The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

  ‘How do you find your new job?’ I asked awkwardly.

  ‘Quite easily. Apparently one takes the bus to Oxford Street and walks the rest.’

  ‘I meant— ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Is your boss a nice man?’ ‘Probably.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Harry gave me a look. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘Yes.’ Who, on hearing those words, ever says no, I wondered. ‘I haven’t been into the office once. I called up on the first day and said that I had accepted an offer from another firm.’

  ‘Harry!’ I exclaimed, thoroughly shocked. ‘How on earth are you going to hide this one from your mother?’

  ‘Oh, she’s lost interest in me now she thinks I’m employed. Right now she’s so gripped by getting the rip-roaring fable that is her life story into print that I don’t think she’d notice if I grew another head. No doubt she won’t bump into Sir Richard until Christmas, which gives me eight months to get my career in magic off the ground. And I should warn you that I won’t listen to anything you say. unless you wish to praise me for my enterprising cunning.’

  ‘Nothing cunning about not having any money,’ I said pertly. ‘I’m playing the circuit at weekends. That keeps me in smokes. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘I’ve always been hopeless at maths. If I hadn’t dropped out, they would have sacked me within a week.’

  ‘It sounds as if you’ve got it all worked out.’

  ‘I’m a magician; it’s in our nature to have everything worked out. How are you, anyway? Weeping for Johnnie as usual?’

  ‘Oh shut up. I don’t tease you about your obsession with the American.’

  Harry grinned. ‘Touché. Au contraire, you were rather helpful to me over the American. Which brings me on to something else…’ He paused and I felt a flutter of dread mixed with a flicker of excitement.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I need you to help me again.’

  ‘Oh no. No way.’ I shook my head vigorously.

  ‘At least let me explain.’ He threw the last of his cigarette into the fire. ‘Then you can make your own mind up.’

  ‘I’m not listening!’

  Harry grinned. ‘George is organising a soirée for Marina’s birthday. Nothing fancy, just fifty close friends for dinner at the Ritz.’

  ‘How terribly low key of him.’

  ‘Isn’t it? It’s taking place next month so you’ve a couple of weeks to fret about it.’

  ‘Why should it be of any concern to me?’

  ‘Because Charlotte’s been invited. And you and I have been invited. And we’ve both accepted.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said grimly. understanding perfectly. Harry gave me a pleading grin. ‘Think about it, sweetheart.’

  ‘Marina won’t want me there—’

  ‘Well, that’s exactly the point, isn’t it? George was only too keen to make sure you would be accompanying me so that Marina gets the message, once and for all, that I’ve lost all interest in her. As far as he’s concerned, once I’m well and truly spoken for, he has nothing else to fear. You should have read the letter he enclosed with the invitation. I do hope your sweet friend Penelope can come. Marina thought her a perfect delight.’

  ‘It didn’t say that!’

  ‘Yes it did!’

  I digested this for a moment. ‘No. I won’t do it again. I just wont. Something in me felt furious with him for even asking me. Harry said nothing, so I ploughed on. ‘I still can’t quite make out where all this is heading. All I know is that I’m the one who’s going to get hurt.’

  ‘You’ve been reading too many magazines. You won’t get hurt.’ ‘Harry crossed the room to where I was standing and stood right up close to me and irrationally. all I could think about was how long his hair was getting. I tried to make myself a little shorter by slouching slightly on one leg like a horse at rest. Harry, observant as ever, laughed. ‘If only you weren’t so bloody tall,’ he groaned. ‘It’s the only thing that makes us implausible.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’ I said defensively. ‘Plenty of men like tall women.

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second,’ said Harry (confirming that he was not one of them), ‘but there’s something very suspicious about a tall girl falling for a shorter man.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Height should never be an issue in the face of true love.’

  Harry grinned. ‘You’re getting the hang of this,’ he said approvingly. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and bowed his head in shame. ‘Call me what you like, but I’ve got one last chance to get her,’ he said, returning to the topic in hand. ‘She was shaken by you after the engagement party. This could push her over the edge.’

