Sowerby immediately complained to her daughter, as if Viva wasn't there. Viva hadn't eaten since breakfast and there was a delicious-looking walnut cake, along with some scones, under the glass dome on the counter.
A cup of coffee was suggested but, disappointingly, no cake. Sowerby introduced as her daughter Victoria.īoth of them were surrounded by a sea of packages. By her side was a plump and silent girl who, to Viva's considerable amazement, Mrs. A small, bird-thin woman wearing an extraordinary blue hat (a kind of caged thing with a blue feather poking out of the back) stood up to greet her. She stepped into the genteel murmurings of the tearoom, where a pianist was playing a desultory tune. Her hair, thick and dark and inclined toward wildness, had been dampened and clenched back in a small bun. Jonti Sowerby from Middle Wallop in Hampshire.įor the purposes of this interview, Viva wore not her usual mix of borrowed silks and jumble sale finds, but the gray tweed suit she loathed but had worn for temporary work as a typist. It seemed like a form of magic to Viva Holloway when, having paid three and six for her advertisement to appear in the latest issue of The Lady, she found herself five days later in the restaurant at Derry & Toms in London, waiting for her first client, a Mrs. Responsible young woman, twenty-eight years old, fond of children, with knowledge of India, will act as chaperone on Tilbury-to-Bombay run in return for half fare.
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