The Postcard by Leah Fleming Read Free Book Online

breakfast came,
she noted there was enough for two people. Wrapped in his dressing gown, she sat brazenly in the open, waiting to be served: eggs, ham, toast, fruit and freshly baked rolls, coffee in a tall silver
jug, a feast for hungry lovers.
    ‘So what are we going to do today?’ Arthur smiled. ‘I think we’ll go and buy a ring, don’t you?’
    ‘Perhaps I ought to go to rehearsal and change out of my evening clothes first?’
    ‘You will come back later? It’s my last day.’
    ‘I know, I know, I’ll do my best.’ She was thinking on her feet. What could she skip to be with him? If she went back to the flat in Little Portland Street there’d be
questions and more questions. Perhaps she could purchase a few items and find a special chemist she’d heard about, who sold douches and such stuff. She mustn’t take any chances.
    It was a different woman who walked out of the Cavendish than had walked in. They were a couple now. No one could change that. She knew she wasn’t going to spoil his last day. She was
going to do something she’d never done before: she’d call in sick and miss a performance – surely they owed her this one break – yet it went against all her principles.
    As they strolled along the street she realized that Arthur now came before her career. If she did marry him, he’d be in the foreground of her life, not the backdrop. It was a strange and
sudden turnaround in her thinking. Perhaps it was seeing the scar on his shoulder where a bullet had grazed him. He’d been saved by his leather jerkin, he said. She could’ve been
visiting him in hospital, or worse. He’d been lucky. The man beside him had got a bullet in his eye, piercing his brain.
    Phoebe made the phone call from a public telephone, crying off with a stomach upset that might hazard her performance. She sent one of her postcards to her flat, telling the girls she was going
to visit Arthur’s family at last. They walked through St James’s Park, seeing much of it was made into allotments or used as training ground. Feeling the chilly air on their faces, they
made for Bond Street and Fenwick, where he bought her a warm coat with matching fur Cossack-style hat and muff. They strolled around the shops and turned towards the Burlington Arcade, where they
lingered at the windows of the jewellers’ shops. Arthur found the exact shop he was seeking and marched in.
    ‘We want an engagement ring,’ he announced.
    ‘Arthur!’ Phoebe held back. ‘You haven’t asked me yet,’ she said blushing.
    ‘But you will, won’t you?’ he pleaded.
    The startled assistant hovered over the table, waiting for her reply.
    ‘Please wait.’ Phoebe tried to get her thoughts in order. ‘You have to do this properly . . . your parents, my family . . . I don’t want you to rush into anything you may
later regret . . . Please.’
    ‘I can’t wait. Come on, sit down and choose something pretty.’
    Phoebe didn’t know where to put herself. ‘Can we please discuss this in private?’ she asked, making for the door.
    ‘Are you refusing me?’
    ‘No, of course not.’ She smiled. ‘But a surprise would be nice. It must be your choice.’
    ‘Right then, you go outside like a good girl and I’ll find something I think you’ll like. By rights you ought have something from the family, but we haven’t time for
that.’
    Phoebe edged backwards out of the door, feeling foolish, wondering how this had all come about. Within minutes he was out carrying a package. ‘If it’s the wrong size, that’s
your fault. So let’s find a place to celebrate. The Ritz . . . on this occasion.’
    So, by luncheon, Phoebe found herself sitting in the ornate gold dining room with its icing sugar plastered ceiling, surrounded by other diners as Arthur brought out his choice and handed it to
her.
    ‘There, your surprise.’
    She opened the blue leather box lined with ice-blue velvet on which sat a beautiful hoop of large diamonds and sapphires