House of Bells Read Free Page B

moment of recognition happen, wait breathless for whatever might come next. The crow of triumph or the impertinent questions or the savage accusations, they were all equally unbearable, though she did in fact bear them all when she had to. Even the silent cold shoulder hurt, even while she welcomed it: the best of everything that’s awful.
    Mostly, people just stared. She’d been through the range of responses – she’d tried staring back; she’d tried, ‘What are you staring at?’; she’d tried a V-sign and a vicious tongue and a regal mocking wave – and nothing worked to her comfort. Now she ignored them stoutly, eyes on the middle distance once she’d been spotted. Hide until they found her, yes, head down and scuttle onward, but never let them see her try to hide thereafter. Never gift them an easy victory, never show her shame.
    In Soho, for oysters – well. No hope of hiding there. She’d just have to be brazen, the way everyone thought she was anyway. Shameless.
    She could hate Tony for doing this to her, except – well. He was Tony. What was the point?
    It was one of those days that London did so well, warm spring and a clear light; so of course the streets were busy, and the little park was full of lunchers and loafers, and she was sure they must all be watching her. Head up, then, girl; sunglasses on, eyes front and just keep moving. Dean Street, Frith Street, Greek Street: all in alphabetical order, the secret knowledge that helped her navigate the heart of Soho.
    Oysters was easy. There was only one oyster bar Tony deemed acceptable; she could find her way to Tarsier’s in the dark, in the rain, in extremis. And frequently had.
    Just as well, because gazing into the middle distance was useless for finding her way. Pretending to look stopped her actually looking to see where she was. She supposed that must be ironic or something.
    But here was Tarsier’s, all barrels and sawdust and bare wood. Here was Tony, perched as ever on a stool in the open window, exhibited to the street. Looking unfairly lovely, the dark tumble of his hair snaring the sunlight while the wide lapels of his jacket only showed off the breadth of his shoulders. Oozing self-content, that too.
See me: here I am, the most fashionable man in London, waiting to eat oysters with the wickedest girl in England . . .
    â€˜You’re late,’ he said as she hoisted herself on to the high stool he had somehow kept for her despite the crush.
    â€˜Darling. Of course I’m late.’
Sorry, Tony, sorry
. But it was a rule now, never to apologize to anyone. She’d done too much of that, and it didn’t help at all. People liked to see you grovel, but that was all about punishment, not forgiveness. She’d been punished enough. She had that in writing, from a lord. ‘So were you, I expect.’
    He grinned. ‘I was, but you win in the lateness stakes. I should know never to compete with a pro.’
    Damn. She’d flinched at that, which made him twitch a little in his turn. Sometimes they played sensitivities like ping-pong. ‘Just a talented amateur,’ she said quickly, as if it didn’t matter at all. Trying to cover up too late, as usual. ‘What shall we drink? Is it a Guinness day or a champagne day?’
    She had seldom felt less like celebrating, but that wasn’t the question. There were only the two alternatives with Tony, when oysters were in the case; and the choice hung somewhat on his mood, somewhat on the needs and intents of his day, but mostly on criteria that she’d never quite managed to pin down. She no longer tried to guess which way his choice would fall. Fifty-fifty gambles were no fun at all when you always, always lost.
    â€˜Champagne, of course,’ he said, as though she should have known that. ‘Guinness is for workdays.’
    â€˜Aren’t we working?’
    â€˜Not at all. I’m seducing you. That