Vesta shut the office for lunch, but instead of wandering over to the café, she turned along the front. Mirabelle was right, she decided, as she took in the vista. She mustn’t prevaricate. Charlie was her husband and she’d have to bite the bullet. Distracted momentarily by the picture-postcard view, she noted the sky was the way you imagined it should be in springtime. The way a child might draw it. Then she turned off Kingsway and up the side of the Grand Hotel. At the service entrance, ahead of her, a truck was belching exhaust smoke. Vesta coughed. She hated feeling so uncommonly sensitive. She shifted to the other side of the door, as the cab opened, and a man jumped down and efficiently pulled out a couple of boxes of vegetables. In contrast to the fumes, the fresh scent from the boxes was a relief – clean cardboard mingled with turned earth and the green that grew from it. Vesta would never have believed she would be able to make out the smell of a cauliflower, but it had been a revelatory few weeks.
‘All right, chief?’ The delivery man’s eyes were focused on something behind her.
Vesta turned. A young commis chef had appeared in the doorway.
‘All right,’ he confirmed. ‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘I’d like to see Charlie Lewis,’ Vesta said. ‘You know, the chef.’
The boy shook his head. ‘Lunch service,’ he replied. ‘They won’t let him out till after. Are you his lady friend?’
Vesta nodded. ‘I only wanted a quick word.’
From further inside the hotel there was the sound of shouting as if to demonstrate the high-pressure activity going on inside.
‘Lunch,’ the boy repeated as he took one of the boxes from the delivery man. ‘It’ll be done by half two.’
Vesta checked her watch. She couldn’t leave the office for that long. And now she’d made up her mind to tell Charlie, she wanted to do it. The boy disappeared and the driver followed him. As the door banged shut, Vesta inserted her foot to stop it. She checked to see if anyone might have noticed, but the commis chef and the delivery man hadn’t checked behind them and there wasn’t a soul nearby. Above, the hotel towered so steeply no one looking out of a window would be able to make her out. Turning like a guilty child, she sneaked a peek through the crack – the passage was empty. Now she had to decide what to do.
Vesta was always careful not to trouble Charlie at work or when he was playing jazz. She never asked him to come home early nor did she enquire where he’d been when he got home late. But this was an emergency. Sticking her courage like a pin in her lapel, she sneaked into the corridor.
It was warm inside and the electric light felt heavy after the brisk spring sunshine, but the air sang with a cocktail of cooking smells, none of which seemed to upset Vesta’s stomach. It was a warren down here – laundries and kitchens, pantries and cloakrooms. With a sixth sense she was unaware she possessed, Vesta dodged the delivery man on his way back out, slipping behind a chamber maid’s trolley piled with clean hand towels and soap. Secreted no more than two feet out of the way, the man walked right past her. Once he’d gone, she followed the smell of baking like a hound on the hunt and, sure enough, she discovered the pastry kitchen and its Carrara marble worktops. This is where Charlie ought to have been. A tray of choux swans and a piping canvas filled with cream lay on the worktop, but there was no sign of either Vesta’s husband or his sous chef. Vesta peered at an elegant swan’s neck and, unable to resist, picked it up, dipped it into the cream and let it melt in her mouth. Charlie brought home cakes, pastries and bread almost every day, but they were never quite so fresh. Vesta moaned with pleasure and considered stealing the body of the swan – after all, what use would it be now, without the rest of it? She recalled Charlie’s choux swans came with a glacé cherry and, with the swan’s body in her hand, began to search for one as a boy in chef’s whites returned to the room with an empty plate in his hand. He put it down on the worktop with a decisive click.
‘Oi,’ he said, ‘you can’t nick that. Them’s for afternoon tea.’
Vesta felt herself blush. Then she grinned – almost as a defence mechanism. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Charlie Lewis.’
‘Chef’s busy.’
Vesta regarded the swan in her hand, unsure what to do with it.
‘You might as well have it,’ the boy said, reading her body language. ‘I bet you didn’t even wash your hands.’
‘Sorry.’ Vesta eyed the swan. Somehow it didn’t seem right now to wolf it down. ‘Do you know where Charlie’s gone?’
‘Some woman,’ the boy replied. ‘In a suite.’
‘How long do you think he’ll be?’ Vesta wondered vaguely how much of her husband’s time at the Grand he spent with female guests in suites?
