by Anne Weale
Gustave seemed to think she was overcome by delighted emotion as he patted her shoulder and said kindly, "Do not weep, ma mie. You have shed enough tears already. Now it is time for the happy ending."
She straightened. "I'm not weeping, Gustave. I'm just… completely bowled over."
And then, on the point of telling him that he had made a ghastly error of judgment that would not help her and would probably agonise Yves, she held back.
All Gustave really cared about was her success as an artist. He would go — and had already gone — to extraordinary lengths to ensure that success. Indeed, if she told him the truth, even without mentioning Charles by name, he was more than capable of rushing off to Merefield and tracking him down. If she wasn't in love with Yves, he would reason, then it must be someone in England.
The only thing to do was to counterfeit as much delight as she could muster, and try to brace herself up.
"Come, I'll take you back to the hotel where you can rest," Gustave said briskly. "And dream of the many tender exchanges which will take place at the end of the week," he added, chuckling.
* * *
An hour before her debut, Joanna sat in her room in the hotel feeling strangely calm. Gustave had just left her after a final pep-talk. And although she didn't think she had made a very good job of exuding delighted anticipation since his bombshell about Yves, the agent seemed bursting with confidence.
Yves would have arrived in London by now, she supposed. When she made her entrance, he and Gustave would be sharing a table. Oh, Lord! What would it do to him when she had to explain that it was all a mistake, and she had not changed her mind. It was probably her dread of the reunion with him that had pushed out all first-night nerves.
Presently she took a tepid bath and began to make up her face. The spectacular gown which Gustave had ordered for her was hanging in a muslin shroud in the wardrobe. It was made of deep primrose lace, heavily embroidered with tiny gold beads and crystal paillettes and pearls, and after clinging from bosom to knee, it suddenly burst out into a froth of spangled net flounces which formed a sweeping fish-tail. With it, she was to wear long white kid gloves and high-heeled gold slippers. Her hair, which she had insisted on dressing herself, would be piled high and speared with fragile pearl butterflies.
There was half an hour to go and Joanna was adding an extra flick of eye-liner to her lids, when there was a soft scratch at the outer door.
She slipped her kimono over her wispy undergarments. "Who is it, please?" she called from the door to her bedroom.
There was no answer, but after a brief interval the door was cautiously opened.
"Hello. Can I come in?" Cathy asked shyly.
"Cathy—darling! What in the world are you doing here?" Without waiting for a reply, Joanna enveloped her in a delighted embrace. Then, standing back a little, she said, "You're the last person I expected to see. What a lovely surprise."
"I'm not supposed to be up here," Cathy admitted, with an anxious glance over her shoulder. "They said downstairs that you couldn't see anyone — not anyone. But I thought you wouldn't mind me, so I slipped up secretly. I say, you do look different with all that make-up on."
"I'm very glad you did slip up. I'm beginning to get the jitters," Joanna said, making a face. "But don't you want to see the show? I'll see if I can fix it." She moved towards the telephone."
"Oh, that's all arranged," Cathy told her. "We didn't think we'd be able to get a table, but a friend of Maureen's — he's a journalist too — used his influence to get us in."
Joanna's heart seemed to plunge. "Us?" she repeated. "Who else is with you? Neal?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
"NO, Neal's still at home. He was all set to come to London and start painting when he suddenly burst out in spots." Cathy giggled. "Isn't it a scream? He's got measles." Then she frowned. "I say, I hope you've had them, Joanna. I have, but I might be a carrier."
"I don't know, I expect so." Joanna didn't care. She was quivering with suppressed impatience, and could have shaken Cathy for her oDtuseness.
The younger girl was glancing round the sitting-room. "Wow! What a swanky place this is — and a gold telephone!" she exclaimed, greatly impressed. Then, catching sight of the clock, "Gosh, I must fly. I'm supposed to be spending a penny, but I've been away ages. Well, lots of luck, Joanna. I'm sure you'll be terrific."
"Cathy—wait!" Joanna cried sharply. "You still haven't told me who brought you."
