Page 35 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

34

LONDON, 1941

I quickly scrambled from the bath, my wet feet slipping and sliding on the marble floor as I gathered up my discarded clothes. Damn, damn, damn, why did I have a bath? I put my dress back on but didn’t bother with my stockings, and slipped my shoes onto my still damp feet. I needed to get downstairs as soon as possible.

I grabbed my suitcase and slung my gas mask over my shoulder and hurried out into the corridor. It was totally deserted, but I assumed most guests were out already or downstairs in the restaurant or bar. I hurried down the stairs – down and down and by the time I got to the bottom I was red-faced and out of breath. I saw some hotel staff ushering guests along a corridor, so I followed them. None of them were carrying luggage or their gas masks, I noted and felt a little embarrassed.

We reached a door with a tower of sandbags either side, and I was ushered inside. I’d been expecting to emerge into a darkened cellar-like space, but it was nothing of the sort. A female member of hotel staff greeted me with a smile, asking for my room number, and then I was whisked off to a cubicle with a bed that might not have been as fancy as the four-poster in my room but was just as comfortable, and made with the same fancy green, blue and pink bed linen.

I sat on my bed watching as other guests started pouring in. Most were British, talking in clipped regal tones, but there were some Americans too, and I began to distract myself from the fear of an imminent bomb strike by imagining backstories for them. The chain-smoking American guy in the baggy suit was a journalist, I decided. The elderly woman in a fur coat and pearls, a member of the British royal family.

As I thought of the royal family, I remembered what Emilio had said about Edward, the man who would have been king. It was chilling to think that while ordinary Brits endured so much in their fight for Europe’s freedom, some of those at the very top of their society were betraying them, like that creep Sinclair. I felt a surge of pride that I’d helped catch him.

After an hour or so, the all-clear sounded.

‘Must have been a false alarm,’ I heard one of the hotel staff say to a guest.

‘For now,’ the guest replied ominously as I walked past. ‘We’re bound to get a visit tonight, especially with the moon getting fuller.’

My heart sank. I’d been so excited about my first trip to Britain, but I was fast learning the realities of living in a country at war and embarrassed at my naivety.

After returning to my room to get changed, I hurried downstairs for my dinner date. I wasn’t entirely sure if my guest would even be there, given the commotion with the air-raid siren, but when I told the ma?tre d’ my name, he gave an instant smile of recognition and led me over to a table in the corner, where a ruddy-faced middle-aged man with slicked-back grey hair was sitting sipping on a cocktail. As soon as he saw me approaching, he leaped to his feet.

‘Sofia Castello!’ he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. ‘I’m Bertrand Montague. Welcome to Britain!’

‘Thank you so much,’ I replied, shaking his hand. His palm was clammy and his fingers squidgy. ‘I’m sorry I’m a little late. I was down in the shelter due to the siren going off and?—’

‘Oh goodness me, no need to apologise!’ he interrupted. ‘We’re so used to it by now, hardly anything or anyone is on time anymore, which is a godsend for people like me.’ He grinned, revealing what looked suspiciously like a set of false teeth. ‘I’ve always been a terrible timekeeper.’

I laughed. ‘‘Yes, I suppose you always have the perfect excuse now.’

‘Exactly.’

A waiter appeared at our table, like a penguin in his smart black-and-white uniform.

‘What would you like?’ Bertrand asked but almost immediately held up his hand as if to stop me from replying. ‘No, no, I know what you must have – one of their White Lady cocktails. They’re renowned for them. The London dry gin is exquisite’

If a man had done this to me back in Portugal, I would have deliberately ordered something different, just to establish that I could make my own choices thank you very much, but feeling slightly vulnerable being all alone in a strange city and one that was regularly being bombed to boot, I put my pride aside for the sake of diplomacy.

‘That sounds perfect,’ I said, smiling sweetly.

‘Excellent! Well, off you go then,’ he said dismissively to the waiter, instantly making me bristle again.

‘Yes of course,’ the waiter, who was barely more than a kid, stammered, his cheeks flushing red. ‘I just thought you might like to order some food?’

‘Good heavens, give us a chance, boy,’ Bertrand boomed. ‘We haven’t even looked at our menus yet.’

The waiter backed off, muttering his apologies, and I saw that diners at the nearby tables were all staring at us curiously.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bertrand said to me, shaking his head. ‘The Savoy would never have employed someone like that before the war. Trouble is, all our best men are off fighting.’

Is that why you’re here then ? I felt like responding, I was so annoyed at how he’d treated the waiter. But I forced another smile. ‘Maybe it’s his first night working here.’

‘Maybe,’ he sniffed. ‘Anyway, we have way more important things to talk about. Firstly, thank you so much for coming to Britain. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it. Did Mary take care of you?’

‘Oh yes, she was very?—’

‘She can be a bit of a wet lettuce leaf,’ he interrupted, ‘but she is reliable.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘That’s the one good thing about dull, mousy girls – they’re very reliable.’ He leaned back and gave a hoot of laughter.

