday tea.’
‘You could borrow my yellow sundress.’
‘It’ll be far too long and I don’t have enough bosom. I should have got something new.’
‘No. Never invest too early on. It’s bad luck.’ Henrietta brushed crumbs off her lap.
‘I haven’t got time to try anything else. I’ll just have to avoid jam.’
Clementine smoothed down the cotton piqué of her dress.
It was sleeveless, with an open collar and covered buttons and a full skirt.
She tried to bury any doubts. Clothing panic was new to her.
Normally she knew exactly what to wear for every occasion and had just the outfit, but she wasn’t sure quite what to expect at Foxwood.
Henrietta had given her a potted rundown on Alfie’s family when she’d told her about her invitation.
‘His mother’s very glamorous, but not in a showy way. One of those people who looks good in anything. Nigel says she always got the Magna Mater prize when she turned up at Sports Day.’
‘The Magna Mater prize?’
‘Oh, you know. The mum they’d most like to …’ Henrietta waggled her eyebrows.
‘That’s disgusting.’
‘That’s boys for you. Anyway, his father’s got a very successful business. A paint factory. They made a packet during the war, providing all the paint for camouflage. I expect Alfie will have to take it over. So there’s that to bear in mind. You’d have to move to deepest darkest Somerset.’
‘You’re going a bit fast. We’ve barely known each other a month.’
Henrietta gave her friend a look.
‘You can’t hang around much longer, Clementine. I thought I was leaving it late.’ Henrietta was getting married in June and would insist on making Clementine feel as if she’d missed the boat. ‘Think about it. A lovely house in the country. I’ll be in Berkshire, which isn’t a million miles away.’
‘Mmm.’ Clementine wasn’t sure about Henrietta’s view of the next phase of life, a life where these sorts of conversations and dilemmas would be a thing of the past, where you’d never run out of milk or resort to a rusty old tin of pilchards for supper because your role would be to make sure life was beautifully organised and your husband was happy.
That wasn’t what she wanted. Clementine loved her job.
Working for – with – Ben was fulfilling and exciting and fun.
It would be a lot to give up. And actually, she didn’t think Alfie, if this came to anything, would be the sort of man to want her to give it up.
She wasn’t going to let that slip to Henrietta.
Her friend had little ambition. She couldn’t wait to be entirely dependent on Nigel.
Clementine knew there was no point in trying to explain to her that times were changing.
Despite Henrietta’s misgivings, she felt cool and confident and comfortable in her outfit.
It was a rare dress that gave you all those things.
She picked up her overnight bag, pushed her feet into her sandals, threw her arm around Henrietta’s neck and gave her a hug then ran for the door.
She felt a rush of excitement as she flew down the stairs, as if she was tobogganing down a steep hill on a tea tray. She was on her way to Foxwood.
There he was, parked on the pavement in a yellow Alvis, the top down in honour of the sun. He looked up as he heard the door slam behind her, then jumped out and ran around to open the passenger door for her.
‘Hello!’ she gasped, smiling as he bent his head forwards to brush his cheek against hers in a gesture that was both chivalrous and intimate. ‘What a gorgeous car.’
‘It was Edwin’s,’ he said as she climbed in. ‘He loved it so much, it seemed a shame to sell it. It’s a bit flash for me, but …’ He gave a shrug, closed her door then headed round to the driver’s side.
‘Happy birthday!’ she said, digging into her handbag and handing him a small parcel.
‘You shouldn’t have!’ he said, but he was smiling. ‘Shall I open it now, or when we get there?’ He was turning it over in his hands.
‘Well, you can probably guess what it is.’
‘Soap?’ he said, feigning a puzzled frown. ‘Whisky?’
She nudged his arm, laughing. ‘It’s the very latest thing, I’ll have you know.’
‘Well, I don’t think I can wait, in that case.’
He pulled at the ribbon and peeled back the paper to reveal a book with a grey cover, with nine red hearts laid out like a playing card, and a wreath in which were entwined the words a whisper of love, a whisper of hate.
