Sweet Sorrow (8 page)

Her ears pricked as she heard the name Byron Gates. She would hardly have imagined that – being neither rich nor titled – he would be known to such women but it appeared she was wrong. One of the women was saying that her sister worked at the BBC – ‘
too
amusing, my dear, but if the war comes we’ll all be expected to do our bit, I suppose.’

‘I wouldn’t mind having a job,’ the woman on Verity’s left put in. ‘It might be rather exciting driving officers round London. Men look so much more manly in uniform, don’t you think, Babs?’

‘Not my Reggie. He’s a dear but not even a field marshal’s uniform would make him – how did you put it? – manly. As for Byron dressing up to look like Oscar Wilde, it might have been amusing in the twenties but how he manages to look louche without being attractive, I can’t think. And he hasn’t got any money.’

‘You don’t really think that, do you, darling?’ one of the other women said. ‘I think he’s so handsome and he dances divinely.’

‘Well, why don’t you ditch him, Babs? Reggie, I mean,’ the woman on Verity’s right suggested.

‘But how would I support myself without Reggie’s millions? There seem to be so many fewer unattached rich men in London nowadays.’

‘But, Babs, you promised to tell us about Merry,’ another woman said.

It appeared that Byron had taken ‘Merry’ – who, Verity deduced, was Babs’s younger sister – to the Embassy and then abandoned her for ‘some tart’, leaving her without the money to get a taxi home. ‘I mean, what a cad! Luigi had to sub her a pound,’ Babs finished.

‘How perfectly frightful! Well, of course he’s not a gentleman,’ one of the women said, powdering her nose with ferocity.

‘No, but he’s a poet and jolly good-looking,’ another of Babs’s friends said with a giggle.

‘Still, Merry’s learnt her lesson,’ her sister added, painting her lips a deeper shade of red. ‘She told me she’s thinking of becoming a lesbian – so amusing. Apparently the BBC is full of queers.’

‘If he did that to my sister, I’d get Ronald to give him a thrashing,’ her friend said, blotting her crimson lips on a paper towel.

Edward rose as Verity reappeared at the table. She apologized for being so long. ‘I just couldn’t drag myself away. I was eavesdropping on a conversation about Byron Gates. I gather he brought a girl here and left her without a sou while he went off with another girl. You men!’

She sank on to the banquette beside Edward and sipped at her champagne. Harry Roy’s band was playing dance music and a few couples were already on the floor.

‘Edward, look! That’s the woman who was talking about Byron.’

‘I know her. She’s Lady Gore-Bell. When I went out more often she and I used to “trip the light fantastic”.’

‘Well, introduce me to her. I want to see her face when she realizes she lost you to an unimportant journalist.’

‘Jealous, my own one?’ Edward said, taking her hand. ‘No need to be. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else tonight with anyone else. Let’s dance and we can “bump into” Barbara and I’ll introduce you.’

‘You know I can’t dance but I suppose no one will notice.’

‘Babs! Haven’t see you in ages,’ Edward said as he engineered the ‘bump’. ‘Do come and have a drink at our table. I don’t think you know my wife. Verity, this is Barbara Gore-Bell.’

Verity tried to look pleased.

‘Edward, darling – how absolutely lovely! I heard you were married and to a famous foreign correspondent.’ She offered Verity a limp hand. ‘I thought I recognized you downstairs. Oh help, I hope I wasn’t being indiscreet. I didn’t say anything about Edward, did I? The moment I saw your picture in
Tatler
– or was it the
Illustrated London News
? – anyway, the moment I saw it I said to Reggie, trust Edward to marry someone different. We debs bored him silly, didn’t we, Edward? By the way – this is Reggie, my husband. I absolutely adore him, don’t I, darling? And he’s heavenly rich.’

Reggie, a balding man some twenty years older than his wife, looked tickled to be adored for his wealth and smiled at her indulgently.

‘Lady Edward,’ he said taking Verity’s hand. ‘I say, beautiful and brainy! Not really fair, what!’

Edward saw Barbara wince but Verity held her smile which had become, he thought, roguish if insincere.

‘Sir Reginald . . .’ Verity allowed him to kiss her hand.

‘Reggie, you must call me Reggie. Everyone does, you know.’

‘And Verity – I may call you Verity, mayn’t I?’ his wife echoed. ‘You must call me Babs. I feel we are going to be great friends.’

