Hazel Gaynor – The Girl From The Savoy (страница 19)

‘I met a man last week who spoke like that,’ I whisper. ‘Ever so handsome.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’

‘Then why did you mention him?’

‘I don’t really know!’

We burst out laughing, earning a sharp shush from a sour-faced woman behind us. We slide down into our seats as the silent movie starts. We are shushed three more times as we comment on the picture and unwrap our humbugs, but this only makes us giggle even more.

When the picture ends and the houselights go up, we make our way outside, where London has become a blaze of lights and colour. The restaurants are buzzing. Strains of jazz and ragtime drift through open doors as lines of motor cabs wait outside the theatres to take the excited audiences home or on to supper parties. Smartly dressed pageboys shout and whistle to hail passing motor cabs outside the hotels. A flower seller walks by, hawking her posies. Clover and I link arms and stroll together, arm in arm, as far as the corner of Wellington Street, where Clover hops onto her omnibus.

‘See you next week, then,’ I say, kissing her on the cheek.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

I feel guilty for the spring in my step as I walk back towards the Strand. Truth is, I want to run. I want to race along the pavement as fast as an express train, away from the soldiers who beg outside the theatres and remind me of war, away from my memories of Mawdesley and everything I left behind there. I think about the notice from The Stage

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