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She was led to a corner suite. A basket of fruit and a pot of tea appeared, her wet coat and wetter shoes disappeared, to be returned dry and clean the next morning.
The manager himself accompanied the chambermaid who brought her clothing to her.
‘This was found in your coat pocket, Mrs Fowler.’ His voice held reproach.
Paige knew what it was even before he held the ruby ring out to her. The sight of it put the first crack into the wall of anger that surrounded her. Her heart gave a tremulous lurch; it took effort to keep from reaching out for the ring.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘If you’d just leave it on that table—and I’d like my bill, please. I’m leaving this morning.’
She wrote a cheque for an amount that made her turn pale. But there was just enough in her account to provide for the night’s lodging as well as the fare to New York from Heathrow. Yet when she stood in the queue at the British Airways ticket counter, she found herself backing away in confusion. Before she knew what she was doing, she was following the signs to the Tube that would take her back to London.
Staying in England made no sense. Returning to Claridge’s, a place she could ill afford in her circumstances, made no sense, either. At least, that was what she thought—until she was once again standing in the handsome lobby of the venerable hotel. Then, with a terrible rush, the truth came to her.
She hadn’t come to Claridge’s last night because of its proximity to the house, she’d come because of the memories it held. Quinn had brought her here days before, mysterious and close-mouthed, smiling with pleasure when she exclaimed with delight at the reason for their visit.
‘High tea,’ he’d said, watching her face. ‘The way it used to be done and hardly ever is any more.’
‘I feel like royalty,’ she’d whispered with a grin after a liveried server had brought delicate sandwiches and pastries.
‘That’s how you look,’ Quinn had said, his eyes hot on hers. ‘Like a fairy-tale princess.’
It had been such a lovely moment—and she’d believed it, believed in what she’d seen in his face when he’d looked at her, what she’d heard in his voice. And there had been other moments, other days, all of them made up of memories her heart refused to relinquish. She could not bring herself to leave them.
It was why she couldn’t leave London.
She cabled home, afraid that her mother might phone her at the house in Mayfair, afraid, too, of what she might give away in her voice if she placed a call to the States. She was not yet ready to talk about what had happened; she was even less ready to try and explain why she wasn’t heading home. The cable bubbled with enthusiasm.
‘Off to Africa on photographic safari,’ it said. ‘Will be deep in the bush for weeks. Will get in touch when possible. Love…’
By day’s end, she had a roof over her head. It wasn’t much, just a tiny garret bedsitter on a shabby street off Earl’s Court.
‘There’s a one-ring burner, luv, and you only have to share the bath with the gent down the hall.’
Paige took it without hesitation. The room was dark and it smelled of damp, but it was cheap and clean. The landlady looked at her suspiciously when she said she had no luggage, but then her jaundiced gaze swept over her new tenant, lingering on the dark shadows beneath Paige’s eyes and the tremor in her lips, and she clucked her tongue.
‘I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea,’ she said. ‘You look as if you could use it.’
Days turned into weeks. The holidays approached; everyone always talked about the old-fashioned beauty of a Dickensian Christmas and, even in the midst of her despair, Paige caught glimpses of the joy and excitement that swept London. Those moments were the worst of all, because they seemed to give a special and terrible emphasis to the pain that engulfed her. She was grateful when the holiday season finally ended, but her gratitude faded under the onslaught of a sudden January freeze. One bitter night, her landlady appeared at the door.
‘Thought you might like some extra blankets,’ she said. ‘And there’s this old electric kettle, if you can use it.’
The last was just a bit of polite nonsense, and both women knew it. Paige had use for almost anything that came her way. Her rent was cheap, but there were other expenses. Food. Clothing. And, although she bought only the simplest and most inexpensive of both, her meagre supply of funds was fast dwindling. She’d emptied all her money from her bank account the day she’d first rented the garret room, as if by having the cash close at hand she could somehow make it grow. But, of course, she couldn’t.
She was worried. She needed a job—that was obvious. But there were none—at least, none for which she was qualified. Her situation grew as grim as the weather, her despair as deep. And, all the time, there was a little voice whispering deep inside her.
What are you doing here? it asked.
At first, she had no answer. Memories had kept her here, but after a while the memories began to lose focus, like old photographs kept too long in a box.
Why not go home? the voice whispered one night, while she slept. Paige blinked her eyes open and sat up in the dark room, shivering with cold.
The answer came swiftly, carried on the moan of the wind and the lash of the rain.
She couldn’t leave London. Quinn was here—and that meant she had to be here, too. She loved him still, despite what he’d done to her, and she would always love him. He had used her, debased her, hurt her more deeply than she’d dreamed possible, but nothing could change what she felt for him.
She tossed aside the blankets and stumbled across the room, unmindful of the sharp cold. Her shoulder bag stood on a scuffed wooden table near the door. She picked it up and tumbled the contents out, searching among the tissues and coins and crumpled bills until her hand closed around her ruby ring. Her eyes shut as she remembered the terrible night in Quinn’s house when the stone had seemed to grow cold. The tears she’d so long kept inside her finally streamed down her cheeks. When at last she slept, it was with the ring clutched tightly in her hand, as if her chilled fingers might be warmed by the flame that had once burned within it.
In the morning, Paige stood at a jewellery counter in Harrods, chin high, undeterred by the stares of those who had difficulty reconciling the young woman in the cheap coat and vinyl boots with the customer who politely insisted that yes, she did, indeed, want to buy that rather expensive gold chain. The cost of her purchase diminished her remaining funds considerably, but the heavy weight of the chain and the security of the clasp as she hung the ruby around her neck brought a smile to her lips.
