The Tea Rose Part 17

"Oh, no, I do want the job," she said hastily, forcing herself to smile. ''I'm grateful to you for remembering me and I'll get right to work."

As soon as she was out of his sight, Fiona allowed her fake smile to drop. Bitter tears stung behind her eyes and slipped down her cheeks; she couldn't hold them in. She was so desperate to see Joe, to make it up with him. Now it all seemed hopeless again. Why did the job have to come through now? This very day? She had no way of telling him what had happened. He'd be standing there waiting for her and she wouldn't come.

But there was no other choice. It had taken weeks to get the job. If she turned it down, it would be ages until something else came up and she didn't have ages. She needed Joe, but her family needed money. She would just have to write him and explain what happened. She could use the money he sent to do it. She'd tell him she was sorry about the other day, too. And that she loved him and wanted to see him just as soon as he could manage it. And hopefully, he'd understand.

She filled up the wooden bucket with soap and water, grateful that she was alone in the pub, that Mr. Jackson had things to attend to in his office. She rolled up her sleeves, knotted her skirt and got down on her hands and knees. She dunked the brush into the water and began to scrub, her tears mingling with the soapy water on the dirty, beer-soaked floor.

Chapter 16.

"Gla.s.s of punch, sir?"

"No. No, thank you," Joe said quickly. His head already felt as if it were floating on a string.

"I'll 'ave a lemonade, please."

"Very good, sir," the waiter said, turning crisply on his heel to fetch it. Joe was finished with the punch. He wasn't used to hard liquor and the two cups he'd had already had made him tipsy. He wanted to stay clearheaded. Tommy had been squiring him about all evening, introducing, him to one n.o.b after another. He'd met the head buyers for Fortnum's and Harrods, various chefs and maitre d's from the bigger hotels, restaurateurs, and countless wives and sons and daughters and it had taken all his concentration to keep their names straight.

The party was fun and boisterous, not at all the stuffy affair he'd expected. Spirits were high.

All the guests truly seemed to be enjoying themselves. But how could they not? Everything was exceptional--the staggering amount of food, the drink, the music, the house all decorated with flowers, the yard aglow with torches and candles. It was a dazzling sight and he wished Fiona were there to share it with him. Fiona. His heart ached al the thought of her.

Why had everything become so b.l.o.o.d.y difficult between them? He'd hooked himself a good job in hopes of getting them their shop sooner than they'd planned. So they could be together. And now they were coming apart.

He'd sent her money to come to him at Covent Garden over a week ago and she hadn't-without any explanation at all. She could've at least written to him to say why. She must still be angry. Maybe she hated him and never wanted to see him again. Maybe she'd found someone else.

The last time he'd seen her, the day they'd fought, she was so distracted he couldn't even talk to her. And then, like a clod, he'd told her that she made him feel guilty. He shouldn't have said that she was very proud and his words had cut her - but the truth was, he did feel guilty.

Some of his guilt, he knew he deserved for hurting her feelings at the Old Stairs. But there was a deeper, larger guilt - one that he struggled against. It came from not being there for her after her father's death. From not being able to take care of her. He wanted to rescue her, but how? She couldn't leave her family, she'd told him as much. And he couldn't take them all on. If he did, they'd never get their shop.

Was it selfish to not want these burdens? He wasn't prepared to shoulder a family man's worries yet, but he was doing just that. He worried every minute about Fiona: Was she walking home too late at night? Did she have enough to eat? Did her family have enough money'! He'd brought them food when he visited. And he'd slipped four shillings into their money tin when no one was looking. He knew it wasn't enough, but he didn't know what else to do.

He was young; he was going somewhere. His boss liked him, respected him, even. He didn't want all these worries. He wanted, just for a bit, the young man's freedom to work at his job, to learn it and excel at it. To hear that he was smart and talented from someone like Tommy and to bask in the glow of that praise. Just for a bit. But he even felt guilty for wanting that.

Christ, it was all too much. A big, overwhelming burden. One he couldn't solve no matter how many times he went over it in his mind.

