The Girl from the Savoy Read Free

Teddy Cooper. I didn’t think anybody would ever make me feel that way again. Part of me has always hoped nobody ever would.
    â€œAnd what is it you do?” he asks. “Other than knock unsuspecting gentlemen down in the street?”
    I hate telling people my job. My best friend, Clover, pretends she’s a shopgirl or a clerk if anybody asks. “Nobody wants to marry a domestic,” she says. “Best to tell a white lie if you’re ever going to find a husband.” I want to tell him I’m a chorus girl, or an actress in revue at the Pavilion. I want to tell him I’m somebody , but those gray eyes demand the truth.
    â€œI’m just a maid,” I say, as Big Ben strikes the hour.
    â€œ Just a maid?”
    â€œYes. For now. I start a new position today. At The Savoy.” The chimes are a reminder. “Now, actually.”
    â€œA maid with ambition. A rare and wonderful thing.” A grin spreads across his face as he chuckles to himself. I’m not sure whether he is teasing me. “Well, I mustn’t keep you.” He rolls the damp papers up and bundles them under his arm like a bathing towel. “Perry,” he says, offering his hand. “Perry Clements. Delighted to meet you.”
    His hand is warm against the fabric of my glove. The sensation makes the skin prickle on my palm. “Perry? That’s an unusual name.”
    â€œShort for Peregrine. Frightful, isn’t it?”
    â€œI think it’s rather lovely.” I think you are rather lovely. “Dorothy Lane,” I say. “Dolly, for short. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clements.” I gesture to the paper bathing towel under his arm. “I hope it’s not completely ruined.”
    â€œYou’ve done me a favor, to be honest, Miss Lane. Possibly the most dismal piece I’ve ever written.”
    And then he does something extraordinary and shoves the papers into a litter bin beside me, as casually as if they were the empty wrappings of a fish supper.
    I gasp. “You can’t do that!”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWell. Because. You just can’t!”
    â€œBut apparently I just did. That’s the fascinating thing about life, Miss Lane. All its wonderful unpredictability.” He slides his hands into his coat pockets and turns to walk away. “It was terribly nice to meet you.” He is shouting above the din of traffic and rain. “You’re really quite charming. Good luck with the new position. I’m sure you’ll be marvelous!”
    I watch as he runs tentatively down the street, slipping and skidding as he goes. I notice that he carries a limp and hope it is an old war wound and not the result of our collision. He tips his hat as he jumps onto the back of an omnibus and I wave back. It feels more like an enthusiastic hello to an old friend than a polite good-bye to a stranger.
    When he is completely out of sight I grab the bundle of papers from the litter bin. I’m not sure why, but it feels like the right thing to do. Something about these sodden pages speaks to me of adventure and, as Teddy said when we watched the first group of men head off to France, you should never ignore adventure when it comes knocking. Little did any of us know that the experience of war would be far from the great adventure they imagined as they waved their farewells.
    Pushing the papers into my coat pocket, I run on down Carting Lane, being careful not to slip on the cobbles that slope steadily down toward the Embankment and the river. It is pleasantly quiet after the chaos of the Strand, even with the steady stream of delivery vans and carts that rumble past. I head for the service entrance, sheltered by an archway, and turn to walk down a flight of steep steps that lead down to a black door. A maid is stooped over, rubbing a great lump of hearthstone against the middle step. It seems to me a fool’s errand with the rain spilling down and dirty