‘What happens if your parents hear about your new play and come to London to see you in it? If they come to your flat they are bound to find out I am living there,’ she pointed out.
‘They wouldn’t be seen dead at my place,’ he assured her. ‘My flat is a nice enough little place, but far too Bohemian for them to ever visit. They have their own London house in Belgravia, so you can put that worry from your mind right away.’
Christabel found that she enjoyed living in London with George. His flat was comfortable and it was quite easy for them to get from there to the theatre as well as to the shops in the West End and the more exciting Chelsea area.
Christabel found the flat was equipped with everything she needed. She had her own bedroom, which was even larger than his, and they shared the living room space.
George was easy to look after and very considerate and, most of the time, he left her to her own devices. All he asked was that she did the cooking when he ate at home, kept the place in order, and made sure that his clothes were always ready for him to wear.
George left for the theatre around mid-morning, leaving her free to organise her day as she wished until the evening. Then she dressed in one of her many pretty frocks and went to the theatre where she would watch the play from the wings until he came off stage. Then they would join the other actors and their friends and enjoy the night life in London’s West End. They rarely arrived back at the flat until two or three the next morning.
There was no performance on Sundays so, if the weather was uninviting, they often stayed in, reading the newspapers, or playing records. George owned one of the new wind-up gramo-phones and they both enjoyed listening to jazz. On those Sundays when the sun was shining, if they were feeling energetic, they sometimes strolled along the Chelsea Embankment or walked in St James’s Park.
Christabel delighted in their Bohemian existence. Her hair was shorter than ever, she even risked having an Eton crop, but George didn’t like it so she let it grow back into a shaped bob with the slightly longer side pieces curved forward on to her cheeks. She followed the latest fashion trends with enthusiasm, making regular visits to the West End shops trying on all the very latest styles. She had good legs, so the Chanel outfits, with their low waists and knee-length skirts, suited her extremely well.
Except on Sundays, when they listened to jazz, she rarely played the gramophone when George was at home since he preferred listening to his new wireless. She thought it looked ugly. She hated the complicated contraption made up of accumulators, batteries and a speaker. A lot of the things he listened to were, to her mind, extremely dull and uninteresting, but he was never happier than when fiddling with the various knobs and locating different stations.
George was so enthralled with his new toy that he even planned to sit at home and listen to the broadcast of the Royal Wedding on 26 April, when Prince George would marry Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon. Christabel insisted that since they were in London and it was such a great opportunity to witness such a historic event, one that was regarded as the highlight of 1923, they should go and watch the procession.
In the end, she won, but only because the Archbishop of Canterbury had forbidden the ceremony to be broadcast, fearing that some of the populace might not show due respect. Men in pubs might even sit and listen to the ceremony with their hats on.
Christabel found it exhilarating to mingle with the cheering crowd outside Westminster Abbey. She thought Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon already looked every inch a princess as she stepped down from the state landau. She was wearing an ivory dress of fine chiffon moiré, embroidered with silver thread and pearls, and it had long sleeves of fine Nottingham lace. As she took her father’s arm and walked along the red carpet into the abbey, her eight bridesmaids carrying her train of point de Flandres lace mounted on tulle, Christabel thought it was the most romantic moment she’d ever witnessed.
But George’s mind was on other matters. It was time for him to leave for the theatre and he was anxious for them to go otherwise he would be late.
Christabel told him she wanted to stay to see the royal couple emerge from the abbey after the service and to savour the moment.
‘Well, if you really want to do so then it’s up to you, but you’ll have to do it on your own, so do take care because there’re bound to be pickpockets about,’ George warned. ‘I’ll see you later at the theatre, and we’ll go for a meal.’
Minutes later, when she felt a light touch on her arm, Christabel recalled his words and her heart thudded with fear. As she turned and looked up into a pair of steely black eyes, her heart raced for quite another reason.
‘Alex, what are you doing here? George has just left for the theatre, shouldn’t you be there?’
‘Heavens, no! I’m his agent not his keeper. I don’t have to turn up at performances.’
The rest of the day passed in a dream. As soon as they could free themselves from the crowd they walked together in St James’s park, quite oblivious of the fact that the weather had deteriorated and was now overcast. Christabel had only met Alex a few times and knew very little about him, except that he was an American and, according to George, one of the top agents in the business.
They dined together at the Café Royal and danced the evening away. On the dance floor their steps matched and their rhythm was in perfect accord, almost as if their two bodies were a single entity. It was a sensation that was entirely new to her, so very different from George’s dancing.
That was not surprising, she mused, since he was very different from George who was like a big brother to her, considerate and easy-going. This man with his saturnine features had a look of ruthlessness about him that, the first time she’d met him, had sent a shiver down her spine.
Alex Taylor was tall, broad shouldered and handsome with almost jet-black hair and deeply tanned skin. His features were strong and inscrutable; there was an air of mystery about him that she found intriguing.
