Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Cat realised the palazzo wasn’t just another asset to Daniel. It was a work of extreme beauty that had fallen into disrepair. Daniel had always been moved by architectural magnificence and he had the financial clout to absorb the spiralling costs of restoration. The profits from his deluxe hotels and his father’s investments in grimy steelworks, oil refineries, armaments factories and shipping lines provided the means for him to put some grace back into a negligent world.

  The frescoes in the ballroom were being painstakingly restored. Several had been covered in tar, which had to be removed. Cat watched in awe as frescoes hidden for years behind paintings were revealed. She helped clean them with wadding soaked in distilled water and cleaning agents.

  The chief art restorer was glamorous with waist-length peroxided hair. Cat was delighted to discover she possessed a foul mouth. Marguerite could mix and match colours like a celestial alchemist but swore like a French sailor of the lowest rank. This woman who resembled Botticelli’s Venus would hurl the filthiest insults at her all-male crew in Italian if they failed to live up to her high expectations. In turn, they quarrelled among themselves and were extremely touchy about any imagined affront to their honour or integrity. Just as well they retained their senses of humour; for if any of the insults had been taken seriously it would have been a bloodbath. Strangely enough, at the end of the day they’d all cheerfully troop off to a local bar together.

  One morning, Marguerite let Cat help her tint and apply some paint. Cat got it right the first time round. Marguerite said, ‘You’ve got an eye for colour and remarkable dedication to detail. If you’d like to assist me, I’ll pay you. My crew are great most of the time but useless cunts when they’re hung over.’

  Cat was chuffed. ‘There’s absolutely no need to pay me. Daniel takes care of everything. I’m going to be starting at the Slade art school in London in a few weeks’ time. The experience of being trained by you will be payment enough. Not every girl gets offered a chance like this. And Daniel will be pleased that I’m getting involved in his favourite project.’

  Cat improved her Italian conversation skills, picked up the Venetian dialect and learnt some vile insults, which she didn’t dare use. Guided by Marguerite, she matched colour samples and carefully applied paint to designated areas. Slowly but surely the frescoes came back to life. A bare-breasted, cavorting nymph was the first to reveal herself to Cat. They kept company as darkness swept down on the Grand Canal and Cat’s fears came out to play.

  While they worked, Cat told Marguerite about the Hotel du Barry and the goings-on in the labyrinth. She also talked about Edwina, their troubled relationship and the tragedy of Matthew Lamb. ‘Daniel really loved him. Apparently he had some sort of nervous breakdown when Matthew died in a crash shortly after the war ended.’

  ‘You know Cat, the name Lamb rings a bell. My mother, Desiree Emmanuelle, used to be a highly paid erotic dancer in Montmartre. When I was a kid, I used to hang around watching her and the other dancers. I remember meeting a young English guy called Lamb at the theatre. He was very easy on the eye. He’d come to see his sister, who’d just started working as a chorus girl. She wasn’t much of a dancer but she’d already caught the attention of an extremely wealthy man, when she was wearing nothing but a provocative smile and an ostrich feather fan. Eddie was her name and I reckon she’s reinvented herself as Mrs Daniel du Barry.’

  Cat gaped at her. ‘But Edwina told me she won a university scholarship and got first-class honours.’

  Marguerite tried not to smile. ‘Cat, I don’t think Eddie Lamb has been honest about her past.’

  Cat picked up a paintbrush and wiped it clean. ‘I need to know the truth about her. Not so I can make trouble for her or bust up my father’s marriage. I just want to understand why Edwina behaves the way she does.’

  ‘Fair enough. Well, Eddie never made it out of the third row of the chorus. She possessed an artistic temperament but not the talent to match. But she was exquisite and all the men wanted her. Eddie was jaw-droppingly gorgeous on stage and with the stage lights illuminating her perfect face, she was mesmerising.’

  Cat snorted. ‘So she became a whore or a courtesan?’

  Marguerite shifted uncomfortably. ‘There’s always been a relationship between impoverished chorus girls and men seeking favours.’

