The Gown(56)

“Oh,” she said, her protestations dying away.

“Dinner together. That’s all.” And then, his voice deepening, “I really can be very good company.”

“That’s what worries me,” she said, and smiled for the first time since he’d approached her.

“So? Shall we be off?”

“I, well . . . I’m not dressed properly.” She wore a pretty new skirt, made from the wool tartan Milly had sent, but her shoes needed a shine and there was a splotch of tea on the front of her blouse that her cardigan didn’t quite cover.

“The place we’re going isn’t grand at all. Just a café in Soho. You’ll be fine.”

“What part of Soho?” She’d heard the stories about the goings-on in that part of the city. About the gangsters and burlesque shows and ladies of the night on every corner.

“It’s a perfectly safe part. I mean, I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s respectable, but isn’t that half the fun?”

His offer was tempting. Miriam was having supper out with Mr. Kaczmarek, they’d finished the last of the leftovers from Sunday dinner, and she didn’t much feel like another meal of sardines on toast.

“All right. We won’t be out late, will we?”

“I’ll have you on your way in an hour. Promise.” Before she could think of another excuse, he looped his arm through hers and led her along the street, his umbrella carefully positioned above her head.

By the time they crossed Regent Street the rain had grown heavier, and Ann could feel her stockings squishing between her toes. “We’re almost there,” he said apologetically. “I ought to have flagged down a cab. Not that there’s ever one to be found in weather like this.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I don’t mind the rain at this time of year. And it does make my garden happy.”

“An avid gardener. You’d get on with my mother. What sort of plants do you like to grow?”

He was very good at keeping a conversation moving along, never interrupting, never talking over her, his questions never too pointed or intrusive. Step-by-step, minute by minute, she grew ever more comfortable in his company. Of course she knew he was setting out to charm her, and it wasn’t smart to simply let him bowl her over in such a fashion. Yet she couldn’t find it in her to care.

He pointed out the café not long after they rounded the corner onto Old Compton Street. “Eye-catching, isn’t it?” An enormous Harlequin figure was attached to the upper floors of the building, and just below his dangling feet was a sign: CAFé TORINO RESTAURANT.

“What on earth . . . ?”

“I know. Odd, isn’t it? I think it may be Pulcinella—the Italian version of Punch. He doesn’t look very happy to be out in the rain, does he?”

Inside the café it was warm and crowded and very noisy, and the air was laden with an array of tempting aromas, and though Ann couldn’t quite put a name to what she smelled, her mouth watered all the same. Some tables were punctuated by towers of empty coffee cups, while others held piles of books and hastily folded newspapers. The tables’ occupants were young for the most part, younger even than Ann. Students, she realized, and they were using this place as a sort of library—but what library allowed its patrons to eat and drink and smoke and, horror of horrors, engage in torrents of noisily passionate discussion?

“Let me see if I can find us a table,” Jeremy said, and he led them through the maze of diners, occasionally pausing to ask someone to inch their chair out of the way. The table he found was small and only recently vacated, and still covered with a mass of dirty dishes, but rather than call over a waiter he stacked them neatly and carried them over to the bar.

“You get settled while I deal with these. I’ll see if I can find a menu while I’m at it.”

There didn’t seem to be any sort of rack, so Ann hung her sodden coat over the back of her chair, then sat down and tried to restore some degree of dignity to her appearance. Her hair had probably frizzed into an enormous orange nimbus by now, but she could only finger-comb it and clip it back off her face and hope the end result didn’t look too slapdash. At least she had a handkerchief in her bag. She patted her face dry, bent over her bag to apply a surreptitious dab of powder to her nose, and wished in vain for lipstick. As it was forbidden at work, she never thought to carry any with her.

Jeremy had returned. “No luck on the menu, but I’m here often enough that I should be able to help. I usually have the spaghetti with meat sauce, but they serve it with the appetite of a typical undergraduate in mind. They also do vol-au-vents with chicken and peas. Not especially Italian, but it’s a more manageable amount of food.”

She’d never eaten spaghetti before, although she had seen more than one comic short in which confused visitors to Italian restaurants struggled with improbably long strands of pasta. Best to stay with something she could consume in a dignified fashion. “I think the vol-au-vents. Please.”

“Excellent. Ah—here comes the waiter. Right. I’ll have the spaghetti, and my friend will have the vol-au-vents. And some bread for the table.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like anything to drink?”

“Hmm. Do you have any Sangiovese? A bottle, then. And two glasses.”