by Nancy Carson
‘Down Beat is a music magazine, isn’t it?’ Maxine queried.
‘Yeah. Based in Chicago. Hits the streets monthly…Nice to speak with you. I’ll put in a good report to the Congress.’
‘Thanks. Bye.’
‘I can’t believe this, Maxine. Pinch me to make sure I’m not dreaming. Have we gone down well, or what?’
‘They all want us. It’s fantastic. But I’m so thirsty, Brent. I have to have a drink, else I’ll never last out the next session.
When they finally reached the bar Toots, Pansy and the others were together, all enjoying themselves. Brent got drinks for himself and Maxine while she told them of the offers they’d had already. The news of the offer for the radio programme excited them and Kenny said he’d had enquiries too from Atlantic City and Boston.
‘When we’ve played our next session we’ll get champagne and celebrate,’ Brent told them. ‘This is the best night we’ve ever had.’
‘And after, there’s a party at my house,’ Dulcie added. ‘With my mom and dad away we’ll have the run of the place.’
‘Brilliant!’ Maxine said. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘Oh, I called the house staff from the ship and gave them all the night off. Tomorrow, too.’
The next set proved even more successful than the first. The audience listened intently and rewarded the band with enthusiastic applause after every number. The atmosphere was tremendous and Kenny twirled his drumsticks in the air with abandon and a broad grin as he took a bow after his solo.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – Kenny Wheeler…’ Brent proclaimed, holding his hand out to his pal.
Eventually, the compere requested another show of appreciation and the band left the stage to spirited applause, waving goodbye as they went.
‘Let’s pop those champagne corks,’ Brent said as they returned to the dressing room. His handsome face was glowing with elation as he packed his trombone into its case. ‘This is definitely a night to celebrate.’
‘Definitely a night to remember,’ Charlie concurred.
‘What time is it?’ Pansy asked, fastening the hook and eye at the back of the dress she had changed back into.
‘Just after three,’ Toots told her. ‘The night is young.’
Meanwhile, Dulcie had been fortunate enough to get a table and already two bottles of champagne were standing in ice buckets.
‘You open them,’ Maxine suggested to Brent. ‘I daresay you’re used to it.’
With a flourish he popped the cork of the first bottle and filled the glasses.
‘Cheers!’ they all said in chorus, and drank.
Maxine thanked Dulcie for getting the champagne ready and asked how much they owed her.
‘Gee, honey, nothing,’ Dulcie replied sharply and Maxine wondered if she had offended her by asking. ‘It’s my treat. I owe you guys.’
‘But we’re all going to your house after for a party.’
‘Sure. So what?’
‘I’m just worried about what it costs, Dulcie.’
‘Maxine, let me tell you something. New Yorkers don’t worry about what things cost – only about being ripped off. The longer you stay here the more you’ll realise that everybody is money mad. That’s all they talk about. They love spending it but they sure don’t worry about how much anything costs.’
Dulcie’s chastising her amused Maxine. ‘Okay, I’ll try and remember.’
The private party progressed wonderfully and Brent ordered two more bottles of champagne. People around The Owls and the Pussycats caught their infectious high spirits and Charlie Holt and Ginger Tolley drew two other girls, one of whom was Blanche, into the company. Half an hour later, Ginger had his arm around the slim dark-haired one who was called Ellie and Charlie was ensconced with Blanche, though Maxine thought she kept making eyes at Brent, which annoyed her immensely. Come four o’ clock and Dulcie suggested they move on to her house.
It took ten minutes to organise their departure. Kenny and Dulcie went out into the snow to garner sufficient taxi-cabs, while the others collected their instruments and things from the dressing-room. Then, having said a hundred goodbyes to well-wishers, they departed, five girls and five boys, to a mansion on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park.
Chapter 25
‘Welcome to my world,’ Dulcie said as she let them into her home.
‘Gee, no English butler?’ Blanche commented, looking around her.
