The air in the Olympic's grand ballroom was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the faint sweetness of spilled champagne. The crystal chandelier swayed with the ship's gentle roll, its thousands of prisms chiming softly.
Light fractured across gilded moldings and mirrored walls, scattering reflections over satin gowns and black dinner jackets.
It was the voyage's final night—a heady mix of exhaustion and reckless abandon. Come dawn, this floating world of elegance would dissolve into London's grey reality.
The twelve-piece jazz band tore through Tiger Rag. The trumpeter's cheeks glowed crimson, the sax gleamed beneath the chandeliers, and the pianist's fingers danced across the keys like sparks. Each note bubbled and burst, as if champagne itself had found a voice.
On the dance floor, silk skirts whipped past polished teak, patent leather tapped sharp rhythms, and laughter rose above the music.
Leaning lazily against the grand piano, Gertrude Lawrence drew languidly on her cigarette. "London nights," she said over the music, "make this ship look like a Sunday picnic. Those jazz clubs in Soho—now there's something. Music, smoke, and scandal under every light bulb."
Her eyes glittered. "They say even the music stands are 'borrowed' from the British Museum."
Noël Coward appeared beside her, smooth as ever, a fresh glass of whiskey in hand. "Lawrence neglected to mention," he said, clinking glasses with Shane, "we host a small salon in Chelsea every Thursday. Poets, painters, and a few gossiping theater men. You'd fit right in."
Then suddenly, the saxophonist drew a long, sliding wail—and the chandeliers went dark.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. In the pitch black came the sound of glass breaking, a woman's startled laughter, and somewhere in the dark, a kiss that was not meant to happen.
When the lights flared back to life, the ballroom was a glorious mess. Champagne puddled across the floor, pearl hairpins glittered among the wreckage, and napkins lay like wilted white roses stained with lipstick and gin.
The band, unfazed, struck up a roaring Charleston. Coward swayed slightly, timing each tilt of his glass to the beat.
"London," he said with a sly grin, "is rather like this tune—pretending to follow the rules while playing three steps ahead of them."
As the song built to its feverish end, the chandeliers spun wildly, scattering kaleidoscopic light across the dancers.
Lawrence, radiant in a scarlet gown, swept onto the floor like a flame. Wherever her skirt brushed, champagne glasses toppled, pooling into golden rivers that shimmered beneath the fractured light.
Coward extended a glass of absinthe—emerald green, luminous as poison. "One last toast," he said. "To the shows waiting for us in London." He tapped his finger lightly against the rim, and the liquid swirled into a tiny vortex.
In the center of the dance floor, Lawrence threw back her head and laughed, her white throat arching gracefully, black pearl earrings swinging wildly with the rhythm.
Then came the grand finale—trumpets screaming, saxophones wailing, piano keys crashing in a glorious discordant roar.
And beneath it all, the ship's horn bellowed a low, mournful note that cut through every sound. The Olympic was nearing land.
No one turned toward the windows. No one wanted to see the gray outline of England emerging from the fog. The dancers clung to their music as if it could hold back the dawn.
The Next Morning — London Docks
A pale mist clung to the Thames, softening the iron silhouette of cranes and gangways. The Olympic's massive hull loomed over the dock, streaked with salt and shadow.
Shane stood at the top of the gangway, the river wind tugging at the hem of his camel coat. In his pocket, his fingers brushed against something cool and round—a black pearl earring. Proof that the night's chaos had been real.
On the wharf, customs officers barked orders as luggage carts clattered across the planks. Lawrence was already chatting with a uniformed inspector, her tone honeyed, her smile perfectly timed.
"Tomorrow at noon, the Palm Court," Coward reminded him, adjusting his deerskin gloves. "A few friends will be there. Investors. The sort who have… particular interests in Chaplin's new picture." His smile flickered, sly and knowing.
Lawrence glided toward them, sequins on her dove-grey dress catching the morning light like dew. "No need to fret about the luggage," she said, gesturing delicately toward customs. "Our special equipment will be sent straight to the hotel's basement." Her perfume lingered—lily of the valley, faint and precise—as her fingers brushed Shane's cuff.
The dock clock struck seven. The whistle blew one last, echoing call. Coward bowed with exaggerated grace before heading toward another car. Lawrence slipped into the back of her Rolls-Royce Phantom, her crimson lips curling into a secretive smile as the mist swallowed her figure.
A hotel attendant appeared beside Shane. "Mr. Cassidy, your river-view suite is ready."
He nodded, stepping into the waiting car. The leather seats creaked softly beneath him, carrying the faint scent of oil and polish. On the armrest lay a freshly printed copy of The Times.
The headline blared across the front page:
"Charlie Chaplin's New Film Nears European Premiere — Who Will Control Distribution?"
A photograph showed Chaplin tipping his bowler hat, the glint of his cane caught mid-swing.
As the Rolls-Royce hummed over Waterloo Bridge, Shane drew the black pearl from his pocket. Morning light caught its surface, flashing a pale ghost of color in his blue-grey eyes.
Then, with a faint half-smile, he tucked it away again. Whatever delicate intrigue had danced between them last night meant little compared to the briefcase at his feet—the contract inside worth more than all the flirtations in the world.
"Sir, we've arrived," the driver announced.
The Savoy rose ahead through the thinning fog, its Art Nouveau façade gleaming wet from the morning dew. Doormen in scarlet uniforms opened the car door, their gloved hands precise and practiced.
Inside, the front desk manager presented a gilded key holder lined with blue velvet. "Your river-view suite, Mr. Cassidy. From the terrace, you'll see Parliament and the clock tower clearly. Your companions' rooms are arranged on the fifth floor, as per your telegram."
Shane signed the register with a steady hand—his name blooming across the page in dark ink.
A waiter in tails appeared with a silver tray. Two additional key holders rested upon a linen cloth, each tag embossed in delicate script.
As the brass elevator doors closed, Shane caught sight—through the grillwork—of two men on the lobby sofa. One held a Daily Mirror, but a corner of the racing section had been neatly torn away. The other adjusted the lens of a brand-new Leica camera, its glass glinting each time it aimed toward the elevator.
The doors slid shut with a soft metallic sigh.