18

Wednesday morning

‘The Forty Thieves?’

‘Yes. I’m writing a piece about them. They intrigue me.’ Harriet spoons sugar into her teacup at the breakfast table.

Isabel frowns – at the sugar and at the reminder of her daughter’s desire to work in a newspaper office. ‘I don’t see why a group of criminal women would be of any interest to anybody. And they really should not be written about.’

‘Why not? It would make a good article for the Gazette. I’ve decided to write a feature about them, their lives, why they steal –’

‘They shouldn’t be given any attention. They should be in prison. Or at home, looking after their children. Not so much sugar, Harriet. You’re getting married in a few months and Ralph won’t want you spilling out of your dress.’

Harriet bites her lip. She rather imagines that Ralph would be delighted if she spilled out of her dress, but her mother doesn’t need to hear that.

‘They are real women, Mummy. Some of them do have children, but they all look after one another, better than a trade union, even.’

‘Nonsense,’ Gerald grunts from behind the newspaper. ‘Don’t make them out to be saintly matrons. Those who aren’t thieving themselves are living off the criminal activity of the men they associate with.’

‘Well, none of them has much money, Daddy.’ She takes a careful sip of her tea. ‘They don’t steal because they want the items per se, they sell them on, so that they can eat and pay the rent. They are desperate people, some of them.’

Gerald groans, lowering the newspaper. ‘Dear God, must I be lectured over the breakfast table? This is nearly as bad as when you were fired up by the Pankhurst women.’

‘I’m not lecturing. I am simply saying that we should ask why the women steal in the first place –’

‘They steal because they want to have the sort of fancy goods you or I might have, without bothering to purchase them,’ Isabel snaps. ‘It has nothing to do with paying the rent.’

‘By the way, I ought to have asked before, is Robert Pickford content for you to continue at the Gazette?’ Gerald lays down his newspaper and reaches for the marmalade jar. ‘Knowing that you’ll be married soon? You’re sitting waving that enormous diamond around.’

‘Quite content.’ Harriet returns to her tea, avoiding her father’s eye. ‘But I won’t let the Forty Thieves go, you know,’ she says finally, with quiet conviction. ‘I’m going into the office this morning to write about them.’

Gerald shakes his head and begins to spread marmalade on thin slices of white toast.

‘But your dress, Harriet, your wedding dress.’ Isabel taps a finger on the table, wanting to talk of something other than the Kensington Gazette and the Forty Thieves. ‘The dressmaker is expecting us at half past ten, and you don’t need to go into the newspaper office. I booked the appointment for today.’

Harriet had planned to spend the morning reading copies of old newspapers in the office, to glean more information about the women from Southwark to add to what she’s learned from Alice Dunning. She has even decided how she will frame the piece, having coaxed from Alice the name of the thief she saw.

Not Ruby Wilder, but Ruby Mills. Ruby Mills, with her film-star looks and fondness for diamonds and mink. She will write about her. The girl whose face she can see when she closes her eyes.

She had also already agreed to meet Ralph for lunch in town, after a short morning in the office. Now, it appears her mother has other plans.

‘You need, at least, to begin to put your mind to the wedding day,’ Isabel continues. ‘It will only be for an hour or two.’ She reaches out to take her daughter’s hand. ‘It’ll be pleasurable. Dressing up, choosing the fabric, and the dressmaker is very keen to begin.’ Isabel’s tone is superficially cordial but admits no argument.

‘You ought to listen your mother, Harrio,’ Gerald says, cutting the toast into triangles. ‘It’s always for the best, you know. To listen. She has our best interests at heart.’

Harriet catches the meaning, and her heart sinks a little. Isabel has been discussing the wedding plans with Gerald. Everything will have been decided by her mother and has now been approved by her father. She might as well try to hold back the tide like King Canute. It is always easier to give in.

‘Alright, Mummy. The Forty Thieves can wait, I’m sure. And the office. And, yes, I’ll admit, I am looking forward to wearing something lovely.’ She squeezes her mother’s hand. There will be further arguments. She knows that she and Isabel will have different ideas about what a wedding dress should look like and hopes that the dressmaker they are visiting will know about modern cuts and styles. She will submit to her mother’s wishes only so far.