  ‘Charming. I thought you were madly in love with the girl.’

  ‘I am, I am!’ he said, crossing back over to the fireplace and reaching for another cigarette. ‘And if she marries Rogerson I’ll never forgive myself, and neither will she.’

  ‘And you honestly believe this plan will work?’

  ‘I know the way her mind works. One more night of you and me together, and she’ll snap.’

  ‘Then what? When she’s finished snapping?’

  ‘She’ll come back to me, of course.

  ‘And what about me?’

  ‘Well, sweetheart, I can’t imagine that you’ll be too heartbroken to let me go. Of course, you could pretend to be; that would be rather nice— ‘But I’ll for ever be seen as the poor girl dumped for the rich American.’

  ‘I imagine it will make you a source of great fascination to the rest of the male species. Men love girls they can protect from the evil of a former lover.’

  ‘Girls of six foot don’t tend to radiate the need for protection,’ I snapped.

  ‘Don’t be so silly. You’ll seem like a beautiful baby giraffe with a broken leg. They’ll want to nurse you back to health.’

  I gave him my best what-are-you-talking-about look, which never normally comes off I think I did quite well this time, probably because I genuinely meant it for once.

  ‘As far as I can see, there’s nothing in this for me at all. The first time it was all a bit of fun, but this is taking things a step too far, Harry,’ I said firmly.

  ‘I’ve thought of that too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He lowered his voice a little. ‘You need payment this time. Something to make the whole, horrific ordeal worthwhile.’

  I was about to open my mouth and say that nothing on earth would persuade me to think that that was anything other than a terrible idea, but something in me paused to listen to what he had to say next. He pulled something out of his pocket. ‘Here.’

  ‘What — what are they?’ I muttered, but I knew even before I had finished asking the question.

  ‘Two tickets to Johnnie Ray at the Palladium in April. Rare as guinea pigs, I can tell you.’

  ‘How did you—’ I whispered, heart hammering, trying hard not to whoop.

  ‘Let’s just say the roulette wheel, several dry martinis, a collection of rich gamblers and a sprinkle of magic were involved. From what I’ve heard about him, Johnnie Ray himself would be proud of me.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll leave it up to you to tell Charlotte.’

  The next thing that happened was that we heard the front door opening and both of us nearly jumped out of our skins. Harry shoved the tickets back into his pocket, pressed his finger to his lips and stalked off, leaving me struck dumb in the middle of the room. Five seconds later, Charlotte burst through the door.

  ‘Oh, Penelope, you’re here! Goodness, you must be starving.’

  I nodded, but for once, tea was the last thing on my mind.

  ‘This whole city has gone quite mad,’ said Aunt Clare, sweeping into the room and kissing me hello. ‘I’ve never seen so many people shopping in all my life, and I’ve never felt so violated by the power of advertisements! All I wanted was a simple ribbon for the typewriter, but I’ve come home with two new sk
irts, a bottle of perfume and a book that I am quite sure I will never get round to reading.’

  ‘Why did you buy it then, Aunt?’

  ‘I liked the title. We must think of a good title for my book, Charlotte. Something rare and controversial.’

  ‘How about My Autobiography?’ suggested Charlotte, who was looking fed up.

  Aunt Clare gave her a withering look and flopped onto her chair. ‘This need to buy everything one reads about is quite frightening,’ she said. ‘Still, Harry has his job now; we should be grateful for small mercies. Goodness, Sir Richard is such a ‘friend.’

  I hardly knew where to look.

  ‘I wouldn’t get too complacent, Aunt,’ warned Charlotte. ‘You never know with Harry.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be quite at home in accountancy. He’s always loved figures,’ said Aunt Clare vaguely. Charlotte raised her eyebrows at me and I stifled a giggle.

  Unfortunately. I didn’t get a chance that afternoon to talk to Charlotte about Harry and his outrageous suggestion. Tea finished at five as usual, but Charlotte had to leave ten minutes early for her mother’s birthday drinks.

