I shouldn’t have started it. Shouldn’t have let him do it. Should have seen it’d lead to all sorts of problems. But at the time it had seemed so reasonable, so sensible. Dave had money and wanted to spend it on her, and all she had to do was flirt with him a little. She had told him that she wouldn’t ever let anything happen again, that once had been too often because, after all, Fanny — she had let her sister’s name hang in the air between them and watched him wriggle and suffer and had said nothing more. She hadn’t needed to. And it had seemed right, somehow, to let Dave suffer so. He’d used her, she’d told herself, that evening when I was so miserable and needed someone to comfort me. He used me, just as though I wasn’t a real person, just someone who happened to be there. He didn’t care about me at all. Why should I care now about him? Why should it worry me that he’s so agitated that whenever I come into his office he gets all hot and uncomfortable — and now sitting at the Bag o’ Nails on a cold October night in 1926 she remembered the way Dave had changed, how confused in her company he had become, how eager to please her, how abject when he didn’t, and her lips curved a little — not with pleasure, but with a small triumph. All those long tired years with Madame G. thumping out all those awful dances with all those awful kids had to be paid for, somehow, and Dave had done some of the paying. Why not? she thought now, why not? Other people have used me, so I’ll use him —
But it’s not fair, that wretched small voice that came to plague her sometimes whispered inside her head. Not fair. He didn’t hurt you all that much. He only used your body, not you, and what does that matter? It’s only sex. He didn’t hurt you. Fanny did, sometimes, stupid Fanny, she did with the things she said and did, she hurt you, but it’s not fair to treat Dave so just because of her — and anyway she’s ill now, she’s dying.
She’s not dying! Lexie thought then, and lifted her glass and drank some more. She’s not! People don’t die that easily. She’s just being Fanny wanting her own way, getting it any way she can —
Like you. Just like you, her little sister —
Shut up, she told the little voice. She drank again and held out her glass when someone else at the table leaned forward with a bottle of champagne held unsteadily in his hand. Shut up. You aren’t the same as them, you aren’t like Bessie who yearns after you all the time and nags you with her eyes, and you aren’t like Fanny who pushes people around and wants her own way, and — you’re just you, Lexie, Alexandra Asher, a star. You are a star, you are, you are, you’ve made it —
No, you haven’t, said the little voice contemptuously. Of course you haven’t. Top-line cabaret spot you may be in, but it’s only once so far, isn’t it? You’ve got to do more than that. You can’t just settle for that, not if you want to stop Dave paying for you. Not if you want to be a real star, living at the top, right up in the butter, on your own money, on money you’ve danced for, not bullied for —
I’m not a bully. Am I? Not a bully —
If you’re not, why are you worrying? jeered the little voice. If you’re not, why does the idea come into your head? Of course you are! You bully Bessie because she infuriates you with all that damned love, and you bully Dave because he can’t keep his eyes off you and aches to put his hands on you and you despise him for it, and you bully Ambrose because he doesn’t ever want to put his hands on you, not the way you want him to, and you despise him for that, and —
‘Shut up,’ she whispered, letting her lips move. Leaning back on the yellow upholstery, she gazed at the scene before her, refusing to let the little voice have any effect on her. She stared at the expanse of yellow walls, the glittering black and chrome tables and the long bar so lavishly lined with mirrors that everyone on the dance floor could be seen reflected over and over again in each squared off segment, stared at the sweating grinning band on its floodlit podium, stared at the scurrying tired waiters and thought — this is fun. I’m supposed to be having fun.
But it wasn’t easy.
He had been sitting there for half an hour before he’d noticed her, trying to think of a way he could persuade David to leave, and totally failing to come up with an answer, which was a rare experience for him. Usually, he thought wryly, I’ve got an answer to everything. But not this time. Wretched David, wretched man! I’m in court in the morning, dammit — I’ll be a wet rag —
But then he’d seen her across the room and he’d stopped thinking about David Damont at all. She was in the opposite corner to his own, sitting right against the wall, just as he was, under one of those stupid lights that had been made in the shape of exotic flowers, all curled glass petals and twisted stamens, and it splashed her head with such a glow of gold that suddenly he stopped thinking the lights were stupid and decided they were rather cleverly designed, after all. The light made her hair gleam as though it was burnished ebony and beneath its heavy fringe she had eyes which slanted but still managed to be wide and very dark. Her skin, even from this distance, looked rich and matt like thick very pale cream, and her neck and shoulders, visible above the scrap of a dress she was wearing, had a birdlike fragility about them that was very appealing.
He wondered for a while who she was, worrying at that thought like a dog at a particularly small bone. It didn’t matter, and yet it did, especially because he felt obscurely that he knew her. But the trouble was that the longer he stared at her the harder it was to decide whether he had known her before or was learning her face so rapidly that it seemed he had known it for ever. That was something that happened sometimes, he told himself sententiously. You look at something because you like it and then convince yourself it’s always been part of your life.
