Lucy
THE CHURCH BELLS PEALED OUT FOR SHIRLEY AND VERNON as the group of women followed the wedding guests through the great doors, chatting with glee at their friend’s happy day.
After that first night of passion, he’d called her a taxi in the early hours, and as it sped beneath the lights of London, elation exploded inside her, marred only by a clingy unease that refused to be shaken off.
Desperate to cement their relationship, she’d let him seduce her.
Once he had her clothes off, it seemed inevitable, as if it would be her fault if she pulled away, her prissiness and na?veté ruining everything he’d done for her.
Not to mention everything he could do for her in the future.
At home, she washed and then coiled herself up in bed, sleep evading her as her mind churned. Something about the act, the intimacy, the deeper connection, had brought them closer, but tears welled in her eyes as she murmured, ‘What have I done?’ into her damp pillow.
Would he want to see her again? Had she given away her virginity for him to toss her into the gutter?
For the following week, she checked Guest Room 33 several times a day, often risking her job to do so.
But where was he?
She couldn’t help but think he was avoiding her. Maybe he’d taken a different room or even decided not to stay in the palace at all.
A dread she had never felt before scrambled her head. No matter how many times she told herself that her virginity was nothing, that this was a new modern era and she was free to have sex with any man she wanted, inside she felt exposed.
When at last she saw him, walking down a corridor with Morris, she felt her legs give way and stepped to the wall to rebalance herself.
And when he stopped, uttering the words, ‘My Sleeping Beauty,’ her heart slid back into place, thumping hard as if she could finally carry on. How easy it was to forget her worries, laugh at her doubts.
At his suggestion, she popped into his guest room that afternoon, where they made love under the covers, as if it were a secret only they shared.
Of course he loved her. Why did she ever doubt him?
After that, they began spending more time together.
It was as if he’d opened up a new, more adult side of her, and she felt ever more devoted to him, ever more determined for him to want her, too.
If only he could stay in London more often, but his father was always calling him to their country estate.
Today he had to miss Shirley’s wedding for a funeral there.
It was hard to think about him being so far away, grieving on his own. That’s how close they’d become.
Only a few days ago, he’d told her about meeting his agent friend, Metty Metcalf. He’d arranged a lunch in Wheelers, a West End restaurant, the following Thursday, which meant she’d have to take the day off work.
‘But it’ll be well worth it,’ he said, and her heart lit with anticipation.
Settling herself into the pew, Lucy took in the church, filled with garish yellow and pink flowers, the expectant groom standing at the altar. How ecstatic she would be to see Richard there on their wedding day! How joyous if this were her day, her moment.
She turned to Betty and said, ‘I wonder how Shirley must be feeling. All nerves, I bet.’
‘She’ll be delighted. With a house in the suburbs, she’ll be busy with children before you know it.’ Betty smiled at Lucy. ‘I know you’ll miss her, but she’ll be happy as a rabbit in a brand-new burrow.’
But Lucy was too busy imagining Richard’s country estate, how many steps above her old neighbour she could be if she played her cards right. She saw how Richard looked at her. All she needed was to draw him in, keep him entranced.
The organ began, those first repeated notes proclaiming, ‘Here Comes the Bride’.
At the door, Shirley stood radiant in full white, and as she walked down the aisle, a great smile beamed from her as if she couldn’t help it. She had reached her goal, and this was her walk of victory.
‘I, Shirley Anne Wood, take thee, Vernon Albert Bateson . . .’ The service droned on, eventually coming to, ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.’
With lips pursed outward like a fish, Vernon made a lunge for Shirley, who demurely pulled back before leaning in to give him a quick peck.
‘No wonder Shirley wanted to keep her virginity for the wedding night,’ Miranda murmured.
‘It’s so old-fashioned to save yourself for marriage,’ Lucy replied, feeling grown-up.
But Miranda only threw her an odd look, as if with a question.
Betty whispered loudly, ‘If you give a man what he wants before you’re married, why would he marry you? To men, we’re just a conquest – once he’s got you, he won’t need to propose.’
‘But everyone’s doing it before marriage these days.’ Lucy tried to keep her tone casual. ‘The magazines say that’s how a man gets to know you.’
But Betty replied pointedly, ‘It’s not all about sex.’
The last part of this sentence was said rather loudly, just when the church had silenced before the closing prayer, and the words all about sex echoed around the nave.
