The Runaway Women in London

by Lesley Eames

  ‘When you’re rich you can buy me supper,’ Jenny told him.

  Shepherds Mews was quiet when Johnnie drove in.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ Jenny said.

  He turned towards her. ‘The pleasure was mine.’

  His eyes and voice were soft. She realised he was going to kiss her and felt a moment of pleasurable anticipation. But as he moved towards her, the memory of Jonas attacking her in the pantry suddenly roared into her mind. She saw again the hot lust in his eyes and smelt his foetid breath. She remembered his mouth on hers, wet and urgent. And she felt trapped. Suffocated. She needed to get out.

  Johnnie’s kiss connected with Jenny’s ear as she jerked away and fumbled for the door handle.

  ‘Sorry. I should have asked permission,’ he said.

  Jenny scrambled out of the car and stood on the cobbles. Reality was returning now. It had never occurred to her that the memory of what Jonas had done so long ago could have affected her like that. Dear Johnnie was nothing like Jonas. Jenny was appalled by her behaviour but the panic was overwhelming still. ‘Heavens, you’ve no need to apologise,’ she told him, backing towards the office door. ‘Thank you for a lovely time.’

  She hastened inside, turned to wave, then closed the door, relieved to hear Johnnie’s car move away. Instantly, relief was succeeded by a new horror. Had she offended him? Jenny wished desperately that she could call him back so she could— what? Tell him about Jonas? No, not that. Even the thought of it made Jenny feel tainted and unclean. But she could explain that he’d taken her by surprise and encourage him to kiss her again. And this time she’d respond with the enthusiasm he deserved.

  She’d left it too late, though. He’d gone and might never come back. The thought of not seeing him again robbed her of sleep.

  When morning came, she wondered if she should telephone him to apologise, but it was hard to be private at Silver Ladies. Besides, she couldn’t be sure if he was offended or not. An apology might puzzle him. It might lead to awkward questions too. Perhaps the better option was to wait and see if he got in touch, though the waiting would be awful.

  The day’s booking involved taking a Mrs Pettifer and her friend to a lunch in Hampstead then returning them home. Lydia was driving and Jenny helping once more.

  ‘My word, Leonora. You’re travelling in style today,’ Mrs Pettifer’s friend said when Jenny showed them to the car. ‘Perhaps I’ll take a card from the young ladies.’

  ‘As long as you don’t book them when I need them.’

  Lydia sent Jenny a wink and Jenny forced a smile.

  The lunch was in a palatial house near Hampstead Heath. Lydia found it with her usual ease, decanted Mrs Pettifer and friend at the front, then drove round to the back and prepared for a mixed reception from the other drivers. They’d come to expect a certain amount of hostility now, but Jenny had learned to sit near the friendlier drivers and Lydia simply read The Motor Manual.

  The afternoon passed pleasantly enough and Mrs Pettifer’s friend didn’t forget to ask for a card.

  ‘Remember I found you first,’ Mrs Pettifer told Jenny conspiratorially.

  ‘I will,’ Jenny smiled. The others would love to hear about this: two women competing to use their services.

  They returned to Silver Ladies and Jenny rushed upstairs, hoping to hear Johnnie had phoned. She paused when she heard laughter. Female laughter. Oddly familiar. But perhaps she shouldn’t interrupt.

  Grace must have heard them on the stairs. ‘Come in,’ she called.

  Walking in, Jenny blinked in surprise. ‘Miss Arleigh!’

  ‘You shouldn’t be surprised to see me,’ Julia smiled. ‘Not when you have your photograph in Twentieth-Century Woman. Five times!’

  ‘You recognised us?’

  ‘At once. You look beautiful, Jenny. So does Lydia. This is Fenella Fanshawe by the way. A friend.’

  A very fashionable friend. ‘Is the car really silver?’ Fenella asked.

  By now Lydia had appeared. She took Fenella downstairs to see the car.

  ‘Is Mrs Arleigh in London?’ Jenny asked, hoping their paths wouldn’t cross if she were.

  ‘Heavens, no. She thinks I’m staying with Bunty Carstairs and I was. But Bunty has tonsillitis, poor lamb, so I moved to Fenella’s. Mother doesn’t approve of Fenella. She thinks she’s rackety.’

