Chapter Four

It was quite clear from the welcome that Captain Kenilworth Hardy was a regular at the Ritz for he was greeted deferentially by the maître d, who pretended not to notice that the Captain’s guest was barely dressed for the glittering elegance of one of the most famous restaurants in the capital.

The waiter poured champagne and the Captain started to tell me the story of how he had, like me, survived, taken first to an Army hospital and then back home to England and a convalescent home for officers.

If he remembered anything of that night in No Man’s Land, he said nothing, though there was no denying the slight air of sexual tension as he looked at me and smiled.

Whatever may have been about to develop between us though was brought to a halt by a voice across the room exclaiming: “Alex! What the hell are you doing here? Nobody told me you were in town!”

The man who rushed over to our table, pulling up a chair and sitting down without waiting to be invited, was tall, slim and saturnine, dressed in a beautifully cut dinner suit that hugged his slender limbs, his eyes so dark they were almost black, his hair slicked back and the curve of a sensual mouth accentuated by a thin black moustache.

He didn’t even seem to notice me as he launched into a barrage of questions for his friend. How long had he been back? Was he fully recovered? Had he seen this person and been to that party?

The Captain, however, attempted to bring me into the conversation with an introduction.

“Sebastian, this is Sergeant Fitzgerald. Sergeant Fitzgerald, this is my old school friend, Sebastian - Sebastian Browning.”

Those dark eyes swept over me, observed the shabbiness of my clothes in such grand surroundings and then the conversation was resumed, leaving me to sit and observe in silence as Mr Browning continued to bombard the Captain with questions before launching into a long catalogue of places he had been and people he was seeing.

But then, just as I was beginning to wonder how I could extricate myself from an increasingly dull evening without seeming rude, the unexpected guest suddenly turned to me and asked: “Did you ever model?”

“Seb – leave it. He’s not one of yours.” The Captain’s voice was suddenly curt.

“No seriously, Alex. I need a model for my latest project and – Fitzgerald did you say it was? – would be absolutely perfect.

“It’s two massive canvases, Love and War. Finding a girl for Aphrodite’s been no problem but Mars the God of War hasn’t been so easy.

“Look at him. He’d be ideal. The physique, the bone structure, the eyes.”

He turned to me again: “Come on old chap, what do you say? Don’t listen to Alex. He’s just a prig... or perhaps he has plans for you himself.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the Captain replied, his tone increasingly tense. “If Fitzgerald wants to model for you, that’s none of my business.”

Again the artist turned to me: “So what do you say old sport? The pay’s good and to be honest, it looks like you could do with the extra cash in your pocket.

“Look. Just give it some thought. Here’s my card. If you fancy taking a look at what I do, just come round to my studio.

“Right Alex, I have to be off now. I’m sorry I interrupted - enjoy the champagne.”

He left but the mood of the evening had shifted somehow and the Captain now seemed uneasy, watching as I slipped the business card into my pocket.

We finished our champagne and shook hands as we left, both assuming we would never meet again.

Now that the war was over, we had nothing in common – not even, it would seem, a shared memory of a brief moment of warmth and passion in the face of death.