The entrance hall was imposing with some fine watercolours adorning the green-flocked walls. A chandelier hung low over the ornate staircase that swept up and around them, and a stained glass oriel window by Tiffany looked out onto Central Park. Dulcie flung open the handsome double doors that led into a sumptuous drawing-room. An elaborate bar occupied one end and they all headed for it instinctively. Dulcie invited them to help themselves to drinks so Toots, typically helpful, elected himself barman and began serving everybody.
Talk was, of course, mostly about the success of their evening, but the two girls who were partial strangers seemed determined to ask questions about England and what the band thought of New York. Blanche, the blonde girl, seemed to want to monopolise Brent, even though, by default, she was to be paired with Charlie Holt.
‘Seems like England might soon get its first American queen,’ she commented, seeming to ignore Maxine who was at Brent’s side.
‘Oh? How’s that?’ Brent asked.
‘Wallis Simpson,’ Blanche replied.
‘Sounds like a chain of shoe shops,’ Maxine remarked with as much scorn as she could muster and sipped the dry Martini Toots had mixed.
‘Yeah? Well your King Edward’s mighty sweet on her. He’s gonna marry her.’
‘But he can’t,’ Brent replied. ‘She’s a divorcee.’
‘Hell! So what?’ Blanche said.
‘I don’t know much about it. American papers seem to be stirring up quite a fuss about the King and Mrs Simpson from what I can see of it, but there’s been nothing in the English press. At least I’ve seen nothing.’
‘You mean you know zilch about it?’
‘There’ve been rumours. Speculation. But it would create a constitutional crisis if the King wanted to marry a divorcee. The government wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Gee! You sure have some quaint ways in England. What’s wrong with being divorced, for Christ’s sake? Everybody gets divorced in America. Anyway, who rules the goddamn country?’ She shrugged her shoulders and spread her arms to emphasise her point and spilt her drink in the process, which she ignored. ‘Anyway, it’s great that an American lady’s gonna marry an English king. He’s real cute.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Maxine said, becoming more irritated by the girl and her ignorance of British constitutional niceties, but more especially since she was so obviously after Brent. ‘Just think,’ she went on, ‘he’d have to be King of America.’
‘Really?…Wow!’
‘Yes…and with our quaint ideas…Still, if he’s that cute, you might not mind.’ Maxine moved closer to Brent and territorially felt for his hand. She gave it a squeeze.
‘I used to think all English guys were cute,’ Blanche said, looking directly into Brent’s eyes, and finally getting the message. ‘Trouble is, they don’t know when they’re on to a good thing. They get sidetracked too damn quick. But hell, I don’t kiss ass. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.’
Blanche turned her back and joined Charlie while Maxine regarded Brent through narrowed eyes. She went to move her hand away from his but he held it tight.
‘I told you, she meant nothing,’ he whispered. ‘Hell, you can’t complain, Maxine. We weren’t…’
Maxine sighed frustratedly. He was right., of course. He was a free agent. He could do as he wished. It’s just that she felt this jealousy. He always made such a fuss of her and when he made a fuss of anybody else, she didn’t like it.
‘Okay,’ she conceded. ‘It’s just her attitude…’
‘It’s you
I want, Maxine,’ he said, and the warmth in his eyes told her he was sincere.
‘Okay,’ she answered and squeezed his hand. ‘I believe you.’
Ellie meanwhile was doing rather well with Ginger, appealing to his more positive side as she gazed into his eyes. ‘Do you think I’m cute, Ginger?’ she asked in a Brooklyn accent.
Ginger grinned and gave her a squeeze. ‘I think you’re bloody lovely, Ellie. Here, let’s sit down on that sofa.’
Ellie giggled. The alcohol was having an effect. ‘He wants to get me on the sofa, Blanche. Think I should?’
‘Hell, go to it,’ Blanche said.
‘Okay, Blanche. If you go to it with Charlie, huh?’
Charlie beamed and Blanche allowed him to lead her away.
Maxine sighed with relief as this arrangement was at last confirmed. It proved to her that there had been nothing to worry about. Brent had shunned Blanche in favour of herself. It proved his love. Besides, an argument about Blanche would have been pointless, and possibly fatal to their relationship. Now Maxine just wanted to take Brent in her arms. She wanted to plant her lips on his and give him one of her most luscious kisses. Maybe she had misjudged him.