  ‘Look I grew up in a hotel and there’s not much I haven’t heard or seen.’

  ‘I just don’t want to disillusion you. A lot of ugly stuff goes down in theatre circles.’

  ‘Please, I need to know. And it’s probably better if it comes from you, Marguerite.’

  ‘All right. My mother was lucky enough to become a star, but given tougher circumstances she might have had to sell herself. In bohemian circles they call it polite prostitution.’

  ‘We have working girls, courtesans, gigolos and gifted amateurs – as Jim calls them – at the Hotel du Barry, but it’s a highly competitive field and rarely polite.’

  Marguerite gave it some thought as she stirred a tin of paint. ‘Well, let’s say a gentleman takes you out to supper after a show. And you accidentally, on purpose, spill red wine all over your white crepe dress. It’s ruined. You get upset, shed a few tears and the gentleman offers to buy you a much nicer dress from a prestigious shop. Or if he’s very rich, he might take you to Chanel’s atelier for a fitting. It’s the thin end of the wedge.’

  ‘Then what happens?’

  ‘Later, if you play your cards right, he might help you out with your rental or offer to take care of all your bills. And once you get the hang of it you realise you’ve been selling yourself far too cheaply, so you find an even richer man and he sets you up as his mistress. The French are more forgiving than the British in such matters. Do you get it, Cat?’

  ‘Yes. What sort of home did Edwina come from?’

  ‘Her parents were working class. She was very close to her brother. Whenever she spotted him in the audience she lit up and became positively luminous. It was as though she’d flipped a switch. I got the impression he was the most important man in her life. And just for the record, Eddie never went to university.’

  ‘She’s kind of moody. Even if Eddie’s cheerful at breakfast you don’t know what she’s going to be like later in the day. It’s not easy being around her. Was she like that when she was in the chorus?’

  Marguerite thought carefully before she answered. ‘Eddie was always volatile. When things were going well she was the most charming girl in the room. But when she felt betrayed or abandoned by a lover, she turned into a fiend.’

  Cat shuddered. So this was the woman Daniel had chosen to marry? A volatile, ambitious ex chorus girl who could switch from charming to demonic in an instant. No wonder he wasn’t rushing back to London. Who knows what she’d be like when they returned. Without Michael around to keep Eddie nice she’s quite likely to slip her leash. And then what?

  9

  The Gods are Falling

  Summer disappeared, autumn gave way to winter and another year slipped quietly by. The things that used to give Daniel pleasure no longer held any allure. The opera failed to move him and theatre shows bored him to death. He still attended Christie’s art auctions, Cat or Mary at his side, but felt no excitement when he won the bid. Even when Daniel succeeded in lobbying reluctant politicians to support his philanthropic projects, it produced no lasting satisfaction. Whereas in the past, he and Michael celebrated every time they pulled off a political win.

  Daniel soon realised he could no longer see colour in its intensity – everything around him appeared desaturated and monochromatic. His favourite paintings no longer spoke to him. Mary made an appointment for Daniel to have his eyes examined by a Harley Street specialist.

  ‘Mr du Barry, there’s nothing physically wrong with you and you still have twenty-twenty vision. You’re physically capable of seeing the full spectrum of colour. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but may I suggest that you consider consulting a psychiatrist? The inabi
lity to perceive colour can sometimes be brought on by soul sickness or deep melancholy.’

  Daniel’s friends and acquaintances didn’t notice any change in him, for when he was with them he played the man they’d always known. Afterwards he was exhausted from the sheer effort of being cheerful. Outwardly he seemed gregarious and engaged with life. He hid his nihilism behind a screen of courteousness and impeccable manners. But Daniel knew his heart had iced over. He wondered if he was capable of living another forty or fifty years. He envisioned the world becoming harder and crueller, and the prospect chilled him. The only time he felt close to being his old self was when he was alone with his daughter or Mary Maguire. With them, he could drop all pretence. Cat gave him reason to live but he was terrified that something might happen to her.

