‘And what are your measurements?’
‘Thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-four.’
Looking straight at her bust, he said, ‘Are you sure? I would swear you’re a little bigger than that. Have you been measured recently?’
She laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, not that long ago—’
He interrupted her. ‘Perhaps you could let me have a look. I’m a good judge of these things, and I’d be able to give the producers a better picture of you.’
‘I’m not sure...’
But he was already untying the bow of her apron, his fingers lifting the end of the ribbon.
‘You see, Lucy, if I don’t get a good look at you – try out the goods, so to speak – I won’t be able to talk to the directors, will I? So be a good girl, would you?’
Stunned, Lucy’s mouth went dry. ‘But I shouldn’t. I’m not here to, well...’
He was now unbuttoning her dress. ‘Richard told me that you’re serious about becoming a singer. I can help you with that, but only if you’re grown-up enough for a world like this.’
Of course she was grown-up enough, and the fact that Richard wanted her to meet with him, well, this must be part of the plan.
The reality mingled gruesomely with Richard’s advice to ‘do whatever she had to do’.
And like a dull thud in her stomach, she knew.
Her mouth went dry.
And just at that moment, he opened the front of her dress, lasciviously relishing her body.
It was too late to back out. Metcalf would never consider her again.
This was the moment to make or break her career. She couldn’t let it go.
‘I hope you’re not going to be one of those silly young girls who aren’t ready for the big time?’ Metcalf pulled away, his voice gruff, on the verge of being annoyed.
‘No, no,’ she said quickly, lying back on the sofa. ‘Not at all. I’m completely fine.’ She smiled at him, lifting a leg for him to unhook her stocking.
Inside her, something toughened, and she felt ruthless, determined. What did it matter, after all? Richard no doubt knew what this interlude would entail – wouldn’t he? And now that her virginity was already gone, sleeping with Metcalf would mean nothing.
It was what she had to do.
MIRANDA
GOTHIC AND IMMENSE,WESTMINSTER ABBEY STOOD IMPERIOUSyet spiritual, its colossal pillars towering towards the heavens. There was something unsettling about it, with tombs lining the floors and walls, the living juxtaposed with the dead.
It was late afternoon, and the coronation rehearsal was underway. Miranda stood with Caroline, watching as the queen and the grand procession of bishops, aristocrats and page boys walked slowly up the aisle.
Dressed in a plain skirt and blouse, the queen looked solemnly ahead, focusing on her pace. She had a curtain attached to her shoulders to mimic her train, held by the six maids of honour. Walking ahead of her, the archbishop murmured a beat under his breath for the queen and her entourage to follow, a form of regal choreography.
‘This is quite a place,’ Miranda whispered to Caroline. ‘Are all the coronations held here?’
‘Since 1066,’ Caroline said. ‘It was just a church then, expanded over the centuries.’
Stained-glass windows threw red, gold and blue shafts of light over the columns, all rich with intricate stonework. But the most extraordinary part of the abbey was the ornate inner altar, where a square raised platform had been constructed in the central apex, a red carpet over it, the area where the coronation would take place.
Miranda mused, ‘With Elizabeth dressed in white, the coronation will look a bit like a wedding.’
‘That’s what Annabel said.’ Caroline laughed. ‘Typical of you twoto have the same idea. She adores you, Miranda. But I imagine you’re great with all children.’
