As the Crow Flies

“Yes, Palmer,” said Charlie. “Instruct him to negotiate a price on our behalf for both those shops, and warn him that we’re also interested in anything else that might come up in Chelsea Terrace.”

“Anything else in Chelsea Terrace?” said Becky, who had begun making notes on the back of her textbook.

“Yes, and we’ll also need to raise nearly all the money it’s going to cost to purchase the freeholds, so visit several banks and see that you get good terms. Don’t consider anything above four percent.”

“Nothing above four percent,” repeated Becky. Looking up, she added, “But thirty-six shops, Charlie?”

“I know, it could take an awful long time.”

In the Bedford College library, Becky tried to push Charlie’s dreams of being the next Mr. Selfridge to one side as she attempted to complete an essay on the influence of Bernini on seventeenth-century sculpture. But her mind kept switching from Bernini to Charlie and then back to Guy. Unable to grapple with the modern, Bec

ky felt she was having even less success with the ancient so she came to the conclusion that her essay would have to be postponed until she could find more time to concentrate on the past.

During her lunch break she sat on the red brick wall outside the library, munching a Cox’s orange pippin while continuing to think. She took one last bite before tossing the core into a nearby wastepaper basket and everything else back into her satchel before beginning her journey westward to Chelsea.

Once she had reached the Terrace her first stop was the butcher’s shop, where she picked up a leg of lamb and told Mrs. Kendrick how sorry she was to hear about her husband. When she paid the bill she noted that the assistants, though well trained, didn’t show a great deal of initiative. Customers escaped with only what they had come in for, which Charlie would never have allowed them to do. She then joined the queue at Trumper’s and drew Charlie to serve her.

“Something special, madam?”

“Two pounds of potatoes, one pound of button mushrooms, a cabbage and a cantaloupe melon.”

“It’s your lucky day, madam. The melon should be eaten this very evening,” he said, just pressing the top lightly. “Can I interest madam in anything else? A few oranges, a grapefruit perhaps?”

“No, thank you, my good man.”

“Then that’ll be three shillings and fourpence, madam.”

“But don’t I get a Cox’s orange pippin thrown in like all the other girls?”

“No, sorry, madam, such privileges are reserved only for our regular customers. Mind you, I could be persuaded, if I was asked to share that melon with you tonight. Which would give me the chance to explain in detail my master plan for Chelsea Terrace, London, the world—”

“Can’t tonight, Charlie. Guy’s leaving for India in the morning.”

“Of course, ’ow silly of me, sorry. I forgot.” He sounded uncharacteristically flustered. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Then as a special treat I’ll take you out to dinner. Pick you up at eight.”

“It’s a deal, partner,” said Becky, hoping she sounded like Mae West.

Charlie was suddenly distracted by a large lady who had taken her place at the front of the queue.

“Ah, Lady Nourse,” said Charlie, returning to his cockney accent, “your usual swedes and turnips, or are we going to be a little more adventurous today, m’lady?”

Becky looked back to watch Lady Nourse, who wasn’t a day under sixty, blush as her ample breast swelled with satisfaction.

Once she had returned to her flat, Becky quickly checked the drawing room over to be sure that it was clean and tidy. The maid had done a thorough job and as Daphne hadn’t yet returned from one of her long weekends at Harcourt Hall there was little for her to do other than plumping up the odd cushion and drawing the curtains.

Becky decided to prepare as much of the evening meal as possible before having a bath. She was already regretting turning down Daphne’s offer of the use of a cook and a couple of maids from Lowndes Square to help her out, but she was determined to have Guy to herself for a change, although she knew her mother wouldn’t approve of having dinner with a male friend without Daphne or a chaperone to keep an eye on them.

Melon, followed by leg of lamb with potatoes, cabbage and some button mushrooms: surely that would have met with her mother’s approval. But she suspected that approval would not have been extended to wasting hard-earned money on the bottle of Nuits St. George that she had purchased from Mr. Cuthbert at Number 101. Becky peeled the potatoes, basted the lamb and checked she had some mint before removing the stalk on the cabbage.

As she uncorked the wine she decided that in future she would have to purchase all her goods locally, to be sure that her information on what was taking place in the Terrace was as up to date as Charlie’s. Before going to undress she also checked there was still some brandy left over in the bottle she had been given the previous Christmas.

She lay soaking in a hot bath for some time as she thought through which banks she would approach and, more important, how she would present her case. The detailed figures both of Trumper’s income and a time schedule required for the repayment of any loan…her mind drifted back from Charlie to Guy, and why it was that neither of them would ever talk about the other.

When Becky heard the bedroom clock chime the half hour she leaped out of the bath in a panic, suddenly realizing how much time her thoughts must have occupied and only too aware that Guy was certain to appear on the doorstep as the clock struck eight. The one thing you could guarantee with a soldier, Daphne had warned her, was that he always turned up on time.