  One winter’s afternoon, a Schubert concerto played on the phonograph as Daniel poured himself another whiskey. The soothing sound of cellos filled his study and an open fire crackled in the grate. Daniel looked out over the streets of London at five o’clock and watched the working masses heading for the underground railway in their thick, dark coats, scarves and hats. Faces were grim and tired, shoulders heavy. It struck him as grossly unfair that some homeless beggar would soon be huddled against a hot air vent while he slept under a feather quilt. Using his wealth to provide food and shelter for the poor still gave him some peace of mind. But it did not dissolve the hard knot he got in his stomach whenever he saw someone ransacking rubbish bins for food.

  Daniel was doing his best to pull himself together, but the void beckoned and would not let him go. He kept up with developments of his palazzo in Venice, increased his philanthropic projects and tried to find solace in relentless work. In time he hoped to look back on the loss of Michael with the same simple sadness with which he now viewed Matthew Lamb’s death.

  It was around this time that Daniel’s wife started cultivating a coterie of psychiatrists. She invited them to her weekly soirees and made a point of introducing them to her wealthy acquaintances. Attending Mrs du Barry’s musical evenings or at homes became a lucrative pastime for medicos building their private practices. Edwina introduced doctors, psychiatrists and cosmetic surgeons to idle rich women seeking prescriptions, counselling and new noses. In particular, Edwina ingratiated herself with Dr Rubens, reputedly one of Britain’s most brilliant shrinks. Eddie wondered if she might need to call in a few favours and have her husband’s state of mind assessed.

  In the past when he was feeling depressed, Daniel would go up to the hotel’s rooftop Winter Garden and marvel at the sheer preposterousness of his magnificent glass edifice. He used to love watching the gardeners sowing seeds and propagating plants out of season. Sweating in the hothouse atmosphere, he’d laughed at the sheer arrogance of being able to make summer seedlings sprout in chilly weather. It used to tickle him that strawberries could be startled into existence just by applying the right amount of heat and light. He and Michael had often sat up there in companionable silence, sipping premium champagne and watching the sun set on the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  As winter bore down on London, Daniel’s insomnia increased. He often got out of bed in the midnight hours and took the hydraulic lift to the Winter Garden. There he’d remain until the sun rose and lit up his glass palace. Once again he’d find himself with a furry tongue and a mouth like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. He inevitably felt stiff, having passed out on the marble floor. Hiding an empty whiskey bottle under his jacket, he’d try to get to his apartment before any of his staff saw him.

  Unknown to her boss, Mary Maguire had instructed the entire staff to steer clear of the Winter Garden until Daniel had returned to his penthouse. She made sure that no employee approached him until he’d shaved and made himself presentable. Nobody dared risk Mary’s wrath by disobeying her orders, so Daniel never understood why the corridors were empty of cleaners and chambermaids. He puzzled over the fact that in the early hours he only ever glimpsed the retreating backs of his staff.

  As London was brought to its knees with snow and fog, the Winter Garden continued to produce its magic. Orange trees perfumed the air and roses languidly dropped their petals. Tropical plants from the exotic East bloomed in comfort and the hotel’s cats lurked among the palms. Their tiger’s eyes glistened through the night as they stalked the mice. But Daniel was unable to regain his appreciation for what was undisputedly the finest roof garden in the city.

  Daniel was a frequent visitor to his daughter’s studio on the ninth floor. He loved watching her turn lumps of wet clay into recognisable human forms. Her work was featured in Vogue magazine, much to the delight of everyone at the Hotel du Barry.

  ‘Talent in one so young is remarkable indeed. Miss Caterina Anastasia Lucinda du Barry is a first-year student at the Slade School of Fine Art. She has received her first commission and is currently working on the bust of a prominent British actor whose name can’t be revealed. When finished, it will be cast in bronze at Sheinberg’s Foundry and exhibited at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.’

  Even Eddie pronounced herself pleased.

  Cat shrugged off the attention and directed all her energies towards her art. Spending long hours in her studio helped keep the demons at bay.

  When Daniel sat for his portrait, Cat insisted he pose for his portrait in a tuxedo but allowed him to leave his bow tie undone.