I’d never had to work so hard to control the muscles in my face responsible for withering stares. How on earth was I going to spend an entire meal in the company of this pompous fool? I found myself in the strange position of almost wishing for the air-raid siren’s wail, although the thought of being trapped in the Savoy shelter with him was even harder to bear.

‘I found Mary to be exceptionally well organised,’ I replied, desperately wanting to leap to her defence.

‘Exactly!’ he cried, so loudly it made me cringe.

I glanced at the table beside ours and saw a young man peering over his menu at me. I could have been mistaken, but his eyes seemed to be twinkling with amusement. I suppressed a sigh and looked back at Bertrand.

‘Your fans are so excited for your shows,’ he said, ‘as are the musicians we’ve got lined up to play with you. Speaking of which, will you be able to go to a rehearsal with them tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ I felt a burst of excitement. It would be so interesting to meet some British musicians. Hopefully they wouldn’t be as insufferable as Bertrand. But even if they were, it would be great to get back to my music and the comfort it always brought me.

The waiter returned with our cocktails on a tray. His hands were shaking so much, I could hear the rattle of the glass on the silver.

‘Thank you very much,’ I said, taking my drink and treating him to the biggest, most heartfelt smile I could muster.

His face flushed and he smiled back.

‘Are – are you ready to order any food yet?’ he asked nervously.

I cringed, preparing for Bertrand’s inevitable tirade as we still hadn’t looked at the menu.

‘Yes, we’ll have the steak,’ Bertrand replied.

Well, this was an arrogant assumption too far as far as I was concerned. ‘ He’ll have the steak,’ I said through gritted teeth, ‘but I’d like something different. Tell me’ – I smiled sweetly at the waiter – ‘do you have any fish dishes?’

‘Oh, yes, we do,’ he said gratefully and picked up a menu.

I glanced at Bertrand while the waiter was showing me the fish dishes and saw, to my satisfaction, that his cheeks had gone a purplish shade of red. I ordered salmon, and as the waiter left the table, I noticed the young man on the table adjacent to ours raise his glass to me as if to say, ‘Well played.’ Now he no longer had a menu hiding his face, I saw that he really was quite attractive with his thick shock of dark hair and large blue eyes. I stifled a smirk and looked back at Bertrand.

‘Once a fish woman, always a fish woman, eh?’ he said with a smile, but there was a meanness in his eyes now which made it clear he meant it as an insult. But what dimwits like him fail to realise is that when a person is truly happy with who they are and where they’ve come from, such pathetic insults fall on deaf and disinterested ears.

‘Absolutely!’ I exclaimed, raising my glass and shooting a glance at the adjacent table. The young man grinned at me again.

I somehow made it through the entirety of the main course as Bertrand waxed lyrical about his various talents as a fox hunter, record label owner and, of course, entertainments producer, through mouthfuls of steak and potatoes. As far as I was concerned, his only talent was being an insufferable bore, and the only thing that kept the evening entertaining was exchanging knowing looks with the man at the next table. When he paid his bill and got up to leave, I could barely contain my disappointment.

As soon as I’d finished my dinner, I picked up my bag and stood up. ‘Please excuse me, but I need to use the bathroom.’

‘Of course,’ Bertrand replied, taking a cigar from his jacket pocket.

The thought of him spouting clouds of foul-smelling cigar smoke at me was even more unbearable, and as I got out into the corridor, I fought the urge to march up the stairs and out onto the London streets. If it hadn’t been for the threat of an air raid at any minute, I might have done just that. Instead, spirits flagging, I went into the ladies’ room and locked myself in a cubicle.

‘My God, what an insufferable idiot,’ I began ranting in Portuguese, taking advantage of the fact that the room was empty. ‘“Once a fish woman always a fish woman,”’ I mimicked, slamming my hand on the wall in frustration. ‘What a pompous idiot.’

‘Oh, how I wish I knew what you were saying,’ a man said from the cubicle next to mine, causing me to almost jump out of my skin.

I’d been so sure that the bathroom was empty. Then a terrible thought occurred to me – had I been so blinded by my annoyance with Bertrand that I’d come into the men’s room by accident? There were a few moments of silence and I dared to hope I might have imagined the voice.

‘I bet there were a fair few choice swear words in there,’ the man continued. He had an English accent, but it wasn’t prim and proper like Bertrand’s or Mary’s. It was much softer round the edges. Unfortunately, it only served to increase my embarrassment.

I cleared my throat and attempted to compose myself. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘I appear to have come into the wrong bathroom.’ I took a breath and opened the door. The door of the cubicle next to mine was now closed, but I could have sworn it was open when I’d come in. ‘Sorry for disturbing you. Please continue with your business.’

As soon as the words left my mouth, I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the sink in horror. Please continue with your business? But before I could flee in shame, I saw the door behind me slowly start to open in the mirror.

‘Oh, you didn’t disturb me at all,’ the voice said. ‘And you didn’t come into the wrong bathroom either.’

I gaped at the mirror as the man from the table next to mine stepped out of the cubicle, staring at my reflection intently. I instinctively gripped the edge of the sink. He might have seemed all friendly and fun in the restaurant, but following me into the dimly lit bathroom put a way more sinister spin on things, and now his twinkling eyes seemed to have taken on a menacing glint.