‘Babs, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation when we were powdering our noses.’ Verity took pleasure in the lady-like euphemism. She tried not to sound arch. ‘You mentioned the name Byron Gates. We’ve just bought a house in Sussex and he happens to live in the same village.’

‘Oh Lord, was I talking ill of him?’

‘No need to apologize. We have met him but he’s not a friend. In fact, I have to confess that I didn’t take to him and it doesn’t surprise me to hear he behaved badly to your sister. I hope I am not being impertinent but the coincidence . . .’

‘Not at all. Edward knows I have the sweetest nature and never normally say anything bad about anyone but, really, he’s a rat.’ Barbara looked towards the stairs. ‘Good heavens, talk of the devil. Here he is now.’

‘Yes,’ Edward explained, ‘we came up to town on the same train and we sort of agreed to meet here. How embarrassing!’

‘We’ll leave you to him, won’t we, Reggie? I really can’t talk to him. I might have to douse him with champagne. Who’s the woman with him? It’s not his wife. She’s the actress, Mary Brand. I’ve met her. Don’t say he’s brought his mistress! When you are the Aga Khan, you can get away with having a string of mistresses but not when you are plain Mr Gates. Well, goodbye, both of you. Telephone me, Edward – Sloane 247. We must meet and talk over old times. Come, Reggie – it’s time we went home.’

She swept off haughtily, leaving Verity and Edward to greet Byron.

‘Wasn’t that Barbara Gore-Bell?’ Byron asked, sounding puzzled. ‘I wonder why she made off like that?’

‘She said you had abandoned her sister here one evening and gone off with some other girl.’ Verity thought it would be interesting to see how he reacted to being told the truth. Edward looked pained.

‘Oh really!’ Byron was indignant. ‘I brought Merry here, yes, but it was she who abandoned me. I had a dance or two with an old chum and, when I got back to the table, I found she had vanished. It was all a silly misunderstanding. She’s not still holding a grudge, is she?’

Edward had risen when Byron had come over to their table and now gently reminded him that he had not introduced them to his friend.

‘I do apologize. May I introduce you to Frieda Burrowes? Frieda, Lord and Lady Edward Corinth. Verity, I wanted you and Frieda to meet because I thought you would have so much in common.’

‘Really?’ Verity said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yes, Frieda’s a journalist too. She works at the BBC.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Byron. Miss Browne – I mean Lady Edward – is a real journalist. I merely interview women of note, that sort of thing. I interviewed Charlotte Hassel – she’s a friend of yours, I believe?’

‘One of my oldest friends,’ Verity said, warming to the girl.

‘She’s one of my favourite novelists. I say, Lady Edward . . . or do you prefer to be called Miss Browne?’

‘Miss Browne is the name I work under, but please call me Verity.’

‘Gosh! That’s very nice of you. I say, do you think I might interview
you
one day? You have had such an interesting life.’

‘I suppose so, but it’ll have to be soon. I am expecting to be posted abroad in the next few weeks.’

‘Of course. I’ll talk to my producer . . . Mr Barnes.’

‘Have you always been a journalist?’ Verity asked.

‘Well, I was an actress but I wasn’t getting on too well. Then I was lucky enough to be introduced to Val Gielgud. Do you know him?’

‘I’m afraid not but I’ve heard of him, of course. His brother is the actor?’

‘That’s right. Anyway, Val said I had a good voice for the wireless and he offered me a trial. So here I am at the BBC and, I must say, I really enjoy it. It’s true we women are rather kept in our place but we’re gradually being allowed to do more – like this interviewing.’

‘Are you allowed to interview men?’ Verity asked genuinely interested.

‘Not politicians or anyone important. It’s usually writers, artists – those sort of people.’

‘Unimportant men,’ Byron commented acidly.

‘Oh no, Byron. You are important but just not . . .’

‘Have you interviewed Byron yet?’ Verity asked to help Frieda out.

‘That’s how we met, actually. I engineered it! I thought he was gorgeous and I loved his poetry. Don’t you think he’s a great poet?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t read any yet,’ Verity admitted, turning to Byron, ‘but I’m going to buy one of your books while I’m in London.’ She added in excuse, ‘I don’t read much poetry but I do like W. H. Auden.’

Byron frowned. No one likes to hear a friend praised.

‘I’m surprised to see you in a place like this, Verity,’ Byron said, displeased. ‘With your left-wing principles, I mean.’