She was certain she had not misjudged Blanche, however. Blanche was lying across Charlie in a most provocative way, looking into his eyes, her lips no more than two inches from his. Charlie was evidently mesmerised by the experience.
Brent led Maxine away to the other side of the room where Kenny, Dulcie, Toots and Pansy were sharing a joke together, about to start playing a gramophone. Dulcie put on a record and Kenny took her in his arms. They began dancing to Helen Ward’s ‘You Turned the Tables on Me’. Pansy and Toots then started swaying to the easy rhythm. Maxine looked into Brent’s eyes and, by an unspoken accord, they fell into each other’s arms, moving slowly. When the music stopped they kissed while Dulcie put on another record. It was Duke Ellington’s ‘The Mooche’ – slow, raunchy stuff. The seductive sounds continued for some time. They were all able to relax at last. Till Ginger spoke up from the upholstered depths of one of the sofas.
‘Hey, can somebody turn the lights out? It’s like the inside of a soddin’ lantern here.’
Dulcie burst into laughter. ‘Sure!’ She moved to the switches and turned them off, leaving on just one table lamp. Then she said quietly to the others: ‘Maybe that’s our cue to leave, huh?…Come on, Kenny Wheeler, you can tuck me up in bed…’
‘Are we going back to the ship now, Brent?’ Maxine asked innocently.
They all heard and their tittering made her realise how naïve she was being.
‘Do you want to go back to the ship tonight in all this wind and snow?’ Dulcie asked, incredulous.
‘No, of course not,’ she replied emphatically.
On Fifth Avenue, motor cars left unbroken tracks in the snow while snowflakes rushed into their headlights, drawn like millions of white moths. Central Park wore its pre-Christmas covering like a shroud but the lake looked like a pool of liquid lead. The trees, naked but for the snow that was accumulating on their branches, shimmered as they swayed in the winter wind.
Maxine and Brent stood gazing out of the window of the ornate bedroom that Dulcie had suggested they share. They were in darkness but the fairyland lights of New York reflected a pallid, ghostly suffusion back into the room, enabling them to see each other quite clearly. Dawn was more than an hour away. She turned to face him. He discerned that look of gentleness and trust in her eyes that always appealed to his better nature and gave her a hug. She nestled in his arms as if they had been lovers for years.
‘Look how beautiful the park is, even in darkness,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, I love it here, Brent. I think I could be happy here forever.’
He squeezed her again. ‘Yes. I love it too. I’ll always be happy here…with you.’
For a few minutes, neither spoke more. Maxine continued to gaze out, impassively contemplating what Brent expected of her, what she herself might expect, in this strange rococo bedroom, in this strange grey twilight. She did not mind. She did not mind at all. She would allow her seduction to happen naturally, at its own tempo, for it was time. She would not make the first move; that was up to him. Just because a large accommodating bed was beckoning did not mean she should rush to take her clothes off and jump into it like some sex-hungry nymph. But it would be nice to be loved again. It would be good to make love again, to relive that sweet tenderness and intimacy she had known and enjoyed with Howard. She was missing the warmth and the peace and the closeness of sharing love. Now, the imminent prospect of it thrilled her, yet also filled her with apprehension for, having set her heart on Brent now, she did not want to disappoint him. After all, he was vastly experienced in such things whereas she was a comparative beginner. And yet, she thought, allowing herself a little smile, it’s funny how quickly you get the hang of it.
It was as much to her surprise as anybody’s that she had someone else to love so soon; someone who had shown his mercurial devotion over many months. At times she had been disconcerted by his wild unpredictability, confused when one day he was all over her, the next ignoring her. In her innocence, Maxine had not considered that it could have been a strategy to generate her interest the more. To her, any inconsistency was because she had not committed herself to him.
She turned and their eyes met once again. Submissively she lifted her face for his kiss. It was tender but frustratingly brief. She buried her face in the warmth of his jacketed shoulder. He smelt of cigarettes and the bleak winter air of New York with a hint of clean, manly sweat and shaving soap added. She gently touched his throat, almost bashfully, with her lips.
