On the way home, a tired but clearly happy Toby confessed that the Bessy and Geraldine strategy had been a stroke of genius.
“The best opening night I’ve ever attended,” he said.
“I’d agree. Everyone was clearly taken with our guests.” Alasdair settled himself into the opposite corner of the Landseer limousine from Toby. Despite having their usual chauffeur, one who understood that he wouldn’t be dropping one man off at his house and then taking the other elsewhere, he and Toby wouldn’t be sitting too close to each other. Easy enough for somebody on the pavement to peer in.
“Even Sir Ian seemed charmed by them and they’re not his usual type.” Toby chuckled. “I have to say I hadn’t anticipated that they’d be such a help regarding the business of Lloyd’s gang. So many ideas.”
“Yes. Quite a lot for us to contemplate there, although perhaps best not to reach any conclusions until we’ve seen Moira and her merry men. Assuming they are merry?”
Toby shrugged. “I think they have the potential to be. We’ll see what they’re like away from the influence of he whose club it is. Getting back to tonight, do you think that the ‘win an evening with the stars’ ballot idea will be used for future functions?”
“Possibly, although it can’t guarantee we’d end up with such charming and interesting guests as we had tonight.”
“True.” Toby glanced over at the glass dividing passengers from driver, no doubt checking that the communication window was shut. There was probably no need to be so cautious within earshot of this chauffeur but some habits were ingrained. “However, the scheme does carry the clear implication that such an evening is a one off. It wouldn’t surprise me if the publicity department made use of it in other ways.”
“Such as?”
“Saying that such a ballot isn’t just about rewarding faithful fans. Making an implication that part of the rationale was because our real-life girlfriends were too shy to appear in public and had only agreed to us having companions for events if they were selected at random and could pose no threat.”
“But wouldn’t that lead to a frenzy of speculation to identify these girlfriends?”
“I suppose so.” Toby doodled in the condensation on the window: a love heart, which he swiftly rubbed out. “The solving of one problem raises another. Such is life.”
Alasdair patted his arm. “On the positive side, Landseer could, of course, fix any supposedly random ballot to ensure we were paired with someone able to keep up a decent conversation and more mature women would always be welcome. Less risk of flirting.”
“Really? Didn’t you see Sir Ian putting on the style with Bessy? I hope she doesn’t report that back, or her husband Bob will be up here like a shot demanding an explanation.” The mere idea seemed to have raised Toby’s spirits. “How would you be able to wangle all of those details about ages or interests onto an entry form for a supposedly unbiased draw, without it looking suspicious, though?”
Alasdair considered the question. “The age would be easy. People would have to give their date of birth to ensure that they were of a suitable age. Nobody under twenty-one allowed to enter.”
“That would work. What about the other bit. How do we make sure they’re not vapid?”
“I’d suggest getting them to write a little paragraph about themselves, but that would blow apart the story that it’s a random ballot. Perhaps the Landseer people would have a better idea.”
“They do usually come up with something.” Toby stifled a yawn. “Excuse me. Too much excitement. We need to keep chatting to keep me awake. This random-but-not-random ballot. Would it only be open to females or would we include chaps of a more mature nature? I rather fancy the idea of having a Chelsea pensioner as companion if it’s the premiere for one of our war films.”
That was a rather appealing idea. However… “I can imagine the publicity value in that, but there is a drawback. If we’re seen with a chap at our sides, might that imply what we wouldn’t want implying?”
“Well, we’ve ridden our luck almost to the point it’s exhausted. How much longer will we be able to keep up the confirmed bachelor or secret girlfriend ruses before someone smells a rat? It’ll be fine once we’ve made it through to being grey haired and are seen to be beyond the matching and hatching phase but until then…”
Alasdair shuddered. “Let’s not think about that now.”
“Getting older or getting caught?”
“Either. Both. Let’s just bask in the glow of an evening that went well. We don’t get enough occasions to be alone together, especially at the moment.”