The girl in the corner moved sharply, lifting her chin, and that made his spirits lift too, in the most stupid fashion, and he raised his eyebrows at himself and deliberately looked away. Ridiculous, staring at a girl in a nightclub as though he were a ten-year-old at a funfair seeing a bearded lady for the first time! Not that this girl was bearded or anything but delectable to look at. But it was absurd to stare —
But he was staring again, without realizing he was doing it. Now she was leaning back against the yellow walls, her hair shining even more richly against the garish colour — with her eyes closed. He could see now that there were fine shadows beneath those strange eyes, violet smudges that spoke of fatigue, and he wanted to go over to her and tell her not to sit there like that, that it was time to go home and get some rest —
The music swooped, changed, and left the ragtimes and jazz rhythms behind to start on a particularly frantic rhumba. The people at the table she was sitting at got up, obscuring her from his view, and he watched, wanting to know with sudden urgency who she was with. Some vapid capering idiot, no doubt, with no more wit than a flea —
The couples formed, left the table behind them with much giggling from the girls and slapping of each other’s shoulders among the men, and then he could see that she was not one of a couple at all, but was still sitting there. Her eyes were open now, but she was still leaning back, glancing vaguely round the room much as he had been himself. She looked at him then, and he shrank back against the wall, suddenly embarrassed. Then, as her gaze passed him by without paying any attention to him, he realized how stupid he had been. She couldn’t know he’d been staring at her, after all —
Someone came pushing across the crowded dance floor and made his way purposefully through the tables, going unerringly to the corner one and he watched, no longer caring whether anyone noticed he was staring. A tall red-haired young man, very lissom — damned lounge lizard, the watcher thought, and then grinned at his own prejudice. It was clear he knew the girl very well, for he slid into the seat beside her with an easy intimacy and at once started talking eagerly to her. She sat and listened, her head bent slightly sideways so that she could hear above all the noise the band and the dancers were making, and still the man in the opposite corner watched, swirling his brandy in its big glass, amused at his own interest in the little cameo scene being played o
ut there.
Cameo scene, he thought. Of course! Cameo scene. She’s an actress of some sort. Must be. I must have seen her in something. Now, I wonder what? I know I’ve seen that odd little face somewhere before. Not pretty, but damned interesting —
The lissom young man had her hand in his and was pulling it. She got to her feet, moving in a way that was, it seemed to the watcher, unwilling or at least uncertain. She was saying something and shaking her head, but the young man was urging her. Suddenly she seemed to droop a little, shrugged her shoulders and went with him.
But they didn’t go to the dance floor as the watcher had expected them to. Instead they flanked it, coming round to his side of the big glittering room. He watched them come close, leaning back lazily against his own section of yellow wall, using all the experience he had to make himself seem relaxed and unaware, nothing but another merrymaker sitting at a nightclub table —
They passed within a few feet of him, and he could hear their voices clearly, even above the hubbub.
‘Don’t be so stuffy, Lexie!’ the young man was saying. ‘It’s only a giggle, after all! And they say it feels marvellous —’ and then they were past, and he was staring after them, his forehead creasing.
He didn’t know why the idea came into his head, why he should be suspicious, for after all David had never said anything to make him think it might be among his problems, but all the same, David being David —
He got to his feet and went after them, moving easily, one hand thrust lazily into his trouser pocket, the other dangling a cigarette, and they were quite unaware of him as they made their way to the very rear of the room. It was darker here, for the tables were fewer, since the view of the dance floor and the band was obscured by the side of the bar, and the tables were empty, anyway, as their occupants had piled on to the packed dance floor. The girl and her red-headed escort stopped at the door at the back.
‘Honestly, Ambrose, I’m not sure I think it’s —’ the girl said, and then the door opened and they were gone. The watcher stopped, leaned against the side of the bar and thought for a while. He had never been one to do anything in a hurry, but on the other hand he’d never been one to leave anything half completed either. This needed thinking about. The room was dark and stuffy and at first she could hardly see a thing, for there were a lot of people there, and the small red-shaded lamps in the corners did little to illuminate the middle of the room. But then, slowly, her eyes adjusted. She looked around and lifted her brows in some amusement.
‘Can’t this friend of yours afford any chairs for his guests?’ she said to Ambrose. He nudged at her with his shoulder and giggled in the dimness.
‘Darling, don’t be so boring and bourgeois,’ he said, and his voice was a little shrill with excitement. ‘Who needs chairs when there are so many darling cushions? Do settle yourself and I’ll fetch David. He’s dying to meet you but he told me nothing in this great wide world would get him out there with the hoi polloi. That’s why he sent me to fetch you — now do sit, darling, I’ll be back at once —’ And he disappeared into the gloom.
After a moment she sat down, curling herself as elegantly as she could into one of the big piles of cushions that were scattered about the room, and again leaned back to relax. Behind her the door through which she and Ambrose had come in opened and closed again, but she didn’t turn her head.
It really was getting very late and she ought to go home now, she told herself, even though it was so bleak and alone there. It should be lovely thinking of going home to her own flat, her own beautiful modern flat full of beautiful modern furniture. Why wasn’t it? Surely it was better than the old days, going traipsing home to Bessie and her clucking and the smell of Mrs Bernstein’s fried fish from downstairs and hot milk and Bessie’s hot water bottle. It must be — she must be very tired indeed to be thinking that hot water bottles and hot milk and Bessie were preferable to the flat in Mulberry Walk.