The waiter reappeared. Joe took his drink and walked from the living room out onto the balcony to get some air. The November night was crisp and clear. From his vantage point he could see the bonfire blazing in Tommy's enormous backyard. Girlish laughter attracted his attention. He knew that laughter; it was Millie's. Now there was a girl who had no burdens and never would. She was always laughing, always merry. His eyes searched the groups of people cl.u.s.tered around the bonfire and found her. She was hard to miss for she was wearing a spectacular dress. He didn't know the first thing about dresses, but he knew expensive when he saw it. It was a shimmering midnight-blue silk cut low and fitted to her every curve. But the most dazzling thing about it was the fireworks motif embroidered onto it. Thousands upon thousands of tiny iridescent gla.s.s beads had been st.i.tched onto the skirt to form one large colorful burst with several smaller ones "round it. It looked just like real fireworks exploding in a night sky. The dress was the talk of the party and Millie was the center of attention in it.

She was with her father and a lad who worked for him at his Spitalfields pitch. The lad had obviously said something entertaining; Millie and her father were laughing uproariously. Watching them, Joe felt a sudden stab of jealousy, of possessiveness. But over whom? Tommy? Millie?

Tommy had his hand on the lad's back and Joe resented it. Is he as good as I am? he wondered.

Better? Looking at Millie standing next to her father, he knew (hat whoever got her got the family business. Officially, the word was that Harry would take over the firm, but Joe knew better. Harry had purchased a ticket to India and would depart next month. If this lad won Millie's heart and married her, he would become Peterson's son. And what of it? Joe ask himself, watching as Peterson broke away from the group and headed for the house. Why did he suddenly care? He was only in this until he could strike out on his own. He turned away and helped himself to a smoked oyster on a toast point from a pa.s.sing waiter's tray.

"There you are, Bristow! I've been looking all over for you!"

It was Tommy. He placed his hands on the balcony and smiled. "Smashing party, if I say so myself," he said, observing his guests. A waiter scurried up and asked what he could get him.

"Scotch. A double. And the same for my young friend here."

Oh-oh, Joe thought. He was already half p.i.s.sed. He'd have to dump some out when Tommy wasn't looking or he'd be legless. The waiter was back in an instant, handing him a gla.s.s. He took a swallow and winced. It packed a kick.

''I've got news," Peterson said, licking whiskey from his lips. "Just before I left the office tonight, I received an inquiry from Buck Palace. Can you believe it, Joe? I don't even dare hope," he said, flapping his hand as if it didn't matter, but he couldn't keep the gleam out of his eyes. "If they liked our goods, if we got the nod, it could lead to a Royal Warrant on the Peterson sign. Never in my wildest dreams did I see that. Wouldn't it be something?"

''I'll say it would," ,Joe replied, just as excited as his boss was about a crack at a warrant-the right to display the royal crest and proclaim to all the world that "the Queen shops here." He was already envisioning ways to convince the palace to buy. "We could send them samples of our best produce arranged in baskets on the good wagon, the one that just got painted. We could get Billy Nevins to drive it in uniform. 'E's a good-looking lad, clean and neat. Before they ask, I mean. Bring the goods to them so they don't 'ave to come to us."

"Good idea ... " Peterson said, signaling for the waiter. He'd finished his drink and was ready for another. He looked at Joe, who'd only gotten halfway through his. "You ready?"

Joe knocked more of his whiskey back and said he was. "We should give them a ridiculous price, cut it way down ... " he continued, as the waiter handed him a fresh drink. " ... doesn't matter if we only break even. Or if we lose money. The new business we'd get from the warrant would more than make up for lost profits on the palace ... " He saw Peterson frown and wondered if he'd gone too far. After all, it was Peterson's profits he was offering to cut. "That is, if you agree, sir."

"Of course I agree," Tommy said. "I was just wondering why none of my senior men came up with these ideas. I guess it takes a young bloke to suggest that we lose money in order to make some.

Let's go over your ideas again tomorrow morning. The reason I came over here in the first place was to give you this" - he reached into his jacket, produced an envelope and handed it to him -" and to be the first to congratulate my new head buyer."

