If I Had You

by Heather Hiestand

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Peter spotted a girl he’d never seen before, acting like a wallflower even though she was dressed like a real biscuit. He recognized her sparkling green and cream dress as a Vionnet. Calf-length at the front, it showed her shapely lower legs. Since it draped low in the back, he could see her creamy skin. Slender, but had just enough meat on her to hide her bones. The ropes of sequins and beads that hung down her back, right down to the floor, would sway as she danced, drawing the eye. “There’s my berry patch.” He pointed his chin at the blonde. “Who is she?”

  “She came in with the Marvins. Staying on the fifth floor. Theatrical couple of some renown.”

  He blew a smoke ring. “So she’s an actress. Ought to be fun for the night.”

  “Emmeline will kill you.” Cuddy smiled.

  “That’s one way to end a liaison.” Peter ground out his cigarette in an ashtray at the end of the bar and made his move toward the curtain-draped wall where the young beauty stood. His interest increased as he saw her sexy shoes, green velvet with silver details. They weren’t hers though. Her feet were tiny and narrow and the shoes were meant for a larger woman.

  As he walked toward her, he sensed someone staring daggers at him, and glanced around. He recognized one of the night watchmen, the Russian one, with his gaze now trained directly on the young blonde. He hoped his employee didn’t plan to flirt while he was keeping an eye out for trouble.

  Grabbing two glasses of champagne off a tray held by a passing waiter, he handed one to the young blonde with a flourish. “Peter Eyre, hotel manager. Are you staying with us?”

  She gave him a steady blue-eyed gaze, but her quiet voice belied the confidence of her expression. “I’m Miss Loudon, from the fifth floor.”

  “Ah, yes.” He took a sip of the champagne. Not their best brand. He wondered whom he’d stolen it off of. “How are you connected to the Marvins?”

  “I’m their new secretary.”

  He regarded her. Not promising. The only thing she had to offer him was youth and beauty. She wouldn’t have any money. The shoes were obviously borrowed. The dress was a signpost down the wrong path. But she was certainly lovely. If she was fast, he’d take her for a spin, but she wasn’t worth throwing Emmeline over for, not when he considered his new top-of-the-line cigarette case, and their shared history.

  One of Miss Loudon’s feet tapped as the band began a new number. He didn’t think she noticed. “Jazz fan?” he asked.

  Her smile lit up her face, accentuating her perfect cheekbones. “Oh yes. I have to admit I sneak downstairs late at night just to hear the band through the service door.”

  This was exactly why he hated to lock down the service corridor. He liked offering opportunities for pretty young things to misbehave. “Why don’t you come into the nightclub?”

  “Oh, I just want to hear the music, not dress up and all this,” she said, blushing. “This isn’t my dress. Mrs. Marvin lent it to me.”

  She was precious. Like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked.

  “You must dance,” he said, setting his empty glass on a waiting table. He took hers from her unresisting hand. “Oh, here’s an oldie. ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ Do you fox-trot?”

  “You have a wonderful piano player,” she said, her eyes sparkling as he held out his hand.

  “Yes, that’s our own Judd Anderson. Let’s take advantage.”

  She took his hand delicately, like a fawn taking a first trembling step into adulthood, and he pulled her onto the floor. The horn section joined in on the tune as they began to dance.

  This precious girl had a wonderful sense of rhythm. They finished the first dance, her beads swaying behind them as they did the fast steps, then the band struck up a tango number. Peter had no intention of letting her return to propping up the wall. He pulled her toward him, her supple body flowing against his torso.

  A tap came on his shoulder just as they started dancing side to side.

  “May I?” asked a man of fifty or so years, with a luxurious graying mustache.

  Peter recognized Richard Marvin. He’d seen him in Antony and Cleopatra a decade before. His wife must be the woman in his arms. Mrs. Marvin wore a black, Chinese-style Patou, almost floor-length, covered in a silver fantasy scene picked out in thread. The dress was entirely sleeveless, showing off the woman’s slender arms. A jangle of silver and paste bracelets decorated her slim wrists. The middle-aged spread almost hidden under the long column of her dress told the real story of her age, however.

