At lunchtime, she was surprised by the arrival of two dozen long-stemmed pink roses, with a note saying, ‘I hope you’re not allergic to these’.
Joan was relieved that Miles Urquhart was in conference with the other men in moustaches, so she had the office to herself. She removed the note and burned it in the fireplace with a lighter. She’d recognise the handwriting again if she saw it.
What to make of it?
She had assumed Tony Radnor-Milne would instantly see through last night’s flimsy excuse, and had been worried about his reaction. She certainly hadn’t expected roses. Was this some sort of double bluff? Or was he really so self-opinionated that he assumed she would only reject him if she was genuinely physically incapacitated?
She gave the bouquet to the secretaries.
‘The smell makes me a little nauseous. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them more than me.’
‘But they’re so heavenly! You must have made an impression, you lucky thing!’ one of the younger women said, before the others stared her down for being spontaneous and friendly.
That wasn’t the end of it.
‘Ha! I hear you have a secret admirer,’ Urquhart told her on his return to his desk. ‘Tony Radnor-Milne, no less.’
‘Not so secret, then,’ Joan said. There was clearly no point denying it. ‘How did you know?’
‘Jeremy told me. Tony was quite taken with you, apparently.’
‘I hadn’t realised he was married,’ she said, watching for his reaction. Was this part of the plot? Was Urquhart in on it after all? Why on earth was he being so friendly, suddenly?
‘Oh, that! He means no harm. His wife, Lady Jessica, is quite intimidating. I’m not surprised he enjoys little distractions.’
Joan kept her seething to herself. ‘He invited me down to the Abbey,’ she explained. ‘He wants me to go shooting.’ Since they were discussing Tony, she might as well tell him everything. She didn’t want there to be any secrets, or the suggestion of them. She felt compromised enough.
‘Ah. He does that to all the pretty girls,’ Urquhart said. ‘Harmless fun, but I wouldn’t go, if I were you. Lady Jessica – Topsy, we call her – doesn’t like it. And it’s her home, after all.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Joan said, unsure why he needed to stress the point.
‘I mean, her ancestral home,’ Urquhart said. ‘Tony married into money. And nobility. Topsy’s the niece of the Marquess of Middlesex. Of course, Tony’s a millionaire in his own right now, but the Abbey is hers, strictly speaking. It’s been in her family for generations.’
‘Oh. What about Tony’s family?’ Joan asked.
‘Lawyers, I think. His grandfather worked at the Old Bailey. Why?’
‘I didn’t know, that’s all.’
Urquhart grunted. ‘He likes to give the impression he’s the Lord God Almighty, but he’s terribly bourgeois. His father had to save for him to go to Eton.’
‘I see.’
Joan resisted a sudden impulse to laugh. Urquhart’s raging snobbery put him inadvertently on her side. So, the star of the Ritz was ‘bourgeois’, was he? His father had to save up for boarding school fees? The landed gentry performance was just an act? It probably didn’t make him any less dangerous, but Tony had made her feel foolish last night, and now she knew he was.
‘He’s undoubtedly clever,’ Urquhart acknowledged. ‘He got a first in PPE, went into the City and made a fortune in rubber during the war, selling essentials to the military.’
‘What, tyres?’
‘Ah, um, yes, tyres . . . if you like.’
The penny dropped. ‘Oh,’ Joan said.
‘There was a big demand for rubber in the army. It set him up for life. Now Tony has fingers in pies all over the place. He’s very good at anticipating the next big thing. He’s expanded into oil and plastics. Something to do with aviation – jet planes, I think. They need materials that can withstand high temperatures.’
‘He told you about this? You know him well?’ Joan asked.
‘Not very well, but he was trying to get me to invest in one of his new ventures. However, I prefer the land. More reliable. Give me a decent farm and some tenancies any day.’
This was a side of the DPS that Joan hadn’t anticipated. She had no idea that he was rich enough to mull over his investments. He never normally talked about money. Or indeed much with her at all, of course.
‘And there’s another thing,’ he added. ‘While we’re on the subject.’
Subject of what? Joan wondered. ‘Yes?’
‘Major Ross. Jeremy said you’re staying at his place.’
‘Did he?’ Jeremy was being very loose-lipped this morning.
‘Yes. You know about Ross, I suppose. Damn sad story. Wife ran off with the family doctor.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
Urquhart regarded her grimly. He was clearly trying to tell her something.
‘Happened after the war. Ross was busy clearing up a lot of difficult situations in Europe. Away a lot, as he had been during the fighting, of course. His wife volunteered at the local cottage hospital. Fell for the sawbones. Wouldn’t leave Ross, wouldn’t exactly stay. Dashed awkward for all concerned.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
‘He was a bit of a hero. Perhaps you know. Various missions one doesn’t talk about. More medals than he can easily account for. Dashed unfair. Awful for the man.’
‘It sounds it.’
‘As I say, she didn’t exactly leave him in the end. Other people’s marriages – none of our business.’
‘I so agree.’
‘Good. Yes, um. Good.’
Joan watched him go back to his papers, as if they had just had a robust conversation. She couldn’t exactly tell whether he had been encouraging her to console the poor, sad war hero, or firmly warning her against going near him. She suspected the latter, which might explain Urquhart’s decision to talk to her. It was good advice. Remaining unattached was by far the safest, most sensible thing to do.
She would have to abandon the flat at some point soon. It was such a shame. She would really miss the cocoa.
Chapter 26
On the 18th of May, the Queen and her entourage left for Hull, and from there to Denmark on the Royal Yacht Britannia, in a flurry of bags and boxes, and last-minute instructions for those left behind.
For a week, Joan had the run of the North Wing corridor to herself. The palace took on a different character when the royal couple were away. The pressure to provide perfect service to the family and hospitality for guests was replaced by a more methodical work rate, as each department used the time to take stock and prepare for more busy times ahead.
From her desk, she obsessively scanned all of the newspapers and the embassy updates for the slightest sign of anything going wrong. Ingrid Kern, she was relieved to see, had stayed in London. Joan knew how tiring the itinerary was, but in all the newsreels, the Queen looked cheerful and relaxed. The Duke of Edinburgh was busy, dutiful and happy enough to follow his wife around porcelain workshops and bottling factories.
Joan viewed these visits in an entirely different light now. Before, it had always looked easy enough to sit and wave, or stand and wave, or walk around and shake a few hands and nod at a piece of machinery. But knowing as she did that every ten-minute slot was accounted for, and each half-hour included a hundred people who could be inadvertently insulted if they weren’t smiled at or asked the right question, and twenty pressmen who would be happy to capture the moment on celluloid if it happened, Joan saw each day as an endurance test.
The Queen insisted, even in private, that she loved it. ‘People are so interesting, don’t you think?’ Joan still thought it was a strange gift, bordering on madness, to enjoy being in a goldfish bowl. No wonder the Queen enjoyed solitary dog walks when she got home.