Chapter 2
“Ahhhh!” This was the noise I made as I exited the Bloomsbury offices of Price-Lewis & Aster Publishing.
“Gaaaa!” This was how it sounded as I aimed a kick at a rubbish bin, slipped on the icy pavement and missed.
“Oi! What’s your game?” A policeman was inevitably on hand to chastise me. “That’s the King’s rubbish bin, matey. It’s lucky you didn’t do any damage, or I’d be bringing you before a magistrate.”
I was lying on my back by now but felt obliged to respond to his ridiculous claim. “So the King doesn’t just own all the swans in Great Britain. He can lay claim to the rubbish bins, too, is that right?”
“Yes, it is, young man.” The blue-uniformed bobby was only a few years my senior, but his bushy moustache gave him the look (and apparently the attitude) of an old man. “That’s public property, and who owns the public if not the King?”
I could see that his knowledge of monarchical power was less than extensive but decided not to argue with him. “Very well. Please send my apologies to King George. I meant no offence to him or his rubbish bin.”
On hearing my softer tone, he relented somewhat. “To tell the truth, I’m not in an arresting mood this morning.” He became quite jubilant and was clearly eager to tell me why. “You see, I’ve just become a father.”
I held my hand out in the hope he might help me to my feet.
Instead, he shook it enthusiastically and continued his prattling.
“My little Kermit is a bonny lad. If you haven’t got children yourself, I really must recommend it.
There is no feeling in life like the moment you lay your eyes on the little cherub for the first time. ”
Marvelling at the miracle of human existence, he wandered away, whistling a lively melody and spinning his truncheon in his hand. Before I could stand back up, a line of businessmen stepped over me. I considered surrendering to my misfortune and going to sleep there on the pavement.
It was amazing how much had changed in a short period of time.
I’d always considered myself a confident, capable sort of person.
I’d got through the war with only a few shrapnel wounds, and when I’d bought my flat, I thought that all my troubles were behind me.
All I needed was to write a second book, but there was something stopping me – something that would no longer tick along as it was supposed to.
So there I was, lying really very close to the gutter, looking up at the stars.
“Are you quite all right?” a refined voice called from nearby. My publisher’s office was next door to Hotel Russell and… well, it was a nice part of town, to say the least.
Whoever had spoken came closer. I was still too winded to look around but could hear the click clack click of her heels on the flagstones. A dainty hand entered my view, and I put my own out to take it.
“My goodness, Marius! It is you.”
I was brushing dirt and ice from my officer’s coat and didn’t look at her. I should have known instantly. I should have recognised her from the first word, but it had been a little over a decade, and we had both grown up a great deal in the intervening years.
I finally looked at her, and there, standing before me, was my childhood sweetheart.
In an instant, it was as though a cherry tree in full bloom had sprouted in the middle of London in the dead of winter.
For a moment, I thought of running across the street and through the park to safety, but then I uttered her name, and I knew there was no escaping.
“Bella.”
She was even more beautiful than I remembered.
I know novelists are supposed to be good with words, but that doesn’t mean I can capture the true, unfathomable magic of a person.
She had doe-eyes, porcelain skin, silky black hair that shone to turn the dull morning bright and so on and so forth, etc. , etc.
If I continue with that task, it could well turn into an epic poem.
So for everyone’s sake, I’ll stop there.
What I will say is that, the moment I saw her, I felt as though she was what had been missing from my life.
In fact, I felt just as I had on our last encounter – as if my heart had stopped beating in my chest.
“My goodness, Marius,” she repeated. “It’s such a surprise to bump into you like this. I haven’t seen you since—”
“It’s been about ten years,” I interrupted, to make sure she didn’t speak of our final night together. I adopted my smoothest voice and hoped that she wouldn’t think too hard about where she’d just found me. “Yes, it’s a pleasure to see you.”
She didn’t speak then. She examined me like a student studying some curious sculpture in the British Museum. As her eyes searched my face for the inevitable adaptations that so many years will produce, I wanted to take her hand again to feel it in mine for just a moment longer.