‘Here she is!’ Ambrose’s voice said above her head. She peered up into the dimness and a new voice said, ‘My dear, don’t get up, whatever you do. You look too divine lying there, like Cleopatra on the most marvellous barge! Too delicious — let me come and join you on your floating cushions, please —’ Someone thumped down beside her and sat there beaming at her.
He was a solid young man, with a fat round face that was sweating richly and very curly hair that looked slightly absurd over the thin toothbrush moustache that adorned his long upper lip, but he had a charming grin and after a moment she grinned back at him.
‘Hello. Who are you?’
‘My dear, I’m David Damont. Your host at this madly naughty party within a party. Isn’t it fun? Those dreary old bores out there, thinking they’re having a most glorious whoopee of a time, when actually all the real fun is in here, with us! I heard you’d come in and when. I saw Ambrose was in here with that dear man Irving and had left you outside — well, I was livid, positively livid with rage! That’s why I made him rush and fetch you — and now here you are! Too, too divine — now, what will you have? A little drinky? Or some of my naughties? Did Ambrose tell you of my naughties?’
She watched as he pushed two fingers into the straining pocket of his white waistcoat, and pulled out a small flat box made of chased silver. ‘He said something about —’ she began.
At once he leaned forward and pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Dear one, no names, no pack drill, as those ghastly army types say! Not a word. Just our little naughties, and no one need know anything but that. Sugar it is, good for the soul, just a little powdered sugar. Too delicious and nutritious.’
He wriggled so that he was sitting closer to her and now she could smell him, a queasy mixture of Turkish cigarette smoke and sweat and expensive eau de cologne and a sick sweetish smell she didn’t recognize, and she shrank back a little, frowning.
‘I’m not sure —’ she began. Then suddenly there was a hand between them and she stared at it in the dimness, startled. She looked up to see to whom the arm belonged. The man who was staring down at her had a broad face with deep clefts running down the checks, clefts she could see clearly even in this half light, and above it his hair was thick and dust-coloured and sleeky brushed. He was stocky and not very tall and looked about thirty-five and, she thought, very boring indeed. One of those sensible types she most hated.
‘What do you want?’ she said rudely, pushing at the hand that was now held open, palm upwards, in front of David Damont. ‘Go away and don’t make a pest of yourself. David, you were saying —’
‘Oh, Max, go away!’ David said, and there was a petulant tone in his voice. ‘I thought you’d gone hours ago — go now instead —’
‘I’m going as soon as I can,’ the stocky man said, and now he crouched down so that his face was on a level with theirs. ‘After you’ve given me that box.’
‘What box?’ David Damont sounded more petulant than ever now, like a whining child. It was a sound that suddenly irritated Lexie enormously. She reached forwards and took the box from the place where he had hurriedly hidden it beneath his broad thigh as he sat there cross-legged beside her.
‘Is this it?’ she said in a loud clear voice. ‘Thank you. I’d love to try some —’ She snapped open the lid and peered into the dusting of white powder that filled it.
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said the stocky man coolly. With a sharp movement he took the box from her, snapped it shut, got to his feet and very deliberately put it into his pocket.
‘Well, of all the damned —’ she began, scrambling to her feet. ‘David, who is this horrible man? Why don’t you hit him or something? Why doesn’t anybody hit him, damn it?’ For no one had moved. The room, for all its crowded state, was as still as if it had been empty. No one was talking and no one was moving. They just watched silently in the dim light as Max stood with his hands in his trouser pockets and smiled at her.
‘This horrible man is Max Cramer, Miss Asher. Yes, I recognized you. I saw you last year in a rather dismal l
ittle show at a hotel in Bournemouth. I remember thinking the show was dreadful but you were charming in it.’
‘Thank you for nothing!’ she said after a moment, then set her fists on her hips and stared at him. ‘And who is Max Cramer when he’s at home? I’ve never heard of you. Certainly I know no reason why you should come and spoil other people’s fun. Give that back and go away. You heard what David said.’
‘I say, Miss Asher —’ David was hovering uncomfortably at her shoulder. ‘I say, Miss Asher, I really would rather you didn’t.’
‘I’m sure you would, David,’ Max Cramer said. ‘You obviously know that there can be considerable penalties for handling cocaine. And if you’re arrested for dealing in the stuff, don’t ask me to bail you out. You’ll need to get yourself a new lawyer if that happens —’
Behind him the door swung and then swung again as people began to leave. It was as though by just uttering the word ‘cocaine’ he had filled the room with threats they couldn’t bear, and they were fleeing, making small scurrying sounds as they went. Lexie looked up and saw Ambrose at the door, shaking his head at her in furious warning, before he was pulled through it by Irving. She opened her mouth to call after him to wait for her but he was gone. Furiously she turned to the man called Max Cramer, her face white with tiredness and a huge anger.
Family Chorus Page 20