“Then we’ll sit in silence and pretend that all is well and will continue to be well.” Toby broke into a glorious smile, the warmth of which cheered Alasdair all the way home.
The minute they entered his hallway and shut the door to the world outside, Alasdair drew Toby into a kiss-laden clinch.
“That was just what the doctor ordered,” Toby said, as they came up for air. “I’ve been thinking about that happening all the journey.”
“Glad to be of service.” Alasdair edged them towards his sitting room, where a nicely banked fire and a comfy sofa awaited. “Nightcap?”
“No thank you. It would send me to sleep and that would be a waste of our time.” Toby drew him onto the sofa. “I sometimes feel like a grass widow or a woman patiently waiting at home while her man’s off fighting. Not that I ever have felt like a woman, so I should have said grass widower, but you get the drift.”
“I do. Which is a word I can never use in a church with the love of my life beside me, more’s the pity.” Alasdair stroked the ring finger of Toby’s left hand. “Although we’re slightly better off than a wife or sweetheart stuck on the home front, because do see each other regularly through Landseer and even our times of getting to share a bed together are hardly separated by months. We’re more fortunate than most men in our situation.”
“Are we? Wouldn’t we be better off having faces that aren’t instantly recognisable?”
“I don’t think so. Don’t think I haven’t given the same issue some thought over the last few years.” Alasdair circled Toby’s ring finger with his. “I concluded that the pros outweigh the cons. We’re in an industry that’s generally more sympathetic to our situation than others might be. Imagine if we’d stayed in the forces.”
“I’d rather not imagine it, if you don’t mind.” Toby nestled closer. “You’re probably right. I got to spend the premiere with you and while we couldn’t quite sit in the stalls and hold hands, we could enjoy the experience together without looking over our shoulders every two minutes.”
“Exactly. And while we haven’t quite worked out how to emulate our distinguished Cambridge friends in their well-nigh perfect domestic set-up, it’s not like we can only ever meet in a cheap hotel or a sordid club. No marriages of convenience leading to wives at home wondering why we’re more attentive to each other than to them.”
Alasdair turned Toby’s face so they could share another kiss, at the conclusion of which, Toby said, “What on earth were you thinking about when you should had a hundred percent of your attention on kissing me? Don’t deny it.”
“Sorry. It was talking about sneaking off behind one’s wife’s back that must have made me think of your Monday Evening mob. I mean, what if the whole business is as mundane as Moira being mistress to both Jeff and Richard and the club providing the only opportunity for them to spend time together without rousing suspicion?”
“It can’t be the only time they spend together—nor can suspicion be the only thing roused—if she’s their mistress, unless they utilise that little kitchen as a makeshift knocking shop.”
“Knocking shop?” Alasdair was going to jiggle his insured eyebrow but felt too tired to bother. “Such a delightful choice of words, and ones you definitely wouldn’t read in a Landseer script. However—in the admittedly unlikely event that this scenario is accurate—a man and a woman would have more opportunity to sleep together than we would. Moira pops on a wedding ring, she and Jeff head down to Chichester on the two-fifteen and enter a hotel together. He’s allegedly away on business, so somewhere further from home might be better, but you get the idea. They present themselves as Mr and Mrs Jessop, say they’re on honeymoon, and spend most of the next few days in their room, risking only a few sniggers from the chambermaid and the other staff who know what they’re up to. We can’t do that, alas.”
“Our Cambridge pals have managed it, because Jonty told me all about it. They used to take a two-bedroom suite and be very careful about making sure both beds had evidence of occupation.” Toby sighed. “Apparently it was easier either side of the first world war because men would often share bedrooms platonically. Evidence Three Men in a Boat, Red House Mystery, and all that.”
“I wonder how much the platonic sharing wasn’t platonic? Red House Mystery is a case in point.”
“Quite. Still, if our faces were less well known and we could get on the two-fifteen to Chichester and find some little hotel, I’d want a better alias than Jessop. Something with a bit of style. Like Whitford-Cholmondeley.”
