sipping, Dolly had the urge to tell him everything. ‘You know,’ she said, nervous suddenly, ‘I don’t know that I’ve mentioned in my letters, but I’ve made a new friend.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, Vivien.’ Just saying her name made Dolly thrill a little with happiness. ‘Married to Henry Jenkins, you know, the author. They live across the street at number 25 and we’ve be-come rather firm friends.’ ‘Is that right?’ He laughed. ‘You know, it’s the oddest coincidence, but I just recently read one of his books.’
Dolly might have asked which one, but she didn’t because she wasn’t really listening; her mind was swirling with all the things she’d been wanting to say about Vivien and had been holding in. ‘She’s really something else, Jimmy. Beautiful, of course, but not in an ordinary showy sort of way; and very kind, always helping at the WVS—I told you about the canteen we’re running for service folk, didn’t I? I thought so. She understands, too, about what happened—my family, in Coventry—she’s an orphan herself, you see, raised by her uncle after her parents died, a great old school near Oxford, built on the family estate. Did I mention she’s an heiress, she actually owns the house on Campden Grove, not her husband, it’s hers—’. Dolly drew breath, but only because she wasn’t sure of the details. ‘Not that she goes on about it; she’s not like that at all.’
‘She sounds tremendous.’
‘She is.’
‘I’d like to meet her.’
‘Well,’ Dolly stammered, ‘of course—one of these days.’ She drew hard on her cigarette, wondering why the suggestion made her feel a sort of dread. Vivien and Jimmy meeting was not among the many future scenarios she’d envisaged; for one thing Vivien was extremely private, for another, well, Jimmy was Jimmy. Very sweet, of course, kind and clever—but not exactly the sort of person Vivien would approve of, not as a boyfriend for Dolly. It wasn’t that Vivien was unkind; she was just of a different class—from both of them, really, but Dolly, having been taken under Lady Gwendolyn’s wing, had learned enough to be accepted by someone like Vivien. Dolly hated lying to Jimmy, she loved him; but she certainly wasn’t about to hurt his feelings by putting it to him straight. She reached out and rested her hand on his arm, picking a piece of lint from the fraying cuff of his suit jacket. ‘Everyone’s just so busy with the war at the moment, aren’t they? There’s simply no time for being social.’
‘I could always—’
‘Jimmy, listen—they’re playing our song! Shall we dance? Come on, do let’s dance.’
Her hair smelt of perfume, that intoxicating scent he’d noticed when she first arrived, almost shocking in its strength and thrill, and Jimmy could have stayed that way forever, his hand in the small of her back, her cheek pressed against his, their bodies moving slowly together. He was tempted to forget the way she’d come over all evasive when he mentioned meeting her friend; the flash he’d had that the distance between them lately wasn’t all about what happened to her family, that this Vivien, the rich lady across the road, might have something to do with it. In all probability there was nothing to it—Dolly liked to have secrets, she always had. And what did it matter anyway, right here and now, so long as the music kept playing?
It didn’t, of course; nothing lasts forever and the faithless song ended. Jimmy and Dolly pulled apart to clap, and that’s when he noticed the man with a thin moustache watching them from the edge of the dance floor. This in itself would have been no cause for alarm, but the man was also in conversation with Rossi, who was scratching his head with one hand, making extravagant hand gestures with the other, and consulting some sort of list.
A guest list, Jimmy realised with a jolt. What else would it be?
It was time to make a discreet exit, stage right. Jimmy took Dolly’s hand and made to lead her away, casual as you please. There was every chance, he figured, if they went quickly and quietly, they’d be able to duck beneath the red cord, meld into the crowd and make a silent escape, no harm done.
Dolly, unfortunately, had other ideas; having made it to the dance floor, she was now rather reluctant to leave it. ‘Jimmy, no,’ she was saying, ‘no, listen, it’s “Moonlight Serenade”.’
Jimmy started to explain, glancing back towards the man with the thin moustache, only to find that