  ‘Is she?’ Jenny asked. ‘Rackety?’

  ‘Of course. That’s why she’s fun.’ Julia paused then said, ‘I’ve no news about the necklace, in case you were wondering, but Mother’s had her punishment for dismissing you. Mrs Preece’s nieces are terribly dim, and Father is awfully grumpy now you’re not organising him, Grace.’

  Grace acknowledged the compliment with a dip of her head.

  ‘Things seem to have worked out well for you, though,’ Julia continued. ‘Silver Ladies and London must be much more fun than Arleigh Court. Especially now you’re appearing in magazines.’

  ‘The magazine is just publicity,’ Grace explained. ‘Our business is chauffeur-driven car hire.’

  ‘May I see the motor too?’ Julia asked.

  They all went downstairs.

  ‘Look, Julia,’ Fenella enthused. ‘Flora will love it.’

  ‘Flora?’ Grace asked.

  ‘My sister,’ Fenella explained. ‘She’s getting married and when she saw the car in the magazine she decided it would be perfect for taking her to the church, then on to Claridge’s for the wedding breakfast. It’s much nicer than Father’s Leyland.’

  ‘When is the wedding?’ Grace enquired.

  ‘Saturday. I hope you’re free?’

  ‘We have a booking for Saturday evening, but we could manage the morning or afternoon.’

  ‘That would be perfect.’

  ‘I’ll give you a quotation. If your sister is happy to accept it, she should telephone to confirm. Does she have a photographer to take pictures of the wedding?’

  Jenny’s heart gave a small leap. If Grace was going to recommend Johnnie, Jenny would have an excuse for calling him. But it wasn’t to be.

  ‘I’m sure she has,’ Fenella said.

  ‘We’d love to see any photos that include the car,’ Grace told her when they’d returned to the office and she’d prepared the quotation.

  ‘Certainly. Thank you for seeing us, but now we must leave. We have people coming for cocktails.’ Fenella tucked the quotation into her bag and got up.

  Julia gave the office one last look. ‘So exciting!’

  ‘She wouldn’t think it was half as exciting if she saw the living quarters,’ Grace laughed when they’d gone.

  Jenny jumped as the telephone rang. Please be Johnnie…

  But it was another booking.

  Three days later, they had five more bookings in the diary, including Flora Fanshawe’s wedding.

  ‘Johnnie’s photographs have paid dividends,’ Grace smiled. ‘You’ll tell him how grateful we are?

  ‘Of course,’ Jenny said, but would she have a chance?

  Of Johnnie there hadn’t been a sign.

  Twenty-nine

  Ruth had enjoyed an overnight visit to Ruston more than she’d thought possible, but then she’d seen nothing of Victor Rabley and neither had she stayed with her parents. Her brother Jimmy had suggested she visit so she could meet Ellen, and Ellen had invited her to stay with her family. Ruth had had a lovely time and not even an hour spent with Eunice and Bert had marred her pleasure.

  ‘Ellen is perfect for Jimmy,’ Ruth told Grace on her return.

  ‘If Jimmy has any of your qualities, she’s a lucky girl too,’ Grace said. ‘Hungry? Lydia and Jenny ate before they went out on their booking, but I thought I’d wait for you.’ Ruth sat at the table and Grace served up bowls of stew. ‘I know we’re all tired of stew but it’s nutritious, filling and cheap.’

  ‘It smells delicious, Grace. Thank you.’

  Grace sat down too and picked up her spoon. ‘I wouldn’t want you to break any confidences
, but I wonder if Jenny’s mentioned any sort of falling-out with Johnnie?’ she asked.

  ‘A falling-out?’ Ruth was surprised.

  ‘He hasn’t visited or phoned for several days as far as I’m aware. I don’t think Jenny’s met him anywhere else either.’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything to me.’

  ‘He might be working or visiting family, of course. It’s just that Jenny’s been a little…’ Grace shrugged, as though she’d already said too much. ‘I don’t want to pry, but neither do I want to blunder in with a hurtful comment if things have changed between them. But I expect she’s just missing him. Johnnie looked completely smitten last time he was here.’