“Really? That sounds like a stop on the Ilfracombe to Barnstaple line and sticks out like a sore thumb, rather than having the ordinariness of Jessop or Hutchings.” How had this conversation got so far off track? “Anyway, man cannot live by sex alone, nor woman neither, so even if said knocking were happening elsewhere with Moira and her merry men—or man—they might want simply to spend time together outside of a bed, as I mentioned us doing.”
“True” Toby sat up, clearly warming to the theme. “In which case, all the strange tales of strange powers would act not so much to impress the others but to make a smokescreen for Lloyd, who mistakenly approached one of them in the first place and they played along. Knowing such a club would itself be a smokescreen for Mrs Jeff or Mr Moira. Hold on, though. We’re getting ahead of ourselves, as usual. This new theory introduces as many questions as it solves. Did they know each other beforehand and take advantage of the club or is that where they met in the first place? All being asked by Lloyd, who made an error as he did with me.”
“The latter may be more likely. It could also explain the tension you said was in the air, if Lloyd didn’t realise that love would blossom over the confessions and coffee cups and that his nice gang of special people has turned into…” Alasdair cast around for any other words than knocking shop , but Toby beat him to it.
“A knocking shop. Let’s take that as the primary possibility, because it’s more plausible than them knowing each other beforehand for said rogering purposes and somehow inveigling Lloyd into having them all as members.” Toby chortled at the double entendre .
“Stop it with the smut. We have our upcoming meeting with these people and at this rate my entire repertoire of acting skills won’t help me keep a straight face.”
“You’ll manage. Anyway, I hope that’s as sordid as any of this gets. I keep thinking about some of Herbert and Chapman’s clients and praying that Lloyd’s gang aren’t the kind who prey on children and that their meetings aren’t simply creating a respectable front. My invitation being part of the veneer of propriety, them knowing I wouldn’t join their membership.”
“That’s a labyrinthine piece of thinking. Not outside of the bounds of possibility. I keep thinking about Charles Carstone and why he was their client. He was supposed to be in a genuinely happy marriage, which makes a divorce case less likely.”
“Therefore, your mind veers towards something illegal for which he hadn’t yet been charged and Messrs H and C being commissioned for that eventuality. Only he either slipped or jumped before things came into the open?”
“Something like that. Anyway, before we get carried away, none of these theories explain why Moira has asked us to meet them again or how anything could be said to apply to serving our country. Now, we said that man cannot live by sex alone.”
“To be accurate, you said that.” Toby’s eyes twinkled.
“I stand corrected. I said that. However, this man can’t live without his ration of it. We’ve been doing an awful lot of talking and thinking—all of which is to the good—but time’s winged chariot and all that. I have a nice, big bed available in my big, warm bedroom. If you’d do me the honour of occupying part of it, there’d be no happier man.”
“Of course I—hold on.” Toby slapped Alasdair’s leg. “Didn’t you use that line to Fiona in one of our early films? Only you were offering her a place at the kitchen table as opposed to one in your bed, to get it past the censor, although we all knew what your character meant.”
“I assure you it wasn’t intentional. I thought the words sounded familiar as they sprang to my lips but by then it was too late.”
“Hmm. Well, sir, I don’t want to be wooed with second hand lines. You need to come up with something better than that.”
“Let me see…” Alasdair ran his spare hand—the one that wasn’t holding Toby—through his hair. “I shan’t do the whole ‘If I could write the beauty of your eyes’ bit because that’s obviously been used before and so has, ‘I wish I didn’t love you so much.’ Anyway, the latter is inaccurate. What about, Toby Bowe, will you come to bed with me and let me leave you raddled?”
“I will.” Toby extricated himself from Alasdair’s grip, rose from the sofa and then grabbed him by the hand. “Come on old man. To quote another of our films, the game’s afoot. And it’s in other parts of the anatomy, as well.”