by Anne Weale
And then they were gone, and she was alone with Yves.
* * *
"May I help myself to some of your champagne?" the Frenchman enquired, after the door had closed and Joanna had stood staring at it in silence for some moments.
"Oh… yes, do," she answered heavily. Then, brushing a hand wearily over her forehead, "It's been quite an evening. Do you mind if I get out of this thing?" — with a distasteful downward glance at her primrose lace dress.
"By all means. Are you hungry? Shall I order some food while you are changing?"
At that moment, Joanna felt that she would never be hungry again. But she said flatly, "Yes, a good idea," and went into the bedroom.
But for Yves's presence, she would have flung herself on the bed and burst into tears of desolation. She felt rather like a rocket that has been spinning up to the stars and then abruptly fizzled out.
When she returned to the sitting-room, her face bare of make-up and the shabby cotton kimono belted over pyjamas, Yves was standing out on the tiny balcony. A second trolley bearing cold chicken sandwiches, a bowl of salad and a coffee pot was ranged alongside the first.
Lighting a cigarette, Joanna stepped on to the balcony and leaned her elbows on the balustrade. Except for an occasional taxi going past, the street below was quiet. The lights in the windows of the shops on the opposite pavement had long been extinguished, and a policeman was pacing on his beat, pausing at every doorway to make sure the locks were secure.
"Janine, what did Gustave tell you about my coming here?" Yves asked suddenly.
Joanna straightened. At first, deep in her own misery, she had not been sensitive to his state of mind. But now she had a feeling that something was not quite as it should be—or as she would have anticipated. If she had considered the situation before it had come about, she would have expected Yves to attempt to embrace her as soon as the door closed on the others. But he had made no effort to touch her. And now, as they stood side by side on the narrow starlit balcony, he seemed uneasy—perhaps even nervous.
She turned back into the sitting-room. "He told me that when you found I wasn't in Brittany, you insisted on knowing where I had gone. He said he refused to tell you until he decided to ask you to come for tonight."
"I see," Yves said slowly. "Yes, it is true that when I first discovered you were not in Brittany I was very disturbed and anxious. I still hoped that your answer to my… proposal was not final, you see."
Joanna wondered if there was such a thing as feminine intuition, or if her present instinct was based on wishful thinking. She took a chance.
"But now you have accepted that it was?" she said cautiously.
He gave her a startled glance. "No… no, not at all. If you have changed your mind " He ended the sentence with a gesture. But he had flushed again, and she saw him swallow as if bracing himself.
"Gustave shouldn't have interfered. He jumped to some wrong conclusions and acted before I could correct them," she said awkwardly. "I'm sorry, Yves — I haven't changed my mind."
"You haven't?" he repeated swiftly.
She had a distinct impression that there was a note of relief in his voice.
"But I'm beginning to think that you have changed yours,'" she said reflectively.
It was probably a good fifteen years since Yves had blushed. But he did so now, and looked — incongruously — like a sheepish schoolboy caught out in some shameful escapade.
Then, seeing that Joanna was still quite calm and amiable, he drew a breath and admitted, "Well, to be frank with you, cherie, it is not so much that I have changed my mind, but that… that my circumstances have altered."
Joanna poured two cups of coffee and sat down on the sofa. "Let's clear up the whole situation, shall we?" she suggested. "What circumstances?"
Yves tasted the coffee and grimaced. "The fact is, Janine, that I have got myself engaged," he explained uncomfortably.
"Engaged!" Joanna gaped at him. "Well… that was quick work," she said drily.
"Please… it is not as you imagine, I was entirely serious when I asked you to marry me, and believe me, if I had thought there was a chance of your relenting I would never have taken this step." He gave a rather forlorn smile. "But since I know you very well, I did not have much hope that you should change. Oh, yes, I demanded that Hugo should tell me where you were. But that was only for a few days. By the end of the week, when you had not written or telephoned, I had begun to resign myself."