  “Of course,” he said, resigned. Marvin stole his partner and began to lift her.

  Mrs. Marvin giggled. “I hope you don’t plan to do that to me.”

  “No, we’ll execute a more basic step,” Peter promised her.

  “Mr. Marvin has always enjoyed showing off,” his wife said, as Peter turned her on the floor.

  In more ways than one. He’d plucked his pretty secretary right out of Peter’s arms. Peter wondered what else he planned to do with the girl. He knew with absolute certainty that she was a virgin. An experienced woman didn’t tremble in a man’s arms like she did.

  Across the floor, he could see the Russian night watchman following the tango with a heated gaze. Peter imagined he wanted to break into the athletic dance exhibition and exit stage right with his prize.

  It wouldn’t do to have his employees distracted by lust. He sensed it was time to send staff another memo about interacting with guests. When the dance ended, another fox-trot–worthy tune began. He handed Mrs. Marvin back to her husband and inclined his head to Miss Loudon.

  He walked off the dance floor, wondering where Emmeline had gone.

  “There you are,” said Edith Plash, Emmeline’s mother, coming alongside him.

  Mrs. Plash had given birth to her lovely daughter at an advanced age. She had to be in her late seventies, at least, with a cataract making one eye filmy. However, she clutched at his sleeve with strong fingers.

  “You haven’t been up to see me in a couple of days,” she said, pursing her carmine-coated lips into a pout.

  He pulled out his cigarette case, gently extracting his sleeve from her fingers. “I’ve been busy, Mrs. Plash. Where is Emmeline?”

  “Oh, her, never you mind,” Mrs. Plash said with a surprisingly girlish giggle. “I’m sure she’ll be out all night. It’s New Year’s Eve, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Why don’t we swipe a bottle of bubbly and go upstairs?” She winked. “Have ourselves a different kind of celebration?”

  He kept his expression impassive only with great effort. “Madam, I’m afraid you have the wrong idea.”

  An expression of confusion crossed her face. “I often do, dear. Do you come here often?”

  “To the nightclub? When I must.”

  “I know I’ve seen you before. With my daughter?”

  The abrupt change of conversation had him as confused as he was concerned. Thankfully, he saw Emmeline coming toward him, dressed in low-cut red silk without enough identifying markers to show what designer it came from. She wasn’t showy like Mrs. Marvin, but much more beautiful, regardless.

  His mistress took her mother’s arm.

  “I think it is time Mrs. Plash went to bed,” he told her.

  “Oh, Peter, no,” she protested.

  “She stopped recognizing me,” he said gently.

  Mrs. Plash smiled at her daughter. “Is he one of my beaus?”

  “Oh, good Lord,” Emmeline said, her lips pinching. “Come along, Mother. And happy New Year to you,” she said over her shoulder, dragging the older woman away.

  Mrs. Plash’s head went down and she walked with a shuffle, cowed like a young child. Peter winced as he lit up his cigarette. It looked like a lonely New Year’s Eve was in store for him, unless he wanted to make an effort.

  “Butt me?”

  He turned to see Tallulah Bankhead, half naked, as advertised, her long dark waves caressing her creamy shoulders. She h
eld out an empty cigarette holder to him.

  “Of course, Miss Bankhead. Happy to,” he said with a roguish smile at the notoriously promiscuous American actress.

  Greetings from Peter Eyre. January 1, 1925. Happy New Year! Everything goes a little soft over the holidays, but the first day of the New Year is an excellent time to remind you to keep your employee rule book in mind. No fraternizing with our guests, either inside or outside of the hotel or nightclub. Be polite, be professional. We know all of our guests’ little secrets and idiosyncrasies. They need our discretion, not offers of friendship.

  Ivan made a face. As if everyone didn’t know that Mr. Eyre was having an affair with a resident. He’d come out of room 502 twice when Ivan was making his rounds. The problem was, he was the man in charge. The rules didn’t apply to him.

  Ivan could only hope the hotel manager’s attention didn’t continue to wander through the fifth floor and alight on Miss Loudon. He’d seen how they danced together. People said how you danced was how you made love. If that was true, Miss Loudon would be a veritable goddess in bed.