Joe was stunned. He'd hoped for the promotion, thought he might have a shot at it, but he'd never a.s.sumed the job was his. Now it was. He was Peterson's head buyer. A grin spread across his face. "Thank you, Mr. Peterson, sir. I ... I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything, lad. You've earned it." He raised his gla.s.s. "Here's to your future with Peterson's. You're a bright young man. Always thinking on behalf of the business and I appreciate it."

Joe clinked his gla.s.s against Tommy's, then took another swallow.

Tommy, a little maudlin now, put an arm around him and launched into the story of how he began his business. Joe, smiling and nodding, appeared to be entranced by the tale, when really he was barely listening.

He simply could not believe his good fortune. Once, he could not even convince his own father to rent another barrow and put fruit on one and vegetables on the other. Now he was head buyer for one of London's biggest fruit-and-veg men. He had the talent and the drive to make it in this world. He'd proved it. He was the guv'nor. Well, not the guv'nor, he thought, let's not get carried away ... but a guv'nor, anyway. And he was still only nineteen. He'd have a raise in wages and had what was bound to be a nice bonus in his back pocket, too. He took another swallow of whiskey; it was going down a lot smoother now. He felt like a million quid. Everything was smashing. This party, the food, the whiskey. Just f.u.c.king smashing!

"Oh, Dad, you're not boring poor Joe with those old stories, are you?" Millie had joined them.

Peterson put his other arm around his daughter.

"Certainly not," he said, swaying slightly. "Joe loves to hear about the business." He p.r.o.nounced it "bishnesh." "Don't you, lad?"

"I do indeed, sir," Joe said righteously. He p.r.o.nounced it "shir."

Millie looked from her father to Joe and giggled. He wondered if they looked drunk. He felt drunk.

"Well, I don't," she said, tossing her head. "There's too much talk of business. Let's talk of bonfires. And Guys. Like the one your faithful employees are marching about the yard right now, Dad. The one that looks just like you."

She was laughing again. Silly Millie, ,Joe thought. Always laughing. Eyes sparkling. Big round bosoms about to burst out of her dress. A beautiful, giggling girl.

"Well, we'll have to see about that," Tommy said, pretending to be offended. He put his whiskey down and straightened his tie. "We'll sort that bunch out. And you, young man ... ," he added, pointing at Joe, " ... you are not to talk about fruit and vegetables anymore tonight. Millie's right. Young people ought to be enjoying themselves at a party, not talking shop." He waved his hands at them, shooing them off the balcony and back into the house. "Millie, show Joe around. Get him something to eat. Get him a drink."

"Yes, Dad," she said. As soon as he'd disappeared down the balcony stairs into the yard, she turned to Joe and said, "I hope he doesn't trip and break his neck. He's p.i.s.sed as a newt." She threaded her arm through his and led him from the living room. "Come on, I'll show you the house."

Joe let himself be led. It was the easiest course of action. Tommy wasn't the only one who was p.i.s.sed as a newt. He'd have to pull himself together. Hopefully, Millie hadn't noticed how bad he was. He didn't want her telling her father he'd gotten himself blind drunk.

People looked at them and smiled as they walked from room to room.

Joe smiled back; he enjoyed the attention. They must know I'm the new head buyer, he thought giddily. Women whispered and nodded approvingly. Harry waved from a corner. Everyone was so nice. This house was nice, Millie was nice. He stubbed his toe on the carpet and almost tripped, which set her giggling again. Why couldn't he make his feet work right? Another gla.s.s of Scotch appeared and she put it into his hand. He took a sip, just to be polite.

Millie showed him the parlor, which she said she planned to do over a la j.a.ponaise, whatever that meant. She showed him her father's study, with its immense mahogany desk, rich rugs, and heavy draperies, and she showed him the kitchen, which was vast and swarming with an army of cooks and waiters. And then she led him to the stairway. Half way up, he knew he was in trouble.

His head had started to spin.

Millie noticed his discomfort. To his relief, she wasn't angry. "Poor duck," she said. "Don't worry. We'll find you a place to rest until it wears off."