When Alex finally put her into a taxi it was after midnight. Christabel had completely forgotten that she was supposed to join George at the theatre. When he arrived home just after one o’clock in very ill humour because he was afraid she had come to some harm, she was already in bed and asleep.
The next day, Friday, they hardly spoke to each other. She knew he was sulking, but decided it would only make matters worse if she told him where she had been.
The following week George announced that on Saturday he wanted to watch the Cup Final. When she protested that neither of them was interested in football, he pointed out that it was a very special football match; for the very first time, it was being held in London at Wembley Stadium.
His enthusiasm for the match, which was between Bolton Wanderers and West Ham, amused her. He had always considered football to be such a common game. It had only been when he was told that King George V was to be amongst the spectators that he had been so eager to attend.
She expected him to ask her to go with him and was surprised when he didn’t. It wasn’t until he was leaving that she realised that his not taking her to the Cup Final was meant to be a punishment, a way of showing his displeasure over her not showing up at the theatre after the royal wedding.
Christabel spent the entire day with Alex Taylor.
He was still very much a mystery to her. She knew nothing of his background, but when they were together she found that such things didn’t seem to matter. Merely being in Alex’s company was enough to set her pulse racing. She even forgot how quickly the time was passing and, in a sudden panic, found herself rushing to get back to the flat before George returned home.
Overcome by guilt, she did her best to prepare a special meal, dishes she knew George enjoyed, and uncorked a bottle of his favourite wine ready to pour him a glass the moment he walked in the door.
When the hours ticked by and the meal she had taken such trouble to prepare was ruined, she wondered if George was staying out late deliberately. Perhaps he was doing it as a form of retaliation because
he wasn’t keen on her seeing Alex Taylor and was annoyed that she’d taken no notice when he’d told her so.
At midnight, when there was still no sign of him coming home, Christabel decided not to wait up any longer but to go to bed. The next morning, when she realised he hadn’t come home, she began to feel alarmed. She knew it was no good phoning the theatre because, as it was Sunday, it would be closed.
She began to panic in case he had walked out on her because of their arguments about Alex. She checked his wardrobe and felt much calmer when she found that all his clothes were still there. She tried to think constructively and even toyed with the idea of phoning Alex. In the end, she summoned up the courage to go to the local police station and report him missing.
The desk sergeant consulted a ledger on the desk in front of him and she tried to be patient as he ran his finger down a long list of entries. ‘George Gleeson? I’m afraid he has been taken into custody,’ he pronounced grimly.
George, and other enthusiasts attending the match, had been caught up in the melee when thousands rushed the turnstiles. Fighting had ensued. The police had eventually restored order, but George, along with a great many others who happened to be carrying hip flasks containing whisky, had been charged with being drunk and disorderly.
Reluctantly, the police allowed Christabel to see him for a few minutes. She was distraught when she saw how dishevelled and unshaven he looked. There was a fanatical gleam of anger in his green eyes as he confronted her.
‘Shall I let Alex know what has happened so that he can contact a solicitor and make sure you are properly represented when your case comes to court?’ Christabel suggested.
‘No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve decided that I am going to conduct my own defence and I’ve been rehearsing what I shall say.’
Christabel stared at George in disbelief, wondering how he could be so arrogant and so self-assured under such frightening circumstances.
‘Supposing they don’t believe you?’ she said hesitantly.
‘Don’t worry; I’ll be able to convince them that they have made a mistake and I’ll be released on the spot.’
She saw him frown with annoyance when she shook her head in disbelief.
‘You’ll see! And afterwards I intend to sue for damages for wrongful arrest,’ he said confidently.
Christabel tried hard to make him change his mind, but he was unwavering in his belief that there was nothing at all to be worried about and that he would be able to convince the judge that there was no case to be answered.
At first he was emphatic that he didn’t want her telling Alex what had happened. Then when he heard that his appearance in court wouldn’t be for at least a week he accepted that although he’d been given bail it would be better to tell Alex what had happened before he read about it in the newspaper.
‘You and Alex are both going to be there I hope,’ he stated the morning the case was to be heard and he was getting ready to go to Court. ‘Afterwards we’ll celebrate with a slap-up meal and I’ll buy you both all the champagne you can drink!’
Christabel assured him that she would be there. What she didn’t tell him was that they’d talked endlessly between themselves about the case and Alex had agreed with her that it was very unwise of George not to have a lawyer defending him.
Looking demure in a new navy cardigan suit and a matching cloche hat she had bought specially for the occasion because she thought everything in her wardrobe was far too bright and flamboyant, Christabel felt very nervous as they took their seats.
Alex had warned her that the press was bound to be there taking photographs, so she had made sure that George was wearing a new white shirt and a well-pressed, dark grey suit. Standing in the dock he looked as cool as a cucumber as he delivered his carefully prepared speech in a strong, clear voice.
