Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Instead she dipped her chin, widened her eyes and murmured huskily, ‘Of course, Tommy darling.’

  He swallowed hard. ‘I wish I’d met you before I married Sinead. We could have had at least six children and moved to the countryside. Maybe even bred horses in the Australian outback or grown grapes in the South of France. Always wanted to own a winery.’

  Edwina blinked hard and downed most of her champagne. Six children! She could think of nothing worse, except perhaps the prospect of burying herself alive in the countryside. Imagine all that ghastly fresh air and deathly quiet. No matter, nothing had been decided and at least he was discussing their future obliquely. She maintained a communicative silence and willed him to get on with it.

  Thomas was choking on his words. ‘Eddie, you know I’d never deliberately hurt you, don’t you?’

  A strange sensation started at Edwina’s feet and an icy chill crept towards her heart. Obviously her true love was operating on a different schedule. She would maintain her dignity with silence. There was still a possibility that he was merely overcome with emotion at the thought of them spending the rest of their lives together.

  Thomas fiddled with a bread roll, tearing a piece off and rolling it between his fingers. ‘I don’t think I can leave Sinead. She needs me.’

  Edwina drew a deep breath and switched her expression to that of compassion.

  ‘But dearest, I need you too. Feeling guilty before instigating divorce is only to be expected. It’s natural for a man to have second thoughts before he gets the hell out of a failed marriage. Divorce will be the making of you both. You can pack her off to one of those marvellous psychiatric clinics in the Swiss Alps. I’ve heard Switzerland is very clean and orderly. And just think, you’ll have no more scandal, no more sending for shrinks in the middle of the night. Let’s face it, darling, the stigma of divorce fades eventually. Especially if the man has been smart enough to marry a woman of taste, wealth, distinction and social standing.’

  Thomas finished massacring his bread roll and cracked his knuckles. ‘There’s not going to be a divorce. We’re moving back to Dublin. That’s where my flagship emporium is. Sinead’s psychiatrist firmly believes it’s the only chance she has –’

  ‘Dublin? You’re moving to fucking Dublin!’

  ‘Yes, that’s where Sinead was born. Her mental health always improves when I send her back home to visit her parents. She’s never really liked –’

  Edwina leapt to her feet. ‘I don’t give a shite what your wretched wife likes or dislikes. Are you telling me that you’re dumping me? Just so you can go bury yourself in Dublin with that psychotic girl? You’ve already admitted she’s far too young for you. Even when she’s experiencing a rare bout of sanity she can barely string sentences together.’

  Thomas drained his wine glass and banged it down on the table. A nervous twitch in the corner of his eye gave the illusion he was winking. ‘That’s very unkind of you, Eddie.’

  Edwina leant over the table. ‘Unkind? My God, I’ll give you unkind, you weak, conniving bastard.’

  And with that she seized his lobster, slapped it onto his face, and massaged it into his features. Thomas froze and made no attempt to fend her off. He sat there, stupefied, with sauce dripping down his face and a lapful of desecrated crustacean. A substantial amount of glutinous white sauce ran down his left leg and slithered into his cowboy boot.

  Edwina stripped off her soiled gloves and threw them in his face. Then she picked up her handbag, seized the bottle of Château Lafite, tore the door open forcefully and vigorously slammed it shut. The partitioned wall reverberated and a large antique mirror crashed to the floor.

  The sound of breaking glass could be heard from downstairs. Diners lifted their heads and all conversation was suspended. Mouths remained open and forks were frozen in mid-air. Everyone stared as an elegant woman, clutching an open bottle of wine, ran down the stairs and out onto the street. The door slammed shut behind her and the windows rattled. The diners promptly downed tools and shifted their attention to the windows overlooking the street.

  The blonde had paused to fish around in her handbag for her automobile keys and swig from the bottle. Then she took off in a sleek white sports car, gripping the wine bottle firmly between her slender thighs. Edwina hit top gear even before she’d reached the end of the crowded street. She swerved around two terrified schoolchildren crossing the road, narrowly missed a woman wheeling a pram and disappeared around the corner on two wheels.

  Back at the Jacques Deville Restaurant, diners excitedly resumed their meals.