  But, he wasn’t about to lose his job over a secretary, even if she was beautiful when she came out of her shell and put on a rich lady’s dress. He’d had trouble walking when she’d left the dance floor, all but stunned to his knees. The rest of the night he’d imagined himself tangoing with her, a sheik to her sheba, the beads of her dress flying behind her as they took quick turns on the dance floor. Only discipline had kept him focused on his work. He’d stopped one fight over a woman near the nightclub bathrooms and removed a known pickpocket from the premises.

  Neither of them had a glamorous life, despite the previous evening. The closest they had to that illusion was the Grande Russe and the unusual opportunities it afforded. Little did Miss Loudon know what his life had been like years ago, before the war. But all that was long gone now, all the glitter of his childhood, his parents’ world, swept away by war and revolution, Lenin and Ovolensky.

  “Busy day ahead of us?” Swankle asked, coming to the notice board.

  “Bad-tempered, more like. The entire hotel has a hangover.”

  “And no surprise. But the staff cleaned up so well you’d never know the place was covered with bunting and confetti and wine bottles last night.”

  “It’s amazing that such a high-caliber staff could be recruited, given the hotel’s reputation,” Ivan commented.

  “Unemployment. People will take anything,” Norman Johnson said, joining them. “Most of the younger staff probably didn’t know about the murders and the ghosties when they applied for a position.”

  Ivan snorted. “I’ve never spoken to anyone who has seen these supposed ghosties.”

  Swankle smiled. “You don’t spend any time chatting with the chambermaids. I’ve only worked here a day and I’ve heard two stories.”

  “Attempting to scare the new hire,” Ivan said dismissively.

  “A very effective attempt. I won’t be wandering around in the ballroom at night with the lights out, I’ll tell you that.”

  “They say the actresses were killed in a demonic ritual,” Johnson said with a leer.

  Swankle shuddered. “You Russians are a superstitious lot, right? You think that sort of thing is for real?”

  Ivan shrugged. “I’ve never seen a ghost.”

  * * *

  Sybil dabbed scent on her wrists. “Help me with my Chanel, will you, darling?”

  Sybil lifted her arms over her head, and Alecia climbed on a chair with the heavy, beaded dress and helped Sybil shimmy into it. Her maid had the day off.

  “Do you think I should still reveal so much skin at my age?” Sybil said, after looking at herself critically in the mirror.

  “I would never have believed you were thirty-nine if I hadn’t seen your papers,” Alecia said. This wasn’t entirely untrue. Certain aspects of Sybil’s figure had become a bit middle-aged, but not her arms, legs, or face.

  “Thank you. My grandmother always looked very young. Cucumbers. That’s what she believed in. Like the Russians.”

  “Russians believe in cucumbers?”

  “They adore them, darling, simply adore them.” Sybil sat in front of her dressing table and applied her lipstick. “We’re going to dinner with the No, No, Nanette people tonight. Let’s hope it turns into a job for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Pray Binnie Hale breaks her nose or something,” Sybil said. “That’s the break we need.”

  “Oh, I can’t pray for that. I’m a vicar’s granddaughter, you know. How about a bad case of bunions?” Alecia said, only half joking.

  Sybil whistled in response. “Then you really aren’t going to like what I have to say next. This needs to stay strictly confidential, but you’re a good girl and I think we’ll be able to keep you employed for a long time.”

  Alecia put her hands to her temples. She knew that tone. It was a threatening kind of tone. She remembered it well from her less than successful attempt to study nursing. Sybil was about to say something that could cost her this job, her room in the Grand Russe, and her view of the entrancing but infuriating Ivan Salter.

  “What do you mean, Sybil?”

  Sybil sang a few notes.

  The words “lover’s oasis” caught Alecia’s ear and gave her a clue as to what was coming. “What is that from?”

  “ ‘Tea for Two.’ From No, No, Nanette, you see. I’m practicing so I can break out in song for this evening.”

  “It’s a nice lyric.”