‘I could say the same about you,’ Verity responded, smiling until her face hurt.

‘
Touché
, but we have to have some pleasures, don’t we? The band’s very good.’

‘I’m told you’re a good dancer,’ Verity teased, and was taken aback when he seemed gratified by her compliment.

‘You are very kind but I just do what I can to avoid stepping on my partner’s toes. Will you . . . if your husband permits?’ he said, holding out his hand.

Verity had no option but to take his hand and get up. She had to admit after a minute or two that it wasn’t a penance. Byron
was
a good dancer and, even better, he made her feel she too could dance well. They moved some distance from their table and she began to relax as the music and Byron’s instinctive grace gave her confidence.

‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer,’ she said. ‘I never did the Season and there wasn’t much dancing in Spain.’

She wished she had not made the excuse. It sounded as if she was trying to claim the moral high ground but Byron did not seem to notice.

‘You dance beautifully. Your partner has very little to do except try not to trip over his feet,’ he said with a smile.

‘Where did you learn to dance so well?’

‘You’ll laugh, but when I was young and very short of money, I used to spend what little I had going to dance halls. I don’t suppose you think of poets as being social animals but I always liked company, particularly female. No starving in a garret if I could possibly avoid it.’

‘Presumably there isn’t a vast amount of money in poetry, or am I wrong?’

‘You are not wrong. I worked in a preparatory school for some time – oh dear, you can’t imagine how awful that was – and then I hit lucky with these detective stories. In fact, there’s talk of turning one of them into a film. My wife, Mary, is in Hollywood, as I think I told you, and she has a certain amount of influence with some of the producers over there.’

‘How exciting! I didn’t know you wrote detective stories as well. I’ll buy one of those too. I’ll dash round to Bumpus tomorrow straight after breakfast. I wonder if they’ll give me a discount if I say you are a friend?’

‘I doubt it,’ Byron said, not seeming to notice he was being teased.

Verity thought he might offer to give her a copy but he didn’t. He sounded a little too pleased with himself and she wanted very much to prick his self-esteem but she could hardly blame him for bragging.
She
might be tempted to brag if she had had the same success with her writing as he had enjoyed.

‘And your wife doesn’t mind you dancing the night away with your charming friend?’ She hadn’t been able to stop herself. ‘Oh sorry, how rude of me!’

‘My wife doesn’t mind. We have a sort of understanding. What she does in Hollywood is her business and while she’s away . . . Well, she doesn’t expect me to be celibate. Are you shocked?’

‘No, of course not!’ Verity
was
shocked even if she couldn’t admit it. She wouldn’t want to think Edward was ‘dancing’ with other women when she was abroad. ‘I like detective stories,’ she said, trying to recover herself. ‘They’re an escape from the reality of death. Which do you think is your best?’

‘I really wouldn’t know. I always think my most recent book is my best.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘
The Unkindest Cut.
’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Oh, the usual thing – a man hears something he shouldn’t and gets murdered.’

‘
The Unkindest Cut
– that’s a quotation, isn’t it? I’m sure I’ve heard Edward say it when he cuts himself shaving. You know, he maddens me by seeming to know the whole of Shakespeare off by heart. Is it Shakespeare, by the way?’

‘It is, as a matter of fact –
Julius Caesar
. “Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him! This was the most unkindest cut of all . . .”’

‘Yes, it’s usually Shakespeare when the grammar’s wonky. Even I know not to write “most unkindest”. So, in your book the victim was stabbed?’

‘He had his head cut off, but in the play Brutus stabbed Caesar, as I expect you remember. I would have called it
Cut off his Head
but I’d already used it as a title. It’s from
Henry VI
, you know – all my titles come from Shakespeare.’

‘Not Byron?’

‘I’ll tell you a secret.’ He leant forward and whispered in her ear. ‘I prefer Shelley. In fact, my detective is called Shelley. “I met Murder on the way – he had a mask like Castlereagh – very smooth he looked, yet grim; seven bloodhounds followed him . . .”.’ he quoted.

‘Gosh! I’m quite confused,’ Verity said, trying not to sound sarcastic. ‘So you’re Shelley, not Byron after all!’

When they returned to the table, Byron swept up Frieda for a foxtrot and Edward suggested Verity might like to dance with him.

‘I doubt I’m up to Byron’s standard but . . .’

‘Don’t fish for compliments. You know very well you are an excellent dancer.’