Realizing that she was stepping into a spiral of self-recrimination, she galvanized herself, drying her eyes and taking a deep breath. “It was for the best,” she said aloud, thinking of Dene. Then she smiled, as Priscilla came to mind once more. She knew exactly what her friend would recommend, ash dropping from her cigarette as she waved a hand to emphasize advice delivered in a clipped tone: “If I were you, Maisie, I would wallow until I couldn’t squeeze out one more drop of salt water, then I’d buck up, powder my nose, put on my very best clothes and hit the town—and I do mean hit.”
Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she stepped in front of the mirror, wrapping the stylish blue stole around her. Yes, together with the black dress, it would do quite well for a woman out alone in the evening—even if she was working.
MAISIE LEFT THE flat at ten o’clock, yawning as she did so. It wasn’t completely unusual for a woman to go out alone anymore. In fact, it had become quite acceptable, especially as there weren’t enough men to accompany them. Based upon her experience since the end of the war, she thought many bachelors were quite caddish anyway, making the most of the surfeit of women with an easy-come, easy-go flippancy. Certainly, Nick Bassington-Hope appeared not to have been above such behavior.
Clutching her list of clubs, Maisie planned to simply pop her head around the door of each, act as if she were there to see her friend Harry Bassington-Hope and then leave as quickly as possible if she couldn’t immediately confirm his presence at the establishment. Fortunately, now that Joyston-Hicks was no longer the home secretary, she had little fear of being on the premises of a club when it was raided, a game of cat and mouse played by so many of those referred to as “bright young things” before Jix was relieved of his position.
Chelsea for two of the clubs, Soho for another two, and one in Mayfair were on her list. By the time she arrived at Stanislav’s, an establishment in Soho, Maisie thought she was becoming more accomplished in the act of nonchalantly walking into a club, sweet-talking the man or woman at the door, and then leaving when the reply was to the effect that Harry was expected later, or on another evening. Clearly he had several engagements each night, and worked at different places, though she certainly had no intention of lingering unless he was without doubt expected shortly at a club.
She had finally put the black dress aside, settling instead on a pair of black trousers and a long sleeveless blouse with a boat neckline and a matching sash at the hip. The outfit had been a castoff from Priscilla, who had bundled it up and sent it along with several other items in a brown paper parcel. It had arrived just before Christmas, with a message that read, “Having children has ruined, simply ruined my waistline. These are a bit old-fashioned but am sure you can use them.” The trousers had barely been worn, and seeing as women who donned trousers were still in the minority, they were not as old-fashioned as Priscilla had suggested. Maisie thought the blouse was made with room to spare, though she would concede that, had Priscilla not sent the clothes to her, they would probably have languished at the back of her wardrobe. Now she was grateful for the ensemble, which she thought did not suit her at all well, though it was perfect for the evening’s subterfuge.
She took a deep breath and pushed against the door of Stanislav’s, whereupon a well-built man stepped forward to hold it open. A young woman smiled from behind a black and silver counter framed by a series of square silver lampshades, the lights providing the only illumination in the foyer. Maisie blinked, then smiled in return at the young woman, who was wearing a long black velvet dress with sequins along the hem, hipline, collar and cuffs. Her blond hair was tied back into a small chignon, and her eyes were accentuated by kohl, her lips blood-red.
The woman greeted her cordially. “Are you a member?”
“Oh, no—but I am a guest of Harry Bassington-Hope. Is he here yet?”
The woman inclined her head. “I’ll find out. Just a moment, please.”
The woman opened a door behind her, poked her head into a room that Maisie couldn’t see, and said, “Oi, is ’arry ’ere yet?” There was a delay of several seconds before she closed the door and addressed Maisie again, the cut-glass accent restored. “He should be here at any moment, madam. Please follow me. We have a small table where you can wait.”
Maisie was relieved to see that the table was situated in the corner of the room, close to the back wall, a perfect position from which to observe the comings and goings of people in the club. A waiter came to the table, and Maisie ordered a ginger beer with lime cordial. Someone had once told her that it was a popular drink in American cities, where prohibition required one to banish all evidence of alcohol from the breath, so Maisie ordered it, not because she intended to drink, but because it might give the impression that she was a seasoned club goer who would order something stronger later. The harmless cocktail was delivered and Maisie settled back to observe the room.
A series of tables of varying sizes, seating from two to eight people, were placed several tables deep around three sides of a small parquet dance floor. On the fourth and farthest side, a quartet had just started to play and already a few couples were dancing. Maisie tapped her foot and sipped her drink. Though she was tired when she first set out, she had since picked up and decided that it would be quite fun to come with friends to such a place. If one had a clutch of friends to come with, that is.
Her eyes scanned the room, looking for any faces she recognized. It wasn’t long before she noticed Randolph Bradley and Stig Svenson at a table close to the bar, the Swede leaning forward, intent upon the conversation, while the American relaxed against the back of his chair, his gray silk suit with even darker gray tie and kerchief punctuating his wealth. Maisie wondered if Georgina would appear and moved her chair farther back into the shadows. She watched as the American raised an index finger to the waiter, who came to his table in haste. Bradley stood up, pressed a note into the man’s hand, slapped him on the back. He shook hands with Svenson and left. Stig Svenson stared into his cocktail for a few moments, then raised the glass and finished the drink in one mouthful, leaning his head back as he did so. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief pulled from his trouser pocket, then he, too, left the club.
As she scanned the room a second time, Maisie noticed another man, a man she had never seen before, watching Svenson leave the club. She closed her eyes and, in her mind, replayed the scene when she had first glanced around the room. She knew he had been there when she came in and that he had been carefully watching Svenson and Bradley. Who was he? She squinted into the dark as the man stood up, pulled a note from his trouser pocket and checked it against a wall light before placing it on the bar. He took his hat from the seat next to him and left the club.
“Care to dance, Miss Dobbs?”
“Oh, my goodness, you made me jump!”
Alex Courtman pulled back a chair and sat down at the table. “Now, I can’t for a moment believe that you are here for anything but business. I must say, you look ravishing, by the way.”
Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Courtman. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m waiting for a friend.”