‘I dunno. She’s a tricky customer. She’s complained every meal – that’s what the front desk say.’
‘What did she want?’
‘Well, not our Victoria sponge, that’s for sure.’ The boy lowered his voice. ‘She said the jam was cheap.’
Vesta took a sharp breath. Charlie’s jam was as good as the Women’s Institute ever produced, if not better. There was nothing cheap about it. ‘He won’t like that.’
The boy chortled. ‘You bet he didn’t. Well, go on then.’
Vesta tucked into the swan. ‘It’s very good,’ she said.
‘We always make half a dozen extra. Are you his missus then? Vesta, like the matches?’
Vesta nodded. ‘Like the goddess,’ she corrected him. It was a line she used to use when she was single and frequented the dance halls. It seemed odd to be trotting it out again. These days everyone around Vesta knew her name, and once you were Mrs Lewis you couldn’t be quite so flirtatious as when you were Vesta Churchill, the black girl easily picked out of a crowd.
‘I‘ve heard all about you.’ The boy grinned.
‘Really?’
Charlie never mentioned anyone at work.
‘Congratulations are in order, I hear,’ he said.
Vesta felt herself reel. ‘What?’
‘Good news. About the nipper.’
‘But,’ she stuttered. ‘Charlie doesn’t know about the baby.’
The boy eyed her. ‘What are you talking about? Made up he is. Over the moon.’
Vesta climbed on to a high stool. ‘But how?’ she said.
‘Well, if you don’t know that . . .’ The boy’s eyes sparkled. ‘I thought you was married.’
Vesta managed a disapproving look. This was exactly the kind of conversation she had been trying to avoid. Luckily, the boy didn’t linger on it. He started to separate a tray of eggs into two large bowls. The movement was mesmerising. She was going to ask him a question, but, before she could, Charlie stormed into the kitchen.
‘Hi, baby,’ he said and cracked what could only be described as an endearing grin. ‘You’ve met Henry.’ The sous chef saluted cheerily, between attending to the eggs. ‘What are you doing here?’
Vesta slid off her seat. ‘I finally plucked up the courage to tell you that you’re going to be a father. That’s all.’
Charlie leaned in and kissed her. He smelled of toffee and butter. ‘You’ll be a swell mum. About time, I’d say.’
‘How did you know?’
Charlie turned to wash his hands. ‘I thought you were sick. You turned down those meringues I brought home. Twice. And then I realised it must be something on your mind because you went out before breakfast three days in a row. I kind of figured it out from there.’
Vesta folded her arms. Was she really that transparent? ‘Well, if you’ve got any meringues left,’ she said, ‘I’d take one now.’
‘You want a coffee with that? The head chef has had a machine installed. He’s French.’
Vesta shook her head. She couldn’t face coffee. It was one of the inexplicable changes in appetite the pregnancy had provoked.
‘Tea,’ she said. That was better.
Charlie nodded at Henry and Henry took off.
‘I’ve been terrified of telling you for days,’ she admitted.
‘Terrified?’
Vesta gave a little shrug and Charlie wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the nape of her neck. ‘It’s going to be wonderful. We’ll make a great family.’
‘I don’t want to stay at home, Charlie.’
‘So don’t stay at home.’ He shrugged. ‘Not a minute more than you want to, baby. We’ve got money, what with both of us working. We can get a minder. A nanny, you call them, don’t you? The way I see it, I’d rather have a nanny than a holiday, any day of the week.’
Vesta smiled. She let Charlie do whatever he wanted, but in return he let her do the same. Most men would be horrified by the arrangement. ‘Nannies are for posh people. I wonder if there’s someone nearby. One of the neighbours? A mum who’d help out? Someone who’d enjoy it and appreciate a bit of extra cash.’
‘I’ll bet there is.’
‘People might not like it, Charlie. I mean, you know how they were before.’
It hadn’t been easy for Vesta and Charlie when they had first moved to the suburbs. They were the first black residents on the block. Actually, the first black residents in over a mile. The local Conservative Association had sent a delegation door to door – not to speak to the Lewises, but to spread the word that voting Labour would only bring more blacks to the district. Things had settled now, but Vesta knew some of the neighbours were still unhappy. There was an old lady who hissed as she passed as if she was an evil spirit. Charlie had baked her a cake, but it hadn’t made any difference.
