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She let out a cry, a puppy whine of surprise. He’d come to meet her, before work. She knew she was blushing, heat prickling her cheeks. She fanned her hand across her face, thankful for the cool air. ‘I’m late for work,’ she said. ‘I can’t chat.’
‘I thought you could take the day off,’ he said. ‘Pretend you’re sick or something.’
‘I’d lose my job if she ever found out.’
‘Get another,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. Stanislaus had never had to work, couldn’t understand how hard she’d struggled to get where she was. Ada Vaughan, from Lambeth, working with a modiste, in Mayfair. ‘How will she find out?’
He stepped forward and, cupping her chin in his hand, brushed his lips against hers. His touch was delicate as a feather, his fingers warm and dry round her face. She leant towards him, couldn’t help it, as if he was a magnet and she his dainty filings.
‘It’s a lovely day, Ada. Too nice to be cooped up inside. You need to live a little. That’s what I always say.’ She smelled cologne on his cheeks, tart, like lingering lemon. ‘You’re late already. Why bother going in now?’
Mrs B. was a stickler. Ten minutes and she’d dock half a day’s wages. Ada couldn’t afford to lose that much money. There was a picnic basket on the pavement beside Stanislaus. He’d got it all planned.
‘Where had you in mind?’
‘Richmond Park,’ he said. ‘Make a day of it.’
The whole day. Just the two of them.
‘What would I say to her?’ Ada said.
‘Wisdom teeth,’ Stanislaus said. ‘That’s always a good one. That’s why there are so many dentists in Vienna.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘It’s a toff’s complaint.’
She’d have to remember that. Toffs had wisdom teeth. Somebodies had wisdom teeth.
‘Well,’ she hesitated. She’d lost half a day’s wages already. ‘All right then.’ Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
‘That’s my Ada.’ He picked up the picnic basket with one hand, put his other round her waist.
She’d never been to Richmond Park, but she couldn’t tell him that. He was sophisticated, travelled. He could have had his pick of women – well-bred, upper-class women, women like the debutantes she clothed and flattered and who kept Mrs B. in business. Ahead of her the park gates rose in ornate spears. Below, the river curled through lush green woods to where the distant, dusty downs of Berkshire merged into slabs of pearl and silver against the sky. The sun was already high, its warm rays embracing her as if she was the only person in the world, the only one who mattered.
They entered the park. London was spread before them, St Paul’s and the City cast in hazy silhouette. The ground was dry, the paths cracked and uneven. Ancient oaks with blasted trunks and chestnuts with drooping catkins rose like forts from the tufted grassland and fresh, spiky bracken. The air was filled with a sweet, cloying scent. Ada crinkled her nose.
‘That’s the smell of trees making love,’ Stanislaus said.
Ada put her hand to her mouth. Making love. No one she knew talked about that sort of thing. Maybe her mother was right. He’d brought her here for a purpose. He was fast. He laughed.
‘You didn’t know that, did you? Chestnuts have male and female flowers. I guess it’s the female that gives off the smell. What do you think?’
Ada shrugged. Best ignore it.
‘I like chestnuts,’ he went on. ‘Hot chestnuts on a cold winter’s day. Nothing like it.’
‘Yes.’ She was on safe ground. ‘I like them too. Conkers, and all.’
And all. Common.
‘Different sort of chestnut,’ he said.
How was Ada to know? There was so much to learn. Had he noticed how ignorant she was? He didn’t show it. A gentleman.
‘We’ll stop here, by the pond.’ He put down the hamper and pulled out a cloth, flicking it so it filled with air like a flying swan, before falling to the earth. If she’d known she was going to have to sit on the ground, she’d have worn her sundress with the full skirt, enough to tuck round so she didn’t show anything. She lowered herself, pulled her knees together, bent them to the side and tugged her dress down as best she could.
‘Very ladylike,’ Stanislaus said. ‘But that’s what you are, Ada, a real lady.’ He poured two beakers of ginger beer, passed one to her and sat down. ‘A lovely lady.’
No one had ever called her lovely before. But then, she’d never had a boy before. Boy. Stanislaus was a man. Mature, experienced. At least thirty, she guessed. Maybe older. He reached forward and handed Ada a plate and a serviette. There was a proper word for serviette, but Ada had forgotten it. They never had much use for things like that in Theed Street. He pulled out some chicken, what a luxury, and some fresh tomatoes, and a tiny salt and pepper set.
‘Bon appétit,’ he said, smiling.
Ada wasn’t sure how she could eat the chicken without smearing grease over her face. This was all new to her. Picnics. She picked at it, pulling off shards of flesh, placing them in her mouth.
‘You look a picture,’ Stanislaus said. ‘Demure. Like one of those models in Vogue.’
