The Ship of Brides(80)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘I’m fine,’ said Frances. ‘Really. I’m very happy working with Mr Hun.’

‘Sure you are, sweetheart, and very fine work you do too. But looking at how darn pretty you’ve got, I think you’re more use to me out front. So, from now on you’ll serve drinks. Miriam here will show you the ropes.’

She felt, as she so often did, outmanoeuvred. As if, despite her supposedly adult position in the world, there were too many people who could make decisions on her behalf. And if she had caught something in Miriam’s glance that made her feel something else, something vaguely disconcerting, then even she wouldn’t have been able to articulate what exactly that was.

She should be grateful. She should be grateful that Mr Radcliffe had given her the pretty attic room at a price far cheaper than she could have afforded. She should be grateful that he was taking care of her, when neither of her parents had had the good sense to do it themselves. She should be grateful that he had paid her so much attention, that he had ordered those two good dresses for her when he discovered she hardly had an outfit to her name that wasn’t threadbare, that he took her out to dinner once a week and didn’t let anyone say anything bad about her mother in front of her, that he protected her from the attentions of the troops flooding into town. She should be grateful that someone found her as pretty as he did.

She should have paid no attention to Hun Li when he took her aside one night and hissed at her in pidgin English that she should leave. Now. She wasn’t a stupid girl, no matter what the others were saying.

So that first night when, instead of waving her off to bed, Mr Radcliffe invited her to come to his rooms after dinner, it was hard to say no. When she had pleaded tiredness, he had pulled such a sad face and said she couldn’t possibly leave him alone when he had entertained her all evening, could she? He had seemed so proud of the specially imported wine that it had been vital that she drink some too. Especially that second glass. And when he had insisted she sit on the sofa beside him instead of on the little chair, where she had been comfortable, it would have been rude to refuse.

‘You know, you’re actually a very beautiful girl, Frances,’ he had said. There had been something almost hypnotic about the way he kept murmuring it into her ear. About his broad hand, which, without her noticing, had been stroking her back, as if she were a baby. About the way her dress had slipped from her bare skin. Afterwards, when she had thought back, she knew she had hardly tried to stop him because she hadn’t realised, until it was too late, what she should have been stopping. And it hadn’t been so bad, had it? Because Mr Radcliffe cared about her. Like no one else cared. Mr Radcliffe would look after her.

She might not be sure what it was she actually felt about him. But she knew she should be grateful.

Frances stayed at the Rest Easy Hotel for three more months. For two of those months she and Mr Radcliffe (he never invited her to use his first name) settled into a twice-weekly routine of his nocturnal ‘visits’. Sometimes he would invite her to his rooms after he had taken her out to dinner. On a few occasions he arrived, unannounced, in hers. She didn’t like those times: he was often drunk, and once he had said almost nothing to her, simply opened her door and come crashing down on her so that she had felt like some kind of receptacle and stood, for hours after, trying to wash the smell of him from her skin.

She realised pretty quickly that she did not love him, no matter what he said to her. She knew now why he employed so many female staff. She saw, with not a little curiosity, that none of them envied her position as his girlfriend, even though he favoured her – in wages, dresses, and attention – best of all.

But on the day when he suggested she ‘entertain’ his friend for a little while, she had understood everything. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, smile wavering as she looked at the two men, ‘I don’t think I heard you right.’

He laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Neville here has a proper soft spot for you, sweetheart. Do me a favour. Just make him feel better.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

His fingers tightened on her. It was a sweltering night and they slid on her skin as they gripped her. ‘I think you do, sweetheart. You’re not a stupid girl.’

She refused, flushed to the roots of her hair that he had considered her capable of such a thing. She refused again, and tried, in one outraged look, to convey her hurt at what he had suggested. She half ran towards the stairs, tears of humiliation pricking her eyes, desperate to escape to the safety of her own room, conscious of the eyes of the other girls upon her, the catcalling of the now ever-present troops. But then she heard his thunderous steps behind her. By the time she reached her room he was behind her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled at her, whipping her round to face him. His face was the same colour as it had been when he had accused her mother of stealing.

‘Get off me!’ she screamed. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me to do such a thing!’

‘How dare you embarrass me like that! After all I’ve done for you – looking after you, forgetting all that money your mum stole off me, buying you dresses, taking you out, when everyone else in this town said I shouldn’t touch any of the Luke family with a ten-foot pole . . .’

She was seated now, her hands pressed to her face as if she could block him out. Downstairs she heard someone break into song, and an answering jeer.

‘Neville’s a good friend of mine, you understand, you silly little girl? A very good friend. And his son’s off to war and he’s blue as anything and I’m just trying to take his mind off it all – and so here we are, the three of us having a nice evening, all friends together, and you start behaving like some spoilt kid! How do you think that makes Neville feel?’

She tried to interrupt but he stopped her.

‘I thought you were better than that, Frances.’ Here his voice dropped, became conciliatory. ‘One of the things I always liked about you was that you were a caring sort of a girl. You didn’t like to see people unhappy. Well, it’s not a lot to ask in the great scheme of things, is it? Just to help someone whose son’s gone off to maybe lose his life in battle?’

‘But I—’ She didn’t know how to answer him. She began to cry, lifted a hand to her face.

He took it in one of his. ‘I’ve never forced you to do anything, have I?’