The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets (29 page)

‘She
does.’

‘She
does?’ repeated Christopher. ‘Well, there we have it. Perhaps you could offer
her first refusal on the green and white set in the window? Wouldn’t she like
that? She could have it half price. I always felt green was her colour — don’t
ask me why. Perhaps it’s to do with that ghastly coat she always wears.’

‘I like
her coat.

‘Oh, it
must be me, then. I’m too old.’

‘Never.
Oh help, I’ve forgotten how many I’ve done now. Christopher looked at me
curiously. ‘You’re terribly distracted this morning. Is something wrong?’

‘Not
really.’ I said. ‘Just thinking.’

‘Well
don’t think, dearest. We’ve too much to get through.’ We were interrupted by
the tinkling of the bell as the front door opened and our first customer, an
elderly lady carrying a basket of needlework, entered the shop.

‘I’d
like to look at the green and white tea set in the window, please,’ she said,
removing her hat.

‘Oh,
good heavens, I’m frightfully sorry but it’s already reserved,’ said
Christopher pleasantly. ‘Remove it from the display. please, Penelope.’

The
woman turned to leave but Christopher was one step ahead. ‘Now. A lady like
you,’ he said, guiding her back into the shop, ‘should
really
be serving
tea from a mauve set.’

‘Mauve?’

‘Or
china blue,’ considered Christopher, ‘to match those marvellous twinkling eyes.

‘Oh!’
she squeaked.

I
giggled to myself Christopher was successful because he believed every word he
said. I wrapped the green and white tea set in newspaper and vowed to offer it
to Aunt Clare, not Charlotte.

‘Of
course, Victorian tea cosies are so attractive,’ Christopher was saying with
the air of one discussing Chanel’s latest collection. ‘I simply can’t get
enough of them.’

I
watched him cross the shop to what I called the trinket drawer. For a man who
had spent so much time in the air force, Christopher was still fabulously
pretty — his face was unlined and his hands were so soft that it was impossible
to imagine him doing anything out-of-doorsy at all. He dressed in a manner that
verged on dandyish (stopping just short of pink neckties) and was nothing short
of obsessed with his shoes, yet he was equally interested in beautiful women,
never failing to comment on the appearance of every female who entered the
shop. He had been very brave during the war, Mama had admitted to me one
evening last summer, braver than any of us would ever know, but she didn’t like
to see him too much now, claiming that he reminded her of Papa. As absolutely
everything in life reminded her of Papa, I felt it was rather silly of her to
block out Christopher whose
joie de vivre
and ability to find silver
linings in both clouds and smoking jackets never failed to make me feel better
about just about everything. As soon as we were alone again, I took a deep
breath.

‘So you
have been to Rome? Once upon a time?’

He gave
me a knowing sort of look. ‘Yes, as well you know, I have been to Rome. And
before you carry on with this unsubtle probing, I might as well tell you that
yes, I adored Clare Delancy for the ten days that I knew her, and yes, I know
she’s Charlotte’s aunt.

I was
stunned. ‘How did you know?’

Christopher
took off his glasses. ‘The moment Charlotte first walked into the shop she
reminded me of someone, and I spent the next few days trying to work out who
that someone was. Then it came to me. Lovely Clare Delancy. Rome 1935.’ His
eyes misted over. ‘I always thought Clare had the most glorious hair I had ever
seen. And that
perfect
nose! Charlotte is the only other woman I’ve ever
known with that perfect, Roman profile. I guessed right away that they must be
related. When I heard her talking about Aunt Clare last week, I put two and two
together.’ He looked quite smug. ‘Good bit of detective work there for you.’ He
bent his knees up and down. ‘Just call me Dixon of Dock Green.’

I
laughed. ‘Well, Charlotte’s aunt asked me to remember her to you,’ I said.