"And by the end of a fortnight you had discovered a more likely prospect," Joanna remarked, with a quizzical look.
"No, as it happens I have known Marie-Blanche all my life," he answered seriously. "She is considerably younger than I — not yet nineteen — and until recently I had regarded her as a child. However, at about the same time you left Paris, she came back from her finishing school in Switzerland. When I met her again, I realized that she was grown-up."
He paused, smiling faintly, as if at the recollection of something both funny and tender.
"I should explain that it has long been the wish of our
E
arents that we should marry," he went on. "There would ; mutual benefits, you understand. Naturally I thought the idea absurd, and nowadays even the more strictly-bred French girls are beginning to rebel against these marriages de convenances. But it seems that she has accepted the prospect of marrying me since she was quite small. I must say I do not approve of them putting such ideas into her head," he added, with a note of censure.
"You mean she's in love with you," Joanna put in gently.
He shrugged. "How can a chit of that age be in love with a man she scarcely knows?" he countered impatiently. "It is a form of hero-worship, I suppose, although God knows she has chosen a poor hero. I only hope I may not disillusion her too badly."
"I don't think you'll disillusion her at all, Yves." Joanna reached out and patted his hand. "If you weren't such a nice person at heart, I wouldn't have liked you so well. I have an idea that your little Marie-Blanche may be the very person to bring out your best qualities. What is she like, and when is the wedding?"
He turned his head to look at her, and although he smiled, there was something in his eyes that told her he was still more than half hers. As yet it was only the formality of the betrothal and a blend of tenderness and protectiveness that bound him to his youthful fiancee. But, given time…
"She is not at like you," he said wryly. "Perhaps that is just as well. But she is pretty enough in her funny little way. She has black hair and very large brown eyes… and a snub nose. The marriage will probably be in the New Year." His face grew grave again. "You do not think too badly of me, cherie?"
"You know I don't. I'm very glad this has happened. I was a little afraid that——— "
Yves cut her short. "That I would go back to my old ways—yes? Well, I admit I was tempted. But one does not cure a broken heart by getting drunk, or by making love to someone who also has red hair but who is not… the one you want. You know, I think my friendship with you has changed me. It no longer seems very amusing to be a gay bachelor without responsibilities." He gave a rather hollow laugh. "This time next year I may even be a papa."
"And just as proud of it as anyone else, I expect," Joanna said lightly.
"But you?" he said, changing the subject. "What about you, petite? This unhappiness and depression of which Hugo told me? Was it only nerves before your debut?"
Joanna hesitated, half inclined to tell him the truth. But she didn't think he was ready to learn that she was in love with someone else, so she took the cue.
"Yes, it was silly of me, but I was scared to death," she said casually. "Oh, Yves, I'm so sorry Gustave dragged you over here, but it was sweet of you to come."
For an instant, she thought she blundered. His eyes kindled with a glint of repressed passion and he leaned towards her. But, almost at once, he controlled himself and said, equally carelessly, "Well, now at least you have no more to worry about on that scor
e. You are a great success. You know, I cannot get over the fact that you are really English. I would never have guessed it."
"I would have told you if you'd asked." She glanced at the clock. "Heavens, look at the time. I must get some sleep or I shall look a hag tomorrow."
Yves rose and moved to the door. "You never look a hag and you know it. Goodbye, my dear. Good luck."
* * *
The following morning, Joanna had barely finished breakfast before Gustave burst in. He was even more exuberant than he had been the night before, and was carrying a bundle of national newspapers under his arm.
"You want to know what they think of you? Read those, cherie!" he instructed. Then he returned to the sitting-room and proceeded to engage in a series of voluble telephone calls.
Joanna hitched up her pillows, swallowed a couple of aspirins in the hope of dispelling her headache, and searched the papers for the parts he had had circled with red pencil. They were mainly gossip column notes, and some or them carried the photographs which Gustave had had taken on her second day in London.