Whispers ensued, accompanied by a few giggles, one or two people peering across to see who’d said it. Miranda burst out laughing while Lucy apologized to Betty, who glared ahead, reddening by the minute.
Loud organ music heralded the end of the service, and the bride floated beatifically down the aisle, her arm clinging to her new husband. Lucy tried to catch her eye, exchange a smile, but Shirley didn’t even turn to find her in the crowd.
The wedding reception was held in the church hall, a buffet table laden with sandwiches, cold pies and ham, followed by tarts and jellies. Wine and beer were flowing, and spirits were high, and before long, the wedding cake was being cut.
The Buckingham Palace group sat together, repeating how lucky Shirley was to marry Vernon. Maybe they would have their honeymoon abroad. Vernon had a car, so they could take the ferry to France and drive to the Riviera.
But Lucy wasn’t listening. It sounded so very mundane compared to Richard’s French chateau.
Then the conversation moved to the latest palace gossip. A journalist by the name of J. Marshall was writing newspaper articles about the coronation.
‘It’s in a New York paper, of all places,’ Hilda said.
‘But there’s no one at the palace by that name.’ Betty looked at Miranda. ‘You used to live in New York, didn’t you? Why do you think it’s being published over there?’
‘I don’t know how newspapers work.’ Miranda shrugged. ‘Maybe the New York papers pay better money than the British ones. Do they know who’s leaking the details?’
‘They think it’s one of the underbutlers, but there’s no proof yet,’ Hilda went on. ‘With so many extra staff brought in for the coronation, it’s hard to make sure everyone’s honest. Miss Driscoll is saying that she has proof it’s someone working in the offices.’
‘Well, whoever he is, I hope they find him soon,’ Miranda said, her attention straying to the stage, where a band was setting up. ‘Oh, look, a jazz band!’
To everyone’s delight, ‘In the Mood’ rang out across the room as the band belted out the popular wartime number. Immediately, the dance floor filled.
As soon as the music started, Lucy felt herself relax. It was as if the music unwound her on the inside, reminding her of her heady days on the stage.
It was a complete big band, with trombone, trumpet and a double bass, the saxophonist in the middle giving it his all. A drummer sat at the back beside an upright piano, the pianist’s hands moving dexterously over the keys.
How she wished she were up there, dressed in a floor-length gown, all eyes on her.
Hopefully Richard’s friend could bring everything within her grasp.
The saxophonist began a soaring solo centre stage, the audience cheering as he reached the final, swooping notes.
But it wasn’t until he bowed that Lucy had to look again.
Didn’t she know him?
As he stood back up, she let out a gasp.
Wasn’t that Richard’s assistant? What was his name, Morris?
He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his hair was combed more fashionably. Dressed in a beige linen suit and a trilby hat, he looked stylish and young, like the students in Bloomsbury.
Caroline saw her watching. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I’ve seen him around the palace. He must work there.’
‘I think I’ve seen him, too,’ Miranda added, ‘but goodness knows where.’
It was surprising that Morris, a man Richard dismissed as stuffy and immaterial, could perform like that.
He didn’t seem the modern type at the palace; but here, rather than the flustered assistant, he looked relaxed, moving easily to the music.
It was as if he’d taken off his work suit and was showing a whole new side of himself.
‘Why don’t you get up and sing, Lucy?’ Caroline said. ‘They don’t seem to have a vocalist. You can show us what you can really do.’
Overhearing, Miranda began to insist. ‘You always say how you don’t get to sing anymore. Well, now’s your chance.’
They were right, thought Lucy. This was why she came to London; this is what Richard saw in her.
She walked across to the stage, and when Morris recognized her, he immediately went over to speak to her.
He promptly agreed to have her sing the next number, taking her hand to help her onstage before making an announcement.
‘We’re fortunate enough to have a singer in our midst, and we’d like you to put your hands together for Lucy Jones.’
The room broke into applause.
As she stood in the middle, all eyes on her, she felt a surge of delight.
This was where she belonged.
‘Next is “Puttin’ On the Ritz”. Is that all right?’ Morris whispered with a smile.
She nodded, and as the band began the intro, Lucy swayed to the music, relaxed and yet suddenly alive. And in that moment she knew that if there was anything in this world that she was truly made for, it was this.