“Yes. I need to take these to Mr. Hartnell.”
“Don’t you want to know why we’re here?” asked the third man, and she recognized him from the night she’d met Jeremy at the Astoria. The chinless Clark Gable.
“Leave her alone,” Jeremy said. “Can’t you see she has work to do?”
“Usually the girls love it when they find out I’m an aide to Princess Margaret.”
“Chief carrier of handbags and lighter of cigarettes,” said the man who’d first spoken to her. “That’s what you are.”
“Laugh if you like. You’d all change places with me in a heartbeat,” said No Chin.
“Excuse me. I must go,” she said, not that any of them were listening, and she backed out of the room. She would return the samples later. After the royal ladies were gone. After Jeremy, who had to be some sort of aide to one of them, had also gone.
There was no chance, now, that she’d see him again. He hadn’t introduced her to his friends, just as he hadn’t introduced her to the people at the restaurant the night before, for what man in his position would admit to knowing a girl like her? He hadn’t introduced her, because he’d at last been confronted with the truth.
He might swear that it didn’t matter, that times were changing and things like class and money and accents didn’t matter, but he was wrong. It was wrong and unfair that they mattered, but they did. Even if, by some miracle, they could ever have managed to paper over those differences in their private life, there would always be someone who would refuse to acknowledge her in a restaurant, or who turned away when she tried to engage them in conversation, or who whispered about her just loudly enough that she heard every word.
If she were honest with herself, it was her own fault. Had she been forthright with Jeremy from the very beginning—had she told him where she worked and where she lived, and had she made certain he understood the differences between them—he would have thanked her and gone away and that would’ve been that.
It was her own fault, as simple as that, and fussing over it or letting herself feel sad wouldn’t do a whit of good. It was a shame she wouldn’t see him again, for she had truly liked him, and in a different world . . .
Enough. Enough. It was done, and over, and she’d forget him soon enough, because she had never been the sort of girl to sit around and lick her wounds and moan about how life was unfair.
That’s what her mum had taught her. “Chin up,” she’d always said when Ann had come to her in tears about something awful that had happened. A teacher had been cruel at school, her cat had run away, awful Billy from round the corner had pulled her pigtails and said no one would ever kiss her because of her ginger hair.
“Just keep your chin up, Ann, and you can face anything,” Mum had said. “And don’t look back, no matter what you do.” Her mum had never been one for hugs or soft words, but she had been honest, and most of the time she’d been right, too.
So chin up it was, and no looking back.
Chapter Twenty
Miriam
October 5, 1947
In recent weeks Walter had taken to sending Miriam a letter when he wished to invite her to supper, and she would then ring him from one of the telephone kiosks in the post office near Bruton Street. This week he had proposed a change to their usual plans.
“You wish to visit your friends on Sunday? And for me to accompany you?”
“Yes. They live in Kent, about an hour’s drive south of the city.”
“Do they know that you wish to bring me?”
“Yes. They’re very keen to meet you. It’s a longish drive, but it’ll do us both good to breathe in some fresh air. And . . .” It wasn’t like Walter to sound hesitant. As if he were nervous of saying the wrong thing. “I am rather keen, as well, for you to meet them. That’s all.”
She decided to ignore the way her heart had begun to flutter. “In that case I will come with you.”
“Excellent. I’ll come to collect you at—”
“No, you will not. If it is south of the city then you will be going far out of your way. I will meet you in London.”
“Very well. Since you’re determined to be sensible about it. I live near Chancery Lane station. Can you meet me there? Say at ten o’clock?”
He was waiting outside the station when she emerged on Sunday morning, and after wishing her good morning and stooping to kiss her cheek, he led her to his car. It was an alarmingly small vehicle, or perhaps it was only the case that his long legs and broad shoulders were too large for an ordinary automobile. He certainly didn’t seem very comfortable once he’d shoehorned himself into the driver’s seat.