by Anne Weale
"So you agree to these arrangements?" he enquired.
Joanna flushed crimson. "Oh, Gustave, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, but I was thinking of… of something else."
"Something very absorbing, I imagine, if you are so distraite that you fail to hear my own good tidings," he said drily. "I am intrigued, petite. What can it be that causes such deep abstraction?"
Joanna picked up the champagne glass and watched the bubbles rising to the surface of the pale golden liquid. "Oh, nothing so very important," she said, with a shrug. "I'll tell you about it later. Now, what were you saying while I so rudely ignored you?"
"Ah, that was very important," he explained with satisfaction. "As you know, I have been exploring the possibilities of your appearing in London for a season. Well, matters have turned out even better than I anticipated. There has been an offer from one of the most exclusive cabarets, and their terms are excellent — excellent! What is more, there will be at least two engagements in top-rating television productions, and more than likely an appearance in one of the gala variety programs. So it is certainly an occasion for us to congratulate ourselves, don't you think ?"
"It sounds wonderful, Gustave," she said breathlessly. "But it will be much more exacting than my run at the Cordiale. Are you sure I'm ready for it?"
"If you are not, then it will be the first time I have miscalculated," he said drily. "Yes, you are ready, Janine. You will have to prepare yourself of course — it will need much hard work — but you are ready."
He smoked his cigar for a moment, his expression reflective. "You see, ma petite," he said slowly, "it is not really a question of your voice — which is charming; or your appearance — which is delightful. There are dozens of girls who have both these assets. No, it is something less tangible, something which one can only describe as… magic. If you have it, you cannot fail! If you do not have it—" he made an expressive gesture — "then you may be extremely successful, but never a great star."
He had always encouraged and spurred her, but he had never told her that she might reach the very pinnacles of success. Joanna was rather overwhelmed.
"But what makes you think I might have this… magic, Gustave?" she asked doubtfully. "After all, I seemed to be reasonably popular at the Cordiale, but there were never any queues."
"Because, at the Cordiale, you were still serving your apprenticeship… still learning," he said wisely. "A great artist — one who will last for a lifetime — such a rarity does not emerge overnight, Janine. But there is always one moment when, afterwards, one can say "That was the beginning — that was the great moment.' It was true of Mis- tinguett, and of the enchanting Josephine Baker, and, more recently, of Piaf. And if my hopes are fulfilled, it will be true of you, my little one. So now we drink a toast — yes? To Janine Alain — and to a golden future."
During lunch, they discussed the more practical details of the London project. But it was not until the waiter had poured their coffee and most of the other diners had left the restaurant that Gustave said quietly, "And now I should like to know what has occurred to distress you, petite. Oh, yes, I can see that you are not quite yourself today. Even though you are pleased and excited about this venture, there is still something troubling you."
Since it had never been any use trying to hide anything from him — and as he already knew the whole story of her upbringing — Joanna told him what had happened. But, for reasons which she could not quite define, she omitted any mention of the money Carlyon had offered her.
To her astonishment, Gustave was immediately in favor of the visit.
"Why not? Why not, ma chere?" he asked, with a wave of his cigar, "if you are truthful with yourself, I think you must admit that you have always been curious about these unknown relatives of yours. You have every reason to dislike them, yet there is still this subconscious hankering to observe them for yourself. Once you have met them, this feeling will be satisfied and the past will no longer weigh so heavily." He sipped his cognac. "And, what is more, it will be an excellent opportunity for you to familiarize yourself with the English way of life before making your debut," he added approvingly.
"But, Gustave, he wants me to leave tomorrow," Joanna objected.
"So? You can be ready, can you not? It is a simple matter to cancel your arrangements in Brittany. As for your appearance in London, these Carlyons must surely have a telephone, or I can advise you by letter. In any event, I shall be coming to London to supervise your opening myself."
"You will? Oh, that will make all the difference. I shan't be half so nervous if you are there," Joanna said, with relief.
"So it is agreed that you accompany this Englishman?' the agent asked briskly.
Joanna nodded. "I suppose so — if you think I should."
Hugo patted her hand. "Don't look so nervous, little goose. They cannot eat you. And now I must return to my office. I can give you a lift, perhaps?"
"No, I think I'll walk for a while, thank you."
"There is one person who will not be overjoyed at your departure, I fancy," Gustave said casually, when he had signed the bill and the mdtre had bowed them out of the dining-room. Then, as she gave him a enquiring glance, "I mean young de Mansard."
Joanna was taken aback. She had had no idea that the agent was aware of her association with Yves. He had certainly never seen them together.
"Oh, yes, I have known of his interest in you," Gustave said, correctly interpreting her expression. "To be frank with you, cherie, I was at one time a little concerned by it. Contrary to some opinions, I do not consider that all publicity is advantageous."
"You never said anything," Joanna said curiously.
He chuckled. "No — but I would if it had been necessary. Fortunately, you were both extremely discreet."
There was nothing in his tone to warrant it, but Joanna felt bound to say, "There was nothing to be discreet about, Gustave. We were only friends."
"I am sure of it, petite — but few others would be. You must know of his reputation."