‘But I am meeting Ralph for lunch,’ she says, giving her mother a warm smile and playing with the string of pearls at her throat. ‘So we mustn’t spend too long with the satin.’

The lobes of Isabel’s ears turn pink. ‘Of course, darling. We won’t keep you from your fiancé, even if the morning is being spent for his benefit.’

The morning is being spent for Isabel’s benefit. It is she who wants to visit the dressmaker. She is determined to control and organise the wedding, to ensure that it is the society event of the year. Ralph, who will undoubtedly be content to let his future mother-in-law have her way in this regard, has only a passing interest in fashion. He likes Harriet to look well turned out, but not what he calls ‘overdone’, by which, she assumes, he means heavy-eyed with make-up and covered in jewellery. But even he, Harriet ruefully admits, will expect her to look her best on her wedding day.

July. Less than five months away.

In less than five months, she will breathe the fresher air of a different house. She will look up from her breakfast and see Ralph’s handsome, smiling face rather than her father, pushing toast under his grey moustache, into his mouth. Ralph will read out snippets from the newspaper rather than huff and mutter to himself, and she will no longer have to endure her father’s opinions on the shortcomings of Lloyd George’s government or her mother’s constant sniping. Together, she and Ralph will change the world.

‘I can’t wait,’ she says aloud.

‘Well.’ Isabel sits up and smooths her palms over her skirts. ‘I am pleased to hear it.’

‘Tell him I need a word, when you see him,’ Gerald says, still chewing. ‘Ralph. Haven’t seen him at the club for a while.’ He picks up his newspaper and shakes it out to resume his reading. He will not emerge from it again until the maid comes in to clear the table.

Harriet dabs a napkin to her lips and lays it on the tablecloth.

‘I shall do that. But now, I ought to change my outfit. Mummy won’t approve of me dressing like a typist when we’re visiting a fashion house.’

‘Certainly not. Try to look a little more refined than you usually do. And do something with your hair. It looks like a bird’s nest.’

Harriet bends down and plants a kiss on her mother’s cheek. ‘Thank goodness Ralph likes me as I am.’

‘You can be sure that he will like you even more if you make an effort. You know so little of what men want, darling.’ She pats her daughter’s hand. ‘Change your shoes as well, please. Those look dreadfully scuffed and in need of a good polish. Leave them out for Hanson.’

Harriet leaves her parents to their own company, her mother picking at a boiled egg and her father chewing steadily from behind the newspaper.

It is half past twelve when Harriet arrives, exhausted and jittery, at Claridge’s, where Ralph is waiting for her. He kisses her swiftly on the cheek and ushers her through the foyer and into the dining room. Even though the day is bright, the chandeliers are sparkling with electric lights, making the white stuccoed arches gleam. The room hums with quiet, convivial conversation.

‘Am I late?’ Harriet catches sight of herself in one of the large mirrors on the wall. She has, since parting from her mother, applied a slick of lipstick and pressed a touch of powder to her nose and chin. Nothing too daring or ‘fast’, as Isabel would say, but enough to help her feel a little special.

‘No, not at all. I don’t think so.’

‘Thank goodness. Mummy has had me draped in ivory satin for what seemed like hours.’

‘Sounds horrifying.’

‘It was. And it’s all for your benefit, she says, so that you’re met by a vision of loveliness on our wedding day and not the despicable drab you’ll have to put up with thereafter.’

The waiter pulls the seat for her, and she sits down.

‘You’re hardly a drab, my darling. I wouldn’t be marrying you if you were.’ He sits and takes the menu from the waiter, nodding the man away.

‘Thank you. That’s what I told her.’

‘Intelligence and beauty; it’s a rare combination,’ he says, gazing idly down at the menu rather than at his bride. ‘Is it too early for champagne, do you suppose?’

It seems like only yesterday that they were emerging from the privations of war: meatless Tuesdays, endless dreary vegetables and unrefined flour in their bread. They had learned remarkably quickly how to be adventurous and indulgent again.

‘No, champagne would be wonderful.’

Ralph orders them both a meal of consommé, sole in cream, followed by stuffed veal breast with potatoes. Harriet talks of the dressmaker, and of her mother’s fussing. Ralph is amused.