  Grace was right. Johnnie’s eyes were always soft when they looked at Jenny. Not that he ignored everyone else. Johnnie was kind to all of them. He’d even given Ruth some lessons in photography after she commented on the shimmering quality of the photos he’d taken for the magazine.

  ‘That sort of effect comes from how a photographer uses light,’ he’d explained.

  ‘I see. Well, I don’t really.’

  ‘But you’d like to?’ Johnnie had appeared pleased. ‘I’ve got an old Brownie camera at home I’ll be glad to give you. I’ll be happy to give you some advice to get you started too.’

  He’d brought the camera on his next visit and showed her how use it.

  ‘I know you usually go to church with Grace and Jenny on Sunday mornings, but if you’re free on Sunday afternoon, we could go into the park and take some pictures.’

  They went into Kensington Gardens, where Johnnie had supervised her for a while, then encouraged her to choose her own subjects. Self-conscious at first, Ruth soon found she was intrigued by small things – sunshine dappling through the branches of a tree or a particular arrangement of leaves on the ground. Autumn had set in, turning greens to yellows, bronzes and reds, and fallen leaves were everywhere.

  ‘You have an excellent eye for detail,’ Johnnie had complimented.

  Ruth was sure that wasn’t true, but Johnnie had a way of making everyone feel good about themselves. ‘I’m sorry I keep asking questions.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I enjoy answering them.’

  He’d taught her about taking portraits too, using Jenny as a model back in the office. ‘Look at the differences small changes make,’ he said. ‘A little more light… A tilt of the head…’

  It was fascinating.

  He’d developed those first pictures for her and put a new film in the camera, refusing to take payment on the grounds that he bought numerous films and wouldn’t miss a few of them. He developed the second film too and provided her with a third. ‘You’re getting better and better,’ he told her, praising her efforts while helping her to understand how she might improve.

  Poor Jenny would suffer most if she’d fallen out with Johnnie, but Ruth would feel a pang of loss too. Johnnie had become her friend. Ruth could only hope Grace was wrong.

  They heard the Silver Lady then, returning from a booking. Moments later, there was laughter on the stairs.

  ‘Look who we found outside,’ Jenny said, the joy in her face announcing that the visitor was Johnnie even before he followed her into the room. ‘I’m sorry to call in so late,’ Johnnie said, ‘but I’ve been stuck in the wilds of Yorkshire with no access to a phone. Maggie O’Hara gave me the job. You remember Maggie, Jenny.’

  ‘She’s the rather frightening woman at the Herald,’ Jenny explained.

  ‘Her bark’s worse than her bite,’ Johnnie said. ‘She’s given me a couple of jobs and this one involved photographing an artist she’s going to feature in the paper. Ronald Fortescue. A nice chap, but an eccentric one. He lives on the moors miles from anywhere and wouldn’t let me take the photos until he felt the atmosphere was right. The moors were looking beautiful with all the autumn colours, but it was freezing in his cottage. It rained one night and water dripped through my bedroom roof until morning. Still, I think I got some good photos. How are things here?’

  ‘Three more bookings,’ Grace told him.

  ‘Excellent. I hear you’ve been away, Ruth.’

  ‘Only overnight. It’s hard to have time away from the shoe shop.’ Silver Ladies was bringing some money in, but until it was enough to pay them a wage, Ruth wanted to keep working.

  ‘Of course,’ Johnnie said. ‘But we must have another photography lesson next time you have some free time.’

  It was lovely to have Johnnie back and see Jenny looking happy.

  Thirty

  Lydia had fully intended not to waste another second of her life thinking about Celia, but seeing the woman with the provocative hips in Selfridges had started up an itch of curiosity that had proved difficult to ignore. Deciding that the best way to stop itches was to scratch them and forget about them, Lydia had made up her mind to try to discover if the woman was Celia or not.

  Realistically, Lydia knew her chance of seeing the woman again was probably one in a million, but lightning did strike twice in the same place sometimes. She’d returned to Selfridges three times so far and each time had been in vain. But this was the first time she’d returned on a Monday. If Lydia remembered correctly, it had been on a Monday when she’d seen the woman. Around this time too.