  Conversation was at fever pitch but Lady Bird-Powell could still be heard. ‘Well, I never – that was the Hotel du Barry widow!’

  Jacques Deville winced, he was besotted with Edwina du Barry. No doubt her indiscretion would be smeared all over London within the hour. Jacques hated the idea of her ladyship dining out on the scandal for days at Edwina’s expense. Just look at her, bustling off home so she could get on the phone and spread the gossip. Jacques discreetly signalled his waiters and pointed upwards.

  Two grinning waiters ran up the stairs and burst into the private dining room. Thomas was still gazing in stupefaction at the lobster in his lap. One of the waiters wiped the smile from his face and enquired in commiserative tones, ‘I say, are you all right, Sir?’

  In the silence of his loss and humiliation, the Botticelli of Shoes couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  27

  The Wheel of Fortune

  Edwina sat in Celeste’s darkened parlour. She couldn’t believe how sinister the room looked. Shadows flickered on the walls and a huge fireplace resembling the Devil’s inferno blazed and crackled. The air was thick with frankincense. Cobwebs hung from iron candelabra and bronze devils cast grisly shadows on the walls. The table was covered in a red velvet cloth that spoke of nefarious activities involving liquid substances: blood, wine and possibly semen. Edwina took a sly peek at the wine label, fortunately it was drinkable. A one-eyed parrot watched the proceedings from a rickety perch hanging over the table. He kept his remaining eye focused unblinkingly on her glittering diamond earrings.

  Edwina sat on the edge of her chair, trying to conceal her excitement as she felt an old chop bone rolling underfoot. She didn’t dare look. Perhaps it was a human remain? The place was filthy; it was like languishing in a Petri dish of streptococci. Even the air was stagnant.

  Celeste poured the wine, then opened a heavy wooden chest and produced a pack of Tarot cards. She fixed Edwina with her penetrating gaze. ‘Your question?’

  ‘What will become of me? Will I ever find true love?’

  Celeste placed the Significator card on the table. ‘Let’s see. First I need you to shuffle the cards and cut the deck three times.’

  Keeping the cards facing downwards, Celeste then selected the first Tarot card and said, ‘This covers her,’ and laid it on top of the first card. Turning over the cards in turn, she set them down on the table in a pattern, murmuring, ‘This crosses her . . . this crowns her . . . this is beneath her . . . this is behind her . . . this is before her.’

  As Edwina watched, Celeste placed the next four cards in a vertical line alongside the others. Celeste concentrated on the tenth card and a shadow crossed her face. Silence. Edwina sipped the wine. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘We shall do it again. What will come is aberrant.’

  Edwina glanced at the Tarot cards. They resembled medieval woodcuts and reminded her of the Brothers Grimm fairy tale illustrations she’d feared as a child. None of the displayed Tarot cards were particularly cheering. In one a burning tower was exploding while two people were screaming in agony as they fell to their deaths. In another card Death was depicted as a horseman. He carried no visible weapon but a king, child and maiden were prostrating themselves before him. Then there was a ghastly card depicting three swords piercing a plump heart in the middle of a storm.

  Edwina raised an ironic eyebrow at the card depicting two ragged b
eggars scurrying through falling snow with miserable blank faces. She lingered over a card showing a fair-haired woman sitting bolt upright in bed in the depth of night. Her head was bowed and she covered her face with her hands. Hovering above the woman’s head were nine menacing swords. Edwina gazed at the misery, shame, death and desolation depicted on the cards and regretted asking for a Tarot reading. Communing with the dead using a Ouija board had been much more entertaining.

  The parrot screeched. What a beastly bird. Edwina moved her chair back in case he defecated on her head. ‘Well, Celeste?’

  ‘The oracle can’t be right. It’s a full moon and there have been strange portents. A group of bats flew past screeching, silhouetted against the moon. Always a bad omen. I won’t charge you for this session. Perhaps all will be well later in the week. I’m sure –’

  Edwina lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Tell me what you divined and let’s not mince matters.’

  Celeste poured more wine before answering. ‘You must bear in mind that the future is mutable. Even if the cards were right, they only tell you what is most likely to happen.’

  ‘Celeste, stop pussy-footing around!’