  ‘The conductor’s throwing her a party,’ she said gloomily. ‘I’m quite sure he’d be out of the door faster than you can say Nabucco if he knew that she’s fifty-three, not forty-three, today.’

  I rather hoped that Charlotte would invite me to accompany her. She didn’t, of course.

  Because she left earlier, I took the earlier train home and decided to treat myself to a seat in first-class. This is something I never would have done before meeting Charlotte and it was one of those momentous decisions made without the slightest realisation of its momentousness. It had been tipping down with rain for most of the afternoon, and the carriage smelt sweetly of damp clothes and wet newspapers, of tobacco and British Railways tea. I listened to the comforting rattle of the wheels on the tracks, and watched through the window as we slipped out of London and towards the soft, friendly stations that marked the journey back to Magna. The rain stopped after a while and the evening looked beautiful in a nearly spring sort of way. For the first time, I felt aware of lengthening light, the elbowing out of the winter.

  As we pulled out of Reading, the man opposite me looked up from the Financial Times for the first time since leaving London and smiled at me and I caught my breath because he had the most amazing face I had ever seen. It wasn’t just his beauty, which was obvious in an older movie-star way (I put him at about forty-five), but his eyes — huge, soft brown and full of kindness — that took me by surprise. I had never thought that glamour and kindness could be happy bedfellows, yet this man’s features were doing their best to prove me wrong. He didn’t even have to shift in his seat for me to notice that he oozed self-confidence in a distinctly un-English way.

  ‘Strange weather,’ he said, and joy of joys! there was the unmistakable American accent.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I agreed.

  He grinned again and went back to his paper, and I noticed how beautiful his hands looked. Manicured! I thought in amazement. I wanted to hear him talk again.

  ‘But then we’re used to that in this country.

  He laughed. ‘Sure we are,’ he said and, smiling, turned back to his paper.

  ‘Do you — do you live in England?’ I asked falteringly. ‘Some of the time,’ he said. ‘Most of the time, in fact.’ ‘Gosh,’ I said, ‘you’re American, aren’t you?’

  ‘Damn, I thought I’d shaken the accent off at London airport,’ he said mockingly. but there was amusement in his eyes. Not that haughty, isn’t-this-all-a-bit-of-a-jolly-jape look of amusement that Harry wore. This felt real to me. He was back at his business again, so I wrenched my questions back and stared out of the window and thought about Harry’s request. Johnnie, and a night out at the Ritz, seemed too good a chance to pass up. And yet…

  ‘You look like there’s something on your mind,’ said the stranger. I gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘What would you do,’ I asked him quickly. ‘if somebody wanted you to do something for them that you weren’t sure you really wanted to do?’

  ‘What is this very terrible thing?’

  ‘A smart dinner party,’ I mumbled.

  ‘All good dinner parties should make you feel odd and out of place to start with,’ said the stranger briskly. ‘The combination of good wine and good-looking people throws most folk completely. The question is, can you rise to the occasion? Can you turn it around and make the night work for you?’

  I stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘I don’t know,’ I answered truthfully. I thought of our triumph at Dorset House, and Marina’s irritation at my presence. ‘I suppose I could have a go, I said.

  He laughed out loud at me. ‘What would you rather be doing,’ he asked, ‘if there was some place else you could be rather than at this dinner party? Dancing to poor old Johnnie Ray. I suppose?’

  My eyes widened, and, as usual, my heartbeat skipped at the mere sound of Johnnie’s name. Spoken by an American, it sounded even more delicious. ‘How on earth did you know about Johnnie?’ I cried. ‘That’s psychic!’

  ‘Not really.’ said the stranger, pointing at the magazine Charlotte had given me. I always carried it with me for the train. ‘There’s no hope, I’m afraid. I’ve heard he hypnotises young girls like you. God knows, one can hardly blame the man.’

  I felt myself flushing scarlet. ‘I do like the new sounds,’ I admitted. ‘My brother’s addicted to them.’

  ‘There’s big money to be made in it all,’ said the stranger. ‘Big money indeed.’

  Then the ticket collector came through, and an awful thing happened — I couldn’t for the life of me find my ticket.

