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‘About us . . .’ She took a deep breath; it was kinder to do this now, and as directly as she could so he understood. ‘I don’t see any engagement working between us, and my father’s business is not part of the deal.’
Jimmy surprised her by grinning, but it was not warm. ‘You’d better talk to your mother about that.’
‘My mother is dead.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he snapped and she lifted an eyebrow. ‘Talk to Irma. She’s the one with all the plans.’
‘I will, Jimmy. Whatever Irma is planning should not involve me – I’m not one of her chess pieces. And it shouldn’t involve my father’s business, which she has no place in.’
He frowned. ‘She sees it differently.’
‘This is a conversation for another time with a different person.’
The line moved up suddenly and they arrived at the ticket booth, still scowling at each other.
‘Two tickets,’ Jimmy said to the small, bespectacled woman behind the glass and grille.
‘Please,’ the woman uttered in an admonishing tone. ‘You shouldn’t forget your manners, young man.’
Fleur had already palmed the coins and now placed them into the little metal cup. ‘I’ll pay for myself, but thanks, Jimmy.’
The woman glanced at Jimmy and back at Fleur.
‘I told you—’
‘No, Jimmy, you don’t tell me anything. You’ve become Irma’s mouthpiece,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t need Irma’s money . . . which is in fact my father’s money, anyway!’
‘You two need to cheer up,’ the woman said, taking the coins and putting the tickets into the cup in exchange. ‘This is meant to be a happy evening.’ She gestured towards a poster promising that the orchestra of five would be led by Ken Wylie and there would be balloons, streamers, prizes and dancing until ten.
‘Excuse us,’ Fleur said, stepping away from the window as Jimmy scowled at the woman before turning away.
‘Here’s your ticket,’ he said, pushing it into Fleur’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ she ground out and barely waited for Jimmy to catch up as she stalked into the ballroom.
On Friday, Tom had moved through a long day at the woolstores but he had never been shy of hard work or days that felt like they had more hours than others. He could feel the familiar ache of honest toil in his body.
‘Hey, Tom?’ He looked up to see Charlie Hunter, the stock agent he’d met earlier and had spent some hours with that day. ‘A few of the lads are going down to the Palais tomorrow evening.’
‘The Palais? What’s that – a pub?’
Charlie gave a burst of a laugh. ‘No, mate. It’s the ballroom down on the Semaphore beach.’
Tom frowned.
‘A dance,’ Charlie continued. ‘You know, pretty girls. Tell me you can dance.’
Tom gave a shy smile. ‘Yes, I learned.’
He received a slap on the back from the grinning Charlie. ‘Then you’ll have a girl in your arms tomorrow, big fella. I’ll come by and pick you up at seven forty-five.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’ Tom began.
‘Don’t be daft. I need you there to attract the girls for me, mate, even if you don’t want to dance with them. You’ll be like a beacon.’
‘Shut up, Charlie.’
‘Seriously! Who’s going to notice me in the crowd? I’m five foot six, and you’ve got seven or eight inches on me. You’ll glow like the Christmas angel on top of the tree when they turn on the lights.’