One writer described her as the most scintillating new star to appear in the London cabaret firmament for many seasons. She has the glamor of Dietrich, the magnetism of Eartha Kitt—and a voice that makes nonsense of the claims to talent of so many of the currently popular recording artists.
Another, equally extravagant, said: Not since Shirley Bassey won acclaim at the former CafS de Paris has London's jaded night life been invigorated by such a vital new personality as this ravishing French girl who was first discovered in a sleazy Montmartre wine cellar.
Gustave reappeared in the doorway as she finished reading the last item.
"So? What do you think?" he enquired.
Joanna tossed the pile of papers aside. "I think they must be pretty short of material to make so much of it—and they're not very accurate. That club where you found me wasn't in Montmartre."
He chuckled. "Never mind, it is only a trifling detail. And anyway, Montmartre is still considered the centre of wicked doings by most English people, I believe. However, I am glad that you do not take them too seriously. It is never wise to believe one's own publicity. The very people who build you up can also destroy you, my pigeon."
Joanna closed her eyes and wished that he would go away and leave her to be wretched in peace.
"By the way, how did it go last night?" he asked curiously. "All is well again now?"
Joanna nodded. It was too much trobule to explain the truth to him, and would only start him fussing over her again.
"As I thought, it is going to be a busy day," Gustave said cheerfully, rustling the pages of a note-pad. "Now this morning you have a fitting for that silver dress and I have also made an appointment at a beauty salon for a massage and manicure. At one, you are lunching at the Caprice with Mr. David Rand. He writes the show business page for the Daily Globe. Later you can have a short rest and then you must dress for an interview in the 'Tonight' programme on television. Later in the week there is another lunch with the theatrical columnist from Vogue, and they will probably ask you to model some dresses for them. Ah, and there is a second television engagement on the commercial channel."
"In that case I'd better get up," Joanna said, with an attempt to sound brisk and eager.
It was while she was having a bath that she realized she had no idea where Charles and Cathy were staying during their visit. During the night, she had thought if she could arrange to meet Cathy somewhere, it might lead to one last chance to win back Charles's approval. No man— not even Charles Carlyon—could look at a woman as he had looked at her last night, and a day later be totally indifferent to her. Whatever interpretations he had put on Yves's arrival, there must be some way to make him understand the truth.
The snag was that her day was going to be so full that, even if she could contact Cathy, there would be very little time in which to meet her. And even if she could check at the hundered and one hotels where they might be, there was still the possibility that they might be putting up with some of the many friends and business contacts whom Charles knew in London.
However, in spite of the difficulty she was likely to encounter in tracing them, as soon as her fitting was over Joanna ignored the salon appointment and hurried back to the hotel. For the next hour, until it was time for her to leave for the Caprice, she rang round all the most likely hotels. But none of them had a Mr. Carlyon or a Miss Durrant on their registers, and it was in a very deflated mood that Joanna ordered a taxi and set out for the famous theatrical restaurant.
A few minutes after seven, in a simple black cocktail dress and a valuable diamond necklace which Gustave had borrowed for the occasion, she made her first television appearance on 'Tonight.' But although it was uncomfortably hot under the battery of lights and the special television make-up made her feel as if she were wearing a mask, it was not the ordeal she had anticipated. The young man who interviewed her seemed friendly and admiring and she was not obliged to deal with any of the barbed questions which Gustave had warned her to parry. Most of the time—and it was over quickly—she was wondering if Charles or Cathy might be watching.
Later, her performance at the end of the cabaret was as successful as that of the night before. But, to Gustave, annoyance, she refused to sing Until We Met again.
The day after that was so hectic that she had no chance to pursue her search for Cathy, and she began to feel that it was a waste of time and nervous energy to try. Anyway, they were probably back in Merefield by now.