They walked past door after door, but she wasn't showing him any more rooms, she was leading him down the hall to a room at the end. He felt very bad. He was swaying back and forth like a sailor who hadn't got his land legs. Millie opened the door to the last room and ushered him in.

There was a bed, soft and inviting, and he sat down on it, expecting her to leave him to his devices.

Instead, she sat down next to him and started to remove his jacket. He protested, telling her he'd be fine, he just needed to sit for a minute, but she shushed him, saying he'd be much more comfortable this way. She took his jacket from him, loosened his tie, then pushed him back on the bed, telling him to lie still and close his eyes, in that sweet, soft voice of hers.

He did as he was told. Breathing deeply, he willed his brain to stop doing somersaults. Little by little, the spinning feeling eased. He still felt very drunk, almost as if he were outside of his body, but at least he wasn't so dizzy anymore. He was dimly aware of Millie moving about the room; he heard her skirts rustling. He opened his eyes. It was dark. She must've doused the lamp. He focused on a pile of pillows at his left. They were lacy and embroidered. They smelled of lilacs. Millie always smelled of lilacs. He closed his eyes again. This must be her bedroom, he thought uneasily.

He shouldn't be here. But it was so easy to lie here and so hard to get up.

"Millie?" "What is it?"

"I better go back downstairs. Your father wouldn't like this."

"How will he find out?" she asked, her voice closer now. "I won't tell him." She sat on the bed beside him. The smell of lilacs was stronger. Joe felt something brush his lips. His eyes flew open. It was Millie, she'd kissed him. She raised her head, smiling at him, and he realized she no longer had her dress on. She was wearing only a camisole and petticoat. As he stared at her, she began unb.u.t.toning her top, exposing more and more of herself. He could not tear his eyes away from her. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were beautiful and lush, with small pink nipples that hardened in the cool air of the room. He let out I groan at the sudden, deep ache in his groin. She shrugged the camisole off her shoulders, took his hand and pressed it against herself. She leaned over him and kissed him again, flicking her tongue over his lips.

Don't do this, he told himself. Don't. He pushed her away and struggled to stand on his wobbly legs. She smiled at him, eyes glittering like a cat who's released a mouse it means to kill just to watch it run one last time. ''I'm yours, Joe," she whispered. "I want you. And I know you want me.

I can see it. I've seen it in your eyes from the beginning. You can have me. You can have anything you want ... "

He had to leave. Now. This instant. But he Wanted her. He wanted to luck her so badly he could hardly breathe. It was easier to give in, wasn't it? II was a lot easier here on Easy Street.

Everything else was hard. It was easy here, in Peterson's house, where maids and waiters brought you things to eat, and lots of whiskey. It was easy in Millie's big bed, with her sweet lips and her big, lovely t.i.ts. It was all right. He could have her. He could have anything. Isn't that what she'd said?

Millie stood up, unb.u.t.toned her petticoat and let it drop to the floor. She was now completely naked. In the darkness, he Could see the curve of her small waist, her thighs, the tuft of blond hair between them. She pressed herself against him and kissed him again, snaking her hand between his legs, unb.u.t.toning his trousers. His hands sought her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He had to have her. Now. He pushed her down on the bed, parted her legs, and entered her roughly. And then he was inside of her, plunging into the deep, soft velvet of her again and again. She was his. The buyer's job was his. Peterson's was his. Everything was his. He came hard and quick, biting her shoulder as he did.

When it was over, he lay still, breathing heavily. The whiskey was playing tricks again.- Where was he? He wasn't quite sure. Oh yes, he was with Fiona, of course. In their big house. In their big bed. They had their shop, scores of shops, in fact. They were rich and everything was lovely. He felt calm, contented, his face buried in Fee's soft neck.

But something was wrong. He felt so dizzy, so sick. There was that smell again-something cloying. Lilacs. He raised his head and looked through bleary eyes at the woman beneath him. This isn't Fiona, his mind screamed. My G.o.d, what have I done? He rolled oft' her and backed away from the bed. He knew he was going to be violently sick. Holding his pants up with one hand he unlocked the door with the other and ran from the room.