Ada began to blush again. She rubbed her hand over her neck, hoping to steady the colour, hoping Stanislaus had not noticed. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘No,’ Stanislaus went on, ‘I mean it. The first time I saw you I knew you had class. Everything about you. Your looks, the way you held yourself, the way you dressed. Chic. Original. Then when you told me you made the clothes. Well! You’ll go far, Ada, believe me.’
He leant on one elbow, stretched out his legs, plucked a blade of grass and began to flutter it on her bare leg. ‘You know where you belong?’ he said.
She shook her head. The grass tickled. She longed for him to touch her again, run his finger against her skin, feel the breeze of a kiss.
‘You belong in Paris. I can see you there, sashaying down the boulevards, turning heads.’
Paris. How had Stanislaus guessed? House of Vaughan. Mrs B. said maison was French for house. Maison Vaughan.
‘I’d like to go to Paris,’ Ada said. ‘Be a real modiste. A couturier.’
‘Well, Ada,’ he said, ‘I like a dreamer. We’ll have to see what we can do.’
Ada bit her lip, held back a yelp of excitement.
He pushed himself upright and sat with his elbows on his knees. He lifted one arm and pointed to the deep bracken on the right. ‘Look.’ His voice was hushed. ‘A stag. A big one.’
Ada followed his gaze. It took her a while, but she spotted it, head proud above the bracken, the fresh buds of antlers on its crown.
‘They grow them in the spring,’ he said. ‘A spur for every year. That one will have a dozen by the end of the summer.’
‘I never knew that,’ Ada said.
‘Bit of a loner, this time of year,’ Stanislaus continued. ‘But come the autumn, he’ll build a harem. Fight off the competition. Have all the women to himself.’
‘That doesn’t sound very proper,’ Ada said. ‘I wouldn’t want to share my husband.’
Stanislaus eyed her from the side. She knew then it was a silly thing to say. Stanislaus, man of the world, with his much-married aunt.
‘It’s not about the women,’ he said. ‘It’s about the men. Survival of the fittest, that’s what it’s about.’
Ada wasn’t sure what he meant.
‘Wisdom teeth,’ Ada said.
Mrs B. raised a painted eyebrow. ‘Wisdom teeth?’ she said. ‘Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ Mrs B. said. ‘You weren’t the only one skiving off. Nice summer’s day. I’ve given Avril her marching orders.’
Ada swallowed. She should never have let Stanislaus persuade her. Mrs B. was going to sack her. She’d have no work. How would she tell her mother? She’d have to get another position, before the day was out. Guess what, Mum? I’ve changed my job. She’d lie, of course. Mrs B. didn’t have enough work for me.
‘You knew there were big orders coming in. How did you think I was supposed to cope?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ada said. She cupped her hand around her cheek, as Stanislaus had done, remembered the cool tenderness of his touch. Stick with the excuse. ‘It was swollen. It hurt too much.’
Mrs B. harrumphed. ‘If it had been any one of the other girls, you’d be out on your ear by now. It’s only because you’re good and I need you that I’ll let you stay.’
Ada dropped her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Her body relaxed into relief. ‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to let you down. It won’t happen again.’
‘If it does,’ Mrs B. said, ‘there’ll be no second chance. Now, get back to work.’
Ada walked towards the door of Mrs B.’s office, hand poised on the handle.
‘You’re really good, Ada,’ Mrs B. called. Ada turned to face her. ‘You’re the most talented young woman I’ve known. Don’t throw away your chances on a man.’
Ada swallowed, nodded.
‘I won’t be so tolerant next time,’ Mrs B. added.
‘Thank you,’ Ada said and smiled.
*
Ada stretched her slender fingers, took a cigarette and drew it to her lips. Legs crossed and wound round each other like the coils of a rope. She breathed in, inclined her head with the smile of a saint, and watched as the plumes of smoke furled from her nostrils. She leant forward and picked up her Martini glass. The Grill Room. Plush, red seats, golden ceilings. She glanced in the mirrors and saw herself and Stanislaus reflected a thousand times. They became other people in the infinity of glass, a man in an elegant suit and a woman in Hollywood cerise.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ Stanislaus said.
‘Am I?’ Ada hoped she sounded nonchalant, another word she’d picked up at Mrs B.’s.
‘You could drive a chap to distraction.’
She uncurled her legs, leant forward and tapped his knee. ‘Behave.’
A whirlwind romance, that’s what Woman’s Own would call it. A swirling gale of love that snagged her in its force. She adored Stanislaus. ‘It’s our anniversary,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘Fourteenth of July. Three months.’ Ada nodded. ‘Three months since I met you that day in April, in the pouring rain.’
‘Anniversary?’ Stanislaus said. He smiled, a crooked curl of his lip. Ada knew that look. He was thinking. ‘Then we should go away. Celebrate. Somewhere romantic. Paris. Paree.’