"Yes, I do — and at first I didn't like him," Joanna admitted.
"And now?" the agent enquired.
She hesitated, wondering whether to tell him that she would not be seeing Yves again. Instead, she said, "What made you so sure that I wouldn't become… involved with him?"
Gustave smiled slightly. "Because for you, mon enfant, there would be no involvement without love; and you have not yet experienced that condition. It is, perhaps, your one imperfection as an artiste."
"Falling in love?" she exclaimed. "But what has that to do with my work?"
"A very great deal," he said drily. "Until you have loved, you are not completely a woman — the deepest emotions are unknown to you. However, I don't doubt that it is a lack which will be remedied. Perhaps one of your compatriots will introduce you to the experience. You will find that Englishmen are not always the dull fellows they are sometimes made out to be."
His gleaming Delahaye was waiting outside the entrance when they emerged from the hotel. The chauffeur, who had been chatting to the doorman, sprang to open the door and saluted Janine.
"So the next time we meet will be in London — to prepare for your triumph," Gustave said, with a chuckle. "Au revoir, ma petite. Take good care of yourself."
Joanna gave him her hand. "Bless you, Gustave. Where should I be without you?" she said warmly. And then, on impulse, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his fleshy cheek. "Au revoir, my good friend."
The agent watched her walk away, a slim graceful figure, her red-gold hair burnished by the afternoon sun. Then he heaved himself into the limousine and gave his instructions to the chauffeur.
Joanna would never know it, but if they had been characters in a fairy-tale, it would have been a handsome young prince who was driven swiftly away.
* * *
Joanna was packing her suitcases when Madame Dinard shouted up the stairs that there was a gentleman on the telephone. It was exactly one minute
past eight.
"Well? Have you made up your mind?" From halfway across the city, Charles Carlyon's voice was even more cold and incisive than when they had talked in his car.
Joanna's fingers trembled as she held the receiver to her ear and tried to shut out the babel of chattering voices from the bar. But her tone was as crisp as his as she answered, "Yes, Mr. Carlyon. I've decided to accept your invitation."
"I thought you would. I'll pick you up at eight o'clock tomorrow. We shall be catching the noon boat from Calais, so try not to keep me waiting."
"I'll be ready," she said icily.
"Oh, and there's one other point. Don't think your two hundred pounds is going to be easy money. You've got a part to play, and it certainly isn't type-casting. One slip, my dear Joanna, and you'll wish you'd never been born. Goodnight."
CHAPTER TWO
BY ten minutes past eight the following morning, Joanna's luggage had been fitted into the trunk of Charles Carlyon's car, and he was waiting for her to take her leave of the Dinards.
Although she had told the French family that she was leaving the Cordiale and appearing in London for a season, she had not mentioned die immediate alteration in her plans. They were under the impression that Carlyon was a friend who had offered to drive her to the coast.
"II est tout cl fait charmant, this new beau," Madame Dinard whispered, as they kissed goodbye. "Perhaps he will also decide to spend some time in Brittany," she added archly.
Joanna managed a smile. She had been relieved when the Englishman had given no sign of his disdain for her while they were arranging her suitcases. But she had not the least doubt that his pleasant manner was only a temporary front, and that, once on the road, he would swiftly dispense with all hypocrisy.
At the last moment, just as he was about to start the engine, Papa Dinard clapped his hands to his forehead and called a halt.
"Forgive me, little one," he said apologetically, having disappeared into the bar for some moments and returned with a small package. "I had completely forgotten that this parcel was delivered for you yesterday. I put it under the counter, but what with Marthe cutting herself on the bread knife, and the old man being in one of his fractious tempers, it completely slipped my memory."
Joanna took the flat wax-sealed packet with a puzzled expression. She had no idea what it could be as she had certainly not ordered anything from the shops in the past few days.
"Oh, I don't suppose it's anything important, Papa," she said lightly. "Perhaps something I left behind at the club."
Then, as the car moved forward: "Au 'voir, Papa. Au 'voir, Mamart. Take care of yourselves."
It was not until they had left the central part of the city and were passing through the quieter streets of the suburbs that Carlyon broke the silence by glancing at the packet on her lap and saying, "Aren't you going to open it? It may be a farewell gift from one of your admirers."
"I doubt it," Joanna said coolly. "It may be a small present from my agent, Monsieur Hugo. He is almost the only person who knows my private address."
"I should have thought you would have an appartement," Carlyon said casually, as she broke the seals. "Or is it a publicity gimmick to live in a back-street cafe?"
"I live with the Dinards because they were very kind to me when I was having… difficulties," Joanna said flatly. "I'm comfortable there, and I like them."
Opening the thick white wrapping paper, she found that the packet was a small shagreen box in a transparent slipcover. The name of a leading Paris jeweller was stamped in gold on the cellophane. If it had not been so early in the day, she might have had the quickness of wit to say carelessly, "Oh, yes, of course — the bracelet I sent to be mended," and tuck it away in her bag. Instead, to her subsequent embarrassment, she removed the protective wrapper and opened the case.
Even then, she could have covered her mistake if it had not been for the road block. Carlyon, who had seen the red flags from a distance and reduced speed, now brought the car to a halt. So there was no question of the glitter of expensive stones and Joanna's muffled exclamation escaping his attention.
