The Twilight Hour Read Free

outlining his plan for a film about refugees in Europe. He’d been all over the place, seen what was going on. It angered him that Germans were actually fleeing the Russian-occupied eastern zone. His face darkened. ‘They don’t know what’s good for them,’ he muttered.
    â€˜Some of the Russian troops are pretty brutal, I heard,’ said Hugh with a sly smile, hoping to provoke, but Colin had turned away.
    â€˜They’re here,’ he said in a completely different tone of voice.
    A lull in the braying and chatter cleared a zone of quiet recognition around the film star. She was flanked by two men, positioned just behind her like a minor entourage, and was smaller than I’d expected. Nor was she beautiful exactly, and certainly not pretty; but the heavy-lidded eyes in her sad oval face suggested dark, tragic romance. And there was a brightness about her, setting her apart from the grey, postwar faces. Perhaps it was nothing more than good make-up, but because I’d seen her only in black and white on celluloid, her blue-black hair, blue eyes and white skin seemed vivid beneath her black astrakhan hat. With her red lips and spiky lashes she reminded me of the stepmother in Snow White .
    It was only a moment; then the waves of talk rose as the newcomers bore down on our table. There was confusion; chairs scraped back, Alan, Colin and Hugh stood up, drinks were obtained, the circle widened. Eventually we were all sitting rather uncomfortably, knees squashed together, chair legs entangled. I inhaled her scent. It was heavy, intoxicating.
    â€˜I love your scent,’ I said, daring.
    â€˜ L’Heure Bleue ,’ she murmured, as if letting me into a secret: the twilight hour. Then: ‘Have you met Radu before?’
    I shook my head and she and I both stared at the director, cornered by Alan and Hugh. My mother would have said he was a bit too good looking; in a bad mood my father might have used the word ‘dago’.
    Radu Enescu certainly looked a bit spivvy, but perhaps it was just his astrakhan coat and the thick wavy hair oiled back from his forehead. His chestnut brown eyes darted around as he listened, bent slightly towards Alan because of the noise. A half smile curved his full red lips and when he laughed he showed dazzling white teeth. For a moment his eyes met mine and I felt the electric shock of his attention. Looking into my soul – or just undressing me; I wasn’t sure which.
    Colin looked on in belligerent silence. I wondered if he was going to pick a quarrel. He simply could not resist a political argument. But he suddenly turned his back and spoke to the third member of their party, whose name I hadn’t heard. He too looked out of place in his pin-striped suit, among the Wheatsheaf crowd with their tweed jackets, corduroy and mouldy polo necks. Perhaps Gwendolen Grey and her escorts had been to some grand restaurant for dinner.
    Colin said: ‘Not your usual watering hole? You’re in films too?’
    The stranger smiled. ‘I’m in the property business.’ His grey homburg hat sat on his knees.
    Colin bristled – well, perhaps not visibly, but I knew it would rile him. A real-life capitalist: Colin hated those. He held out his silver cigarette case. The man with the homburg hat shook his head. ‘Thanks. I don’t.’
    I put out a hand. ‘What about me? Please?’
    â€˜I’m so sorry, of course.’
    The non-smoking stranger had a lighter all the same, and it flared swiftly as he held it towards me. As I bent to the flame I lightly touched my hand over his, a sophisticated gesture I’d only just acquired. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your name,’ I said.
    â€˜Stanley Colman.’
    â€˜I’m Dinah Wentworth.’ I nodded my head towards Alan. ‘He’s my husband.’
    He looked me over, seemed to find something amusing. ‘You often come here? Bit noisy, isn’t