Paris. Paree. She longed to see Paris, hadn’t stopped thinking about it, since that day in Richmond Park.
‘How about it?’
She never thought he’d suggest going away so soon. Not now, with all this talk of Hitler and bomb shelters. ‘Isn’t there going to be a war?’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should wait a bit.’
‘War?’ He shook his head. ‘There’s not going to be a war. That’s just all talk. Hitler’s got what he wants. Claimed back his bits of Germany. He’s not greedy. Believe me.’
That wasn’t what her father said, but Stanislaus was educated. He was bound to know more.
‘You said you wanted to go,’ Stanislaus continued. ‘You could see some real French couture. Get ideas. Try them out here. You’d soon make a name for yourself.’
Ada opened her mouth to speak but her tongue rucked up like a bolster. She bit her lip and nodded, calculating quickly. Her parents would never let her go to Paris, not with all this talk of war, much less let her go with a man. They knew she was courting, but even so. She knew they wouldn’t like a foreigner. She told them he brought her home each night, made sure she was safely back. She told him her parents were invalids and couldn’t have visitors. She’d have to miss work, invent some excuse for going away otherwise she’d get the sack. What would she say to Mrs B.?
‘Do you have a passport?’ Stanislaus said.
A passport. ‘No,’ she said. ‘How do I get one of those?’
‘This isn’t my country.’ Stanislaus was smiling. ‘But my English friends tell me there is an office which issues them, in Petty France.’
‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ Ada said, ‘in my lunch hour. I’ll get one straight away. Will you wait for me?’ She’d tell her parents Mrs B. was sending her to Paris, to look at the collections, to buy new fabrics. She’d ask Mrs B. if she would really let her do that.
Only the man in Petty France said she needed a photograph, and her birth certificate, and seeing as how she was under twenty-one, her father needed to complete the form. They could issue it in twenty-four hours but only in an emergency, otherwise she’d have to wait six weeks.
‘But,’ he added, ‘we don’t advise travel abroad right now, Miss, not on the Continent. There’s going to be war.’
War. That was all anyone talked about. Stanislaus never mentioned war, and she liked him for that. He gave her a good time.
‘Can’t worry about what’s not here.’
The man frowned, shook his head, raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she was being a bit silly. But even if war was coming, it was months away yet.
She sniffed and put the papers in her handbag. She couldn’t ask her father to fill out the form. That would be the end of the matter. She’d never told Stanislaus how old she was, and he’d never asked. But if he understood she was a minor, he might get cold feet and lose interest in her. She was a free spirit, he’d said, he’d spotted it the first time they met. How could she tell him otherwise?
The solution came to her that afternoon, watching Mrs B. make out the bill for Lady MacNeice. Ada’s father wrote with a slow, careful hand, linking the arms and legs of his letters in a looping waltz. Ada had always been entranced by the way he choreographed his words, had tried to copy him when she was young. It was an easy hand to forge, and the man at Petty France would be none the wiser. She knew it was wrong, but what else could she do? She’d get her likeness taken tomorrow, in her lunch hour. There was a photographer’s shop in Haymarket. It would be ready at the weekend. She’d go to the public library on Saturday, fill in the form, take it in person on Monday. It would be ready in a few weeks.
‘Then it has to be the Lutetia,’ Stanislaus said. ‘There is simply no other hotel. Saint-Germain-des-Prés.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Have you ever been on a boat?’
‘Only on the river.’ She’d been on the Woolwich ferry.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘August is a good month to sail. No storms.’
*
Ada had it worked out. She’d have to tell her parents, but she’d do it after she’d gone. Send them a postcard from Paris so they wouldn’t call the police and declare her a Missing Person. She’d have hell to pay when she got back, but by then Stanislaus and she would be engaged in all likelihood. She’d tell Mrs B. she was going to Paris on a holiday and would she like her to bring back some fabric samples, some tissus? She’d say it in French. Mrs B. would be grateful, would tell her where to go. That’s kind of you, Mademoiselle, giving up your holiday. It would give her something to do in Paris, and she could pick up ideas. In the meantime, she’d bring the clothes she planned to take to Paris with her to work, one at a time. She sometimes brought sandwiches for lunch in a small tote bag. It was summer, and the dresses and skirts were light fabrics, rayon or lawn. She knew how to fold them so they wouldn’t crease or take up space. She would hide everything in her cupboard at work, the one where she hung her coat in winter and kept a change of shoes. Nobody looked in there. She would need a suitcase. There were plenty in Mrs B.’s boxroom which was never locked. She’d borrow one. She had the keys to the shop. Come in early on the day, pack quickly. Catch the bus to Charing Cross, in good time to meet Stanislaus by the clock.
