The Silver Chain. Primula Bond

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      THREE

      It takes me all of three seconds to make up my mind. There’s no-one waiting for me. No-one expecting me to check in. No-one who gives a toss.

      ‘Mr Levi? Thank you. I could murder a glass of dry white wine.’

      ‘Gustav. You were OK with it before. It’s a formal enough name without your making me feel like a sergeant major.’

      ‘OK, Gustav. And if you’re not to be trusted, well, I’m a big girl now. I can look after myself.’

      He presses his hand into the small of my back. A signal of agreement, or the commencement of a new journey? Either way it gets me going, like the crank handle on a vintage car. I’m happy for him to keep his hand there, actually. Against all my resolutions, despite my upbeat retorts, I feel right now as if I have no spine, no backbone, that I’ll crumple in a heap and give up with no visible means of support.

      But to my disappointment he removes it, puts his hands thoughtfully into his pockets, and instead of walking up the hill, as he started to do just now, he leads me away from the dark square, towards the bright lights of what must be Piccadilly where red buses and black taxis and normal people are going about their business.

      Behind me I imagine the shadows in the square staring after us, reluctant to let us go.

      We cross the street and like everyone else we walk briskly towards the Ritz Hotel. The famous lights illuminating its name above the colonnade are so inviting. Gustav glances down at me. The amusement I’m becoming familiar with starts in the crinkling of his eyes, the softening of his cheeks, lifts the curve of his argumentative mouth.

      ‘They have a dress code in there, I’m afraid, to go with all that glitzy gilt. They wouldn’t let us set foot in this revolving door, let alone contaminate one of their precious seats in the Rivoli Bar.’

      I am an urchin, standing in the cold, elbowed aside by the glossy rich visitors in their fur coats and ostentatious jewellery, being fussed into the hotel by pompous-looking doormen.

      ‘No problem. I’d better get home, actually Mr – Gustav. A drink is very tempting, but maybe not such a good idea after all.’ I pat my pockets. ‘And I’m skint.’

      ‘Pavements not paved with gold yet, eh?’ He moves on along the facade of the grand hotel to the corner, and waits. He’s staring not back at me but down St James’s Street. I wage a little war with myself. He’s a stranger, remember.

      The newspaper headlines, exaggerated by the time they reach the office of Jake’s local rag: Country girl from the sticks raped and murdered in London by suave conman.

      Even Polly would be wagging her metaphorical finger at me by now. Blaming herself for not being there, looking out for me. But we’re out in public here. Lots of people around us. He’s charming. He’s incredibly attractive. He’s got a lovely deep, well spoken voice. And he’s an entrepreneur who must be bloody rich if he owns more than one house. What the hell else am I going to do with myself when everyone else is out having fun?

      One thing I won’t tell him is that my pockets might be empty, but my bank account is full.

      ‘One drink. Then I must get back.’

      He doesn’t answer or protest, but with a courtly bow he crooks his elbow and escorts me down St James’s. We turn right and into the far more subtle splendour of Dukes Hotel.

      ‘Dress code?’ I ask nervously, wiping my feet obediently on the huge but welcoming doormat and drifting ahead of him into the smart interior where domed and glassed corridors lead here and there. The foyer smells of mulled wine and candles and entices you to succumb to its perfumed embrace.

      ‘Not as such. It’s not whether you’re wearing the latest Victoria Beckham or carrying a Hermès that counts in a place like this.’ His voice has become more mocking since we stepped out of the cold. He snaps his gloves off.

      ‘As if. I’ve never even been into the kind of shop that would sell those.’

      ‘Well, don’t ever go there. It’s a total waste of money. Vanity and greed. And the women who claim their lives aren’t worth living if they don’t have the latest designer crap are a waste of space too.’

      Waves of hostility are coming off him now that we’re within spitting distance of others. ‘So what does count here?’

      ‘Standing. Class. Breeding. Beauty helps, no matter what people say.’ He unwinds his scarf as if it has offended him, then turns at last towards me. The sudden annoyance melts away as quickly as it arrives. He flicks imaginary dust off my shoulder. ‘And of course, whether or not you can pay your bar bill.’

      ‘Oh Gustav, I told you I’ve no money on me.’

      ‘And I told you, not a problem. Your beauty and my wallet will see us through this evening.’ He laughs СКАЧАТЬ