Then Susan suggested a new dress. I reminded her that the Queen was very happy wearing her 1939 wardrobe, so why shouldn’t I be? She said the Queen doesn’t need to impress strangers—but I do. I felt like a traitor to crown and country; no decent woman has new clothes—but I forgot that the moment I saw myself in the mirror. My first new dress in four years, and such a dress! It is the exact color of a ripe peach and falls in lovely folds when I move.
The saleslady said it had “Gallic Chic” and I would too, if I bought it. So I did. New shoes are going to have to wait, since I spent almost a year’s worth of clothing coupons on the dress.
Between Susan, my hair, my face, and my dress, I no longer look a listless, bedraggled thirty-two-year-old. I look a lively, dashing, haute-coutured (if this isn’t a French verb, it should be) thirty.
Apropos of my new dress and no new shoes—doesn’t it seem shocking to have more stringent rationing after the war than during the war? I realize that hundreds of thousands of people all over Europe must be fed, housed, and clothed, but privately I resent it that so many of them are Germans.
I am still without any ideas for a book I want to write. It is beginning to depress me. Do you have any suggestions?
Since I am in what I consider to be the North I’m going to place a trunk call to Sophie in Scotland tonight. Any messages for your sister? Your brother-in-law? Your nephew?
This is the longest letter I’ve ever written—you needn’t reply in kind.
Love,
25th January, 1946
Dear Sidney,
Don’t believe the newspaper reports. Juliet was not arrested and taken away in handcuffs. She was merely reproved by one of Bradford’s constables, and he could barely keep a straight face.
She did throw a teapot at Gilly Gilbert’s head, but don’t believe his claim that she scalded him; the tea was cold. Besides, it was more of a skim-by than a direct hit. Even the hotel manager refused to let us compensate him for the teapot—it was only dented. He was, however, forced by Gilly’s screams to call in the constabulary.
Herewith the story, and I take full responsibility for it. I should have refused Gilly’s request for an interview with Juliet. I knew what a loathsome person he was, one of those unctuous little worms who work for
We had just returned to the hotel from the Brady’s Booksmith party for Juliet. We were both tired—and full of ourselves—when up popped Gilly from a chair in the lounge. He begged us to have tea with him. He begged for a short interview with “our own wonderful Miss Ashton—or should I say England’s very own Izzy Bickerstaff ?” His smarm alone should have alerted me, but it didn’t—I wanted to sit down, gloat over Juliet’s success, and have a cream tea.
So we did. The talk was going smoothly enough, and my mind was wandering when I heard Gilly say, “… you were a war widow yourself, weren’t you? Or rather—
Juliet said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Gilbert.” You know how polite she is.
“I don’t have it wrong, do I? You and Lieutenant Dartry
I sat up, my mouth gaping open. I just looked on helplessly as Juliet attempted to be civil: “I didn’t jilt him
Well, Sidney, surprised as Gilly was, he was not daunted. Little rodents like Gilly never are, are they? He quickly guessed that he was on to an even juicier story for his paper.
“OH-HO!” he smirked, “What was it, then? Drink? Other women? A touch of the old Oscar Wilde?”
That was when Juliet threw the teapot. You can imagine the hubbub that ensued—the lounge was full of other people having tea—hence, I am sure, the newspapers learning of it.
I thought his headline, “
Juliet is worried she may have embarrassed Stephens & Stark, but she is literally sick over Rob Dartry’s name being slung around in this fashion. All I could get her to say to me was that Rob Dartry was a good man, a very good man—none of it was his fault—and he did not deserve this!
Did you know Rob Dartry? Of course, the drink/Oscar Wilde business is pure rot, but why did Juliet call off the wedding? Do you know why? And would you tell me if you did? Of course you wouldn’t; I don’t know why I’m even asking.
The gossip will die down of course, but does Juliet have to be in London for the thick of it? Should we extend our tour to Scotland? I admit I’m of two minds about this; the sales there have been spectacular, but Juliet has worked so hard at these teas and luncheons—it is not easy to get up in front of a roomful of strangers and praise yourself and your book. She’s not used to this hoopla like I am and is, I think, very tired.
Sunday we’ll be in Leeds, so let me know then about Scotland. Of course, Gilly Gilbert is despicable and vile and I hope he comes to a bad end, but he has pushed
Yours in haste,
P.S. Have you found out who Markham V. Reynolds is yet? He sent Juliet a forest of camellias today.
AM TERRIBLY SORRY TO HAVE EMBARRASSED YOU AND STEPHENS & STARK. LOVE, JULIET
26th January, 1946
Miss Juliet Ashton
The Queens Hotel
City Square
Leeds
Dear Juliet,
Don’t worry about Gilly—you did not embarrass S&S; I’m only sorry that the tea wasn’t hotter and you didn’t aim lower. The Press is hounding me for a statement regarding Gilly’s latest muckraking, and I am going to give them one. Don’t worry; it’s going to be about Journalism in these degenerate times—not about you or Rob Dartry.
I just spoke to Susan about going on to Scotland and—though I know Sophie will never forgive me—decided against it.
The