by Erica James
Before long the figures on the pier were no more than a blur – not just because of the distance between the ship and the pier, but because there were tears filling Clarissa’s eyes.
‘Goodbye,’ she said under her breath. ‘Goodbye.’
On returning to her cabin, Clarissa found Marjorie waiting for her, the connecting door between their cabins wide open.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ the woman demanded. ‘I’ve been frantic with worry! Another few minutes and I’d have asked for the purser to put an emergency call out for you!’
An overreaction, surely, thought Clarissa. ‘I was on the sun deck watching our departure,’ she said. ‘I would have asked you to join me, but I knew you were busy and wouldn’t welcome me disturbing you.’
‘I’d sooner be disturbed than be left fretting about you,’ Marjorie replied stiffly. ‘What if you’d fallen overboard?’
Clarissa laughed. ‘I think that’s highly unlikely, don’t you?’
‘As a woman one can never be too careful when travelling to foreign parts,’ said Marjorie darkly.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Clarissa replied. ‘Shall we go for afternoon tea now?’ she added with a conciliatory smile.
‘First you’ll have to do something about your hair,’ the woman sniffed. ‘And you can’t possibly wear that dress. You must change. Please be quick about it.’
Tea was served in the Petite Salon and service was well under way when they were shown to a side table that to Clarissa’s delight afforded them a grandstand view of the salon’s comings and goings. For Marjorie it gave her the opportunity to complain about the draught sweeping in through the Lalique glass doors every time they swished open. She complained also that they were placed too far away from the quartet playing in the furthest corner of the room to hear the musicians properly above the noise of rattling crockery and overly loud chatter. ‘I shall have a word with our steward and ensure that we are appropriately seated tomorrow,’ she declared, sending the waiter away with a wave of her hand, having stressed that the water for their tea must be hot and the cream cold.
While they waited for their waiter to reappear, Clarissa gazed around the beautiful room that was hexagonal in shape, with columns at each point and adorned with bronze statues in various states of undress. Potted palms and white lilies added to the sumptuous luxury.
‘Oh my, just look who’s walked in,’ said a plump, matronly woman arrayed in an abundance of pearls at the nearest table to them. Clarissa turned to see who the woman was referring to, which immediately earned her a ticking off from Marjorie for staring.
But Clarissa did stare. She even let out a little gasp. ‘It’s Elfin Effie!’ she said in awe.
‘Clarissa, please, keep your voice down! Do I need to remind you again that the vulgarity of curiosity does you a great disservice?’
The woman next to them chuckled and leant in towards Clarissa. ‘I shouldn’t worry, Effie Chase is more than used to people gawping at her. After all, people have been doing it since she was ten years old.’
Clarissa smiled. ‘I’ve seen every one of her movies.’
‘Me too,’ said the woman. ‘She’s a real beauty, isn’t she? Look at that peachy complexion! What I wouldn’t give for that at my age …’
‘My favourite movie of hers is You’re My Gal,’ said Clarissa wistfully. ‘I thought she was wonderful in that. She sang with such feeling she made me cry.’
‘They say she’s given up films to concentrate on stage work now.’
The two of them, along with most others in the salon, watched the former child star – at twenty she was now considered too old to play juvenile roles – be shown to a table. She wasn’t alone. Her father and stepmother were with her. Clarissa had seen photographs of her father’s wedding in a magazine earlier that year; it was a much talked-about event, mostly because the stepmother was twenty-five, only five years older than Effie.
‘She’s taller than I imagined,’ Clarissa whispered to the woman beside her.
‘That’s because Elfin Effie is all grown up now. By the way, my name’s Betty. Betty Dolores Lowe, if we’re gonna be formal.’
Clarissa held out her hand. ‘Clarissa. Clarissa Allerton. And please, let’s not be formal.’
‘Well, I’m real glad to make your acquaintance, Clarissa. And is that your grandmother with you?’