It occurred to her suddenly that if she had telephoned Mrs. Howard, she could have obtained their address quite easily. But now that they might be home again, she didn't dare ring Charles's number. It might be his voice that answered her call, and it would be futile to try to soften him over miles of telephone line.
Five days after her debut, Joanna was dressing for the cabaret when the telephone rang in the sitting-room. Gustave was there, looking through the proofs of another batch of photographs, and she heard him answer it. As yet, he didn't seem to have noticed that Yves was never about.
"It's for you, Janine," he called through the door. Then, as she came into the sitting-room in the silver lame gown with its hem of fluttering white ostrich feathers, "Don't be too long. You're on in less than ten minutes."
Joanna took the receiver. It was probably the importunate Mr. Rand who, having given her a rave write-up in his show column, was intent on pursuing their acquaintance.
"Hello? Janine Alain speaking," she said impatiently.
"Joanna, this is Charles. Look, I'm sorry to bother you, but I need your help."
"Charles!" Her fingers tightened convulsively on the receiver. "What is it—what's happened?"
"It's Cathy—she's had a slight accident," he said rapidly. "Don't flap. She isn't seriously injured, but she has some concussion."
"Cathy… an accident?" Joanna exclaimed, horrified.
"She dashed across Regent Street without looking both ways, silly child," Charles explained. "Fortunately, I was with her, or it might have been hours before we knew about it. Look, the reason I've called you is because she seems to be slightly delirious. She keeps muttering your name and nobody else can comfort her. I wondered if, when your show is over, you could possibly spare half an hour to come round and see her."
"Where are you?" Joanna said quickly.
He gave her the name of the hospital. "I know it will be late and you'll be tired, but "
"I'll come at once. I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Joanna said decisively. Then she slammed down the receiver, darted back into the bedroom and began struggling with the fastenings of the silver dress.
"Janine! What are you doing? It is nearly time for your entrance," Gustave cried, bewildered.
"There's been an accident. I have to go to the hospital." The zip-fastener stuck and Joanna tugged at it for some seconds, then gripped the material and wrenched out the interlocking teeth.
"What accident? What hospital?
You must be out of your mind!"
"Perhaps I am. I don't care. You'll just have to make some excuse." She pulled open the wardrobe and grabbed a plain cotton day dress. "I'm sorry, Gustave — but this is something important."
"Important!" he exploded. "What is more important than your career? If you disappear now — within seconds of your entrance — your whole future may be wrecked."
Joanna thrust her arms into the sleeves of a light wool coat, seized her bag and turned towards the door. Then, realizing she was still wearing the high-heeled pointelle slippers that went with the silver dress, she kicked them off and rummaged for leather flatties.
"I can't help that, Gustave. This is vital. You'll have to tell them I'm ill or something."
The shoes were on her feet and she was ready to go, but Gustave seized her arm. "But you are not ill," he said fiercely "—unless you are deranged. Nothing — nothing can be more important to you than your professional reputation. Always your career must come first."
Joanna looked at him coldly. "You mean 'the show must go on' ?" she said icily.
"Exactly so. It is one of the first precepts of————— "
"Then it will have to go on without me, because I'm not that kind of careerist," she retorted. "No show on earth is so important that it comes before human beings who need you."
And wrenching out of his grasp, she fled to the outer door and down the corridor.
* * *
An hour later, a pleasant-faced young man in a white coat came softly into the dimly-lit side ward where Joanna was sitting by a bed. Cathy was asleep now, her small face pinched and pale, her left hand clasped round Joanna's.
"I think she'll sleep for several hours now," he said in a low voice. "You must be pretty tired yourself, Miss… ?"
"Allen," Joanna supplied. Gently, she loosed Cathy's fingers and laid them on the sheet.
In the corridor, the doctor indicated the way to the lift. He had met her and exchanged a few words before she had been shown into Cathy's room, but this seemed to be the first time he had noticed the heavy stage make-up she was wearing. He studied her face for a moment, his eyebrows contracting.