  ‘I saw discord, ruin, chaos and death caused by cupidity, envy, desire and jealousy.’

  Edwina forced a laugh. ‘Oh, really. Any other horrors lying in wait for me?’

  Celeste shuddered. ‘Mental alienation, loss and duplicity. Sometimes events move beyond our control and the wrong cards are revealed. Pay no attention, Mrs du Barry. Let me do you a complimentary palm reading.’

  Edwina shrugged. ‘Why not? It might be more amusing.’

  Later that night, when the clock struck three, Edwina awoke with a start. She rubbed her eyes and tried to expel the residual fear of her nightmares. She’d dreamt she was the fair-haired woman in the Nine of Swords Tarot card. Edwina now understood the woman’s feeling of utter desolation and despair.

  She turned on the bedside light, poured herself a large brandy and with shaking hands lit a cigarette. Edwina moved to the balcony window and stood there smoking. Below, two shadowy figures traipsed the deserted street. They glanced up and she saw their faces by the light of the moon. They were the homeless couple who lived in the alley behind the hotel. The man leant on a broken crutch and the woman hunched over, hugging her tattered overcoat around her skeletal body. They glanced at Edwina with disinterest and she read the misery and ruin in their ravaged faces. A dog barked, a siren wailed and soon they were lost to the shadows.

  Edwina staggered to the bathroom and ran cold water into the basin. She immersed her face and washed her hands. She still felt unclean, so she washed her hands again and again with carbolic soap until they were almost raw. Then she picked up a razor, extracted the blade and carefully cut into her flesh. She’d done this so often that she was able to safely lacerate just the surface layers of her skin. The sight of her own blood soothed her. She existed. Edwina drank more brandy, washed off the blood, crawled under the bedclothes and lay awake until the sky lightened.

  28

  Bar Flies’ Etiquette Guide

  It was a crisp, sunny Saturday afternoon but Cat felt she’d entered the devil’s domain. As the cab drove down Bethnal Green Road she saw people hanging around aimlessly and winos propped up against derelict shopfronts. The cab driver, unable to move further, pulled to a stop.

  A fight had spilled from a pub and bystanders had formed a circle in the middle of the road. Within the circle, two young women were biting, punching, kicking and clawing each other.

  ‘Ya fuckin’ bitch, I’ll learn ya to keep yar paws to yarself.’

  ‘He went for me because you is nothin’ more than a mean cow with saggy udders.’

  ‘Liar. I thought I could trust me own sister. But you’d do it with the devil himself if youse had the itch.’

  The predominantly male crowd egged them on. Cat got the impression a girl fight was a real treat.

  ‘Slap her hard, Annie.’

  ‘Show her no mercy! Stick the boot in, my girl.’

  ‘The tide wouldn’t take that slapper out.’

  ‘That’s it, luv, give the little bitch another whack. Good work!’

  One of the girls had the buttons ripped off her tatty blouse and she retaliated by pulling out a handful of her sister’s hair.

  There were no rules and the bystanders’ faces were contorted with perverse pleasure. Cat was repulsed and had to look away. Two policemen were doing their best to separate the pair, but the crowd kept the action going by hurling stones and bottles to keep the law at bay.

  While the cab driver lit a cigarette and waited impatiently for the road to clear, a grubby child with scabs on his face rapped on the windscreen and mimed food going into his mouth. Cat wound down the window and dropped coins into his filthy hand. He grinned, gave her the thumbs up and took off with five other street urchins in hot pursuit.

  The cab driver said, ‘Lady, you shouldn’t be encouraging those little guttersnipes.’

  Cat ignored him and warily kept an eye on the hostilities until the cab could move on.

  They pulled up at the Salmon and Ball public house. Cat braced herself as she walked into the front bar. The place was a fug of stale beer, cigarette smoke and testosterone. Shafts of sunlight created a golden nicotine haze and lit up Cat’s hair, creating a halo around her head. The place went dead quiet as she approached the bartender. The men leaning on the bar moved aside and a few doffed their caps. A burly salesman in a shiny suit quickly opened up his newspaper and placed it on the bare floorboards, so Cat didn’t have to walk across broken glass and spilt beer. His drinking chums nudged each other and nodded approvingly. It wasn’t every day that a classy blonde from the other side of the river strolled into the Salmon and Ball. The drinkers ogled this exotic being from another planet. They were overwhelmed – first the sexy redhead and now this one. The gods must be in a generous mood.