  ‘Can’t I at least take a look?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  As Cat worked, Daniel told her stories about the Great War. For years he’d avoided any questions about his life in the army. Now he wanted his daughter to understand the moral decrepitude of war.

  ‘Cat, don’t believe what you read in the history books. Fromelles was an unmitigated disaster. Tactical errors, confusion, poor leadership. We were mown down without mercy. It didn’t even stall the Germans. Do you remember that photograph I used to have on my desk? All those lads are now dead. Not one of them made it to his twenty-first birthday. I saw my closest chum get his head blown off. And there was nothing I could do to help him. Nothing.’

  Cat put down her paintbrush, sat on the arm of Daniel’s chair and leant her head on his shoulder. They listened without speaking to the soft rain falling on the attic roof.

  After a few minutes they moved to the window and watched night descending over London. It was a ritual Cat and Daniel had been sharing for years. The sprawling building opposite resembled a doll’s house and they discreetly watched everyone going about their evening business. Across the way they could see the renowned shoe designer Thomas Rodd turning off his emporium lights and farewelling his shop girls as they left for the night. In the apartment above Rodd’s emporium, a young woman was tucking her little boy into bed and kissing him goodnight. She turned off the light but they could still see her silhouette at the nursery door, watching over him. In another window, a girl could be seen relaxing in a bubble bath while scoffing chocolates from a pink gift box. Next door to her, a crazy American dance tune was playing on a young man’s phonograph. Wearing nothing but white underpants, the lad clicked his fingers in time and jived around his small kitchen. His face was animated and every so often he’d stop and swig from a wine bottle. So much life. An abundance of reckless joy.

  A tear rolled down her father’s face but Cat pretended not to see it. Eventually, all they could see were their own reflections and the open fire glowing in the window glass. Daniel only stirred when Sebastian clattered in with the drinks trolley.

  Bertha Brown was always welcome in the studio. When Cat showed Bertha the work in progress, she gasped. ‘It’s marvellous! You’ve really caught Daniel. Pinned him to the canvas. You’re so clever, sweetie. But it’s kind of spooky – he looks real enough to speak. It reminds me of something.’

  ‘It’s the same pose as Matthew Lamb’s portrait.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Bertha studied the painting. The boss was staring straight ahead without smiling. One arm was hooked negligently over the back of a chair
and his loose bow tie was a gash of black against his starched white shirt, dissecting his broad chest. Cat had emphasised the youthful physique Daniel had retained by keeping up his polo skills and boxing training. His dark hair revealed just a touch of grey at the temples and his only wrinkles were fine laughter lines. He still looked like the handsome, powerful, virile man he’d always been. So why was the portrait so unsettling? It was his expression. Daniel was staring remorselessly and piteously out of the canvas. Bertha wanted to look away but she couldn’t. His eyes were the eyes of a man who had seen too much. In an instant she understood what Daniel had been at pains to conceal, and it made her want to weep.

  On the morning before the annual Hotel du Barry Winter Garden Party, Daniel announced from behind The Times, ‘Eddie, I do hope you’ve given some thought to what I said about us getting a divorce. My lawyers have suggested casting you as the betrayed wife. Henri Dupont can set me up with a courtesan to take down to our Brighton hotel for a bogus assignation. I’ve spoken to Jim about hiring a detective on your behalf. And a photographer to provide evidence of my supposed infidelity. When it hits the press you’ll come up smelling of roses and I’ll be denounced as a philandering swine.’

  Edwina spilt her tea all over the tablecloth. ‘How dare you speak to the staff about our personal problems!’

  ‘Eddie, we can’t go on like this. Divorce need not be equated with social suicide.’

  She moved closer and touched his shoulder. ‘Darling, you’ve been dwelling too much on Edward’s refusal to see divorce as a social impediment. I know he’s a close friend but that American divorcee is simply the last gasp. Wallis Simpson is like a cobra toying with a canary. Her only topics of conversation are antiques and shopping.’

  Daniel moved his chair further away from her. ‘And your point is?’