Mary Shaffer: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

So we did. The talk was going smoothly enough, and my mind was wandering when I heard Gilly say, “… you were a war widow yourself, weren’t you? Or rather— almost a war widow—as good as. You were to marry a Lieutenant Rob Dartry, weren’t you? Had made arrangements for the ceremony, hadn’t you?”

Juliet said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Gilbert.” You know how polite she is.

“I don’t have it wrong, do I? You and Lieutenant Dartry did apply for a marriage license. You did make an appointment to be married at the Chelsea Register Office on 13th December, 1942, at 11:00 a.m. You did book a table for luncheon at the Ritz—only you never showed up for any of it. It’s perfectly obvious that you jilted Lieutenant Dartry at the altar—poor fellow—and sent him off alone and humiliated, back to his ship, to carry his broken heart to Burma, where he was killed not three months later.”

I sat up, my mouth gaping open. I just looked on helplessly as Juliet attempted to be civil: “I didn’t jilt him at the altar —it was the day before. And he wasn’t humiliated—he was relieved. I simply told him that I didn’t want to be married after all. Believe me, Mr. Gilbert, he left a happy man—delighted to be rid of me. He didn’t slink back to his ship, alone and betrayed—he went straight to the CCB Club and danced all night with Belinda Twining.”

Well, Sidney, surprised as Gilly was, he was not daunted. Little rodents like Gilly never are, are they? He quickly guessed that he was on to an even juicier story for his paper.

“OH-HO!” he smirked, “What was it, then? Drink? Other women? A touch of the old Oscar Wilde?”

That was when Juliet threw the teapot. You can imagine the hubbub that ensued—the lounge was full of other people having tea—hence, I am sure, the newspapers learning of it.

I thought his headline, “ IZZY BICKERSTAFF GOES TO WAR—AGAIN! Reporter Wounded in Hotel Bun-Fight,” was a bit harsh, but not too bad. But “ JULIET’S FAILED ROMEO—A FALLEN HERO IN BURMA” was sick-making, even for Gilly Gilbert and the Hue and Cry.

Juliet is worried she may have embarrassed Stephens & Stark, but she is literally sick over Rob Dartry’s name being slung around in this fashion. All I could get her to say to me was that Rob Dartry was a good man, a very good man—none of it was his fault—and he did not deserve this!

Did you know Rob Dartry? Of course, the drink/Oscar Wilde business is pure rot, but why did Juliet call off the wedding? Do you know why? And would you tell me if you did? Of course you wouldn’t; I don’t know why I’m even asking.

The gossip will die down of course, but does Juliet have to be in London for the thick of it? Should we extend our tour to Scotland? I admit I’m of two minds about this; the sales there have been spectacular, but Juliet has worked so hard at these teas and luncheons—it is not easy to get up in front of a roomful of strangers and praise yourself and your book. She’s not used to this hoopla like I am and is, I think, very tired.

Sunday we’ll be in Leeds, so let me know then about Scotland. Of course, Gilly Gilbert is despicable and vile and I hope he comes to a bad end, but he has pushed Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War onto the Best Seller List. I’m tempted to write him a thankyou note.

Yours in haste,

Susan

P.S. Have you found out who Markham V. Reynolds is yet? He sent Juliet a forest of camellias today.

AM TERRIBLY SORRY TO HAVE EMBARRASSED YOU AND STEPHENS & STARK. LOVE, JULIET

26th January, 1946

Miss Juliet Ashton

The Queens Hotel

City Square

Leeds

Dear Juliet,

Don’t worry about Gilly—you did not embarrass S&S; I’m only sorry that the tea wasn’t hotter and you didn’t aim lower. The Press is hounding me for a statement regarding Gilly’s latest muckraking, and I am going to give them one. Don’t worry; it’s going to be about Journalism in these degenerate times—not about you or Rob Dartry.

I just spoke to Susan about going on to Scotland and—though I know Sophie will never forgive me—decided against it. Izzy ’s sales figures are going up—way up—and I think you should come home.

The Times wants you to write a long piece for the supplement—one part of a three-part series they plan to publish in successive issues. I’ll let them surprise you with the subject, but I can promise you three things right now: they want it written by Juliet Ashton, not by Izzy Bickerstaff ; the subject is a serious one; and the sum mentioned means you can fill your flat with fresh flowers every day for a year, buy a satin quilt (Lord Woolton says you no longer need to have been bombed out to buy new bedcovers), and purchase a pair of real leather shoes—if you can find them. You can have my coupons.

The Times doesn’t want the article until late spring, so we will have more time to think up a new book possibility for you. All good reasons to hurry back, but the biggest one is that I miss you.

Now, about Markham V. Reynolds, Junior. I do know who he is, and the Domesday Book won’t help—he’s an American. He is the son and heir of Markham V. Reynolds, Senior, who used to have a monopoly on paper mills in the States and now just owns most of them. Reynolds, Junior, being of an artistic turn of mind, does not dirty his hands in making paper—he prints on it instead. He’s a publisher. The New York Journal, the Word, View —those are all his, and there are several smaller magazines as well. I knew he was in London. Officially, he’s here to open the London office of View, but rumor has it that he’s decided to begin publishing books, and he’s here to beguile England’s finest authors with visions of plenty and prosperity in America. I didn’t know his technique included roses and camellias, but I’m not surprised. He’s always had more than his fair share of what we call cheek and Americans call can-do spirit. Just wait till you see him—he’s been the undoing of stronger women than you, including my secretary. I’m sorry to say she’s the one who gave him your itinerary and your address. The silly woman thought he was so romantic-looking, with “such a lovely suit and handmade shoes.” Dear God! She couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of breach of confidentiality, so I had to sack her.

He’s after you, Juliet, no doubt about it. Shall I challenge him to a duel? He would undoubtedly kill me, so I’d rather not. My dear, I can’t promise you plenty or prosperity or even butter, but you do know that you’re Stephens & Stark’s—especially Stark’s—most beloved author, don’t you?

Dinner the first evening you are home?

Love,

Sidney

28th January, 1946

Dear Sidney,

Yes, dinner with pleasure. I’ll wear my new dress and eat like a pig.

I am so glad I didn’t embarrass S&S about Gilly and the teapot—I was worried. Susan suggested I make a “dignified statement” to the press too, about Rob Dartry and why we did not marry. I couldn’t possibly do that. I honestly don’t think I’d mind looking like a fool, if it didn’t make Rob look a worse one. But it would—and of course, he wasn’t a fool at all. But he’d sound that way . I’d much prefer to say nothing and look like a feckless, flighty, cold-hearted bitch.

But I’d like you to know why—I’d have told you before, but you were off with the Navy in 1942, and you never met Rob. Even Sophie never met him—she was up at Bedford that fall—and I swore her to secrecy afterwards. The longer I put off saying anything, the less important it became for you to know, especially in light of how it made me look—witless and foolish for getting engaged in the first place.