‘We’ll go out to eat then.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘Where would you like to go?’
She’d never been given a choice. Johnny had always decided for her.
‘I’d prefer you to choose,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you know London better than me.’
‘Then I’ll surprise you. But dress up.’ He paused. ‘I’ll meet you by the South Bank lion at the foot of Westminster Bridge at six forty-five. That give you enough time?’
She nodded.
‘By the way, don’t mention this to anyone at the hospital. They frown on any kind of friendship between the doctors and nurses.’
‘Does that go for surgeons too?’ Maxine kept her face straight.
He smiled. ‘Touché.’ He looked at her with something like a spark of admiration. ‘However, no one’s exempt.’
It was nearly half past six by the time she’d shed her uniform. Her temple had begun to throb, gently at first, and then more insistently when she started to panic. She didn’t have the right clothes. She shouldn’t be going out with him in the first place. But it couldn’t stop the frisson of anticipation that she was going on a date with a man of the most impressive reputation. And looks. She grinned to herself as she removed a black straight skirt from its hanger.
Her Liberty-print blouse she’d made two years ago would have to do. It had a pretty bow at the neck and the small coloured flowers of pinks and reds and greens flattered her fair complexion and naturally gold-streaked hair. She added her pearl earrings and necklace, and slipped into her only decent pair of shoes, a pair of black patent courts she’d bought in Liverpool when she’d first got married. Immediately her thoughts flew to Johnny. By going out to dinner with Edwin, was she being unfaithful to his memory? Unconsciously, she twisted her wedding ring. It was only dinner.
She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes to seven. She’d have to hurry. She threw on her only jacket, hoping it wouldn’t rain, adjusted her neat felt hat and grabbed her bag and gloves.
He was waiting for her. She’d never seen him outside the hospital before. He wore a light grey pinstriped suit and bowler hat, with black polished shoes, and swung an umbrella from his arm, oozing self-confidence. She was sure he knew he looked good.
As soon as he saw her he said, ‘Ah, there you are,’ and held out his arm for her to take. Awkwardly, she put her hand though the crook of his elbow, feeling strange. It didn’t belong there. But not entirely comfortable in her high heels, she was grateful for his support.
‘How was your day?’ he said, glancing down at her, as they quickened their step over Westminster Bridge.
‘Not very nice,’ she admitted. ‘Mr Kingston died.’
‘Ah, yes, Michael Kingston.’ Edwin Blake nodded. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t hold out much hope for him.’
‘It was a shock for us,’ she said. ‘He seemed to be doing so well.’
‘He hadn’t heard from his wife for some time,’ Edwin Blake remarked. ‘I think he felt depressed about it, wondering what she was up to.’
‘Poor man.’ Maxine felt the all too familiar stinging behind her eyes.
She glanced up at the man striding alongside. He didn’t usually make any personal comments about the patients, but obviously took it all in. He’d remembered Mr Kingston was a Michael, for a start. Maybe he was human after all. Maybe there was a beating heart underneath his strict exterior.
‘Taxi!’ He suddenly stepped into the road and held up his umbrella. A black cab pulled up and he opened the door for her. ‘It’s a pleasant walk on a summer’s eve,’ he said, settling down beside her in the soft leather seat. ‘But not this evening.’ He raised his eyes skywards. ‘Looks like it could rain. Besides,’ he smiled down at her, ‘I want to pamper you.’
Inside the taxi, his fingers closed over hers. She didn’t want this. It was too soon. But she didn’t want to hurt him by snatching her hand away for the second time. After a few moments she gently extracted it as an excuse to look in her handbag for a handkerchief, and dabbed her nose.
‘You haven’t got a cold coming, have you?’ He sounded concerned.
‘No, no. Probably the dust in the basement.’
‘Because I can’t afford to catch one,’ he said surprisingly. ‘Too many patients relying on me.’
Was he just a little too full of his own importance? She quickly brushed the thought away. He was being sensible, that was all.
They chatted amiably enough until the taxi stopped outside the Ritz. Maxine gasped and Edwin Blake gave her an amused smile.
‘Will it be to your liking, Miss Taylor?’
‘I’m not dressed for anything so grand.’
‘You look perfect.’
A man dressed in a bright red uniform stepped briskly forward and bent to open the car door. ‘Madam,’ he said, holding out his hand to help her out, ‘welcome to the Ritz.’
She gave the man an uncertain smile, lost for words. But it didn’t stop the tingle of excitement she felt as Edwin Blake took her arm and guided her through the door of what many people regarded as the best hotel in London.
Maxine gasped as she stepped into the enormous dining room. It was buzzing with people’s chatter and laughter, but nothing could detract from the surroundings. Her astonished gaze soared upwards to the ethereal painted ceiling, the tall windows richly draped in shining gold-patterned fabric, the bronze chandeliers …
‘Your table, Sir.’ The waiter pulled out an upholstered chair from the table covered in a crisp white cloth and set with gleaming silver cutlery and crystal glasses. ‘Madam.’
As soon as Maxine glanced at the menu, the heat rushed to her cheeks. There were dishes she’d never heard of, let alone could pronounce. Edwin Blake was going to think her such a fool.
As though he felt her confusion, he said, ‘Will you allow me to order for you, Maxine?’
‘I’d be grateful. They look like very fancy dishes with their foreign names.’
He chuckled. ‘They have to keep up the pretence that they’re still serving the finest food even though there’s a war on and rationing. Mind you, they do manage to get good supplies most of the time.’ He bent his head to scan the menu. ‘I recommend the duck à l’orange.’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Maxine said, not having a clue. She’d never eaten duck before … and with orange … it didn’t sound that appetising. But she was thankful the problem had been taken out of her hands.
‘So now you can relax.’ Edwin Blake smiled at her. ‘The Ritz will do all the work. All you have to do is sit there and look beautiful.’
It was meant to be a compliment, she was sure, but her skin prickled. She wasn’t some empty-headed young girl, even though she’d pointed out she wasn’t on his level. She’d meant he held a high position in the hospital, not that he was her superior in every shape and form. Whatever had made her make such a comment?
‘Here’s to a normal civilised evening in the madness of this bloody war,’ Edwin said, raising his glass. ‘And I say “bloody” as that’s exactly what it is – in more ways than one.’
She raised her glass towards his and smiled. ‘I second that.’
The wine tasted good even though she wasn’t very used to it. She allowed the liquid to roll over her tongue, relishing such a delightful flavour of peach, as it slid luxuriously down her throat.
‘Do you read poetry?’
His sudden