He helped her to her feet with a hand that gave the briefest quiver before being brought under control. His shoulders squared, his chin went up and he surveyed the throng with a merry blue eye. Lily remembered that his formative years had been spent in the tough, no-quarter-given-or-expected world of a Navy training ship. Bombs and bullets seemed not to impress him but the thought of an encounter with a knife at close quarters made him grit his teeth.
‘Now, let’s stay alert, Lily!’
Chapter Twenty
Charles Honeysett reckoned he had the most demanding job in the world. Steward-in-chief, as he styled himself, was one rung in the hierarchy below the manager (a gentleman whose position Charles had in his sights). He was standing, gold pocket watch in left hand, notes, which he was never observed to consult, in right, an ear ostentatiously cocked towards the double doors that communicated with the Grand Salon.
He listened to the God-awful piece of Scottish misery thrashing itself to a climax – he was glad he’d held out against the bagpipes – and with a flick of a finger dissuaded a flunkey from fiddling nervously with the door handle. The voice of his old sergeant rang in his head: ‘Wait for it! Wait for it, laddie!’
Timing. It was everything. He’d learned that much from the army. When to make an appearance and when to disappear. The day after his demob, he’d presented himself at the hotel where he’d worked before the war. And, with his luck, the incumbent steward had been on the point of retiring. It hadn’t taken much of an effort to gain the old boy’s support with the management. The usual persuasive mix of flattery and discreet financial arrangement. And the job had fallen into his lap.
And now the luck was theirs. With his early background of service in one of the grandest houses in the east of England and four war years’ experience at a rarefied level in the catering corps based in Paris, Honeysett offered them the best management in London. The bookings flooded in. London had taken off on an unstoppable wave of jubilation. Party followed party. The lights stayed on all night. ‘Brighten up London!’ the government had commanded and people leapt to obey. The vineyards of Champagne risked being drunk dry. And there must surely be a limit to the amount of roe you could squeeze from a sturgeon?
Honeysett eyed the gleaming silver tureens filled with caviar. All colours. From the ends of the earth. And obtained at vast expense. It had cost a hundred quid just to fill a small bowl with that special red stuff the princess had demanded. His lip curled at his memory of tasting it when it arrived on the refrigerated truck the day before. He wouldn’t offer it to his dog. Honeysett tasted everything in his quest for perfection. But he’d had to call in a second opinion on this one. Young Anna had been working for him for over a month now and had settled well. She claimed to be Russian and claimed to know her caviar when he asked. About 25 per cent of his staff were Russian. And they had a fast turnover. But this girl was different from the usual run of untrained chancers. Her references had been unimpeachable. And she knew her table placements seemingly by instinct. Most girls took a week to learn. And, above all, she was obliging. Didn’t object to working extra hours. Perfect English with just a trace of an accent – Scottish, he could have sworn. Was always at his elbow with a whispered suggestion or a sweetly termed correction.
She reminded him of himself at the same age, he thought, and decided she’d bear watching.
When consulted, she’d dipped the tip of a teaspoon into the red slime, delicately licked it with her cat’s tongue and closed those big dark eyes of hers. Silence followed. Honeysett was convinced his judgement was right and she was going to be sick until she sighed, opened her eyes again and, to his dismay, burst into tears. Lucky his handkerchief had been clean and crisp. Through the sniffling and gulping he’d managed to learn that the caviar was not only not off – it was wonderful. Supreme. A heavenly taste she’d not experienced for five years. He’d helped her get over her outburst of nostalgia, muttering: ‘There, there!’ and ‘Brace up now, dear.’ Emotional lot, these Russians. But five minutes later Anna was polishing the glasses and humming a jazzy tune under her breath, fully recovered from her emotional storm. He appreciated a woman who didn’t make an undue fuss. And his handkerchief had been returned this morning washed and ironed.
He’d promoted Anna to joint head of the serving squad for tonight’s shindig. Young Antonio, from Italy, would keep an eye on her. This high-stepping matched pair pleased him: Antonio and Anna, handsome and dark and just deferential enough. There they stood, uniform perfect, starched cuffs impeccable, napkin over left arm, at the ready. They’d been told to expect the guest of honour and his partner first in line and to take their time serving up their choice of dishes. After all, the glamour of the presentation was part of the entertainment. The guests should be allowed to feast their eyes on the shining display rising up in artistically arranged ranks on stepped buffets before choosing. Antonio and Anna would place samples of the dishes requested on china plates with a gold rim and heraldic double-headed eagle in the centre.