CHAPTER ONE
Outside, the streets around Piccadilly were awash with debris from the recent raid, the air tainted by the smell from burst gas mains, the gutters running with water from the fire hoses. The gradual destruction of a once-great city and the terrible news from abroad had the effect of altering personal behaviour. These days, through the patina of good manners could be seen the slow decline of ancient values, and in dark corners, in the refuges of the night, a new order was growing at an alarming rate.
Down steps still covered with plush carpet and behind heavily curtained doors, two women dawdled over the remains of their second sidecar. Both were startling to look at – the blonde in a lightly padded Betty Grable sort of way, her dark-haired companion undeniably beautiful but looking slightly odd with her old-fashioned Eton crop.
Their jewellery was expensive but big. Their clothes looked new and their high-heeled shoes were clearly still at the breaking-in stage – each had taken one off under the table. They spoke in carefully modulated tones, caution governing the delivery of their vowels.
‘Another, Lem?’ It was now past seven o’clock.
‘No thanks, Rodie. Time for a dip.’
‘No swimming pool here, ducks.’ She knew perfectly well what her friend was getting at but never passed up an opportunity to tease.
‘Nooo,’ said the woman, who answered to Lemonade but preferred to tell people she was Claudia. ‘The other. Do a bit of work.’
‘Remember your manners, girl! You’re in The Ritz now.’
Upstairs, the permanent residents of the fabled hotel, from King Zog of Albania to Mrs Keppel, famous mistress of King Edward VII, were preparing to move from their observation posts in the Palm Court into the dining room. An unofficial order of precedence marked their journey, with the king and his family slightly ahead of the bulky seventy-three-year-old who’d made her fortune from doing what comes naturally. Others of lesser blood followed at a discreet distance.
But down in the Basement Bar, life moved at a livelier pace, with white-jacketed old men circling like ballet dancers. Many had served here in the First War, retired, and now were hauled back for a second round of duty. For each the same rules applied: first establish the customer’s place in the pecking order, then remember what they drank.
‘Thank you, Your Grace, three pink gins. And Your Lordship, another whisky with water on the side? Sir Henry, one moment if you please . . .’
The two women idly watched this courtly dance while exchanging pieces of essential information. In their line of duty, it was vital to keep on top of the latest developments – shifts in personnel, changes of location, fluctuating tastes and desires, who’s suddenly rich and who’s dead.
‘Can’t hang on much longer,’ said Claudia. ‘You can stay here all night if you want to but I’ve got work to do.’
‘Dippin’? You can forget it – it’s your first time in The Ritz, Lem, you don’t know the rules. Sit down!’ Rodie grabbed the hem of her friend’s skirt.
‘Right time of night,’ insisted the other, rising again. ‘Most of these boys have been here since the sirens went. They’ve drunk their fill – an’ a few more.’
‘Listen to me, Lem!’
‘No, I want to get on. I’m meeting the boxer later.’
The woman called Rodie looked around the lofty room, its ornate plasterwork as yet undamaged by the bloody conflict outside. Certainly, if you were in their game this was the right place: at the bar, at the tables, lounging round the fountain down the other end were men from the better regiments – the Guards, Dragoons and Hussars – with just a sprinkling of Royal Navy and RAF types as well. Few of them existed on their service pay, and none of them polished their own shoes. They were rich.
‘Sit down, Lem, and look at me. You’re talented, you’ve got the looks, but you’ve got to learn – you don’t dip the Ritz Bar.’
‘Don’t be soft,’ said Claudia, taking out her powder compact. ‘They’re just waiting to give it to a girl like me.’ In a certain light she was remarkable-looking, and knew it.
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Use your eyes – your eyes! What do you see?’
‘A lot of rich men, and a lot of rich women.’
‘Notice anything else?’
‘Good-looking. Rich,’ repeated Claudia, joyously flapping her eyelashes, taking in the room.
‘And . . . ?’
‘I don’t get you.’ Only half-listening, she was thinking about the bruiser from Deptford.
‘Notice something about the way they’re sitting?’
‘Nicely. Very nice deportment, no slouching – like you always tell me.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Don’t follow.’
‘Oh, Lem. The men are sitting with the men, the women are with the women.’
Claudia put down her compact and looked around as if for the first time.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So . . .’
Her voice trailed off in a mixture of incomprehension and disbelief. The two sidecars had fogged her usually sharp perception.
‘These people belong to a club you and I will never join,’ said Rodie. She gazed into the innocent face, waiting for the fog to clear. ‘And this bar is where they like to come. To be amongst their own, bless ’em.’
‘What the two-and-sixpence are we doing here, then?’ snapped Claudia. She’d progressed nicely from shoplifter to pickpocket on account of her looks, her nimble brain, and her ability to move quickly. But despite the dress she was wearing tonight, despite her colossal appeal, despite the age-old surroundings of London’s smartest hotel, she still looked like a kid on the make.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn,’ said Rodie, smiling at the pianist. She was always thrilled when he nodded and played her favourite tune.
‘Might still work, though,’ said Lem, ever the optimist. ‘I look nice, don’t I? Bourne and Hollingsworth, this dress. Seven guineas!’
Rodie ignored this. ‘Look,’ she said, nodding her head. ‘That man over there. He’s called Colonel Cutie. Works in the War Office. Comes here every night looking for young officers. Not all of them are homo, but a lot of them want to get on – make sure they get the right posting, get shifted to a better regiment. Some of them want to do something daring, others want the opposite. The colonel fixes all that. And in return, of course . . .’
She looked kindly at her pretty blonde friend and shook her head. ‘These chaps aren’t much use to a girl like you, Lem. You can switch your headlights off.’
Through the crush emerged an athletic-looking figure in a tight-fitting civilian suit. Ignoring the blonde completely he looked down angrily at Rodie.
‘It was you, wasn’t it!’
‘Don’t know what you mean, Rupe.’
She clearly did.
‘Guy Harford found a red rose in his office this morning. And a kiss chalked on his desk.’
Rodie burst out laughing.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Just the bloody damn-fool thing I’d expect from you. You fall in love with him when you’ve only known him two minutes, and to prove it, you go and do something like this.’