"Charles, of course. Who else?" Cathy peered out of the door to see if the coast was clear. "Can we come up and see you afterwards, or will you be too tired?"
"Of course not. Come up straight away and we'll have a party."
"Ooh — lovely! Well… 'bye for now."
Joanna watched Cathy run furtively along the corridor and duck down a staircase. Then she closed the outer door and walked dazedly back to the bedroom.
He was here! She was going to see him again! Oh, Charles — darling Charles! — if you knew how I'd missed you, she thought dreamily.
The telephone rang. "Ten minutes to go, Miss Alain." It was the voice of the cabaret manager.
"Thank you. I'm almost ready." Joanna replaced the receiver, and moved swiftly to the wardrobe.
She pressed the floor-service bell, and by the time she had put on her dress a maid had arrived to zip her up.
"Thanks. Is my back view all right?" she asked, beginning to feel butterflies inside her.
The woman inspected her. "Yes, miss, you look lovely. Oh, thank you very much, miss—" as Joanna pressed a generous tip into her hand— "and good luck for your opening."
The telephone rang again. "Five minutes, Miss Alain."
"I'm just coming down." Joanna used a profesionai gloss on her lips, smoothed an eyebrow and sprayed on a final touch of scent.
Then, standing back from the mirror, she took a last critical glance at herself. The dress was perfect. She looked like a sophisticated mermaid, and the primrose lace with its shimmering embroidery was the perfect foil for her vivid hair and smooth honey-gold skin. Now — since Cathy's surprise appearance — it wasn't only the special corneal drops that made her eyes sparkle, or rouge that warmed her cheeks.
Two minutes later she stepped out of the service lift to find the cabaret manager waiting for her. He didn't have to tell her that she looked beautiful. Accustomed as he was to theatrical glamour, he was still capable of responding to that extra something — the indefinable but infinitely compelling "star" quality which Gustave had been the first to discern.
The artists made their entrance by way of curving stairs which led down on to the dance floor. The idea had been copied from the famous staircase at the fabulous Cafe de Paris, and Joanna knew that the first descent to the floor was something of an ordeal — even for a recognized "name."
But, as she stood behind the curtains at the top, and listened to the clash of cymbals and the announcement, all nervousness evaporated. If Gustave could have read her thoughts at that moment, he would probably have been horrified. Because, suddenly, it didn't matter whether she was a success or not. Her whole future career might hang on the next twenty minutes — but that was totally unimportant. All she wanted — all she would ever want — was to stir the heart of one man.
"… so here she is, ladies and gentlemen. Mademoiselle Janine Alain!"
The curtains were swept aside, the orchestra burst into a special arrangement or J'attendrai and a single amber spotlight swept up the gilded staircase and focused on 'he slender glittering figure at the top. Joanna was "on".
Afterwards, she could remember very little about the first part of her performance. It had been rehearsed so intensively that every movement and gesture and glance came as automatically as breathing. And, as soon as her eyes had adjusted to the brilliant light, she began searching the tables — each lit by a dim rose-shaded lamp — for the one at which Charles and Cathy sat.
It was in the break before her last number that she saw them, seated near the back of t
he restaurant in one of the alcoves. Then, as the applause for her previous number died down, she moved to the foot of the staircase, mounted three steps and swept the train of her dress into a graceful drape.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "And now, a new song — which, like all the best songs, is about — love."
Gustave had been dubious about including this particular number in her repertoire. In sharp contrast to her earlier songs, which had all been gay and amusing and provocative, this one was purely romantic and, in his opinion, too unsophisticated for the type of audience she would be entertaining. But it had a lovely haunting tune and was the only song which gave full expression to the range of her voice, so she had managed to overcome his doubts.
Now, leaning lightly against the curving balustrade, she began the plaintive introduction.
"So many parties, so many dates, Each night a new rendezvous. Then came the evening I'll always remember When I turned my head and saw—you! The man I had searched for, the man in a million, The man of my dreams—come true!"
