Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Her voice was so low that the client had to lean forward to hear. ‘I fill in for Mr Blade when he’s unavailable. My name is Caterina Anastasia Lucinda du Barry and I advise you to remember it, because I am the sole owner of the Hotel du Barry empire. But let’s talk about your many aliases, who are you tonight? Let me guess, Lord Havisham? The right honourable Winchester Thomas? We’ve been onto you for some time. In fact, I’ve taken your photograph and I’m thinking of posting copies all over London. So I suggest you leave immediately. And if you are gone within two minutes, I’ll gift you a merry Christmas by resisting the urge to hunt you down and eviscerate you.’

  The impostor’s face froze and he took a step backwards. Then he meekly picked up his bags and scuttled off quickly, leaving his bowler hat on the desk.

  Charlie said, ‘Impressive. I’ve never seen you like that before. How did you manage to photograph him without his knowing?’

  ‘I didn’t, Charlie. I was bluffing. What is it with Christmas, eh? Fraudsters, conmen, deviants, whores, hustlers, criminals and pimps. The hotel is crammed to the gills with nothing but troublemakers.’

  Charlie laughed. As Cat flicked the impostor’s hat into the bin she heard the street crowd cheering, wolf whistling and stamping their feet. Cat raised an eyebrow at Charlie and they glanced eagerly at the entrance. Henri was standing at the top of the stairs greeting the guests and Cat noticed that he’d lost his concierge’s face and was grinning from ear to ear. Who can it be now?

  A woman erupted into the foyer in a flurry of red silk ruffles and flashing dark eyes. With glossy black hair cascading down her back and her wide mouth painted vermilion red, nobody could take their eyes off her. She was a primal presence; a woman of mystery, cloud and fire. Cat said quietly, ‘Who is she, Charlie? I thought I knew everyone on the guest list.’

  Charlie spoke in a conspirator’s whisper. ‘Ah, that’s the flamenco dancer from the latest avant-garde production of Carmen. Henri and I went last night. Rumour has it she was brought in by the director at the last minute to inject some light, colour and movement into a lacklustre production. I don’t have enough superlatives to describe her performance. She ate the stage and got a long standing ovation. Quite a few folk got teary eyed. You know, I’ve never seen Henri so emotional.’

  Cat looked at the handsome man accompanying the dancer. It’s Doc Rubens but he’s subtly changed. And it’s not just his sleek black tuxedo or those Latino boots. He looks manlier, more sophisticated and just a tad dangerous.

  Otto took the hand of his date and proudly presented her to Cat. ‘I’d like you to meet Señorita Perfecta Gonzalez – this is Miss Cat du Barry.’

  ‘How lovely to meet you, Señorita Gonzalez. I do hope you enjoy our Christmas extravaganza.’

  The Señorita responded in a heavy accent that spoke of gypsy music, staccato beats, wild women and fiercely proud men. ‘I’ve been following your career, Miss du Barry ever since I saw your first exhibition. You have what we Spanish call duende.’

  ‘Duende?’

  ‘Duende is bloody difficult to translate into English and has to be experienced to be understood. It comes from within, manifesting as melancholy or sadness in response to art that speaks to you on a deep level. It’s irrational, soulful, rare and bloody hard to pin down.’

  ‘Is it something to do with flamenco?’

  ‘Yes and no. My people, the Andalusians, are great flamenco dancers and they venerate duende. But I also experienced duende when I saw your paintings and I’m feeling it very strongly now in the spirit of your magnífico ghost-ridden hotel.’

  Cat inclined her head gracefully. ‘Thank you Señorita. Our assistant concierge told me about your stunning performance last night. I’m very keen to see you dance.’

  Otto looked chuffed. ‘I’ve taken a theatre box for the whole season and you must join me one night soon, Cat. No one can equal Perfecta when she dances with duende.’

  Señorita Gonzalez tenderly placed her hand on his arm. ‘Otto and I were admiring that bloody big Christmas tree outside.’

  ‘There’s another one in the Winter Garden and twelve around the hotel. They’re all over twenty feet tall, so they don’t fit in any of the lifts, and we had to lug them up the stairs. After the trees were decorated the entire staff gathered around the outside tree for hot toddies. It’s just one of Danny’s wonderful traditions.’

  Perfecta nodded. ‘I knew your father. He had soul. I danced with him at the Hotel du Barry Monte Carlo and we cleared the bloody dance floor. Señor du Barry possessed duende. It came from deep inside him – up through the soles of his feet. Anyway, we mustn’t hold you up.’