Marjorie, who had until now been staring resolutely in the opposite direction, gave a snort of indignation. ‘I most certainly am not!’ she declared. Good manners prevented her from saying anything more when their waiter reappeared with a large tray. With white-gloved hands, he carefully set everything on the table – a tiered cake stand loaded with dainty sandwiches, scones and pastries; a silver teapot with matching cream jug and sugar bowl; bone china plates, cups and saucers, and all monogrammed with SS Belle Etoile.
While Marjorie instructed the waiter as to how better to arrange things, Betty winked at Clarissa. ‘You gotta real live one there, then,’ she said in a low voice.
Smiling back at her, Clarissa rather hoped this jolly woman might prove to be an entertaining ally. ‘Perhaps you’d like to join us for a cocktail before dinner this evening?’ she said.
‘Why, honey, that would be just swell.’
‘I don’t drink cocktails,’ Marjorie said, the waiter having now left them, ‘and nor should you, young lady.’ Then, casting a glance in Betty’s direction and perhaps thinking it was time she took charge of the conversation, she said, ‘I’m Mrs Boyd-Lambert; Miss Allerton’s travelling companion for the duration of this voyage. I’ve been entrusted with the task of seeing her safely across the Atlantic before I embark on a trip around Europe.’ That said, she took hold of the silver tongs and dropped two cubes of sugar into her tea. Betty smiled again at Clarissa, then looking round the salon, she said, ‘I wonder who else is travelling with us? The last time I was on the Belle Etoile, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were on board. Mercy, you should have seen the quantity of luggage they travelled with! You know, it’s said they never go anywhere with less than eighty pieces of luggage. Another trip I made, Marlene Dietrich was on board and—’
‘You’re obviously a woman who travels regularly,’ Marjorie interjected brusquely, ‘and are presumably quite used to your own company. So we won’t intrude upon you any longer.’
Shocked as she was by Marjorie’s rudeness, Clarissa knew better than to make the situation any worse, so she gave a discreet smile of apology to Betty and helped herself to a salmon and cucumber sandwich. She was onto her second when she spotted somebody else making an entrance through the glass doors. It was the ill-mannered man with the emerald-green eyes. Alongside him was a pale, slim man with horn-rimmed glasses and thick dark hair that was swept back from a broad expanse of forehead. There was a careless, rumpled appearance about him, as if he’d dressed in a hurry. Tucked under his arm was what looked like a large notebook with pieces of paper sticking out of it. The man with the emerald eyes muttered something to him and strode purposefully across the salon, the other man following behind at a slower pace.
They came to a stop at the table where Effie Chase was seated. When she saw the man with the emerald eyes, a dazzling smile lit up her face and she sprang to her feet and offered her cheek for him to kiss. After a brief exchange with her father and stepmother, a waiter was summoned and another table organised for Effie and the two new arrivals.
All this Clarissa watched in shameless fascination, as did most others, including Betty. ‘Quelle surprise!’ she said, sotto voce.
‘Why’s that?’ Clarissa whispered back.
‘I’ll tell you later over cocktails.’
Chapter Thirteen
Dinner that evening was served in the largest dining room Clarissa had ever seen. The splendour of the vast space was quite extraordinary, and everywhere she looked there was something to catch the eye – ma
rble urns, bronze relief plaques set against lacquered walls of gold, immense black marble statues of half-naked muscular men appearing to support the weight of the coffered ceiling, where Lalique light fittings cascaded like waterfalls casting a soft glow over the tables. Apparently the light produced had been designed to flatter the skin of female diners.
Yet for all its extravagance there was a streamlined simplicity to the Salle à Manger. What gave it an atmosphere of theatricality, Clarissa decided, was its occupants – waiters moving between tables like well-rehearsed actors on a stage, and diners beautifully dressed, the men in formal black tie, the ladies in stunning gowns and adorned with exquisite jewellery. Clarissa was wearing one of the silk evening dresses which she had had specially made for the voyage and a pearl necklace her mother had given her.