Despite his eloquence, or possibly because he was far too outspoken and because he was an actor, the judge decided he wanted to make an example of his misconduct and George was sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment.
His punishment was far more severe than the sentences served on any of the others who had been charged with him and Christabel felt numb with disbelief.
She calculated that even with time off for good behaviour it would be the following autumn at the earliest before he was free again. Where on earth did that leave her, she wondered? Even if George agreed to her staying on in his flat while he was in prison, would she be able to afford to remain there all on her own? Living in London was so terribly expensive; she would most certainly have to try and find a job.
Apart from that, she though worriedly, what would happen when George’s parents discovered that he’d been sent to prison? They might decide to either sell the flat or rent it out, and she shuddered to think what would happen if they discovered she’d been living there with George.
She decided that there was only one person who would understand the position she was now in and who could advise her about what was the best thing to do, and that was Alex Taylor. But, as she turned to speak to him and saw the hard inscrutable look on his face, she wondered just how much she could count on his help.
Chapter Fourteen
Christabel would never forget the night she had arrived at Alex’s Mayfair flat after George had been sent to prison. He’d asked no questions, simply invited her in as if there was nothing at all unusual about her calling on him so late in the evening. He had taken her coat, led her into his massive lounge, sat her down on the comfortable sofa, and then poured her a brandy.
He had occupied an armchair opposite her, silently nursing his own drink, waiting until she’d drained her glass before speaking.
‘Are you all right now? Do you want to tell me what’s happened?’
He listened in silence, his eyes gave nothing away. When she had finished telling him that George had been sent to prison, he refilled her glass.
‘Drink this. Then try and get some sleep.’ He patted her hand consolingly. ‘We’ll talk again in the morning. Things will look different then, I promise you.’
He took her through to the bedroom, handed her a navy silk pyjama jacket, and then left her. The room was enormous, and so too was the bed. She undressed and slipped in between the cool silk sheets and waited. She felt slightly muzzy with all the brandy she’d been drinking and was asleep almost at once. When she woke, daylight was already showing behind the curtains.
She groped her way to the bedroom door and opened it. The lounge was in darkness. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness she could make out the shapes of the furniture. Alex was sound asleep lying on the sofa and covered over with a blanket.
She crept back into the warm, comfortable bed feeling guilty that he’d had to spend the night on the sofa.
She lay there dozing and turning over in her mind her feelings for Alex. She found it impossible to understand why he meant so much to her. She sometimes wondered whether it was because, with his dark hair and dark, hypnotic eyes, he reminded her of her brother Lewis. In her heart she knew this wasn’t the case. Lewis had vivid blue eyes, like her own, and Alex’s hair was not just dark, it was jet black.
If you analysed Alex’s appearance, Christabel thought dispassionately, you would see that his features had a certain Latin quality. His skin was so tanned and smooth that his clean-shaven cheeks gleamed. His dark eyes had a cold, watchful brilliance that screened his thoughts. She had never known anyone quite like him.
Even his shoulders seemed to be exceptionally wide. George, with his shock of fair hair, was so different. Just by looking into his eyes, because he was so transparent, she could usually tell exactly what he was thinking.
With Alex there was always uncertainty. Although he seemed to be interested in her, she was never entirely sure what his feelings for her were.
He didn’t try to please her, or attract her attention. There were no gifts or bouquets of flowers. Always she was the one who was anxious to please him, to fall in with his plans, whatever they were
. In some ways, she knew she was behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl.
She re-examined in minute detail every moment she’d been in his company from the time they’d met. There had been a great many memorable hours spent together while George was in the theatre. There had been walks in London, drives out into the countryside and boat trips on the river. It had been more than mere friendship; it had been like a courtship. A very proper courtship conducted by a man who seemed serious about his intentions.
She was suddenly roused to find Alex standing at the bedside holding a cup of tea for her. She felt a moment’s unease because she hadn’t heard him come into the room and wondered how long he had been watching her.
‘I have to go out,’ he told her in clipped tones. ‘When you are dressed, why don’t you go and collect all your belongings?’
‘You mean I can stay here while George is in prison?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Don’t you want to?’
‘Yes – that would be wonderful. Only you can’t sleep on the sofa.’ She looked up quickly and caught a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes before he masked it under lowered lids.
‘I don’t intend to do so. You fetch your things. We’ll sort out the sleeping details later,’ he told her, looking at his gold Rolex. ‘I must go, or I shall be late for the theatre.’
‘The theatre?’ She looked dumbfounded.
‘I’m not only an agent, representing George and some other actors, but I’m also a producer. I’m in charge of the company putting on the play that George had a part in.’
By the time Alex returned later in the day, Christabel had collected all her clothes and other possessions from George’s flat. She had no idea where to put them, so they were piled up in one corner of the otherwise immaculate living room.
Whispers of Love Page 11
