Mr Leighton had been in touch by letter to suggest Evie meet his wife for lunch, in order that Veronica might impart some advice about life in Malaya and what Evie needed to pack for the journey.
The women arranged to meet in the restaurant in Marshall and Snelgrove. Anxious to make a good impression, Evie wore her best suit, even though it was too warm that day for wool and it was a little dated. In her haste, she got on the Tube in the wrong direction and had travelled four stops before she realised her mistake. Late for the appointment, she had to miss her planned visit to the powder room to repair her lipstick and check that her slip wasn’t showing. As a result she was hot and dishevelled when she rushed into the restaurant, before remembering that she had no idea what Veronica Leighton looked like.
Standing on the threshold, Evie looked about, trying to decide which of the unaccompanied women might be the wife of a senior civil servant. She approached a matronly woman in her late forties, but it wasn’t her. About to enquire of a harassed mother with a baby – Mrs Leighton may well have a child – she felt a tap on her shoulder and almost jumped out of her skin.
‘Miss Fraser?’
Spinning round, she nearly crashed into the speaker, who took a step backwards. ‘Steady on!’ the woman said curtly.
‘So sorry. You’re Mrs Leighton?’
Slender and willowy, Mrs Leighton had the grace and figure of a ballet dancer. Her dark glossy hair was swept back into a tight chignon. Big almond-shaped eyes were highlighted with kohl and mascara, and her pale skin had a translucent glow that belied the fact she lived in a hot climate. Her mouth was a tight Cupid’s bow, glossy with the brightest, reddest lipstick Evie had ever seen. She was dressed in a deep green silk costume that looked as if it came from Paris, set off by a pearl necklace that left no doubt as to its authenticity. Automatically, Evie put up a hand to cover her own cultured pearls, then dropped it. There was no point. She knew she must appear cheap and shabby next to this exotic and expensively-dressed goddess.
Mrs Leighton looked Evie up and down critically – Evie detected a slight curl of the lip. Perspiration beaded on Evie’s forehead. Damn the silly choice of a woollen suit when it was early summer.
‘I’m frightfully sorry I’m late. I got on the wrong underground line.’
Mrs Leighton’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Always better to take a cab, darling,’ she drawled. ‘The underground’s so grubby.’
Evie felt shabby and awkward. In contrast, Mrs Leighton was like a rare butterfly.
With the slightest inclination of her carefully coiffed head, Mrs Leighton summoned the head waiter to show them to their table. It was a corner one with a good view of the room, yet a distance away from the mêlée. ‘Thank you, Robert,’ she said, breathily, conveying in her intimate tone that she was a familiar and much-valued guest.
Once they were seated, Evie said, ‘You’re a regular here, Mrs Leighton?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘You seem to know the waiter.’
Mrs Leighton gave a little laugh. ‘I make it my business to behave as though every waiter is my dear friend. That way one gets the best table and the best service.’
‘But you knew his name.’
‘Only because I asked him. Really, darling, don’t you do the same?’
‘To be honest I never eat in restaurants.’
Mrs Leighton made no verbal response, but Evie sensed disdain mixed with amusement. She squirmed inside, her palms clammy. This was going to be an ordeal.
They made their choices from the menu – for Evie, lamb cutlets, for her companion, a salad. No wonder she was so svelte.
Veronica Leighton leaned forward, her gaze fierce. ‘How long have you known Dougie?’
Evie stammered. ‘He’s my mother’s only cousin. So I suppose all my life.’
‘That’s not what I meant. How well do you know him?’
Blood rushed to Evie’s cheeks. ‘Not well at all.’ She hesitated then, unable to dissimulate under the gaze of Mrs Leighton, added, ‘We’ve actually only met once. At his wedding. Years ago.’ About to add that they had danced together, she stopped herself in time.
‘Poor dear Felicity. Dougie was devoted to her. He was utterly devastated when she died. We all were.’
Evie fidgeted with her napkin. ‘I remember she was very beautiful.’
‘As an angel. Graceful,’ she said pointedly. ‘And a wonderful person too. So full of life. Always smiling and laughing. Such fun. Everyone adored Felicity.’
‘How did she die?’
‘You don’t know?’ Mrs Leighton frowned as Evie shook her head. ‘Malaria. Three years ago. Tragic. So terribly, terribly sad.’
The waiter brought their food, but Mrs Leighton barely paused. Her salad lay untouched as she continued to speak. Evie tucked guiltily into her cutlets but pushed the potatoes aside.
‘Of course, none of us expected Dougie to marry again. We’re all utterly mystified.’ Her piercing eyes fixed on Evie and she gave a little shake of her head, which conveyed that the mystery was even greater now that she’d actually met the intended bride. Evie wanted to get up and run out of the room but she made herself sit it out.
Mrs Leighton answered her own question. ‘I imagine it’s because he needs a son. The one thing dear Felicity didn’t give him. Just little Jasmine. And he can’t possibly hand his inheritance on to her.’
‘Jasmine? He has a daughter?’ Evie put down her knife and fork, appetite gone.
‘Gracious! You don’t know Dougie at all, do you? Jasmine is seven years old and is living in a convent on the mainland.’
‘The mainland?’
The tutting was barely disguised. ‘Penang is an island. Haven’t you even looked at a map, Miss Fraser?’
Evie, mortified, couldn’t manage another mouthful. Mrs Leighton made her feel like a naughty schoolgirl – one lacking in any sophistication and by implication clearly