With diners making their entrance from the top of the wide staircase that led down from the Grand Salon to the Salle à Manger, Clarissa was enjoying herself watching people arrive. Suddenly there was an abrupt hush and what amounted to a visible parting of the waves when Effie Chase made her appearance at the top of the staircase. Wearing an apricot silk bias-cut gown that clung to her body like a second skin, she looked like a Grecian goddess. Draped around her shoulders was a snow-white fox fur, and at her throat was a diamond necklace that sparkled in the soft light. She was a vision of perfection and could not have resembled less the orphaned tomboy character of Elfin Effie she had played in so many of her movies – movies which Clarissa had watched with her mother, often crying and laughing together. Never had Clarissa thought that she would one day be in the same room as her film idol.
There was no sign of Effie’s father and stepmother, but to her right, his arm slipped through hers, was the rude man with the emerald eyes. To her left, and looking discernibly ill at ease, was the man with the horn-rimmed spectacles.
Once an actress, always an actress, thought Clarissa as she watched in fascinated admiration as Effie soaked up the moment of her entrance, waiting for every head to turn and notice her. Plainly her companion, who was scowling and radiating irritation, wasn’t prepared to play along and, taking the lead, he jerked her forward down the stairs. Effie’s response was to laugh and fall in step with him.
‘What did I tell you about the vulgarity of curiosity,’ Marjorie admonished Clarissa. ‘If you must stare, couldn’t you do so with a degree of subtlety?’
‘Sorry,’ Clarissa said mechanically, barely listening. They had been at sea for six hours now, and she had reached the conclusion that every time Marjorie chided her for some imagined wrongdoing she would simply apologise. She reasoned it would be the best way to get any peace.
‘And where, I want to know, is the captain?’ demanded Marjorie. ‘Surely he should be here? I dined on the captain’s table the last time I made this crossing. But of course that was on the Queen Mary. A very different class of ship.’ She went back to studying the guest list, no doubt searching for passengers of worth, those with whom she wished to socialise.
‘I expect he’s busy stoking the boilers,’ Clarissa muttered, her gaze still on Effie as she glided down the stairs in their direction, ‘or doing whatever else it is captains must do.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, child, it’s not the captain’s job to stoke the boilers.’
‘I know. It was a joke. A poor one, I’ll admit.’
Marjorie tutted, then rolled her eyes as she followed the direction of Clarissa’s gaze.
‘What I fail to understand is what all the fuss is about,’ she said, returning her attention to the passenger list. ‘The girl is nothing but an overdressed clothes horse. What makes her worthy of so much attention?’
She made no attempt to lower her voice, and her words could be clearly heard just as Effie and her entourage were a few feet from their table. Clarissa was mortified. More so when she realised that the man at Effie’s side had slowed his step and was glaring at them, his mouth twisted into a grimace of withering disdain. Instantly Clarissa’s cheeks were aflame. Oh, let the ground swallow her up! Or, failing that, let the ship sink!
A little drastic, she told herself when, to her relief, the party of three walked on without a word exchanged. Hiding her scorching face behind her menu, and needing to vent her humiliation at being tainted by association, she hissed at Marjorie, ‘What was that you were saying about subtlety?’
Marjorie bristled. ‘I speak as I find.’
‘But could you not have done so when they were out of earshot?’ So much for trying to keep the peace!
Whatever reprimand the dreadful woman was about to make, it was cut short by another entrance into the dining room. This time it was Betty Dolores Lowe, and in a voluminous gown of pale grey silk she sailed down the flight of stairs like a large billowing cloud.
She scanned the Salle à Manger, spotted Clarissa and came over with a beaming smile on her face. ‘So sorry, my dears,’ she said, all breezy cordiality. ‘What must you think of me? I was all set to meet you as arranged for a cocktail, but mercy me, wouldn’t you just know it, I’d clean forgotten I already had an invitation to attend the captain’s cocktail party? And he’s such a dear man, the absolute personification of Gallic charm; I could hardly not go, could I? Not when he had gone to the trouble to write to me personally last Christmas to thank me for the donation I – well, never mind all that. Do please say you forgive me!’