‘She
did?’ He was so stunned, he actually stopped moving for a second, which was so
unlike him that I felt slightly alarmed. ‘I’m amazed she has any recollection
of my existence.’ He was trying hard not to sound too pleased. ‘The day after I
left for England, she took up with some Austrian count. The following month, I
heard she was dining out every night with an eye doctor from Bristol. And all
the time she was married to some good-looking bore with a club foot. Yet she
was so entertaining, so rare and so damned beautiful, she was quite beyond
blame.’

‘Do you
think she ever had her heart broken? You know,
really
smashed into
pieces?’

‘Heavens,
your generation talk a lot of rubbish, Penelope. Hearts smashing into pieces,
indeed.’

‘Well,
answer the question,’ I said impatiently.

Christopher
blew his nose on a huge square of blue and pink silk. He always had the most
extravagant handkerchieves.

‘I
doubt anyone broke her,’ he said. ‘Women like that are far too interested in
who and what’s around the corner to become too attached. That’s where I imagine
the similarity between her and her dear niece extends beyond mere outward show.’

But he
was wrong there, of course. I remembered the way Charlotte had been off her
food around A the T and it made me worry that she would never love again.

‘Do get
on, Penelope,’ said Christopher irritably. ‘That’s quite enough thinking for
one day.’

I
rather agreed with him.

Half an hour later,
Charlotte burst through the door. She beamed at Christopher.

‘Lovely
day, isn’t it, Mr Jones? I’ve come to collect your assistant for a vital lunch
engagement.

‘I
thought we were meeting at Coffee on the Hill?’

I still
hadn’t got used to Charlotte’s maddening habit of arriving early for absolutely
everything.

‘We can
walk there now. I’m bursting to hear your news—’ She stopped in her tracks, her
eyes fixing on the window display. ‘Oh, what a beautiful scarf!’ she cried,
pulling a rust-coloured Sevillian shawl from off the top of a hideous old
sideboard that Christopher had never been able to shift. ‘How much?’

‘For
you, one pound,’ said Christopher, not batting an eyelid. ‘Oh come on! You can
do better than that!’ cried Charlotte, wrapping the shawl round her shoulders
and flouncing in front of the big mirror behind the counter. It looked
wonderful on her, I thought enviously — was there anything that Charlotte could
not conceive of wearing? I fervently wished that I had had the presence of mind
to realise two weeks ago, when Christopher first brought the scarf into the
shop, that it was more than just the ‘bit of old tat from Spain’ he’ had
described to me, for clearly it was a work of art, a beautiful piece of
seduction that Charlotte could easily choose to wear to see Johnnie in the
Palladium, and then he would fall in love with her and her exoticness, and not
even so much as glance my way— ‘One pound,’ repeated Christopher.

Charlotte
sighed and replaced the shawl. ‘Too much,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘Ten
shillings,’ ventured Christopher, no doubt hating himself Charlotte fixed him
with a stare.

‘Nine,’
she said.

‘Nine
and eightpence.’

‘Done.’

Charlotte
whipped out her purse and handed over the money before he could change his
mind.

‘You’re
a hard woman, Charlotte Ferris.’

‘Hard
my foot,’ I scoffed.

Charlotte
folded the scarf into her bag. Her eyes took on a thoughtful look. ‘You know,
Christopher, you and I should think about going into business together.’

Christopher
kept his cool. ‘I’d never survive with you at the helm,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t
trust you as far as I could throw you.’

‘Ooh!
You’re unkind!’ squeaked Charlotte.

‘Did.
you pay your train fare here?’ demanded Christopher coolly. He was
so
attractive
when he was like this, sort of like a good-looking headmaster who made one feel
guilty for thinking naughty things about what he did when he wasn’t working.

‘No I
did not pay my fare,’ said Charlotte defensively. ‘and what’s that got to do
with anything?’

‘It
simply proves my point.’

‘Well,
I could have lied to you and pretended that I
did
pay it,’ pointed out
Charlotte. ‘Instead, I chose to tell the truth.’

‘Big
mistake,’ said Christopher airily. ‘I’d have taken you more seriously if you’d
stuck to the lies. And Charlotte,’ he added briskly. ‘say hello to your aunt
from me, will you?’

