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Phryne was in a sour mood.
Perhaps she had started drinking too early in the day, or perhaps it was the solid week of rain that had dogged her every step in London through the whole of November as she attempted to untangle her father’s finances and build an impregnable wall between his debts and her own healthy accounts.
Her cousin Guy’s invitation to a weekend whirl at the Langham was meant to be a diversion. It was for a time, when the mid-afternoon gin flowed as freely as the frothy conversation of not-so-young men pretending to be carefree. Now, as the dinner hour had come and gone and Guy had ensconced himself in the men’s only lounge, with the crackling fireplace and the men’s only top shelf whiskey, (“Sorry Phrynekins. You know how these things are.”) Phryne sat alone in the front lobby. White marble streaked with pale grey. Tones as hushed and serious as a bank vault.
Outside, the rain was endless.
Phryne struck a match to light her next cigarette only to have it extinguished by a burst of cold air as the door to the main lobby swung open yet again. A man, distinguished in profile, handed his black umbrella and fedora to the doorman, then shrugged out of his sopping wet trench coat.
It wasn’t Jack.
Phryne had no reason to think it would be — no realistic reason, anyway.
They had come to an understanding about the need to be apart for the time being — an understanding that had nothing to do with a lack of feeling, and everything to do with the practicalities of ships and fathers, jobs and finances. It was a sound decision in these troubled times, as sober and mature as a dark wool suit.
The rain was endless.
A woman in a shimmering silver gown glided across the lobby and approached Not-Jack, tapping him on the shoulder, then melting into his arms as he twirled around to greet her. Not-Jack laughed and looked years younger. The woman took his warm hand in her gloved one as they moved together, perfectly in step, towards the center staircase.
Phryne made her decision in an instant.
She dropped her matches and cigarette, pulled her wrap tightly around her shoulders and marched to the concierge’s gilded post.
“Telegraph office,” she stated, not waiting for the man’s greeting.
“Left, down this hallway to the east wing, Madam,” he answered. “And then a right, and another left. I’d be happy to have someone escort you.”
The end of sentence was addressed to Phryne’s retreating form. She’d piloted a plane across half the world. She could find a bloody telegraph office from a few simple words.
Minutes later, standing at the counter in the tidy space, Phryne smoothed crease from the blank form with her left hand, pencil poised aloft in her right.
“My dearest Jack,” she scrawled, “if passage were arranged, would you meet me in the Caribbean in two months’ time QUERY”
Phryne handed the paper to the clerk, lit a new cigarette, then folded herself into one of the upholstered chairs to wait for a reply.
“Caribbean” was the terse response an hour later, even the word query at the end implied rather than stated outright.
Two could play that game.
“London frigid” was her next missive.
The clock ticked.
“Melbourne scorching” was his eventual reply.
Phryne huffed. She’d waited all night for a total of three words from the man.
“I’ll dictate my next message, Billy,” she said to the clerk as he offered a fresh pencil. “It’s going to be long and expensive.”
“Cousin Guy appointed to position in Administrator’s service. Tortola, Virgin Islands. Invited for installation ceremony in January.”
Billy interrupted. “Do you realize the comma gets charged as a word, Miss?”
“I do, Billy. Keep going.”
"It’s frivolous and impulsive and what I want, Jack. But only with you. Say yes.”
Two months later, Phryne waited on the pier in Road Town, Tortola, shaded from the mid-day sun by a paper-light parasol. She twirled it slowly in her right hand as the ferry edged in to its dock.
Jack blinked slowly as he emerged from the cabin, eyes adjusting to the brilliant Caribbean daylight. He saw her immediately, but took his time approaching, thanking the deck hands and offering a hearty farewell to a young naval officer that had been his companion on the last leg of the journey.
Phryne held her ground, watching carefully above her sunglasses, admiring this relaxed version of Jack in white shirt and linen trousers, felted wool fedora swapped for wide-brimmed straw.
Finally Jack reached her, removed the parasol from her hand, and pressed his lips to hers.
“Yes,” he said.
“My man of few words,” she laughed, taking his hand in hers as they strolled towards a waiting taxi.
“The most important ones,” he countered.
She stopped to kiss him again. “There will be time for those later.”
In a few more steps, they reached the waiting car. Jack opened the rear door for her to step inside.
“Phryne,” he started. “Only one question. Why here?”
Phryne removed her sunglasses, her smile warm and open as she held his gaze.
“It’s simple, Jack. I didn’t want the first time I laid eyes on you again to be in the London rain.”