Nicola Upson - Two for Sorrow

‘That can wait. This is more important.’

‘Yes, but this could take a lifetime to resolve, and we have approximately fifteen seconds.’ Marta hugged her, and Josephine felt her hand trace the line of pearls down her back so fleetingly that she might have imagined it. ‘You’re about to be fetched.’

‘What?’ Josephine turned round to see Celia Bannerman bearing down on her and beckoning her over to the other side of the room, where a couple of reporters were lining up guests to be photographed. She groaned. ‘That’s just what I need.’

‘Before you go, take this.’ Marta held out an earring. ‘You left it at Holly Place. I was going to keep it, but when you start holding pearls to ransom in the hope that someone will come running for them, you really are lost.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t have any more tricks up my sleeve, Josephine. You’ll come, or you won’t come. I hope you do.’

She disappeared into the crowd and Josephine fought her way reluctantly across the room to smile for Tatler . ‘Nice to see you back in London, Miss Tey,’ called one of the reporters. ‘You’ve got a new Inspector Grant book out soon, we hear.’

‘Yes—early next year. It’s called A Shilling for Candles .’

‘Let’s hope it raises a bit more than a shilling, eh? You’re donating the proceeds to charity, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right, to a cancer hospital.’

‘And is there a personal reason for that?’ He must have seen the look on her face, because he added quickly: ‘I’m not trying to pry, but it’ll make a nice little story to go alongside the Cowdray Club piece. It all helps to get the public on side, doesn’t it?’

It was a cheap trick, but Josephine felt obliged to answer, as he had known she would. Remembering why she hated the press, and why she never gave interviews, she said: ‘My mother died of breast cancer twelve years ago.’

‘That must have been a sad time for you.’ She didn’t even dignify that with a response: in truth, her mother’s death had devastated her, but she wasn’t about to share that with the world, not even in the name of charity. Smiling politely, she tried to excuse herself, but the reporter hadn’t finished. ‘A lot of people say that one of the characters in Mrs Christie’s new book is based on you,’ he said with a sly grin. ‘Muriel Wills—the woman who writes plays as Anthony Astor. Is there any truth in that, do you think?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t often read Mrs Christie.’ It was the best snub she could think of at short notice; she had, in fact, bought the book as soon as she heard the rumour, and had been furious to discover a ghastly creation who simpered and giggled and cluttered her home with nick-nacks; the fact that the playwright was observant and deadly with a pen did nothing to soften her anger.

‘No harm in a bit of friendly rivalry, though, is there?’ the reporter continued. ‘I just wondered if we might find a little cameo in your new book for Mrs Christie?’

‘What?’ Josephine was distracted by a commotion at the door. ‘A cameo for Mrs Christie? I couldn’t possibly say. If you look carefully, though, you’ll find a tramp with a very similar sense of humour. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are some people I have to talk to.’ This time, she didn’t have to work very hard to get away: the commotion signalled the arrival of the real stars of the evening. As the dignitaries and charity ladies clamoured for position around Noël and Gertie, Josephine found her table and sank gratefully into a seat next to Lettice. ‘I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with Jack Dempsey,’ she said. ‘What have I done to deserve a night like this?’

‘Looked gorgeous in that dress?’

‘You’re the third person to tell me that tonight, and you can probably guess who the other two were. The dress is stunning, though—thank you.’

Lettice poured her a drink. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to you first,’ she said. ‘I wanted to let you know what you were walking into, but Lydia was too quick for me.’

‘Don’t worry—it was nice of you even to try. Where’s Archie?’

Before Lettice could answer, the lights in the hall were lowered and Celia Bannerman walked on to the stage. ‘That’s it, then, girls—fun over,’ Ronnie said, slapping two more bottles of champagne down on the table. ‘Sweet charity’s arrived.’ She leaned across to Josephine. ‘And where did you spend the night? You could have had the whole of Scotland Yard out looking for you if it hadn’t been for our discretion.’

‘You? Discreet?’ Luckily for Josephine’s self-respect, a ripple of applause drowned out the rest of her reply. Celia held up her hand for silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the College of Nursing and Cowdray Club on what promises to be a very exciting occasion for us all. Before we go any further, I’d like you to join me in giving a warm welcome to our special guests this evening, Miss Gertrude Lawrence and Mr Noël Coward, who have taken a break from the tour of their latest production to be with us.’ The spotlight moved to a table at the front of the hall. ‘Later on, they’ll be treating us to two short pieces from Tonight at 8.30 . You’ll be the first London audience to enjoy the new show, and I’m sure it will whet our appetites for when it comes to the West End early next year.’ There were cheers around the room and, when they subsided, Celia said: ‘Clearly neither of our guests needs any introduction from me, but I will, if I may, tell you a little about one of the charities that we’re all here tonight to support.’

‘Here we go,’ Ronnie muttered. ‘It’ll be Tomorrow at Bloody Six by the time she’s finished.’

‘The Actors’ Orphanage, of which Mr Coward is president, started nearly forty years ago and now offers a home and a school to sixty children at a time. I need hardly stress to you that today, even with the vast improvements that have taken place in social welfare over the last few years, one of the casualties of a modern city is still the unwanted child, or the child who is left without anyone to care for him. Hard times press hardest on our children: now that the winter has come, and the days are dreary with fog and the streets are cheerless, now that Christmas approaches, it’s only natural that we turn our thoughts to bringing some brightness into their lives. But Mr Coward and his colleagues work tirelessly to do that all year round; thanks to them, and to other organisations like the Actors’ Orphanage, women are no longer driven to the desperate measures with which they were once faced, and children find the fabric of their lives immeasurably improved each day. I’m sure you’ll agree that money donated to such a cause is money well spent.’

Archie slipped into the seat on Josephine’s right, and she poured him a glass of champagne. ‘I’ve got to hand it to Celia,’ she said, ‘this is quite a performance.’ He nodded, but seemed too intent on the stage for any further conversation.

‘Before we move on to the night’s other very good cause, I have one more organisation to thank. You will all know the name of Motley; through their splendid designs for the stage and the high street, they bring romance into our lives and glamour into our wardrobes, and I’m sure I’m not the only woman here who offered them up a prayer when she was getting dressed tonight.’ A murmur of appreciation ran through the audience. ‘Tonight, though, our thanks are tinged with sadness when we think of the appalling tragedy which took place just a few days ago, and which would have brought a less stoical organisation to its knees. Lettice and Ronnie tell me that the dress I’m wearing this evening was the last that Marjorie Baker worked on before she died, and I feel humble and honoured to own it. The money from tonight may go to our charities, but the spirit of the occasion belongs to Marjorie, and to her colleagues and friends who must continue without her.’