Fate had brought them together here. It must be fate that had ensured their hitherto tentative relationship be consummated in this beautiful room in this magnificent house, in this magical city. It was the culmination of many things; their working together; their music; the indisputable attraction they’d always had for each other. It must also be the night, the unbelievable success, the champagne, the moment – this wonderful other world. All had contrived to seduce her.
Brent lowered his head and his lips found hers again in a kiss so tender, so soft, so gentle and yet so unruffled. At any other time she would have considered it half-hearted, but not this night; he was savouring the softness of her lips, perhaps still tasting the champagne and the sweet, fatty fragrance of her lipstick. Funny how she could not help but compare Brent’s kisses with Howard’s. She enjoyed both and yet they were succinctly different. Brent always tasted different, but that was almost certainly because he smoked. Whatever it was, his lips were scandalously inviting – always had been.
They broke off and she looked up at him, her eyes signalling the warmth and tenderness she felt. Was this affair happening too soon after the hurt she felt over Howard? Should she expose her frail, tortured heart to risk again so soon? Hell, yes. Brent loved her; she was sure of that. And she loved him…She knew that now – at long last. She knew it just as surely as she knew the sun would rise next morning. Maybe she had always loved him. Maybe Howard had merely been an enjoyable diversion till destiny contrived this moment for true romance to begin. Maybe she had loved Brent from the moment she first saw him after her audition with the CBO.
Brent’s fingers were undoing the hook and eye at the back of her dress. She bent her head forward biddably so that he might have easier access. Then she felt him unfasten one by one the tiny buttons that held her dress together at the back. She stood there impassive, content for him to do it while she continued to gaze out onto Central Park, her head on his shoulder. The city was just showing the first stirrings of life this cold Tuesday morning in December. He peeled the dress from her shoulders and down her arms before he eased it over her slender hips. It fell silently to the carpet that lay thick under her feet.
What would Howard think if he could see her now? Would he care? Did he care? Not any longer, evidently. Did he ever really care? He hadn’t written and he said he would. He had br
oken his promise. He must never have cared in the first place.
As if sensing she was fretting over Howard, Brent found her lips again and planted another sweet, lingering kiss, more passionate this time, caressing her shoulders with gentle fingers that sent shivers of delight up and down her spine.
‘You have such beautiful skin,’ he breathed.
He unfastened her brassiere and it fell from her to the floor. She kicked off her shoes and found herself standing lower against his chest by a couple of inches. His hands went to her waist and traced a line slowly upwards till they were almost under her arms before he moved them round to gently cup her naked breasts. Softly he pressed his thumbs onto her nipples and she felt them harden. Through the huge window she watched with detachment as more cars ploughed the snow on Fifth Avenue below; a man huddled in an overcoat trudged warily lest he slip and slide as he walked to work.
Brent was bending down so that he could kiss her breasts. Suddenly conscious of them, she wondered what he thought of them. They were not large, but she had always considered them adequate and never too much of a burden. Certainly, they were beautifully formed and showed no tendency to sag…Howard had said so…And it was so invigorating to feel Brent’s mouth on them, teasing them each in turn…
That poor man outside, battling against the wind and the snow in his winter clothes…and she was so warm and glowing in this centrally-heated bedroom…in America…and naked to the waist, God help her. Not that she had the least intention to protest.
Suddenly, Brent was on his knees. He was kissing her rib-cage. She ran her fingers through his hair sensitively and felt him pull her underskirt down over her hips and buttocks till it, too, fell to the soft carpet around her. His fingers were stroking her bottom through the legs of her French knickers while his tongue was probing her navel.
It was snowing harder now. The flakes were enormous as they floated past the window, sometimes in a flurry of agitation as the bitter swirling wind caught them. Maxine illogically wondered if it was snowing in Dudley. It must be nearly midday there. What was her mother doing right now? What was Henzey doing? How was little Aldo? Had Alice found another job yet? What was Howard doing?