On the bed, Millie ma.s.saged the bite mark on her shoulder. There was a wetness between her legs from what they'd done, she could feel it. Good thing she'd covered her bedspread with an old sheet earlier. She raised her knees, her feet flat on the bed, then tilted her hips up, just as she'd read in the book she'd got from her married friend, Sarah. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste of him on her tongue, and smiled.

Chapter 16.

"Don'tyou want some, Fee? They're nice and salty," Charlie said, holding a paper cone of chips out to his sister. "Come on, 'ave one ... "

"No, thanks."

Something was wrong. She hadn't told him so, but he could see it in her face. Something was making her sad. He'd hoped a Sunday afternoon walk to the river would lift her spirits, but the things that usually made her smile-a chantey carried on the wind, gulls pestering for chips-seemed to have no effect. If anything, she looked lower now than when they'd left Adams Court.

He followed her gaze out over the whitecapped water. A pair of barges were crossing midstream. Two ships pa.s.sing in the s.h.i.te, he thought. For the life of him, he could not understand what she saw in this poxy river. He finished his chips, then looked to see where Seamie had got to.

He was chasing seagulls by Oliver's. "Oi! You! Don't go too close to the water," he shouted. Seamie paid him no attention. He followed a bird into the waves, soaked his boots, and laughed. Charlie swore. He couldn't even make a four-year-old mind.

It wasn't easy being the man of the family. He worked all day at the brewery, fought like a tiger at the Taj, and still didn't make enough money to pay all the bills. And though he needed every penny he could earn, work kept him out of the house too much. This afternoon, at dinner, was the first time he'd talked to his mother in days. He'd looked at her face, really looked at it, as she poured him a cup of tea, and he'd been shocked to see how pale she was. And then he'd looked at his sister, who seemed to be constantly fighting tears. His brother was sulky and whiny, having been cooped up for too long. Even the baby was ailing.

How had his da done it? he wondered. How had he kept them all fed and clothed? How had he made them feel cared for and safe? And all on a docker's wages? He'd promised his father he'd look after them and he was trying his best, but no matter how hard he tried, he failed. If only he could put away a few pounds. Then he could move his family out of Adams Court, into a decent room, or maybe even a whole floor in a better house.

The other day, Denny Quinn had offered him the chance to make a few extra bob. There was a man who owed him a considerable amount of money, he'd said. He wanted Charlie and Sid Malone to collect it for him. Charlie had turned him down. He had no desire to knock on some stranger's door in the middle of the night and beat him senseless over an unpaid gambling debt. But that was before his mother had grown so pale. Before the baby had taken ill. Now, he wondered if he'd been daft to say no.

Fiona sighed, taking his thoughts away from Quinn. Looking at her, he decided to take another tack. Maybe if he could get her to talk about something - anything at all- he could eventually get her to tell him what was bothering her.

" 'Ow's it going at the Bull?" he asked. " 'Ard work. is it?"

"Aye."

A long silence followed. He tried again. "Saw Uncle Roddy yesterday."

"Did you?"

"We talked about the murders. 'E said the latest one-the Kelly woman From Dorset Streetwas the worst yet. 'E said what was left didn't even resemble a woman."

"Really?"

"Aye. And they're no closer to catching the bloke, either."

"Uhmm."

So much for that idea. Well, there was no help for it. He'd have to take the direct route. Get all blabbery and emotional, just like a la.s.s. He dreaded it.

"All right, Fiona ... what's up?"

She didn't look at him. "Nothing," she said.

"Look. something is. You're not yourself. You'd tell da if 'e were 'ere, so you better tell me.

I'm the man of the 'ouse, remember? 'E left me in charge." . Fiona laughed at that, which he did not appreciate. Then, even worse, she started to cry. Fl.u.s.tered, he gave her his handkerchief, then awkwardly put an arm around her, hoping that none of his mates was around to see him.

"It's over between us ... me and Joe," she sobbed.