Free Alys, Always by Harriet Lane Page A

watching me. He drops his eyes when this happens, and we carry on as if nothing has taken place.
    Some weeks later, Polly sends me a text. It’s all shit, apparently, and she wants to meet for a coffee one morning. I text back suggesting my day off, expecting her to nominate a Caffè Nero near her flat. Instead she messages to say she has made a reservation for 11 a.m. at the Wolseley.
    I get there too early and walk around Green Park for a bit, not wanting to be on time. I’m sure Polly will be late. Pale new growth bubbles through the trees; the sky is that faint heart-stopping blue that would have you believe anything is possible. The deckchair attendants are circulating, probably for the first time this year. I watch a woman in a little navy jacket and off-white pumps stop, put down her quilted leather shopper, and lift out a small Pekinese, which sniffs suspiciously at the grass as if it barely knows what it is. On the far side of the park, along the Mall, the cherry-pickers are out, putting up flags for some state visit or other.
    I leave the park and cross the road by the Ritz, borne alongby the surge of tourists heading to the Royal Academy, and find the restaurant’s entrance, which is rather anonymous and easy to miss: a discreet brass plaque, thick blackout curtains obscuring the windows. The doorman steps forwards and smiles as if he recognises me, and then the doors are opening and I’m passing through them, suddenly confused by the dim, even crepuscular light within. As my eyes adjust, the space takes shape around me. I didn’t know what to expect. It’s almost as glorious as a cathedral.
    I give Polly’s name to the girl at the lectern, and without looking down to consult her ledger she says, ‘Of course, Miss Thorpe. Miss Kyte has already arrived.’
    It may be late morning but in here, partly because of the black lacquer and the glow of the little shaded lamps, it feels like the evening. The place is full, and even though most of the people present are conducting business, there’s something sparkly and frivolous in the air. The atmosphere crackles with gossip and speculation. And cash. The place is full of cash.
    Little groups of women in proper jewellery, drinking Bloody Marys. A captain of industry joking with a newspaper proprietor. A film star in shorts and heavy stubble sitting alone, eating an omelette and pencilling his way through a pile of notes.
    I’m conscious, as I follow the girl across the black and white marble, between little tables shining with silver cutlery and polished glass, that people are automatically glancing up to see whether they know me.
    Polly, seated at a table in the central circle, reaches over to kiss me hello. She looks different again today, a little Nouvelle Vague in a beanie and tight striped jersey, with lots of eyeliner, but I’m realising this is part of her look: she can take it in any direction, at will.
    ‘Hope this is OK,’ she says, gesturing around her, as I slideinto the banquette opposite. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else.’
    ‘It’s perfect,’ I say, unwinding my red and purple scarf.
    Without otherwise acknowledging the waitress, Polly orders a black coffee and Birchermuesli. I’d really prefer the eggs Benedict, but I say I’ll have the same.
    ‘Thank you,’ I add, carefully, to the waitress.
    ‘You work at a newspaper, don’t you? The
Questioner
?’ Polly says, suddenly sharp, when we are alone.
    I say that’s right, I do.
    ‘Well … I know it sounds silly, but this is all in confidence, right? All this family stuff?’
    ‘Of course,’ I say, watching her fingertips running over the grain of the tablecloth, the curve of the knife. ‘I’m not that sort of journalist, anyway.’
    ‘Well, sure,’ she says, not really listening. ‘It’s just that Daddy is – well, you know. He’s Laurence Kyte, isn’t he? The big man. Mr Letters. People always want to know about Laurence sodding Kyte.’
    ‘Don’t worry about me,’