like this place,’ she told him, and Tony smiled.
‘I like taking you out. You have the knack of enjoying uncomplicated things. Rather unusual for a girl like you, I should think. I had imagined it would be hopeless if I didn’t know where to buy orchid corsages or belong to exclusive clubs.’
‘Does that mean you’ll go on doing it?’ she asked him. ‘I’d like to go to Appleyard Street again.’
Tony looked at her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said with deliberate vagueness. He had been evasive when she had mentioned Appleyard Street before.
‘When?’ she pressed him, and he sighed.
‘Look, Amy. Appleyard Street isn’t really a suitable place for you. I took you as a once-off expedition for interest’s sake. See how the other half, and all that. If I’d thought a bit harder, I wouldn’t have done it at all.’
‘Why can’t I go there?’
‘Peers’ daughters with connections like yours don’t generally mix with Communist sympathizers. It would make a nice little item for some newsman. Think of it from your father’s point of view. Or your brother-in-law’s.’
Peter Jaspert. Isabel and he would be back in two weeks’ time. Amy had begun to admit to herself that she was hurt by the stilted quality of the letters and cards from her sister. She told herself that of course she wasn’t expecting detailed descriptions of married life, but she still felt that the closeness that had always existed between them was being denied by the pages of guidebook enthusiasm for Tuscan hillsides or Michelangelos.
The truth was that she was missing Isabel badly. If she saw more of Richard, Amy thought with a touch of sadness, perhaps she wouldn’t feel it so much. But even when Richard was home from Eton, although he was as amusing and affectionate as always when they did meet, he was increasingly busy with his own mysterious affairs and he seemed to have no time to spare for Amy. ‘Haven’t you got a dozen Guards officers to take you dancing?’ he would grin at her.
When she protested that she didn’t care for officers he would stare at her, mock-surprised.
‘Don’t you?’
She sighed now and turned her attention back to Tony and the question of Appleyard Street. ‘Yes. I see that you can’t be responsible for taking me there. Sorry. It’s odd, you know. I felt … comfortable, there.’
‘You made an impression. Angel Mack was asking about you the other day. I didn’t tell her anything, of course. Never mind, Amy.’ Seeing her face, Tony reached out and covered her hand with his own. ‘We’ll go somewhere else. Poetry and music at the Wigmore Hall next week? One of my poets is reciting his work. Very avant-garde, I promise you.’
‘Can I come with you to the hunger march?’ she persisted.
‘No. For different reasons, but definitely not. It might not be safe, for one thing. What about the Wigmore Hall?’
Amy submitted to the diversion. She could perfectly well see the hunger marchers alone, after all.
‘All right,’ she grinned at him. ‘Avant-garde verse it shall be.’
His hand rested lightly over hers. Amy liked him touching her. It was odd that she disliked what other men tried to do to her, yet she definitely wanted Tony to kiss her and he never even tried to. It wasn’t because of who she was, Amy was sure of that. They were friends, on a clear footing that had nothing to do with social position.
She looked at him now across the table. Tony leaned back in his chair and the sputtering candlelight made dark shadows under his cheekbones. Amy thought that he looked intriguing. Not handsome, but romantic, and clever, and enigmatic.
She was suddenly breathless, and she opened her mouth to breathe more easily. Tony looked back at her, as if he was waiting for her to say something.
Daringly, she tried out the words in her head. Tony, I love you. Did you know? At once she felt her cheeks redden. She turned her hand so that her fingers laced with Tony’s and pressed them.
He returned the pressure lightly and then laid her hand gently back on the cloth. She felt scattered breadcrumbs rough under her wrist.
‘Time to go,’ Tony said.
Outside the restaurant the night air was cool.
With his hand at her elbow Tony steered her to the kerb and into a cab. They sat side by side in the darkness watching the lights flick past. Amy’s face was turned away and Tony saw the disappointed hunch of her shoulders.
‘What can I do?’ he asked, wishing there was something.
‘Kiss me,’ Amy answered without hesitation.
‘Oh, Amy.’ There was a faint breath of exasperation in his voice and something worse, amusement. But he leant forward and touched her mouth with his own.
I didn’t mean like that, Amy thought miserably.
She looked away again, out into the street. At the beginning she had been interested in Tony for the doors that he promised to open. But now he attracted her in a different way that made her feel hot, and awkward, and unsure of herself. He was certainly fending her off. The realization embarrassed her, and she felt her face grow even hotter.
Tony said, ‘You aren’t very happy, are you? What is it?’
Amy shrugged. She couldn’t, in her embarrassment, recite her loneliness for Isabel and Richard and her feeling of uselessness to the world.
‘I told you at the wedding,’ she said, as lightly as she could. ‘I feel a little lost. But I should solve that for myself. Don’t you agree?’
The cab was turning in at the end of Bruton Street. Amy looked and saw the warmly lit windows of her home. Adeline had been giving a dinner party tonight, but by now they would all have moved on to the Embassy Club.
‘I hope you will find some way of being happy,’ Tony said, with odd formality.
The cab drew up. The driver sat stolidly behind his glass panel, collar up and cap pulled well down over his ears.
‘Isabel will be back in a day or so, won’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Amy answered. ‘Isabel will be back.’
‘Until next week, then. At the Wigmore Hall.’
They said their good nights, and Amy went up the steps and into the house alone.
Isabel’s new home in Ebury Street looked as clean and shiny as if it had just been unwrapped, Amy thought. The maid showed her into Isabel’s drawing room on the first floor. It was full of pretty pale chintzes and bowls of fresh flowers. There were tranquil watercolours on the blue walls, and a tidy little fire in the polished grate. Silver-framed pictures of Peter’s family and of herself and Isabel as children stood on the grand piano at one end of the room.
The door opened and there was Isabel. Amy ran to her.
‘Oh, Bel, I’ve missed you so much.’ The girls hugged each other, smiling wordlessly.
Then Amy stood back, holding her sister at arm’s length. Isabel was wearing a pale blue dress that matched her room, and her hair waved flatteringly over her ears and was caught up at the back of her head. She looked more elegant than ever, but there were faint, blue shadows under her eyes.
‘Bad journey?’ Amy asked sympathetically.
‘Oh, the night sleeper isn’t so bad. But we were glad to be home.’
‘Where’s Peter?’
‘He went to his office for a couple of hours. I think he might be back now. He’s probably dressing. Lucky the House is in recess, or he’d have dashed off there too. He was getting very restless, the last few days.’
Amy sat down on one of the sofas near the fire, and Isabel settled herself