  ‘I know it’s here somewhere!’ I fretted, turning my coat pockets inside out to reveal a half-eaten ginger scone that I had wrapped in a bit of paper to eat on the journey home. Why couldn’t I be like Charlotte who always kept her cool in situations like this? The ticket collector, who was a sour-faced man with a hacking cough, looked ready for the kill.

  ‘I don’t have enough money for another ticket,’ I muttered.

  ‘You’ll have to alight at the next station,’ he said smugly.

  ‘Oh, but I’ll come back with the money tomorrow!’ I begged. We were still a good half an hour from Westbury and the rain had started again. My American hero reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a leather wallet.

  ‘Now look here, my man,’ he said, just as they do in the films, ‘I’ll pay her fare.’

  ‘You travelling with this young lady?’

  ‘I am now. How much does she owe?’

  ‘Two shillings and eightpence,’ said the ticket collector sulkily.

  ‘Here you go. If my companion finds her ticket before she reaches her destination, we shall expect our money back.’

  ‘Certainly. sir,’ said the ticket man, shuffling off with a spluttering cough.

  ‘Thanks most awfully.’ I gasped. ‘I must take your address so I can send you the money as soon as I get home. I did buy a ticket, you know. I’m generally an honest sort of person who doesn’t normally get into these sorts of scrapes.’

  ‘How disappointing,’ said my new friend with a wicked smile. ‘And of course you must not send me the money. I would take that as a terrific insult.’

  ‘Oh please, I’ll feel sick if you don’t let me pay you back. At least let me have your address, just to write and thank you.’

  He relented at this and a shiny black ink pen appeared from nowhere and he scribbled something on the back of a ticket stub. I wanted to see where he lived, but thought it was rude to look with him watching, so I shoved the ticket straight into my pocket with the unfortunate ginger scone.

  ‘My mother would be horrified if she knew I had accepted a ticket from a stranger,’ I said.

  ‘She need never know,’ he said with a wink.

  I thought he had probably had enough of me causing trouble so I thanked him again and buried my head in my magazine
while he studied a number of typewritten pages, tutting and swiping his pen through bits he probably didn’t agree with. At the next stop (which was Didcot of all the unexciting places), he packed his papers away and stood up. He was taller than I had imagined he would be, which only enhanced his fearful glamour.

  ‘Well, I’m off here,’ he announced. ‘Nice to meet you, mysterious lady with no ticket. I hope Mr Ray appreciates you. I have a funny feeling you may be wasted on him.’

  I thanked him yet again, and said good evening and watched him leave the train. He was met by a man in gloves and uniform who relieved him of his suitcase. A minute later I thought I was seeing things as I watched him climb into the passenger seat of the most beautiful silver car with black piping down the sides.

  ‘Blow me! It’s a blinking Chevrolet!’ exclaimed a boy of about thirteen, a couple of seats behind me, his glasses falling off his nose in excitement, and at once all faces that could were pressed to the window to have a look.

  ‘I knew ‘e was American,’ said the boy smugly. ‘Could tell from the way ‘e was talkin’.’

  ‘Rich American,’ said the man next to him.

  The car was quite the most exotic thing I’d ever seen, especially in a place like Didcot. Several little boys gathered around it, flummoxed with admiration, waiting for it to start off, which it did with a great roar and a cheer from the crowd. My friend even stuck his hand out and waved at them. They loved it.

  Mama met me at Westbury, which was unusual.

  ‘Johns wanted the afternoon off,’ she said, cranking the car into gear (Mama was a good driver, which always struck me as being somewhat out of character). ‘If only you could find a rich man to marry you, Penelope! All our troubles would be over,’ she sighed.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Mama,’ I said automatically. But I reached into my pocket and felt my stranger’s address and as soon as we arrived home I rushed upstairs to my room and pulled it out of my pocket to study. It was a ticket from last week’s performance of La Traviata at Covent Garden. Royal Box, I noted in awe and nearly fainted when I read the price in the corner. I turned it over to find out where he lived. This is what he had written.