Charlotte
didn’t miss a beat. ‘Of course I will. She talks of Paris with such fondness.’

‘It was
Rome.’

‘Ah,
you were Rome? I’m sorry, I get so muddled.’

‘You’re
very like her, you know,’ said Christopher.

‘People
say I look more like Aunt Clare than my mother,’ said Charlotte boastfully.

‘No, it’s
not that,’ said Christopher thoughtfully. ‘It’s your attitude. Too clever by
half’

Charlotte
kicked up her heels and blew him a kiss and we burst out onto the street into
the bright February sunshine. I thought how lovely it would be to have the
nerve that Charlotte had. It felt to me like all one would ever need in life.

I suppose Coffee on the
Hill was the first place in town to catch on to the fact that now that the war
was well and truly over, money could be made from catering directly for the new
youth, and the new youth gravitated towards it, magnetically drawn to the
pastel colours of the ice-cream sundaes and the smell of heat and youth. They
sold ham sandwiches and cheese on toast, and bucketloads of Heinz tomato soup
with white bread, and cigarettes and glasses of warm red wine that seemed to us
like the last word in sophistication. All the while, the records kept playing
and playing, and if you got to the place and there wasn’t too much of a crowd,
you could ask the waitress for Johnnie Ray and two minutes later you could
listen to him singing while you ate. Charlotte and I liked the corner table by
the far window so that we could glance down the hill towards the market square
as we talked, ate and smoked. It was the best table to be looked in on and also
the best table from which to stare out at the Teds who congregated on one of
the benches in the square. Charlotte’s face was grim with concentration where
Teds were concerned, all the time looking for A the T, though what he would be
doing in Bath I don’t know. There was no doubt that these groups of
velvet-collared boys had a hold on Charlotte. She flicked her hair more than
usual when we saw them; she spoke in a hushed voice as though they could hear
through glass.

I
ordered a plate of chips and a glass of orange juice, and Charlotte a bowl of
chocolate ice cream and a glass of lemonade. I waited until Charlotte had
consumed most of hers before starting to talk as she was never really able to
concentrate until her stomach was full. All around us the tables were filling
up — mostly with clusters of giggling girls — but occasionally a couple entered
the room, a girl and a boy who sat close together but said very little — struck
dumb by their own brilliance, I thought. Struck dumb by the wonderfulness of
being together and away from home. People-watching in Coffee on the Hill was
heady stuff.

‘Why
don’t you think Christopher’s married?’ asked Charlotte idly.

‘Why.
do you want to marry him?’ I giggled.

‘Shut
up. I was only asking.’ She actually went a bit pink.

‘He was
married once,’ I said. ‘His wife died a year after they were married.’

‘Gracious.
How inconsiderate. How?’

‘She
fell off a horse, I think.’

Charlotte
looked thoughtful for a moment then changed the subject as swiftly as if she
were changing a record. ‘So,’ she said, licking her spoon. ‘What did you want
to talk to me about, then?’

I didn’t
really know where to start, but I supposed that Harry’s offer was as good a
place as any. ‘It’s Harry,’ I said.

‘Don’t
tell me. You’ve fallen in love with him.’

I
shrieked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Thank
God. I’ve been fearing it for the past few weeks, you know.’

‘Why?’
I asked her, temporarily thrown.

‘I don’t
know. Just something about the way you look at him sometimes. It makes me
nervous, you know. As if you’re seeing things in him that no one else sees. Oh,
do signal to the waitress. Shall we get a pot of coffee?’

‘You’re
utterly wrong,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t be less enamoured of him. Especially at the
moment. He’s put me in a very difficult position.’’

Charlotte
raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh help. I hope he’s not falling in love with you. I hadn’t
even
considered
that.’ She looked horrified for a moment. ‘Sorry, that
wasn’t meant to be rude, it’s just that he’s been so obsessed by bloody Marina
I never imagined he could—’