LUCY
Not that there had been many of those.
Finding a stage job in London was harder than it had been in Cornwall. After following a few advertisements, she’d only found a place in the chorus for a one-off charity production of The Mikado. It wasn’t even in a proper theatre, nor with proper pay.
The space was large yet cosy. The thick grey-blue curtains were half closed, the lamps shedding cones of golden light from the corners. A vague scent of men’s cologne hung in the air, heady and warm.
As the room appeared to be empty, she walked further inside.
In the corner, a television set was on, the crisp BBC pronunciation of the male presenter conveying the day’s events.
‘This morning, the queen and her mother will be meeting with the archbishop in preparation for the coronation. At its heart, the coronation is a spiritual service, the crown bestowed upon the new monarch by God.’
Lucy stood mesmerized. It wasn’t often that she saw a television, and this was one of the large ones, a sixteen-inch screen inside a polished oak cabinet.
They were advertised in the newspapers, far outside her budget.
Some newspapers announced that there’d be a television in every other home by the end of the decade, but Lucy couldn’t see that happening.
With a sigh, Lucy switched it off and looked around for the laundry, but there didn’t seem to be any there.
Flummoxed as to what to do, she found herself eyeing the plumped white pillows with longing. Since the room seemed empty, no one would know if she took a much-needed nap, would they?
‘Maybe just a few minutes,’ she murmured to herself as she lay down. It was almost the end of her workday, after all, and she needed her energy for another evening of trailing the West End for singing jobs.
The pillow was as soft as a cloud, and before long, she was drifting off to sleep.
She didn’t know how long she’d been dozing, but the next thing she knew, an upper-class man’s voice awoke her.
‘Now, what do we have here?’
Abruptly, she sat up, grappling to pin her hair. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I only wanted a small rest. You see it’s these early mornings . . .’ As she babbled, she tried to get up, realizing that her skirt was twisted around her, and not only that, it had ridden up to show her thighs.
Reddening, she looked up to see the man looking at them, an amused smile on his face as he sat beside her on the bed.
‘Don’t leave!’ he said softly, and she realized it was the man from the corridor on her first day.
In his late twenties, his dark eyes slanted down at the edges, like a sad dog in need of some tenderness.
Yet behind his modesty and languidness, he had the relaxed style of a true gentleman.
‘You look so very comfortable there, like Sleeping Beauty.’ His voice slurred lazily, and a small hiccough confirmed her suspicion that he was drunk.
Then he flopped down on the bed beside her. ‘In any case, we’ve only just met.’
But she was already scampering up, straightening her skirt, darting towards the door. ‘I’m here to collect the laundry. You won’t tell anyone that I was taking a nap, will you?’
At this he got back up and walked across the room to her. ‘Not if you stay and keep me company for a while. You see, I’ve had the most appalling afternoon.’
‘But the laundry?’
‘I promise to get it, provided you stay.’ He reached for her hand.
She let him guide her to the sofa, and then he pulled a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet, two small whisky tumblers in his other hand. He suddenly seemed tall and muscular, and in spite of the whiff of alcohol, she was more than aware of the warm, intoxicating scent of him.
‘Join me?’ he said, splashing a little into both glasses and handing one to her.
‘I shouldn’t, not at work,’ she said, unsure.
But as he pressed her to try a little, she took a sip, just about stopping herself from spitting it back out immediately.
The stuff stung like acid, burning as it went down her throat.
She choked, trying to catch her breath, and he patted her back, laughing.
‘You really are just as innocent as you look, aren’t you?’ He took the tumbler away from her. ‘Well, no more of that for you. We’ll need to look after you a bit better.’ He sat down beside her. ‘Why don’t you tell me your name, my Sleeping Beauty?’
‘I’m Lucy, Lucy Jones.’
‘And you must call me Richard. Tell me, where do you come from, Lucy Jones?’
‘I come from Cornwall, but I now live in Camden.’
‘Well, Lucy Jones from Cornwall and now Camden, I need to tell you about my abysmal afternoon.’ He proceeded to give her a blow-by-blow account of his lunch event, which entailed a lengthy meal in a private club. ‘I’m the organizer, you see. If anything goes wrong, everyone blames me.’
Tentatively she asked, ‘Did anything go wrong?’
‘Indeed it did!’ he replied, adamant in his drunkenness.
‘They’re accusing me of letting the speaker ramble on far too much about his fishing expedition in Canada – I know I should have stopped him when he started the slideshow.