  “And appropriate for the Grand Russe. So many handsome men here. It does turn a girl’s head.”

  “It’s the uniforms. They make all the men look so broad-shouldered and fit,” Alecia said.

  Sybil raised an eyebrow in the mirror. “Uniforms? Oh no, darling, the man I have in mind was in white tie and tails.”

  Alecia met her employer’s gaze. “If you mean Peter Eyre, he already has a mistress. Miss Plash. She lives on this floor.”

  “Why is she still a miss, I wonder, at her age? Did she revert to her old name after a divorce?”

  “Fiancé killed very early in the war. Or so the rumor goes.”

  “Oh, she’s not so much younger than I am. She should have been married before that.”

  “That’s all I know. Our chambermaid told me. I was asking questions because I was concerned about Mrs. Plash. She was very confused the other night. Talking to a fern, that sort of thing.”

  “Goodness,” Sybil said. “With such distractions as that, it should not be too hard to knock Miss Plash out of the running.”

  “But how old is Mr. Eyre?” She thought him to be about the same age as Ivan. Much too young for Sybil.

  Sybil set down her lipstick. “It hardly matters. I’m not looking for a husband. But I’ll need you to lie for me, whenever I’m missing.”

  Alecia chose her words carefully. “What do you want me to say?”

  “That I’m beautifying. Men always believe that. It’s so often true.”

  “I should say something like you are having a manicure somewhere new?” She opened Sybil’s manicure case and set the tools to rights.

  “Or I’m on a quest for the newest lipstick shade. Only inexpensive things. Do not panic my husband.”

  “Of course not.”

  Sybil picked up a gold and red enamel bracelet and slipped it on one arm, then held it up for admiration. “I must say, I’m surprised you are going along with this so easily.”

  “I knew theatrical folk were different,” Alecia said. “And London isn’t Bagshot.”

  “Steer clear of Mr. Marvin at any rate. You don’t have to think he’ll need a substitute for me. I’ll keep my end up in my marriage. I just want to have a little fun. Being married to an older man can be such a bore at times.”

  “Yes, of course.” Alecia took the jewel case that Sybil handed her. “I’ll take this down to the safe.”

  “Thank you.” Sybil looked up with a broad, happy smile as the door to
the adjoining room opened and Richard came in. She accepted his kiss on her cheek.

  “Very nice, poppet. You’ll be a shoo-in for the part.”

  “The understudy part.” Faint wrinkles showed on Sybil’s upper lip as she pouted.

  “You’ll have your chance to go on stage. Meanwhile, we have this command performance to consider.” Richard checked his arms in the mirror and turned one of his square gold cuff links.

  Alecia left the room as silently as she dared. She’d thought the pair completely attuned. Perhaps they were, but only in matters of business. They did have separate bedrooms, even in an expensive hotel, and had been married for seventeen years. Did all marriages go this way?

  She did wonder, though, what would happen to her position if the affair was discovered, along with her part in helping it along. She might end up returning to Bagshot sooner than she’d like.

  While she went down the five flights of stairs to the lobby, she had time to think. In general, long marriage or not, she was horrified by Sybil’s behavior, or at least how she planned to behave. Alecia’s cheeks heated at the thought. She didn’t know much about sex, but at least she knew a little about kissing now. She suspected Ivan was good at it. Did he have a sex life?

  Oh, don’t think about that. Once she started she wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. Some modern girl she was. But what lay underneath that handsome uniform? A broad chest? Muscled arms? Toned thighs?

  She swallowed hard as she reached the door to the main floor, panting audibly. It was the stairs. She needed to take more exercise. A long walk every day. Yes, that was the ticket. Or dancing.

  She breathed slowly until both her body and her mind were calm, then put her hand to the doorknob just as it began to turn. She stepped back, clutching Sybil’s jewel case.

  When the door opened, she saw Ivan, just as if he’d been summoned by her thoughts.

  “Hello, Mr. Salter.” She smiled, not even a little bit shy. More acting. Cinderella, not a mouse.

  Instead of speaking to her, much less teasing her like he had before, he scarcely nodded in her direction before starting his climb upstairs.