Sorry, bit of confusion with this story as I wanted to slot another chapter in between the first two. So this is now chapter 3, and the new chapter is chapter 2. Thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed. I'm sticking to short scenes at the moment until I build up the courage (and inspiration!) to write something with an actual plot!
He'd never liked London. At heart he was far happier on his Yorkshire estate than in some grand society salon. But duty calls, even for him occasionally. The regimental dinner had been bearable of course. He actually enjoyed it on some level. But when several of his fellow officers had insisted on continuing the evening with drinks at the Criterion, he had tried to bow out. Unfortunately they were having none of it, which is how he found himself now, late at night, firmly ensconced in the Long Bar of the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly.
He had been here before, of course, back in the 1890s. Although now it had taken on a new lease of life as jazz and the literary set made themselves at home. Still, it was a pleasant place, if not quite the one he would choose, although the fashions took a little getting used to. He had been avoiding social gatherings for too long it would seem. Having come of age in the last quarter of the nineteenth century he was far more accustomed to seeing ladies in bustles and floor-length gowns than the rather more revealing fashions of the day. He was determinedly trying not to notice just such a dress on a young woman who had just appeared at the top of the staircase. Everything these days reminded him of her, even two years later. She was probably (hopefully) married by now to someone far more deserving and age-appropriate than he was. He turned back to his companions as the goddess in the green dress swept past him, heading to a table further back in the restaurant.
He was getting old, he noted sadly. Too old to be up past midnight surrounded by bright, young things in a restaurant echoing with chinking glasses and loud laughter. One laugh in particular that he couldn't seem to ignore. Foolish old man imagining things, he chastised himself. Although curiosity got the better of him and he turned to locate its source. She was seated near the back of the restaurant, away from the bar and prying eyes. He saw her and was suddenly transported back to that fateful day nearly two years past. Fool. This is what you wanted for her, remember? This is what you left her for. The man with her was not what he would have imagined for her. If anything, he looked a younger version of Anthony himself. But younger, that was the main point. And she seemed happy – even he could see that however much he wished it wasn't true.
He turned back to his companions. One who had noticed his interest couldn't help but fulfil his unspoken curiosity. 'Michael Gregson,' he said, 'a newspaper man, though admittedly not as bad as some of them so we shouldn't hold that against him. As for the woman with him, I couldn't tell you. Apart from the fact that she is most definitely not his wife' he finished chuckling. New world, eh?'
Oh Edith, what have you done. This isn't what I wanted for you.