Slowly, while the orchestra led into the lilting melody, Joanna turned and moved up another two stairs. Then, looking straight towards Charles, forgetting all the stylised methods of "putting over" a number, and standing completely still with her hands clasped at her breast, she sang the first two verses.
"Until we met, I didn't know That you would set my heart aglow Like this.
It can't be just the moonlight, it must be love—at last!
"You touched my hand, I touched a star, Now happiness is where you are, Unless
It's only I who feels my heart—take wings!"
The strings swept into a reprise, and the spotlight followed her up to the top of the stairs. If there was any restiveness among the audience, she was not aware of it. Her whole being was intent on giving the words their full meaning, on making her voice the instrument to express her own helpless love.
"Until we kiss, how can I tell If love has also cast its spell On you?
Oh, if you feel it, say you feel it—soon!"
The last appealing not rose high and pure. Then Joanna's hands slipped down to her sides, and she inclined her head. For perhaps five seconds there was a kind of breathless hush — then resounding applause. Applause that seemed to go on and on, like waves breaking on a beach. Joanna bowed and smiled, and bowed again to the orchestra. But when the sustained clapping finally began to subside and the leader raised his baton in an interrogative gesture, she shook her head, bowed for the last time and slipped swiftly between the curtains.
Behind the scenes, the dapper little cabaret manager was exuding delight from every pore.
"Marvellous… marvellous!" he exclaimed, seizing her hands and pumping them delightedly. "They not only liked you, Miss Alain — they were entranced. And there are several very influential people here tonight, you know. The word will get around in no time. We shall be booked out every night."
"Thank you. I certainly hope so," Joanna said shakily. "And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go up to my room. I—I've been rather keyed up."
"Naturally… naturally." He ushered her back to the lift, still beaming with satisfaction. "However, if I may make a suggestion, I'd be inclined to have a reasonably early call tomorrow morning. There are bound to be several requests for interviews — we may need to arrange a Press conference. It isn't every night that a star is born, you know."
As the lift door closed on his gleeful face, Joanna drew in a deep breath. Tomorrow seemed a century away. The climax of today was still to come.
In her room, she hurried to the dressing-table and quickly blotted away the sheen of moisture on her temples and upper lip. There wasn't time to change her make-up. She could only hold her wrists under the cold tap for a few moments, and then rub a stick of frozen cologne round the base of her throat.
A tap at the door brought her running through from the bedroom. But it was only a waiter wheeling a small trolley. On it, with a card expressing the compliments of the management, was a magnum bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, and an elaborate arrangement of golden roses.
She had to wait another five nerve-racking minutes before there was another knock.
"Oh, Joanna — you were wonderful!" Cathy exclaimed, flinging her arms round her.
Joanna laughed and returned the enthusiastic hug. But her eyes were looking over Cathy's head. Tall and incredibly distinguished-looking in the severe black and white of his evening kit, Charles was standing on the threshold. And the way he was looking at her made Joanna's heart leap like a mad thing.
"Crikey! Champagne." As Cathy drew away, hei eyes fell on the trolley. "And what gorgeous flowers." She darted forward to examine them.
Joanna held out her hand. "Hello, Charles," she said breathlessly. "Did you enjoy the show?"
He took both her hands, and his eyes were brilliant and intent.
"What can I say?" he asked softly. "You were superb, Joanna."
Her hands trembled in his, and her pulses raced. For you, she thought — because you were there, my darling.
She could have stood there for ever, just looking at him. But with Cathy present, she could only smile and say, "Thank you."
"Well, if Charles will open the bottle, we'll all have some," Joanna said gaily. "The glasses are in this cupboard."
"Don't forget to keep the cork," Cathy said earnestly, as Charles filled three glasses. "They're supposed to be lucky, aren't they?"
"Of course I shall keep it. It's not every day that people come hundreds of miles to see me. This is an occasion."
"Were you glad we were here, or did it put you off — being watched by relations?" Cathy asked.