  Cat felt overdressed, even though she was wearing a peasant skirt and a tight cashmere sweater. The barman put down his cigarette and racing guide and flashed nicotine-stained teeth. ‘You must be Mr Dupont’s other guest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on up those stairs, luv. They’re in the small parlour on the left.’

  A distinguished old geezer with a handlebar moustache boomed, ‘Allow me to offer you safe passage to the upper echelons. A beauteous young lady such as yourself shouldn’t go about unescorted in these here parts.’

  Cat grinned. ‘Thank you, kind sir, but I’m sure I can manage. There is nothing to fear from these charming gentlemen.’ She winked. ‘Indeed, it’s obvious that they’re well acquainted with the finer points of social etiquette.’

  There were guffaws all round and a lad in muddy work boots boldly stepped forward. ‘Don’t listen to old Pete, he’s a lady killer from way back. He’s already worn out two wives and is casting his eye around for the third. He’s got a thing for blondes, so for your own safety, you’d better get up those stairs real quick.’

  More guffaws, croaks and cackles from the drinkers. Old Pete was set to die laughing, his breath wheezing until he lost control of his barstool. He went down slowly, keeping a firm grip on his Guinness. Two barflies quickly heaved Pete back into position, he hadn’t spilt one drop. Cat smiled at him as she made her way towards the staircase. She could feel dozens of eyes following her up the stairs. Conversation only resumed when her long legs disappeared from view.

  Upstairs, Mary and Henri were sitting in front of a crackling log fire, drinking red wine. The small parlour featured scrubbed floorboards, geraniums on the windowsill, and floral curtains. Henri rose to his feet and pulled up a chair for Cat. When Mary kissed her cheek, Cat felt the tension in her body.

  Cat turned to Henri. ‘So, this is where you and Jim hide out. You weren’t kidding when you said it had nothing in common with the Hotel du Barry.’

  Henri poured her wine. ‘Jim and I grew up around the corner, in Dunbridge Street, righ
t on top of the railway tracks. My mother took Jim in when his grandma died. It’s a historical area. Back in the 1700s they hung two silk cutters out front of the original pub. Something to do with the riots between silk cutters and master cutters.’

  Cat warmed her hands at the fire. ‘Well, the locals haven’t lost their fighting spirit. I saw an ugly brawl on the way here. You know, I’ve never understood why fighting women try to claw out each other’s eyes. You just don’t see men fighting like that.’

  Henri shrugged. ‘Man’s inhumanity to man is something I’ve never been able to fathom. Jim’s the one who’s always been able to suss out his fellow beings. It didn’t take him long to decide that Daniel’s political opponents and sworn enemies had nothing to do with Daniel’s or Michael’s death. I shan’t bore you with the details but suffice to say Jim dumped that line of enquiry.’

  Cat nodded. ‘I see. But I’m dying to know, what’s up? Why can’t I tell Bertha we met here today?’

  Mary and Henri exchanged glances. Mary said, ‘It’s about Edwina.’

  Henri lit a cigarette. ‘I didn’t want to involve Bertha because she’s already got enough to contend with at the hospital. Also, Jim told me if anything happened to him, I was to warn you about Edwina.’

  Cat sat down abruptly. ‘Eddie? I don’t understand. What’s her connection with Jim’s mugging?’

  Henri studied the tip of his cigarette. ‘On the night Daniel died, Jim had to restrain Edwina when she went right off. He reckoned she was stacking on a turn to distract the two policemen and since then Jim’s been watching her like a hawk.’

  Mary said, ‘Remember when we met in Jim’s office and he was worried about the kitchen apprentice lurking in the corridor? Jim questioned several labyrinth staff and they confirmed his suspicions.’

  Henri got up and stood with his back to the fire. ‘In short, Jim believes Edwina might have been involved, directly or indirectly, for the deaths of your father, Michael, the homeless wino and Chef.’