Tuesday, April 27
“OK. Listen up, you two. Today I have an exclusive of my own.”
Bridget Fanshaw assumed the mock demeanor of a minister delivering a scoop at the morning press conference.
“The news is, I’m applying for a transfer. To the mainland.” She took a sip of milkshake, sat back, and savored the reaction as her announcement sank in.
“You’re joking,” said Helena.
“You have no idea where you’ll end up,” said Rose.
Bridget looked around her. Coffee bars were all the rage, and the Soho Bar, with its booths of flaking, varnished wood and egg-yolk clapboard walls, was typical of its kind. The crimson leatherette seats felt stylish and modern, as did the cigarette machine, even if it was empty. The sound of “Crazy Man, Crazy” by Bill Haley and His Comets issued from the jukebox, and neon signs optimistically advertising Coca-Cola and Pilsner beer jittered above the counter. The fact that the bar was a pastiche of its American counterparts made it an edgy venue—its very existence implied that America might offer better recreation than any Alliance paradise. Yet the Soho Bar and others like it were tolerated as the mark of a confident regime. Even if everyone knew that in America, there would be hamburgers with melted cheese and chocolate milkshakes, whereas here the Gaggia espresso machine was almost certainly fake, and the cappuccinos were made of Muckefuck.
“Wherever it is, it’s got to be better than here.”
Just as Jane Austen’s spinsters hankered for Bath, and Chekhov’s three sisters pined for Moscow, so a great many women in the Alliance dreamed of life on the mainland. They had never been there, so they had no idea what awaited them, apart from what they’d seen in newsreels and magazines. It was a gamble, a step into the unknown, from which there was no return.
“You’ll never get a job like you have here,” said Rose.
Bridget rolled her eyes. “I don’t care. Think of the food. The sausages. The beer!”
Here, they were always hungry, even for the soggy toast in front of them, spread with margarine pungent with petroleum and a mauve chemical slime that passed for jam.
“What’s to keep me?”
Perhaps Bridget was right. Her accommodation in King’s Cross might be elite, but it was a gloomy basement, reeking of hops from the nearby brewery, and with walls that shook every time a train passed. Her parents were dead, and her only brother had been relocated.
“Anyhow, Rose, you told me Germania was wonderful.”
“That was different,” Rose said awkwardly.
“Because you went with a senior man.”
“I mean, I’ve heard worrying things.”
“What have you heard?” demanded Bridget.
It was hard to explain. Certainly, there was a snob factor attached to English staff. Rudolf Hess had employed English nannies for his children. The von Ribbentrops kept a library of English books. Yet she had heard whispers. Gossip. “Pavement radio” some people called it. And she remembered the terror in the eyes of the English Gretl who’d brought the tray to their room in the Hotel Excelsior.
“They don’t always treat foreigners with respect. Even Gelis. Once you’re there, you have no rights.”
“People will always spin tales to stop other people going. I can look after myself.” Bridget hoovered up the foam from her glass. “Besides, I’ll have a friend when I get there. I’ve met a man.”
Rose and Helena exchanged glances. With Bridget, it was always a man.
“At the Grosvenor House reception the other night, I met an attaché with the Propaganda Ministry there. His name’s Friedrich Bauer. Frightfully handsome. Single. I went back to his hotel. Don’t look at me like that! I’m not married.”
Ostentatiously she drew out a packet of German Roxy cigarettes from her mackintosh pocket and offered them around. Roxys were made of good tobacco, aromatic and strong. They tasted of privilege.
“Smoking?” inquired Rose. Cigarettes were strongly discouraged for women, especially elite women, because of the Leader’s conviction that they damaged health and breeding potential. Some restaurants and bars carried tin signs banning women from smoking, but the Soho Bar, in its attempt to appear glamorous, presented a more relaxed façade.
“There won’t be any smoking on the mainland.”
“Who cares? Friedrich said I’d love it there. With my experience, I could maybe get a job with a newspaper. And I must be sure to look him up.”
Rose took a cigarette and inhaled thoughtfully. “Do you remember Violet? From the Astrology Office?”
A couple of years ago, Violet Thomas, a cool blond who dreamt up daily horoscopes for syndication in the national press, had expressed a sudden yearning to go to the mainland. She had promised to stay in contact. She would write and use her status as a Geli to make a return visit. Her aged parents, after all, would want to see their only child. She had never been heard of again.
“Violet never came back,” said Rose.
“Maybe. And perhaps I won’t either. We can’t all be like you, Rose, smooching with a senior man who treats us to expensive dinners. Where is it this week? The Dorchester? Claridge’s?”
It was true, as it happened. Martin had telephoned that morning to inform Rose that they would be dining together the next day.
“He’s taking me to his club, actually.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy it. You deserve it. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s too late to change my mind.” Bridget’s eyes sparkled with excitement for the future. “I’ve handed in my cards, and I’ve been issued with the papers. Come on! Be happy for me!”
“It’s just—” Rose stopped herself. There was no point now in trying to warn Bridget, and besides, who was to say she was right? Helena saved her the trouble, throwing herself on her friend and squeezing her in a fierce hug.
“We’ll miss you.”
Bridget checked herself in her compact, then snapped it shut. “And I’ll miss you too, but I won’t miss much else. The problem with us is we don’t have enough fun here. I intend to dance myself silly at the office coronation party. It’ll be a lark.”
Rose could see it was pointless to try to dissuade her.
“Tell you what.” Bridget beamed across the table. “That rehearsal at Westminster Abbey tomorrow morning. There’ll be a hundred film operators around the place, and the press team needs to check that the positions for the commenters and producers are hidden from view. The King doesn’t want technology spoiling a timeless event, I think that’s what he said. He’d really rather it wasn’t televised at all, but he’s no match for Fräulein Riefenstahl. How would you two like to come and watch? Even if I do get reprimanded, I don’t care—I’m demob happy.”