Charles handed Joanna one of the glasses, and she looked straight into his eyes. "No, it didn't put me off. It gave me courage. Now, what shall we drink to?"
"To you, of course," Cathy said conclusively. She glanced expectantly at Charles.
He raised his glass and his smile was like a caress. "To you, Joanna Allen," he said quietly.
"To you," Cathy echoed, and they both drank.
It was then that there was a third knock on the door and Gustave's voice could be heard from outside in the corridor. Joanna closed her eyes. In the crazy exalted mood which had caught and absorbed her for the past hour, she had completely forgotten that Gustave would also be coming up to congratulate her, and with him Yves de
Mansard.
For one mad moment, she was tempted to lock the door and call through that she couldn't be disturbed. But she knew it was impossible. There was nothing to do but admit the two other men and pray—pray!—for the millionth chance that Charles wouldn't recognize the Frenchman. Or that if he did, it wouldn't take away the look that had been in his eyes a moment ago.
"Janine… ah, Janine, you were magnificent." As soon as he opened the door, Gustave was embracing and congratulating her. "It is exactly as I thought," he exclaimed bouyantly. "Tonight you had magic! Tonight you became a star! Now there is no limit to our successes!"
He was so overwrought with enthusiasm that it was several minutes before he had calmed sufficiently to notice Charles and Cathy. Joanna introduced them. Then she turned to Yves.
"Hello, Yves. I didn't know you were in London. How are you?" she said evenly.
He bowed and kissed her fingertips. "You were enchanting, Janine," he said gravely.
"So you, I take it, are the Englishman who found Janine in Paris and restored her to her family?" Gustave said cordially to Charles.
"That's right." Charles's tone was clipped. He was looking at Yves, Joanna saw, and it was agonizingly clear that he had recognized him instantly.
Yves, too, was finding something familiar about the tall Englishman.
"But, Janine — isn't this the gentleman who called at your dressing-room on your last night at the Cordiale?" he enquired, in some perplexity. "Why didn't you tell me that he was a kinsman?" He turned to Charles, his expression amused. "It seems I owe you an apology, m'sieur. As I recollect, I almos
t threw you out."
"I believe you considered it," Charles agreed, with a note of derision in his tone.
The innuendo was clear, and Yves flushed. He turned to Cathy. "And you, mademoiselle?" he enquired, covering his hostility to Charles with a charming smile at the younger girl. "You are also one of Janine's mysterious English relatives?"
His smiling blue eyes and engaging French accent were too much for Cathy's composure. Blushing to the lobes of her ears, she stammered confirmation.
"B-but her real name is Joanna, you know," she corrected breathlessly.
"Is that so?" Yves raised an eyebrow, and returned his attention to Joanna. "But I think Janine suits you better," he said. "Joe is for a boy, is it not? And Anna is one of these cold unfeminine names that the Germans give their women. Janine is all French — and you are French at heart… yes?"
Before Joanna could reply, Charles said briskly, "It's time you were in bed, Cathy."
"Oh, but Charles——— "
"It's gone midnight and you've been up since seven o'clock." There was a note of steel in his voice.
"Yes, it is late and Janine, too, must be fatigued," Gustave agreed. "I also must leave." He clapped Yves on the shoulder. "Do not keep her up too late, mon ami. Tomorrow will be another busy day." He kissed his fingers to Joanna. "You have exceeded all my hopes, ma mie. I am a very happy man. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Gustave." Joanna turned to Charles and Cathy. "You—you aren't going straight back to Merefield, are you?" she asked, in a strained voice, speaking to them both and looking at a point somewhere between them. She couldn't bear to see that cold indifference on Charles's face again.
"Not immediately. I have some business matters to deal with before we go home," he said crisply. "Say goodnight, Cathy."
The younger girl seemed to have grasped that somehow the evening had gone sour. She gave Joanna a wan smile, muttered her goodnight and let Charles steer her out of the door.
He gave Joanna a final expressionless glance. "Goodnight… Janine," he said negligently.