‘It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s up to us. You must have figured that out by now.’
Henry returned carrying a small tray on the tips of his fingers. He laid down a teacup with the name of the hotel painted on it and a plate with two meringues. Charlie patted Vesta’s bottom and went back to work. Vesta picked up the cup. A smile spread across her face. ‘That was better than I thought it was going to be,’ she admitted.
‘Feel good?’ Charlie checked.
Vesta nodded ‘What did the woman want? The one with the jam?’
‘I think she just takes exception to anything red.’ Charlie was assembling swans with impressive precision. ‘Russian,’ he explained. ‘And a countess, no less. Though Lenny on the front desk looked up her title in some book and he couldn’t find it. Anyway, we’ve got to keep her sweet. She’s spending a fortune up there.’
The meringue crumbled as Vesta bit into it. ‘Intriguing,’ she said. The crust melted in her mouth. It felt like a long time since she had eaten with Charlie present. The changes in her appetite had been a guilty secret and she’d done her best to keep out of his way.
‘My money is on the fact that she just likes to complain,’ Charlie continued. ‘I took her up some Hartley’s in a silver dish.’
‘You never. Instead of your jam?’
‘I told her it was our premier boiling, reserved for special guests.’
Henry beamed. Charlie let out a giggle. ‘She loved it,’ he said. ‘That’s the thing. Most of them have no idea. She is just the most horrible snob – when I went in she was running down our dining room, at the Grand. Said she couldn’t bear to have people watching her eat, as if anyone would even notice.’
Vesta rolled her eyes. She drained the cup. ‘I better get back to the office,’ she said.
Charlie raised a cheery hand and Henry bowed, sweeping the tea things away before returning to his eggs. ‘I’ll see you later, honey.’ Charlie waved. ‘Look after my eldest son.’
Vesta felt herself blush. Peering down the corridor and feeling flustered, she turned in the wrong direction for the back door and made for the service stairs. A waiter carrying a metal tray with a cloche on top eyed her as he overtook and she fell into step behind him. The stairs came out inside the hotel restaurant and she felt her heart rate increase. She hadn’t expected to be quite so visible. The waiter took off towards a table. It occurred to Vesta that everyone would look at her, but then she smiled to herself. This was the same ridiculous worry the countess had. Still, she had hoped to emerge into the busy hotel lobby. That’s what she felt like – a comfortable chair for a few minutes. The opportunity to watch people while she collected her thoughts. The Grand was like a maze. There must be another set of stairs, she decided, but it was too late now. Two women eating Dover sole put down their cutlery as she stepped on to the dining-room carpet. One whispered to the other. Customers at the Grand were not accustomed to dark-skinned women emerging from the swing doors. ‘Madam?’ a voice enquired from behind and Vesta almost tripped over her ankles as she turned. ‘Can I help you?’ a tall maître d’ leaned over. He smelled faintly medicinal.
‘I’m lost,’ Vesta explained. ‘I need to get to reception.’
‘This way.’ It felt humiliating, somehow, to be led out of the restaurant, still, she kept thinking of Charlie’s smile and how delighted he’d been. Then, out of the blue, tears welled in her eyes. She knew she was oversensitive at the moment, but still. The maître d’ held open the glass door with a flourish and she slipped past the menu board and on to the tiles of the main hallway, holding her chin up, in a vain attempt to hold back the tears. She made for a scatter of comfortable chairs, pulling her handkerchief from her bag as she took a seat. She’d done it. She’d told him. She settled down and waited as if in this first quiet moment there would be a thunderclap. But there was nothing, only tears and a feeling of power. Now Charlie knew and, more than that, he was delighted, Vesta didn’t feel afraid any more. She could tell her mother. She’d write this afternoon. The Churchills didn’t have a telephone and Vesta wasn’t keen to call the Kellys – the nearest handset – and have all the neighbours know at the same time as her mother. Mrs Churchill might take a few moments to adjust. After all, she had never been a grandmother before. Vesta took a deep breath and patted her stomach. Then she spotted them – Marlene and Marcus Fox coming out of the bar. Marlene was attired in a pretty spring dress and a hat fixed in place with a striking feather pin. Marcus laid his hand protectively on her shoulder. Vesta’s instinct was to sink back into the chair, out of the way, but, before she could, her friend waved.