We stood there for fifteen seconds – each one of them lasting hours – and, when she finally spoke, it was not what I wanted to hear. “Marius, you look dreadful. Is everything all right?”
I laughed then. I laughed a loud, ridiculous laugh that made everything worse. “I’m just having one of those lives,” I said despite myself.
“Come with me.”
Before I could object, she seized my hand and pulled me along the pavement past Price-Lewis & Aster.
I wondered for a moment whether she would take me to a Salvation Army shelter, make sure I had a blanket and a mug of hot soup, then disappear from my life once more.
Instead, she squeezed my hand a little tighter and led me across the road to the park at the centre of the square.
“Wait here for just a moment.” Her eyes looked into mine, and I would have done any last thing she requested. She darted across the road, passing through the traffic as though mere cars and lorries could do her no harm.
In all the times I had imagined our reunion, I had not pictured myself lying on my back on a London pavement, nor foreseen the look of concern that had shaped her features as she took me to a safe place and made certain that I would not run away.
I can only assume that she would have done the same for a stray dog.
I watched as she reached her Sunbeam 12/16, which she already had when we were younger. It made me happy to know that she’d never moved on to the Daimlers and Bentleys that the rest of her frighteningly wealthy family surely owned. A Sunbeam was the perfect car for her.
Less perfect, though, was her chauffeur, Caxton.
The old misery had never liked me, and his gaze flew across the road like an arrow as I watched her speak to him.
He was the sort who had an opinion on everything and, due to his position as a trusted employee of the Montague family, felt confident enough to express himself.
Even from fifty paces, I knew just how he felt about me.
“It’s good to see that some things haven’t changed,” I said once my old friend had returned.
She put her arm through mine, and my disastrous morning was all but forgotten. “Come along, you. It’s been far too long.” We followed the diagonal path deeper into the park, and she chatted away as though no time had passed.
I patted her hand softly. “Never a truer word was spoken.”
“I’d ask you what you’ve been doing, but I already know the answer,” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
I analysed every word she said for hidden meanings. If she knew what I’d been doing, did that mean she’d made an effort to follow my career? Or had she merely stumbled across my book in a shop somewhere?
Her guilty smile hollowed out two perfect dimples on her cheeks. “I must have bought twenty copies of A Killer in the Wings.”
“That’s half the total sales.” I had hoped this would sound humble, but she tutted in response.
“You’re too hard on yourself. We both know how successful you are.”
“I’m doing quite well,” I lied and then, against my better judgement, I attempted a boast. “I live in St James’s Square now. Number fifteen.” I felt a fool for trying to impress the daughter of a duke with such a petty claim.
“Lucky you,” was her unexpectedly melancholy response. “I would love to spend more time in the city. Hurtwood House is a beautiful old place, but I never imagined I would be living there at twenty-eight.”
If she was still living at home, this had to mean she’d never married. Unless, of course, her husband had moved into her family home, and they’d— Gloomy thoughts flooded my brain, and I wished that I could have been the suave, aloof chap I liked to imagine myself.
“Tell me, what have you been doing all this time?” I asked to hide what I was really thinking. The path we were on was lined with bronze statues of old lords and politicians, and she glanced at one of them before replying.
“Oh, I’m sure you can guess.” She smiled again, and it was as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud.
“I helped out during the war when the government turned our house into a recovery centre for injured soldiers from the Royal Engineers. I spent a few years working at the Home Office, but then Father fell ill, and I returned to help look after him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve always been very fond of Lord Hurtwood.”
For a moment, a look of sadness troubled her pretty face, but it soon disappeared. “He speaks very highly of you, too.”
We were both tongue-tied as we reached the fountain in the middle of the square.
It was Bella who managed to find her words first. “Why were you lying on the pavement?” A worried expression troubled her brow. “Is something the matter?”
“Something the matter? With me?” I directed a puff of air towards my fringe and attempted another fake smile. “I’ve never been better.”
“Come along, Marius. I’ve known you since we were five years old. You can’t dupe me like that.”