  Parking in a side street, Lydia walked through the Selfridges doors, then stood awkwardly as shoppers milled around her.

  ‘Would Madam like to try the perfume?’ an assistant asked.

  Madam would not.

  Irritation rose up in Lydia as she set off around the shop floor. Why was she even thinking of Celia after—?

  There they were. The same three women as before. Lydia was sure of it. Even though she’d only seen them properly from behind, their similarity of height was distinctive, as were the swinging hips of the one in the middle. Two of the women were wearing furs around their shoulders now the weather was colder. They stopped at a counter.

  ‘Do come along, Celia,’ the reedy-voiced woman urged. ‘I want my tea. You can look at stockings later.’

  They moved away.

  Walking quickly, Lydia got ahead of them. Half hidden behind another display, she took a good look at the middle woman’s face. That sharp nose, the pouting mouth…

  There was no doubting it now. It was Celia all right, though the years that had increased her bank balance hadn’t been kind to her appearance. Beneath the beauty-parlour glossiness, Celia’s face was harsh.

  Lydia held her breath as the women walked past her and got in the lift. Celia peeled her gloves off and Lydia caught the sparkle of diamonds before the lift boy closed the door to take them upwards.

  There were stairs nearby. Lydia raced up and arrived on the restaurant floor in time to see the women walking away from the lift.

  The head waiter greeted them with smiles. ‘Mrs York, Mrs Sutton, Mrs Farrow, your table awaits you.’

  So Celia Grey was Celia Sutton now. What sort of man was Mr Sutton, besides wealthy?

  Lydia glided closer as the women were shown to a table. Monday tea must be their regular routine.

  ‘May I be of assistance?’ A waiter appeared at Lydia’s side.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Turning, she rushed back down the stairs and through the store, burst onto Oxford Street and ran to the side street where she’d left the car. Letting herself in, she leaned forward over the steering wheel. Flames of rage licked at her insides. She imagined Celia’s jewelled fingers reaching for cucumber sandwiches, then returning later for cake. Though I shouldn’t. Not when I’m watching my figure.

  You have a lovely figure, the others would assure her, and Celia would smile and say, You must come for drinks. It’s been an age…

  All without a thought for the child she’d left behind in the cold, frigid house in Ruston.

  Nausea rose in Lydia’s throat. She groped her way out of the car and breathed in the cool air. Despite the chill, she felt clammy all over.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss?’

  The
man wore the long brown coat of a storeman. Lydia answered through gritted teeth. ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

  He gave her a doubtful look but walked on and Lydia slumped in relief. The nausea was passing but the rage remained like twin beams of fury – one directed at Celia Sutton and the other directed at herself. What a fool she was to let her mother affect her like this. But never again. Lydia was finished with That Woman.

  Thirty-one

  Grace wanted to scream. Mattie had sent the usual optimistic messages from Gran, then included her own note.

  Dear Grace,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Your grandmother keeps cheerful but she was poorly in her chest last week, so I got the doctor out. Not Doctor Arleigh, as you said that would be awkward. Doctor Fisk. It meant a doctor’s fee and medicine, but there was enough money left from what you have been sending. She is better in herself now, which I know will please you.

  Of course it pleased her. But the fact that she hadn’t even known Gran was ill made Grace feel like howling with frustration.

  Mattie was in a difficult position, of course. Grace might have urged Mattie to contact her immediately if Gran were ever unwell and had even arranged for Mattie to use the vicar’s telephone in an emergency, but doubtless Gran had made light of her poor health and urged Mattie not to bother Grace.

  This time Gran had recovered quickly. Next time, things might be more serious. They might even—

  Grace swallowed.

  Four months had passed since Grace moved to London, but it wasn’t getting any easier to be away from Gran. She was visiting Ruston every three weeks or so, traveling up on Saturday afternoons and returning on Sunday evenings. Each time, she was struck by Gran’s fragility. ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ Gran insisted, but she would say that.

  It was November now and the damp that never quite left Cutler’s Row even in summer would be drawing deeper into the building like moisture into a sponge. Dank, smelly and potentially lethal to someone with poor health. The thought of Gran enduring another winter in Ruston grieved Grace sorely.