Paris
She feared the sequins of her dress would have been caught in the door of the taxi, so promptly did the hotel doorman slam it closed as she climbed in. Perhaps he was having a bad day, she mused, fed up of standing outside in the cold and damp of a January evening, his only source of warmth being a tiny electric bar heater hidden near the heavy entrance doors that even she could tell would do little for him. The excessively cheery, red faced receptionist had commented on how unseasonal warm it was, the reason they were suffering with rain rather than snow, but shivering a little herself she took little comfort from this, if indeed it were true.
Dressing for their evening had been a challenge. Bertie had refused to let on about their destination, the promise of drinks and dancing had given her little to go on. But this was Paris, her honeymoon no less, and she was hoping for a treat. After some deliberation she chose a gown of orange-red satin, black sequins adorning the thin straps across her shoulder and back. Its handkerchief hem and the now-common dropped waistline meant that, when she moved, it clung to her figure in just the right way, demure enough in one sense but sufficiently daring that she'd never let Granny see her in it. Maybe not even Papa. Bertie hadn't said a word when she'd finally appeared from the bedroom. He'd been patiently waiting, enjoying a quiet moment with a drink and the evening paper, but the colour to his cheeks followed by the possessive grin on his face had told her everything she needed to know.
As the taxi swung out on the street, Bertie reached for her hand and smiled. It had taken some time for the arrangement of their evening to come together, not because it was particularly complex, but because he hoped it would be quite the opposite. He was a planner by nature, liked structure and knowing the direction of travel. It was what had made him such a good land agent for his cousin, their skills and interests had complemented one another brilliantly and in that way they had been a good team. No, tonight was about being free, far away from the inquisitive eyes of London society, just the two of them seeing where the night would take them. But he didn't know Paris and so he'd been forced to think ahead, find the perfect venue for their impromptu evening.
"Where are we going, Bertie? You must tell me," Edith insisted again.
But he just smiled some more, the tiny squeeze of the hand of reassurance that all would be well.
The lights of the city appeared brighter than they should, perhaps it was the rain that seemed as if it would never stop. They'd dodged the worst of it somehow, thankful for the neat row of taxis lined up near the Louvre. Bertie had recounted the awful news of the flooding in Germany with so many thousands forced to flee to higher ground. The seriousness of the world seemed a million miles away from them despite this, the hammering sound of heavy raindrops on the car roof creating a safe cocoon to transport them through the wet streets. At length, the taxi drew up outside what seemed like an ordinary-looking restaurant, a double fronted affair, smart black lettering above the door. Edith peered through the misty windows and squinted, trying to make out the name of the place.
"We're not?" she gasped. "Here?" turning towards him, seeking confirmation.
He beamed, delighted he'd got it right, "You wanted a night on the tiles..." tailing off, his eyebrows raised giving him a look of boyish mischief.
She laughed. He was right, she had asked for that. She'd heard the term only recently when it had slipped unwittingly from one of her writers and she'd had to ask what it meant. Her intrigue on hearing it explained and led to temptation to experience such a night for herself.
"I'm a married woman now," she teased, "It doesn't seem quite right."
"Only for three days," he countered with equal jest, "Now, come on." He opened the door with one hand, grabbed hers with the other, and they both giggled as they dodged the puddles forming on the pavement.
She swayed easily, the sweet sound of the jazz clarinet filling the bar with its warm melody, the gentle hush of steel on the rawhide surface of the drum. Bolstered by the free flowing red wine at dinner and now cocktails so numerous that she'd long ago lost count of, the world outside of his arms was fuzzy. How he could keep his jacket on in the stuffy, smoke-filled room was beyond her. Oh, how she longed to slip it from his shoulders and feel his warmth through the cotton shirt beneath. They were dancing so close that she swore she could feel his own pleasure rising at holding her this way. She slid a hand down his arm and found where his shirt and trousers met. With the briefest of thoughts to her actions, she slipped a thumb under the waistband, fingers splaying across his backside as she simultaneously slid her leg between his. She felt him retreat slightly, shocked perhaps at this provocative move from her in such a public place. But it was dark and crowded. No one was looking. Everyone was doing the same, and so she did it again, but not before placing her lips close to his ear and whispered loving and lustful words to him. And this time he stayed where he was.
The song came to its end, the final notes left to hum themselves to near quiet before the band struck up again and saw fit to pick up the tempo. This brought a swell of laughter from the crowd, the odd blushed face as couples began to separate after the intimacy of the last number. Bertie stayed exactly where he was. Initially unnerved to find his wife so brave and bold, he now decided he was ecstatic. He hadn't planned it, imagined it even, but that was what the night was about, going where the mood took them. The piano and trumpet struck up in earnest and they found themselves swept aside as the dance floor cleared and select couples took up a dance Edith had never seen before. The girls kicked their legs in such a way that she couldn't help but stare, dainty feet tapping impossibly across the floor, arms moving as dramatically forward and back, side to side. almost windmill-like stretched up high above their heads. And when they put their hands on their knees or lifted a foot to touch their toes, she almost looked away. Bertie laughed, perhaps his wife was the quintessential English rose after all. He drew her closer.
"It's quite the craze," he said, "But I'm not sure I fancy it myself. And I've heard there's a new one that's even harder!"
He gestured for them to move to a small table on the edge of the dance floor, signalling to a waiter for more drinks as they sat. He scooted his chair near to hers and let his arm move around her back and come to rest on her hip. Would he be so open with her if they were back at home, he wondered? Perhaps if there wasn't quite so much skin on show, he would. He was certain that she wouldn't have been so forward with him and the thought of it, along with the sight of her bare back, was making it hard to concentrate on anything other than ideas of being alone with her. As if reading his mind, she leant over and asked the time.
"Late, my darling. Would you like to head back? I don't mind," he offered.
Her lips curled knowingly into a smile, the sight of which made his heart race. Their drinks arrived before she could answer and reaching for it she took a sip. She considered the couple at the table along from them, their arms wound tightly around one another, every part of their bodies touching it seemed. Feeling inspired, she turned her face up towards his, catching his eye as she did so.
"Kiss me," she murmured, her dark pink lips parting just slightly in anticipation.
"Are you sure?" he responded, a little shocked, already knowing that once he started there'd be little possibility of him stopping.
She nodded, eyes sparkling at the thought, "We are man and wife, my darling."
She moved closer still and sighed as his lips graced hers, the wonderful feeling of their connection pervading her senses. And then it changed, the room spinning as he intensified his efforts, his tongue tangling with hers as they melted into one one another.
Author's note: The phrase 'night on the tiles' was coined in the late 18th century, but with little mention of it before 1906. It means a long night of revelry and debauchery, and who doesn't deserve one of those? And who knows? It may not be over yet for the Pelham's. Oh, and the dance? The Charleston - quite the controversy in 1926/27, banned on both sides of the Atlantic in some places.