‘Hello.’ Marlene came over, ebullient as ever. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was visiting Charlie,’ Vesta admitted. She must have let a smile slip.
‘Did you tell him?’
Vesta nodded. Marlene grabbed Vesta’s arm. She seemed on a high. ‘Oh that’s wonderful. Have you met Marcus? This is my friend Vesta,’ she said. ‘She’s having a baby.’
Vesta realised as soon as the words were out that she didn’t mind now.
‘You’re Miss Bevan’s business partner.’ Marcus tipped his hat. ‘Congratulations.’
‘I met Marcus on his father’s ward. Remember I said I’d keep an eye out?’
‘How is Fred doing?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘We don’t have high hopes.’
‘No,’ Marlene agreed. ‘It’s not looking hopeful.’
‘Poor Fred.’
‘I’ll see if I can get the doorman to find us a taxi, shall I?’ Marcus wandered up the hall.
‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ Marlene hardly waited for the tall figure to move out of earshot. ‘This is our second date.’
‘You’re a fast operator!’
‘It was him. Keen as mustard. Drinks at the Grand. Not too shabby,’ Marlene whispered, as if she was reporting on an endeavour of national importance. ‘I can’t believe my luck,’ she continued. ‘Most of the fellows I meet are practically indigent, or, if not, they’re terminally ill or new fathers. New fathers are the worst.’ She rolled her eyes.
Vesta grinned. ‘That’s brilliant.’
‘He’s such good fun. Full of stories. I’m going to let him take me out for dinner. I’ll have to sneak out of the nurses’ quarters, but it’ll be worth it and I don’t care if I get caught, as long as it’s not till after.’ She sneaked a smile.
‘I’m so glad, Marlene.’
‘You’re a pal. Imagine if Marcus and I get married, I’ll have to move to London. Me.’
‘Married?’
‘Oh, not yet.’ Marlene brushed away the suggestion as if she wasn’t the one who had made it.
Marcus gestured from the doorway. Marlene preened herself. The feather in her hat was yellow and Vesta couldn’t help thinking of a budgerigar. There was something in the way she moved, readying herself before she set off across the tiles, puffing out her chest and fluffing up her feathers. ‘Bye,’ Vesta called. It felt as if the Grand was the centre of everything today. She smiled, the ting of the lift opening distracting her, as a woman swathed in fur stalked into the hall. Every member of staff in the hallway stiffened. A man rushed forward.
‘Countess,’ he said, ‘Can I help you?’
‘I need a taxi,’ the woman replied, each word distinct as she spat her request.
Vesta kept thinking about Hartley’s jam. This was a piece of luck. A piece of theatre. The countess was beautifully dressed. Like a jigsaw piece falling into place, Vesta realised she was the lady from Tatler. She gazed at the woman’s elegant stilettos and the large ostrich clutch bag that seemed to sink into her lush fox-fur stole. She might have felt jealous, but then, the poor woman didn’t know a thing about preserves. Sometimes people aren’t quite what they seem, Vesta thought. Sometimes you might notice a black woman in an armchair and she is in fact a goddess. Sometimes you notice the back of your friend retreating and you’d never guess how many lives she’d saved. Sometimes you start the day too nervous to even face toast and by the afternoon you’ve had cake for lunch.
‘Where shall I instruct the cab?’ the man enquired, as the countess passed.
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘It’s customary. To tell the driver.’
The countess glared. ‘I should have brought my own car,’ she said. ‘It saves backstairs gossip.’
Vesta got to her feet. She checked the buttons on her jacket were fastened and fell into step. ‘Really—’ the countess sounded as if she was despairing ‘—this whole trip has been a trial. It is so small here. So quiet. I’m not sure about Brighton.’
‘We can organise tickets for the Variety if you’d like.’
A smile played on Vesta’s lips. The countess did not honour the man’s suggestion with a reply. Outside, she slipped into the back seat of the car with a sour expression on her face, as if the vehicle was inadequate in every way. Vesta wondered why the hotel hadn’t organised one of Hove Cars’ Rolls-Royces, but perhaps there hadn’t been time. From the ting of the lift to the countess’s departure had been perhaps ninety seconds. What a very unpleasant woman, Vesta thought, and in Tatler too, as she turned towards town and the car pulled away.