Clarissa heard the sharp intake of breath from Marjorie and worked hard to keep from smiling. Oh, what a slight it must be to know that Betty was so firmly in cahoots with the captain. ‘Of course you’re forgiven,’ Clarissa said. ‘Did you meet anyone interesting at the party?’
Betty leaned in closer, her jolly face just inches from Clarissa’s. ‘I met the divine Effie Chase. She couldn’t have been sweeter. I must introduce you, seeing as you’re such a big fan. I’m sure she’d love to talk to somebody her own age.’
Thinking that meeting Effie was about as likely as her jumping overboard and swimming across the Atlantic to England, especially after Marjorie’s offensive comments, Clarissa invited Betty to join them for dinner. ‘Unless, of course, you’ve already made other arrangements?’
‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I would deem it an honour to dine with you.’ As if by magic, a waiter materialised from nowhere and pulled out a chair for Betty. When she was settled, she placed her bejewelled hands on the table. ‘I can see we’re going to be the best of friends. I always make friends on these trips. How about you, Marjorie? Do you make friends when you travel?’
Marjorie’s face was as tight as a drum. ‘It depends what you mean by friends.’
What a joy it was to have Betty’s company for the evening, if only because Clarissa knew Marjorie’s snooty nose was so comprehensively put out of joint. Such was her annoyance she barely ate a thing, grumbling that the vichyssoise soup wasn’t to her liking, and picking at the fillets of turbot, and the duck a l’orange, although she relented slightly when presented with a hot, light-as-a-feather soufflé to finish with.
‘Oh mercy me,’ groaned Betty when the waiter removed the empty dessert dishes and replaced them with coffee and petits fours. ‘I shall need a tender all to myself when it’s time to disembark!’
Clarissa laughed. ‘Is it my imagination, or is the boat pitching more than it was?’
‘It’s a ship, not a boat,’ Marjorie corrected her with a weary shake of her head.
‘I think you’re right,’ Betty said, ‘the captain did mention we’d be heading towards some rougher weather before bedtime.’
‘Oh dear, I hope it won’t be too rough, this is my first time at sea and I’m not sure how good a sailor I’m going to be.’
‘Then perhaps you should have thought about that before you ate and drank so much, young lady.’
With no polite response at her fingertips for Marjorie, Clarissa sipped her coffee and quietly plotted her revenge. Later that night, when all was
quiet, she would sneak into Marjorie’s cabin, smother her with a pillow, then push her scrawny body overboard – splash! – never to be seen again.
It was a satisfying fantasy, but really Clarissa wasn’t the murdering kind. Unlike Effie’s friend who, twice now, had looked as if he could have cheerfully murdered Clarissa on the spot. Not that he gave the impression of ever experiencing a cheerful emotion. She glanced discreetly over to where he was sitting with Effie and his bespectacled companion. The latter, Clarissa observed, was polishing his spectacles with a napkin. Next to his coffee cup was the notebook she had previously seen tucked under his arm. Was he a writer, she wondered? He looked as if he could be; there was an intellectual air about him. Across from him, and with one elbow resting on the table, his body inclined towards Effie so that his shoulder was almost touching hers, the rude, scowling man was drinking from his wineglass and listening to something Effie was saying while she checked her face in a powder compact. Such was the tableau they created that it seemed to Clarissa the three of them were cut off from everybody else, as though an invisible screen was positioned around their table.
Remembering the quelle surprise comment Betty had made earlier during tea, Clarissa turned to ask her to explain, but was prevented from saying anything by Marjorie rising from her seat and announcing it had been a long day; it was now time for bed.
‘But I haven’t finished my coffee,’ Clarissa said. ‘And besides, I’m not in the least bit tired.’ The only tiredness she felt was from this ghastly woman treating her like a child!
‘Hey, Marjorie,’ Betty interceded, ‘if you’re keen to get some beauty sleep, I’d be real happy to sacrifice an hour or so to deputise for you and look after Clarissa. I’ll personally see her back to her cabin. What do you say?’