  Otto took her hand. ‘Come, it’s this way, darling.’

  Cat winked at Otto. ‘The two suave gentlemen I told you about are seated up at the bar in the Winter Garden. You can’t miss them.’

  ‘I’m intrigued, Cat. We’ll see you up there shortly.’

  As Otto and Perfecta headed across the foyer, Jim and Bertha stepped out of the lift.

  Cat knew that the last thing Jim wanted to do tonight was leave the party and head off to Paris. Christmas Eve at the Hotel du Barry was his favourite night of the year but this year he’d let Bertha and Cat talk him into a week in Paris.

  While Jim said goodbye to Henri, Cat managed to slip an envelope into Bertha’s handbag.

  ‘Cat, what are you up to?’

  ‘Shhhhhhhh, don’t tell Jim until you’re on the night ferry. It’s just two Christmas bonuses so you can sample the best Paris has to offer.’

  ‘I can’t accept this, Cat. You’ve already covered our Hôtel de Crillon booking and first-class sleeping coach.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Jim paid dearly for his loyalty to the Hotel du Barry and I consider it his due. Danny would expect me to do nothing less. You and Jim deserve it. Enough. Here he comes.’

  Jim grinned. ‘It makes me nervous when I see women plotting. Hurry up, Bertha. Henri’s got a hotel limousine waiting downstairs.’

  Cat hugged them both. ‘Bye and have a wonderful time!’

  She turned back to the Reception desk. ‘Charlie, remind Henri about making sure his staff get the chance to pop upstairs tonight for a bite to eat and a couple of drinks. I want Christmas Eve to be as festive as it was when Daniel was in charge. He always insisted on every single staff member joining the festivities.’

  ‘Sure. Perhaps we –’

  Cat could no longer hear what Charlie was saying because she’d sensed a new arrival coming up the red carpet and crossing the foyer. Even though she had her back turned she felt it was him. Sure enough, she turned around and Jules was standing in the foyer, with snow on his dark hair and eyelashes, his eyes warm and appreciative. Cat knew he was studying her, devouring her with his eyes and imprinting her image forever in his mind.

  Jules didn’t say a word, he just dropped his bag and strode towards her. His eyes locked onto hers and Cat blushed deeply. The atmosphere was so charged that the Reception staff stopped what they were doing and stared.

  Jules shed his damp overcoat, slowly peeled off his black leather gloves and flung them on the front desk. He straightened his black evening tie and smoothed his tailored dinner jacket, all without taking his eyes off her. Then, still without a word, Jules took Cat’s hand and led her in the direction of the Winter Garden. He ignored the lift and steered her into the privacy of the darkened stairwell where they lingered.

  The piano player’s voice drifted down the stairs, crooning Daniel’s favourite song. A songline of past loves, transitory dreams and ghostly mementos. When he paused, the saxophone player cut in with a moody refrain, each note an exquisite exploration of life’s infinite possibilities.

  It was the night before Christmas and all through the magnificent Hotel du Barry, everything was sheer perfection.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  London-born Australian LESLEY TRUFFLE has travelled extensively and worked in London and Japan. At present she’s living in a garret in Melbourne.
She’s worked as a secondary teacher, photographer, hotel maid, fringe actor and in art galleries, bars, nightclubs and other jobs too ghastly to mention. While exhibiting her art photography in Melbourne galleries, Lesley realised she wanted to create imaginary stories and interior monologues and returned to writing. Her fiction piece ‘A Man of Fashion’ was published in Scarlet Stiletto: The Second Cut in 2011, and Memoir of a Trollop was performed by Baggage Theatre Company in 2013.

  COPYRIGHT

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2016

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Lesley Truffle 2016

  The right of Lesley Truffle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street, Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

  Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

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  1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF, United Kingdom

  2 Bloor Street East, 20th floor, Toronto, Ontario M4W 1A8, Canada

  195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007, USA

  ISBN: 978 1 4607 5143 5 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978 1 4607 0610 7 (ebook)

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Truffle, Lesley, author.

  Hotel du Barry / by Lesley Truffle.

  Subjects: Adoption – Fiction. Fatherhood – Fiction.

  Detective and mystery stories.

  A823.4

  Cover design and illustration by Hazel Lam, HarperCollins Design Studio

  Cover images by shutterstock.com