‘I think Isabel intends for us to rival the King and Queen.’

‘She will make certain of it, and my life will be unbearable unless I fall into line.’

He raises his glass to her. ‘I suspect that even the great Gerald Littlemore trembles behind closed doors.’

‘I suspect you’re right,’ she laughs, enjoying the champagne and relaxing. ‘Not that you’d know it from the way she defers in public.’

The potatoes arrive served a la crème.

Harriet sighs as she inspects them. ‘Oh dear, I’m supposed to be slimming. And here you are, fattening me up like the prize heifer with all this cream.’

‘Why are you slimming?’

‘Mummy thinks I’m growing fat.’

‘Well, please don’t starve yourself on my account.’ He smiles, reaching out to squeeze her hand. He pats it as he releases it. ‘Besides,’ he continues, helping himself to another spoon of carrots. ‘Most men prefer a little flesh.’

It must be the champagne; something in his tone, the dark suggestiveness of it, thrills Harriet. She wonders what it will be like when he comes to explore her flesh more intimately. He has behaved impeccably towards her so far, of course, though she can’t help but imagine the two of them entwined together, away from parents, propriety, other people’s expectations. How it will feel to be alone, naked, with him –

‘Christie? Fancy finding you here. No, no, don’t get up.’

Her brief drunken reverie is interrupted. Ralph is being hailed by an impressive man in a smart overcoat. Not much older than Ralph, he is probably a politician or a banker, if he knows her fiancé.

Harriet feels her cheeks reddening with embarrassment, as though the lascivious thoughts she had been entertaining had been spoken aloud to this stranger.

‘We were only talking of you the other day.’

‘All good, I hope.’ Ralph leans back in his seat, concerned now with neither his fiancée’s figure nor her flesh. The affable club man again, and fully at ease.

‘What else?’

‘This is my fiancée, Harriet Littlemore. You’ll know her father, Gerald, of course.’

The man nods to Harriet. ‘I do know your father. Charles Haversham, by the way.’

Harriet is used to men knowing her father. She smiles, automatically. ‘How do you do?’

‘You’re having lunch. I shouldn’t interrupt, Ralph, but I’m glad to have spotted you. Will you be at the House later? I wouldn’t mind a word. I have some news on that venture we spoke of. Some interesting developments.’

Ralph pulls a watch from his pocket. He’s not yet taken to wearing a wristwatch – he is convinced they are only for women. This one is gold. A Christie heirloom. He clicks open the case and consults it before glancing up at Harriet. She knows before he opens his mouth, from his expression, what he is likely to say. The soft glow of passion that had been stirring inside her moments ago has already been dampened.

‘I might wander over in an hour or two. Shall I find you in the bar?’

‘Only if I can steal you from your lovely fiancée? I’d hate to be the third wheel…’

‘Not at all. Harriet and I are enjoying a quiet moment of liberation from her parents, but’ – he looks again at Harriet, hesitating, trying to judge her mood – ‘we’ve nearly finished our lunch, and then I’ll need to return her safely to the front door. Mustn’t find myself on the wrong side of my future father-in-law.’ He winks at Harriet. ‘Or my mother-in-law.’

She smiles brightly, masking her disappointment. ‘That would not be a good idea.’

‘Later, then.’ Ralph stands, shakes hands with Charles Haversham and shares some final pleasantries before sitting to resume his meal.

‘A useful man to know, Haversham,’ he tells Harriet, spearing a slice of potato. ‘Good contacts.’

They return to Onslow Square not long after, strolling through Hyde Park, arm in arm. They talk of the restaurant, how they enjoyed the veal especially. Ralph jokes about the cream and her anxiety about gaining weight, but the delicious possibilities of carnality have vanished from Harriet’s thoughts now that she is sober, and she really does think that perhaps she ought to lose a few pounds. They talk of the wedding, of needing to decorate Ralph’s house in Mayfair before Harriet moves in. Anyone listening to the conversation would assume from the animated way they speak that they were a couple wildly in love, planning their future with good sense and careful thought.

That is exactly what we are, Harriet tells herself. But as they embrace on the steps of her parents’ house – before greeting Gerald and Isabel formally and properly – she feels a little flat. As though something is missing.