I flip back to the inside cover and study the name written in blue ink, and can’t help but wonder if this mystery man is somehow the key to it all.
Daniel Davenport, who are you?
Three Months Later
April 19, 1968
I stood Frank up for lunch at the Ritz—twice, in fact—but he was undeterred. He sent two bouquets of flowers and called a half-dozen times.
I should have been happy for the interest and attention, but all I could think about was Edward, that magnificent library bar, and the night that had glimmered with promise and ended in mystery. He didn’t meet me at Jack’s Bistro the next day, nor did he call. But Frank did.
Poor Millie, by the fifth time he rang, I begged her to let him down softly for me. “El,” she said later. “You’re going to break this poor man’s heart.”
Even Millie—straight-shooting Millie—was no match for Frank’s tenacity. He showed up at our flat the following Saturday night with two tickets to the Sammy Davis, Jr., concert and not a stitch of judgment about our modest living situation. In his eyes, I was a duchess, a princess, even. And who could say no to Sammy Davis, Jr.? Certainly not Millie. She whispered in my ear that night, “If you don’t go, I might have to!”
And so, I went out with Frank that night. And maybe it was the music, or the cocktails, but I let him kiss me under a lamppost in Trafalgar Square.
After that, I began to grow accustomed to Frank. While we had little in common—after all, to him, numbers told stories, not words—and butterflies might not have swirled inside of me in his presence, I did enjoy his company, or rather: I enjoyed being enjoyed.
“Look at you,” Millie said as I got ready for another Friday night date with Frank. “You have the glow of a woman in love.” It wasn’t so much a statement but a smartly phrased question—a barrister-in-training, and a good one, prying the truth out of her unsuspecting witness.
Millie could read me like no one else, and yet my evasiveness about Frank had even her guessing. This was her way of taking my temperature. I smoothed the hem of my dress and wondered if she knew I wasn’t thinking of Frank, but rather, the jacket hanging in the front closet that belonged to another man, and the disappointing fact that after that perfect night in the little library, Edward had…disappeared.
I’d gone to Jack’s the day I’d asked him to meet me, waited an hour for him, swirling in my corner stool at the bar every time someone entered, but it was no use. None were Edward.
I thought about looking him up, stopping in to the club, even, to see if I might find him, but it all felt too forward. If he were interested, truly interested, he would have been there, materialized on the barstool next to mine so we could pick up where we left off in the library. But he didn’t, and that was that.
“Well?” Millie asked again.
I don’t love Frank, I thought, but I love the way he adores me. Could his love be enough for both of us?
I ignored her question, and instead propped open my bedroom window, breathing in the fresh spring air. It was the middle of April, cherry blossoms burst from the mews and twine-wrapped bunches of peonies the size of dinner plates enticed shoppers at the market. Yet this particular spring felt…different, down to the lilt of the birds chirping in the tree just outside. Even they knew.
“What’s wrong, El?” Millie asked, trying to catch my eye, but the ring of the telephone gave me the excuse I needed to change the subject. It was probably Frank, and it was. It always was.
“Hello, darling,” he said. Frank had spring fever, too. His voice conveyed an urgent longing. “Would you like to go to Rhett’s Supper Club tonight?”
“Really?” I said, cheering at the thought of dining at such a swanky establishment. I’d just recently seen a tabloid photograph of Elizabeth Taylor there. “Wait, how in the world did you get a table? I heard that it’s booked out for months!”
“I pulled some strings,” he said nonchalantly. “Only the best for my girl. Pick you up at seven?”
I paused for a beat, heart racing. In time, soon perhaps, Frank will want more of me. And then what?
“Eloise? We might have a bad connection. Can you be ready by seven?”
“Yes,” I replied in haste.
* * *
—
Rhett’s Supper Club was just as glamorous as I’d imagined, and I was glad I chose my black dress and remembered to clean my gloves （a gift from Frank）。 My shoes might not have been Chanel, but the leather handbag I’d purchased at a steep discount at Harrods was fine enough to pass in the dim light. Besides, Frank seemed to care little of such details.
“Good evening,” the host said to us. We checked our coats and were ushered by flashlight to a booth along the side wall. I spotted a man walking by who looked a little like Richard Chamberlain, and he very well might have been. After all, this was the place to see and be seen.
“What do you think?” Frank asked, reaching for my hand under the table, his fingers gently grazing my thigh.
I smiled nervously. “I…I…think it’s, well, marvelous!”
He selected a bottle from the wine list, and I couldn’t help but notice the price—almost a half-month’s rent. When the sommelier filled our glasses, I felt guilty about leaving Millie to spend another Friday night alone. Guilty for…
“I propose a toast,” Frank said, raising his glass, “to London and to my beautiful Eloise. May we celebrate like this often and…forever.”
Forever. Did he say forever? I held the glass before me, my arm frozen.
“Darling,” Frank said, urging me to drink. “It’s bad luck if you don’t take a sip.”
I nodded, dutifully bringing the glass to my lips, while spilling a drop of red on the pristine white tablecloth.
“What’s troubling you, dear?” he asked, leaning in closer. “Are you worried about me leaving next month? You are, aren’t you?”
My eyes burned, but I wasn’t sure if it was his cologne or the salty burst of imminent tears.
“Yes,” I stammered. “That, of course, and…I’m…worried about Millie. Now that she’s in law school, we’re having trouble making rent. And…well, I guess I just feel guilty that I’m here…with you…drinking this fabulous, but expensive, wine. I’m sorry. I know I’m probably not making much sense right now.”
His face twisted into a smile and then he laughed. “Is that all?”
Is that all? No, it wasn’t all. It was merely the tip of the iceberg, but I couldn’t tell him that.
“Darling, how much money do you need?”
I could hardly believe my ears. Frank was generous, but this was beyond. “I couldn’t possibly…” I said. “I’m sure we can figure things out. And, Frank, I wasn’t asking for money when I said what I said. I was only—”
“Nonsense,” he said, pulling out his checkbook. “Will a thousand pounds get you through for a bit?”
“Frank, I—I don’t know what to say…”
“Don’t say anything,” he said, “just let me take care of you. It’s what I want.” He smiled, and I tried hard to return the warmth he shared. “Just promise me that you’ll think about us, and when we might make things more…permanent.”