‘Casino Royale!’ Alfie exclaimed. ‘Ian Fleming. John Betjeman gave it a jolly good write up in the Telegraph. How thoughtful. Thank you. I shall enjoy that.’
He looked genuinely thrilled.
‘By all accounts, it’s a page-turner. People rip through it in no time. And I believe it’s quite racy.’ The assistant in Foyles had told her they were selling like hot cakes.
He chuckled.
‘I’ll let you know. Thank you. It’s perfect.
’ He wrapped the book back up carefully in the paper and stretched over to put it on the back seat.
‘It’s a good three and a bit hours to Foxwood,’ he said as he turned the key in the ignition.
‘But I’ve brought sandwiches and a flask of coffee so we can stop on the way.
There’s a rug on the back seat if you get cold.
It’s one of those funny days when, if the sun goes in, it could be nippy. ’
As they whizzed through Kensington, she leaned back in her seat, looking at Alfie’s lightly tanned hands on the steering wheel, the cuff of a pale-blue shirt peeping out from the sleeve of his sports jacket.
He turned sideways to her and smiled, looking straight into her eyes for a moment before turning back to the road, and she was yet again struck by how strong her feelings were for him.
She thought of all the men she’d had romantic entanglements with over the past few years.
She’d managed to extricate herself from every single one without a modicum of regret.
Some of them hadn’t taken it well: they usually didn’t see it coming, and she had to listen to their protests, their indignation, their despair, and suffer endless telephone calls and ringing of doorbells at unearthly hours, but she’d got the hang of being quite firm in the end.
Henrietta told her she was cruel, but Clementine thought it was much kinder in the long run, not to give false hope.
‘If I know I’m not going to marry them, what’s the point?’
‘To have fun? Surely it’s more fun to be taken out for dinner or to the flicks than to be stuck in on your own?’
‘I like my own company!’ Clementine laughed at her friend’s outrage. ‘And I’ve always got Ben.’
It was true. Ben was always there, if she wanted a night on the tiles.
And he took her to the very best places.
Lively restaurants where the wine and laughter flowed, chaotic jazz clubs, sultry candlelit bars where people had clandestine assignations safe in the knowledge that all secrets stayed within their walls.
Clementine lived in hope that one day Ben would find someone special.
He needed a free spirit who wouldn’t blanche at his bohemian ways and his insouciant love life.
It was his reaction to the end of the war.
Since he’d left the Intelligence Corps, he’d gone a bit wild.
She thought that Ben would approve of Alfie.
Something shone out of him. It was more than charm – she knew plenty of men who could turn that on and make you feel a million dollars for as long as they wanted.
It was more solid than that. And although the sight of him gave her butterflies, they weren’t the fizzy, fluttery ones that unsettled you, more the kind you had when you woke up on your birthday knowing the day was going to be a special one.
After they’d stopped for lunch, the heat of the sun and the thrum of the engine meant she fell asleep until Alfie nudged her and she woke to find they were needling their way through velvety fields alternating with rolling orchards.
The hedgerows were overflowing with hawthorn and cow parsley while stumpy apple trees sported palest pink.
Globes of mistletoe hung in the poplars, watched over by a flock of rooks.
The air was sweet with blossom and dairy cows and hay.
‘It’s beautiful!’
‘Welcome to Somerset. The land of cheese.’ He grinned. ‘And ciderrrrr.’
Eventually they turned off into Breverton high street.
It was the dearest little town, she thought, row upon row of pale stone houses, a bridge over a burbling river, bustling with people making their last-minute purchases – a vital lettuce or some beef dripping – for the shop owners were ruthless about shutting on a Saturday lunchtime, the shutters and blinds coming firmly down and the doors closing.
‘Shall we stop?’ said Alfie. ‘I could do with some cigarettes. We’ll pop into the Breverton Arms.’
Clementine freshened up in the ladies’ cloakroom, dragging her comb through her windswept curls and reapplying her lipstick.
She was glad they’d stopped, for she didn’t want to arrive at Foxwood bursting for the loo and looking as if she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.
It was so thoughtful of Alfie. She suspected he didn’t need cigarettes at all, just guessed that she would appreciate the chance to gather herself.