Two for Sorrow Read Online Free Page A

strode determinedly up the stairs. She realised from the smirk on Miss Timpson’s face that her admirer had been a matter of speculation from the moment the flower crossed the threshold, and tried to work out who could have sent it. Archie? It seemed unlikely—gardenias weren’t his style; if he knew she was already in London, he would have chosen something far less showy and he would have brought them himself. It certainly couldn’t be the Motley sisters—she doubted that Ronnie had ever done an anonymous thing in her life, and a flower from Lettice was always accompanied by a dinner invitation. Lydia, perhaps—it was a luxury beyond the budget of a struggling actress, but her friend was notoriously bad withmoney and such an extravagance would be typical of her. Or perhaps Geraldine was right after all, and another member of the club had sent it. Just what she needed—awkwardness creeping into the only safe haven left to her. She shut her door with a sigh of relief, stuck the flower unceremoniously in the sink, and tried to forget about it.
    The room was small but comfortable, and charmingly furnished with everything she needed and nothing more: a single bed, a solid writing table, a large wardrobe and plenty of cupboard space, and—her favourite feature—a tall window which took up most of one wall and looked out over Cavendish Square. She tidied the parcels away, freshened her make-up and found her glasses, then went over to the desk and picked up the sheaf of papers which she had been working on that morning. Scanning them quickly, she made a note of the questions which she hoped Celia might be able to answer and went downstairs, keen to find out as much as she could about the Finchley Baby Farmers.
    There was no sign of Celia in the drawing room, so Josephine chose one of the blue horsehair chairs by the windows overlooking Henrietta Street and settled down to wait. It was the largest room in the house, extending the full width of the building on the first floor, and one of the most beautiful, with nicely proportioned panelled walls—painted in ivory-white enamel to maximise the reflection of light during the day—and a parquet floor. Fine rococo mirrors hung over original fireplaces—one at either end, suggesting that the space had once been two rooms—and there were other splashes of opulence in a gilt Louis XV couch with sapphire-coloured cushions and three enormous chandeliers, but most of the furnishings were quietly tasteful: simple mahogany bookcaseshousing an eclectic selection of fiction and non-fiction; plain velvet curtains; and comfortable Sheraton armchairs, alternately upholstered in blue and fawn and free of the tassels and loose covers that would have made the room look untidy. A number of women sat around in small groups or on their own, playing cards and reading newspapers, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the room, punctuated every now and then by laughter or the chink of cup against saucer. It spoke of privilege but most of the women had worked hard to get here, and Josephine could still remember how proud she had felt when she was first elected. For her, as for many women of her generation, the membership of a private club represented a new and cherished independence; ten years later, although her life had taken a different path from the one she had expected, her achievements as a novelist and a playwright more than justified her place here, but success had not dulled that early excitement. It was partly to do with the possibilities which the future now held for women—for the lucky ones, at least—but there was something more to it: in the Cowdray Club she had rediscovered the sense of female solidarity which she had known in her teenage years and early twenties, and she was honest enough to recognise in herself a need to belong which she resented but could not seem to outgrow.
    â€˜Josephine—sorry to keep you waiting but