His eyebrows shot up as he saw the exquisite sapphire ear- clips lying on their satin bed. "Your agent must think very highly of you," he said drily.
Joanna's face flamed, and she closed the case with a snap. "It was not from Gustave after all," she said repressively.
"From the ardent young man with the emeralds, perhaps," Carlyon suggested, without expression. He bent to retrieve something from the floor. "His card, I imagine."
Joanna controlled an impulse to snatch it from his hand and thrust it in her pocket. As composedly as she could manage, she read the brief message. There was no signature, but she had instantly recognized Yves's sprawling hand. 'A memento of an enchanting interlude,' he had written.
"Was I right?" Carlyon asked smoothly.
Joanna gave him a single withering glance. "You should have been a detective," she said frigidly. "Does anything escape your eagle eye?"
"I would be very unobservant not to have noticed the small fortune that was lying on your dressing-table the other night," he replied quite unabashed. "It could have been paste, I suppose — but those ear-rings certainly aren't. They must be worth even more than your fee for this fortnight in England."
Joanna didn't answer him, and stared stonily out of the window. Last night, shifting restlessly about her single bed, she had made up her mind to tell him the truth — to admit that she had only taken up his offer of money because she was angry and upset. She had even been ready to suggest that they should try to forget their bad start and call a truce. But now, she not only felt more antagonistic than before, but was convinced that such an attempt would have been wasted.
They were still held up at the block, for a long section of the outward roadway was being re-laid and a steady stream of cars was heading for the city. Carlyon switched off the engine and offered her a cigarette.
"No, thank you. I don't smoke," Joanna said coldly.
"You're certainly very thorough," he said presently. "In what way?"
"In dressing the part. If I hadn't picked you up at the cafe, I might not have recognized you."
"What did you expect, Mr. Carlyon? Fish-net stockings and a startling decolletage ?" she enquired derisively.
"Not at all," he said mildly. "I'm sure your taste is always excellent. But yesterday you were a fashion-plate, and today…" He concluded the sentence with a gesture.
Joanna glanced down at her olive linen slacks. They seemed the most sensible thing to wear on what might be a blowy Channel crossing, and, because it was still early in the day, she had a light olive sweater over her cream silk shirt.
"Yesterday I was Janine Alain. Today… I am whatever you want me to be," she answered indifferently.
Nevertheless it vexed her that he should assume she was already playing a part. Obviously he would never believe that she always wore casual clothes for her private life, or that it was not exceptional for her skin to be free of makeup except for a light dusting of powder and some coral lipstick.
Perhaps he imagines that I rushed out and bought myself a whole wardrobe of ingenue clothes, she thought sardonically. Oh, bother the man! I don't care what he thinks.
The last of the oncoming cars was passing the barrier now, and Carlyon reached for the ignition key.
"Oh, by the way, my first name is Charles," he remarked. "Distasteful as it may be to you, I think you'd better use it." And, with a rather mocking smile, he signalled he was pulling out and returned his attention to the road.
Joanna did not reply. Presently she took a magazine from her capacious straw carry-all and gave every appearance of being deeply absorbed in it.
It was a little after ten, and they were in the outskirts of Rouen, when he pulled up outside an hotel and suggested a short break. Now that the sun was high it was very warm, so they sat at a table in the courtyard and Charles ordered coffee nd brioches. While they were waiting, Joanna took off her s
weater and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. In spite of her Titian hair, her complexion had never been too sensitive for sun-bathing and she was lightly tanned. But compared with Charles's gypsy-dark coloring, her arms looked quite pale.
"Have you been on holiday?" she asked, since she was bound to speak to him at some point.
He nodded. "I've been down in Provence for a fortnight. It was a last-minute decision to spend a couple of nights in Paris and take in some of the night spots."
"I should have thought the opera or a concert would have been more in your line," she said mildly.
He arched an eyebrow. "Is that a jibe?" he enquired.
"Not at all. You just don't look the cabaret type."
"Which you would prefer, no doubt."
Joanna shrugged. "As you prefer the sheltered English rose type, I imagine."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Perhaps," he said negligently. Then, after appraising her thoughtfully for some moments, "I wonder how you'll get on with Vanessa."
The waiter was bringing their coffee, so Joanna waited until they were alone again. "Who is Vanessa?" she asked.
"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know about her. She is one of your cousins. You knew your mother had a sister, I suppose ?"
"Yes, Michael told me about her. She was several years the younger and they were quite unalike, he said. I did know her name, but I've forgotten it."
"Monica," Charles supplied. "Monica Durrant. Her husband died several years ago and, since then, she and the children have lived at Mere House with your grandmother."
"How many children are there?" Joanna asked.
"Three — but they're not really children now. Neal is twenty-five and works in the family business. Vanessa's twenty-three, and Cathy is just sixteen. She's still at school, of course. "
Joanna buttered a brioche and began to eat it. She had been too on edge to eat much earlier on, and was now very hungry.
"What does Vanessa do?" she queried presently.
"What work, d'you mean? She hasn't a job. She helps her mother run the house."