And then I’d sat him beside Lord Halford, having forgotten about his sister and that incident last year.
’ He began counting off his fingers. ‘We ran out of the best port and had to make do with some nonvintage rubbish, which never bodes well. And then there weren’t enough waitresses.
’ He hung his head comically. ‘It was lined up to be a sensational lunch, but I confess that it – and therefore I – was found wanting.’
She couldn’t help laughing. ‘They can’t blame you for all of those things. It isn’t fair!’ How vulnerable he seemed, how kind. ‘They’re taking advantage of your good nature.’
His eyes met hers. ‘That’s precisely what I said!’ He edged closer to her. ‘I knew you’d see my point. I just wish you could tell them not to have me fired. I don’t want to leave the palace.’ He grasped her hand. ‘Especially as I’ve only just met you.’
His hand was warm and soft. There was a childish simplicity to the gesture, as if he needed her care.
And just as she was wondering how she could help him, he said, ‘Everything’s going to change now that I’ve woken you up from your deepest slumber, Sleeping Beauty.
You’re the angel who’s been sent to make me into a better person. ’
He looked so contrite, his sad eyes pleading with her, that she couldn’t help but laugh again. ‘Are you in need of becoming a better person?’
‘All I need is a good woman.’ As if remembering something, he pulled his hands away and buried his face in them. ‘But now they’re roping me into all kinds of nonsense with this coronation. There’s no end of dull meetings. But I suppose it’s better than being sent back to the sticks.’
‘The sticks?’ What was he talking about?
‘Oh, my father’s estate in the country. He loathes me, and now that Mama’s gone, I just don’t fit in anymore.’
‘You poor thing,’ she murmured, taking his hand back, warming it.
He looked at it for a moment and then turned to her, picking up a lock of her hair that had tumbled down, his finger grazing her collarbone. ‘You truly are extraordinarily pretty, you know.’
‘I don’t feel very pretty in this boring uniform.’ She tried to re-pin her hair, but he took down her hands, his eyes locking onto hers.
‘A beauty like you shouldn’t be working as a maid. You should be on a stage, or maybe in Hollywood.’ His face came closer to hers, and she could feel his breath, full of warmth and whisky. ‘You need to be where people can admire you, adore you.’
‘How do you know? I’m a singer, you see.’ She could hardly believe her ears. Fate had brought him to her. ‘I’m trying to get onto a West End stage.’
He put his hand up to her face and ran a finger gently down her cheek, as if she were something to be cherished, loved. ‘With a face like that, you could make a lot of money as a singer, a model, an actress, anything you want. I know a few people who might be able to help, if you’d like.’
‘Truly?’ She gasped, unsure if she’d heard him properly. ‘Are they producers, directors . . .?’
‘That kind of thing. A friend of mine owns the Apollo Theatre, I believe.’
‘He owns it?’ Lucy blurted.
‘They have beauty contests every month or so.’ He sat up, as if an idea had come to him. ‘And you, my Sleeping Beauty, would win hands down. Wouldn’t that be the perfect way to meet him? I’m sure you’ll be the best – you’d win every beauty competition in the country.’
Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘Do you really think I’d stand a chance?’
He held a hand up to stop her. ‘Say no more! You, my darling girl, would make a fortune with that beautiful face. All you need is a few lessons on how to walk and pose, and then a gorgeous new outfit.’
‘I can’t afford—’ she began.
But he waved it aside with one hand. ‘Do not despair, little one. I’ll get you the perfect gown, one to show off your lovely figure.’
‘I can’t let you pay for a dress!’
He took her hand and said earnestly, ‘You can pay me back with your winnings.’
‘Really?’ She glowed appreciatively, a nervous smile on her lips. ‘I hope I don’t let you down. I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘Have no fear!’ He raised a hand dramatically. ‘I will teach you all you need to know.’ He rubbed his hands with enthusiasm. ‘You’ll be on the front of every newspaper in town. And who knows, after that you might be on television, entering Miss Great Britain.’
‘Me? On television?’ She bit her lip, her mother’s voice at the back of her mind taunting her: Don’t get too big for your boots, Lucy.
‘Now don’t start saying that your mother and your friends won’t approve. They’ll be jealous, especially when you win.’
She felt her shoulders straighten, pushing her mother out of her mind. Now that she was eighteen, she could make her own decisions. Even Miranda and Caroline said that the young queen should stand up to her mother, show her that the new ways were better. Now it was Lucy’s turn.
‘When do we start?’ she said.