four women on himself so she could have Wild all to herself. By Duncan’s expression, that’s what he wishes for also. “And technically, Swedish is taken up by Folgate,” Wild adds, “this being their fake wedding reception and all, so it’s even better for us, Dunk. Two real men against five fine women.”
“I’m not a real man?” says Julian.
“And why only technically taken up?” Mia says. “You think my fake husband is about to bolt now that he spies the bounty out there?” She takes Julian’s arm as they enter the Savoy, like they’re a gentleman and a lady, or maybe a husband and wife.
The porters hold open the heavy doors, and in their lounge suits and bowler hats and dresses, the Ten Bells stroll in as if they belong at a place like the Savoy. No one looks twice at their stitched-up and bandaged faces.
A concierge approaches them to ask if they know where they’re going.
“Tell him, Mia,” Julian says, “tell him, do any of us really know where we’re going, C.J.?”
“How do you know the concierge’s name?” Mia whispers.
“To the Grill,” Julian tells the man. He’s eaten there a few times. Many times, he and Ashton had gone to the art-deco American Bar for drinks. They’d gone to the Grill with Riley for Julian’s birthday in March, and for Ashton’s in August. Riley loved the place. And later on, so did Zakiyyah. Julian had even taken Devi and Ava there once, though Devi partook of the French-English cuisine like it was rookery gruel.
“Very well, sir,” the concierge says. “But you’re headed in the wrong direction. The Grill is not to the left of the lobby. That’s where our jewelry store is. The Grill is at the back of the hotel, overlooking the Thames.” He coughs. “Though, of course, no river view tonight. The curtains are drawn.”
“Of course,” Julian says. “And thank you.” He forgot the hotel had been renovated recently and the restaurants rearranged.
As they walk through the reception hall, Wild asks Julian if he’s still thinking of getting a room after dinner.
“Indubitably,” Julian replies. “After all, it’s our wedding night.”
Mia rolls her eyes. “He’s kidding. It’s our fake wedding night.”
“What about the rest of us?” Wild asks.
“You’re definitely not going to be in the room with us,” says Julian.
“He’s kidding.” Mia shakes her head.
“I’ll get you your own room,” Julian says to Wild.
Duncan and Wild look doubtful. “Are you sure you have enough money for such an extravaganza, Jules?” asks Duncan.
“I hope to soon be too drunk to care, so yes.”
They are placed at a large round table in the middle of the dining room underneath a crystal chandelier. Everyone tries to contain their glee as the menus are brought. They order the Savoy specialty—Pink Gin cocktails—discover they are teeth-rattlingly strong, and gasp at the prices on the menu.
“No one eat a thing,” says Duncan. “Not even a piece of bread. Or Jules won’t be able to afford the rooms he’s been promising. What would you rather have, ladies, caviar or a bath with me? It’s either steak or Duncan, girls,” he adds as a variation of the Minister of Food’s justification for the rationing at restaurants: “It’s either steak or ships, citizens of London.”
“Most definitely steak, Duncan,” Kate says.
To calm Duncan down, Julian slaps a twenty-pound note on the table. “Dunk, eat, drink, be merry, don’t worry about a thing.”
Duncan relaxes. After two Pink Gins, everyone relaxes. Plymouth gin, a dash or two of angostura bitters and a splash of soda, though for the second one, Julian asks the barman to add some tonic water, or they’ll all be under the table by the time the main course is served.
“Chaps,” Mia says, “did you know that the Savoy Hotel and Theatre, and my favorite Palace Theatre on Cambridge Circus, were all built by the same man?”
“Richard D’Oyly Carte, right?” says Julian with a twinkle. “With his profits from The Pirates of Penzance.” Julian smiles as he recalls the depth of his long ago bedazzlement high in the ancient mountains of Santa Monica when she was still Josephine, waxing poetic about a man who loved a woman so much he built her a theatre.
But tonight it is Mia who looks bedazzled. “I still don’t know how you know that,” she says, “but yes, he built the Palace as a labour of love, but my point is that it was art that made real life possible—that imaginary, make-believe things came first, and they helped build real historic places.”