As Millie stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, I peered out the window and waved to the chauffeur standing beside the fancy car. “I’ll be right down,” I said, the words flowing out of my mouth as if I’d uttered them a thousand times before.
* * *
—
The driver, a gray-haired, serious-looking man, gave me a curious look, then helped me inside the car, which was…empty.
I shook my head, confused. “Where’s—”
“Mr. Williams has…been detained,” he replied curtly. “He’s given me instructions to take you to the club. He will meet you there.”
I nodded. After all, Roger was a busy, important man. If I were to be a part of his world, I’d have to understand that. And, oh, the club. I loved the way it sounded, as if I were already a member. Even more, I loved that this private car was whisking me out of my miserable neighborhood—to a better one.
As I gazed out the window, East London looked markedly different from the plush backseat of a chauffeured car. The awning of Lainey’s Bakery, where I sometimes stopped for tea, appeared weathered and tattered. A homeless man was slumped over a bottle of booze, and two teenage boys were engaged in a raucous fistfight.
Just over the bridge, the lights of London sparkled like diamonds in the night. I glanced back a final time, feeling an indescribable ache as I watched my neighborhood fade in the distance. All my life, I’d dreamed of getting out of there, and now this car was taking me away.
* * *
—
In front of the Royal Automobile Club, a doorman helped me out of the car. “Good evening, miss,” he said, balancing an umbrella over my head as if it was his sworn duty not to let a single raindrop fall on my dress. I had the feeling he might even throw his jacket down to prevent a lady from stepping a dainty foot into a puddle. “Will you be dining with us tonight?” he asked cheerfully, immediately revealing his East End accent—the one I’d worked so hard to disguise.
Before I could answer, the chauffeur motioned from the front seat, and I couldn’t help but wonder how often they’d had this very same exchange about Roger’s other dates. “She’s meeting Mr. Williams.”
The doorman nodded smartly, his smile momentarily dimming. “Yes…of course, sir.”
Inside, an attendant took my coat as I gazed up at an exquisite chandelier strung together with hundreds of crystals. I marveled at how such a massive piece remained fixed in place, but I forced myself to look away for fear of appearing like a wide-eyed adolescent gawking at all the finery.
“This way, miss,” a man in a white tuxedo said, leading me up the staircase to a dining room fitted with gilded fixtures, ornate furniture, and delicately painted frescoes on the ceiling. The diners were exquisitely dressed—the men in their coats and tails, the women with their long, white gloves and furs draped over their shoulders. I’d left my only pair of gloves, stained, at home, and how I wished I’d had a fur to hide my bare hands when I felt the room’s collective gaze. I wondered if they knew it was my first time here. I wondered if they could smell it.
“Your table,” my escort said, pulling out my chair. It was not just any table, but clearly the very best one, perched on an elevated landing that overlooked the entire dining room. And there I sat, alone.
“May I bring you anything before Mr. Williams arrives?” he asked. “Tea, champagne?”
“Yes,” I said, eyeing a chic-looking woman in the distance holding a glass of bubbly. “Champagne, please.”
I never drank, but I was in desperate need of something—anything—to quell my nerves. And like magic, a few moments later, a white-gloved waiter deposited a flute of effervescent elixir in front of me, before vanishing, it seemed, into thin air.
Painfully aware of the other diners’ eyes on me, I fiddled with my pressed, gold-stitched napkin and studied the polished cutlery, fretting about which fork corresponds with which course. Was it left to right, or right to left? My heart beat faster when a nearby table erupted in laughter. One of the women, in a dress far nicer than mine, and wearing gloves, naturally, cast a sympathetic smile in my direction. Does she feel sorry for me? Do they all feel sorry for me?
When I finished my champagne—in three sips—the waiter poured me another, and then another. I eyed the enormous gold clock on the far wall as it ticked off twenty minutes, then forty-five. With every passing minute, my heart sunk lower. Where’s Roger? I began to lose track of time, and the number of glasses of champagne I’d consumed.
When a jazz band began to play, I felt light and floaty. I made up stories in my mind about why Roger had been detained. His mother had been ill, and he went to check in on her. An important business meeting had run late. He’d stopped to help a stranded motorist. One day, I told myself, years from now, we’d lovingly recount the unfortunate story of our first date to family and friends, laughing about Roger’s late entrance and how he’d spent the next month making it up to me.
But while my fictional version was charming, and forgivable, his real-life entrance a few moments later was not. The dining room erupted in a chorus of whispers as he walked in—with a woman on each of his arms.
“I’m sorry,” Roger said, disregarding me as he turned to a nearby waiter. He was close enough that I could smell a waft of booze on his breath. “Why is my table occupied?”
I cleared my throat nervously. It was all so inconceivable. Had he not asked me on a date tonight? “Roger, it’s Eloise,” I said meekly, hoping this was all a simple mistake he could easily explain away. “Don’t you remember?”
“Who is she?” the woman on his left asked, sizing me up with a long look of displeasure.
“Your cousin from the country?” the other woman said with a giggle.
My cheeks burned. “I’m Eloise Wilkins,” I said. “His date.” My embarrassment soon morphed into rage. “Roger,” I continued, sitting up in my chair. “Surely you remember sending your car to get me earlier?”
Both women looked up at him with pouty eyes as he expertly extricated himself from the two sets of arms entangled in his. “Why yes, of course,” he began. “Eloise. You’ll have to forgive me. I ran into some…old friends.”
I stood, reaching for my purse as my napkin fell to the floor. Millie had been right, if only I’d listened to her. “Don’t let me keep you,” I said. “You three clearly have a lot of catching up to do.”
Everyone was watching. And why wouldn’t they be? A circus show with three women in the ring was better than anything on the telly—and it was all happening right before their eyes. This was Roger Williams at his finest. A jewel for the gossip columns. There was even a poor girl from East London! （Cue the laughter.）
That’s when it hit me—a sudden and intense urge to run. My eyes darted right, then left, until I located the nearest exit. I couldn’t bear the idea of making the walk of shame through the enormous dining room to the main entrance, so I chose the nearby French doors that appeared to lead to an adjoining balcony. With any luck, there’d be a staircase that led out of here.
I darted ahead, making a beeline for the exit, but then the heel of my left shoe caught on the carpet and I lunged forward, colliding with a waiter carrying a tray of plated entrées under polished silver domes, sending steaks and their garnishes flying through the air.