Her eyes met his across the room, and he gave her a secret smile, as if they were both in some kind of conspiracy.
How ingenious he was.
And how lucky she was to have found him.
The table she’d been assigned was on the far side of the room, and she put on her best face and filled the Champagne glasses.
Then, beginning with a toast – followed by plenty of cheers – the luncheon commenced.
It was a long one, with five courses in all. After the main dishes, there was a pause in the service while some of the men left for private meetings in the rooms upstairs. Everyone was in good spirits, and a great many bottles of Champagne and claret had come back to the kitchen empty.
The men at the table she’d been assigned seemed friendly, and she wondered how to make a connection.
Then, one of them turned to speak to her.
‘Is it Lucy?’ He scrutinized her appreciatively. ‘Richard told me to take a look at you. The name’s Metcalf.’
She almost dropped the dishes. This must be the great West End agent. ‘P-pleased to meet you,’ she stuttered.
A half smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’
Remembering what Richard said about being friendly, she reached for something to say. ‘That’s right. You probably come here all the time, don’t you?’
He smirked. ‘All work and no play, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, absolutely.’ She couldn’t work out how to change the subject, talk about her singing career. ‘I’m busy, too, singing in shows all over London,’ she lied.
He pursed his lips as if he saw through her ruse. ‘Are you indeed?’ He looked her over again, this time more critically, his smile gone as he shook his head, a few stray tuts escaping him.
Never had she felt so judged, not even at the beauty contest. Here, beside these confident waitresses, she felt her shoulders cave protectively.
All she wanted to do was escape.
And yet she willed him to like her. She’d been through so much to get to this moment. She had to give it her all.
‘You’re a pretty girl,’ he said dismissively. ‘But I wonder if you have the stage presence for the big theatres.’
Suddenly desperate to prove herself, she leaned over to refill his glass, letting her cleavage linger in his line of vision. ‘Every audience gives me a standing ovation,’ she declared.
He leaned forward, more interested. ‘Maybe I can have a word with some producers, put your name forward.’
‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’ Lucy said.
Richard would be so proud of her, charming Metcalf, forming connections.
‘I tell you what,’ Metcalf went on. ‘Why don’t you come to one of the upstairs rooms, away from this mayhem, and we can have a little chat. I can take down your details and so forth.’ With careful judgement, his eyes travelled her over. ‘I have to be sure, after all.’ He nodded towards the staircase. ‘There’s a room in the back called the Milton Lounge. Why don’t I meet you there in a few minutes? Bring some brandy.’
Once he’d left, she glanced over at Richard, but he was talking to Nancy, who leaned down towards him, her face close to his. There seemed to be no use in trying to get his attention, so Lucy set a bottle of brandy and some glasses onto a tray and went upstairs, looking for the right door in the dimly lit corridor.
The Milton Lounge was at the far end, and as she opened it up, she realized why it was called a lounge rather than a meeting room. Two long leather sofas faced each other, a small table between them. Mahogany panels lined the walls, and a small window barely let in light. A fringed maroon side lamp spread a deep glow around the room, making it feel private.
Seated in the middle of one of the sofas, Metcalf patted the space beside him. ‘Come and sit down. Let me take a note of your particulars.’
Just as she was beginning to worry whether he might use the situation to take advantage of her, he took out a notebook and pen, suddenly more official. Relieved, she set the tray on the table and sat down, asking what it was he needed to know.
‘Well, I can see that you’re beautiful and blonde,’ he wrote as he spoke. ‘And how tall are you?’
‘Five foot seven,’ she said.
