“You’re imagining things.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
“That’s just too bad,” I retorted.
Fortunately, he lapsed into stony silence again. We were both spoiling for a fight, and it wouldn’t do to give vent to our hostilities at this particular moment. The carriage rumbled over a bridge and passed through a sordid slum district. I clenched my hands tightly, growing more and more tense. The urge to cry was still with me, but I refused to give in to it. Anthony would have no patience with tears. Anthony had very little patience to begin with. He was harsh and hard and completely unfeeling.
We left the slums behind, and rode through a park, green lawns spread with soft shadows from the trees, lovers strolling hand in hand along the flowered pathways. Out of the park, the carriage slowed down because of heavy traffic. We were nearing the Strand. The sounds of the city assailed my ears, and through the window I could see the crowded sidewalks, elegantly attired men and women strolling past expensive shops and restaurants. As we drove through Covent Garden, a labyrinth of majestic old buildings, the narrow streets littered with wilted flowers and cabbage leaves, I gazed at the opera house, grand and imposing with its tall white columns. A few moments later we were moving down the Strand at a snail’s pace.
When the carriage stopped, my heart seemed to stop with it. Anthony climbed out and turned around to take my hand. Our eyes met. His expression was still grim, his blue eyes dark with worry. He had staked everything on this, I suddenly realized. His whole future depended on the next few moments. If I failed, if they even suspected I wasn’t genuine, he could lose everything. He helped me out of the carriage, holding my hand very tightly, his fingers crushing mine together. He seemed to radiate nervous tension. I had been grossly unfair. He had worked so hard, had invested all his money, had gone deeply into debt, because he believed in me. I couldn’t fail him. I couldn’t let him down.
“This is it, luv,” he said.
I nodded and stepped into character. Mary Ellen Lawrence vanished, her worries and apprehension evaporating. I was dark and exotic and gorgeous in my purple gown and beplumed hat. I was spoiled, accustomed to much pampering, and I was sensual, accustomed to turning every male eye. I had had a tedious, bumpy crossing from Calais to Dover, an even more tedious ride in a stuffy railroad carriage, and I was in a testy mood, concerned about my trunks. Elena Lopez took over entirely, possessing me. I saw with her eyes. I felt with her emotions. Gazing at the lovely facade of the hotel with open disdain, I spoke with a heavy Spanish accent.
“So thees eez zee oh-tel. Elena Lopez eez accustomed to pal-aces. I do not like thees place. Zhere eez no red carpet!”
I glared at him with angry eyes. Anthony was taken aback, and then he was delighted. I could see his spirits rising. He gave my hand another tight squeeze. Pulling my hand free, I tossed my head. This English menial was altogether too familiar. I allowed him to take my elbow and lead me toward the entrance where a doorman in gray uniform festooned with gold braid held the door open for us. Moving past the doorman without a glance, my chin tilted haughtily, my red lips forming a pout of disapproval, I looked over the spacious lobby, all gold and crystal and gleaming white. A group of men in poorly fitting suits were clustered near the front desk, talking loudly. One of them turned and saw us. He let out an exclamation of glee, and the whole pack charged us.
They all began to talk at once, eager, excited voices and rapid-fire questions merging together and creating one vast roar. I recoiled in horror, my eyes flashing. They were like a pack of leaping, yapping hounds, and I wanted to slash them with a riding crop. Anthony gripped my elbow tightly, shoving the men back with his free hand. David joined the group. He helped Anthony subdue the pack.
“Later!” David cried in his robust voice. “Give her room! Let her pass!”
“How do you like London?” a thickset redhead bellowed. “What do you think of English men?”
“Is it true that Franz Liszt locked you out of your room?” a strapping blond yelled.
“Are you really Lord Byron’s illegitimate daughter?”
“Did the Russian poet really commit suicide because you wouldn’t—”
“Back!” David thundered.
“Don’t shove me, mate! Hands off! Who the bloody ’ell do you think you are? I just want a minute of your time, Miss Lopez. I just want to know if—”
I stood stony still, ignoring the noise, the confusion, the flushed, hearty faces, the overwhelming stench of cigar smoke and sweat. David and Anthony finally managed to drive the pack away from me. Anthony told them I was exhausted, far too exhausted to talk with them now. David promised that they would all be invited to a reception in my suite, later. I would talk freely then, and there would be food and drinks. The men grumbled menacingly. One of them called David a traitor but he ignored the remark. Finally, the pack withdrew, huddling together near the elegant staircase to stare at me angrily.
“Who are zees men?” I asked as Anthony rejoined me.
“The press,” he replied.
“Zee big man with zee shoulders and sandy ’air, who eez he?”
“David Rogers. He’s working for us. He’ll handle all our relations with the press. We’ve already arranged for your suite, Miss Lopez, but you’ll have to sign the register.”
The gentlemen from Fleet Street were listening intently. They watched with hostile eyes as I followed Anthony over to the desk and signed the register. The desk clerk, looking both embarrassed and appalled that such a commotion had taken place, handed a key to a youth in a gray-and-gold uniform and told him to take us up to my suite. The men continued to grumble among themselves. I didn’t like their mood. I decided to do something about it. I might not be able to answer their questions just yet, but I wanted to win them over immediately. I looked at them with a great deal of interest, a woman sizing up potential bed partners.
“Why do I need someone to ’andle zees men for me? Why can’t I speak vith zem? I deedn’t know zey were vith zee press. I thought zey were ardent admirers who wanted to sleep vith me.”
“Uh, Miss Lopez—” Anthony began uneasily.
“Are all English men zo ’andsome?” I asked.
The men were listening and watching me intently. I continued to study them, my lips slightly parted, my eyes straying from man to man.
“Zat big redhead, he is good-looking, no? He eez big and tall with zee strength of a stallion. Zat blond, he has zee smouldering eyes, he is very good vith zee women, I can tell. Zey are all virile. Zey remind me of my Cossacks. I will ask zem up to my room. I will answer zeir questions and give zem champagne.”
“Later, Miss Lopez,” Anthony said nervously. “Mister Rogers has arranged a reception. You can talk with them then. You’re tired. You’ve had a very uncomfortable journey, and—”
“Zey are disappointed,” I interrupted. “Zey will go back to zair papers and zey will write unkind things about Elena Lopez. Zis big man with zee shoulders and zee sandy ’air, he does not tell Elena Lopez when to speak to zee men from zee press!”
“The reception is all arranged. You see, that way every one of the men will have an equal opportunity to speak with you. No one will be short-changed. They’ll all be able to get a good story.”
“I see. I will invite zem to my reception.”
“Mister Rogers will inform them as to—”
“I vill ask zem!” I said defiantly.
As I started toward the group of men, Anthony grabbed my arm, trying to restrain me. But I jerked my arm free and gave him a blazing look that should have incinerated him on the spot. I moved over to the staircase and stood in front of the men. Their attitude had changed completely. They were no longer hostile toward me. David and Anthony had become the villains, and Elena Lopez was their champion. I smiled at them. David shot Anthony a frantic look.
“Gentlemen of zee. press,” I said slowly, trying very hard to speak proper English. “I want you to come to a part
y. We will have champagne and I will answer all your questions. Elena Lopez loves zee gentlemen of zee press. Zey are always so charming.”
They grinned. They beamed. They adored me.
“You,” I said angrily, pointing to David. “Zis oh-tel ’as a place where zey serve drinks? Yes? Please, you will take all zee gentlemen zhere and buy zem drinks. Elena Lopez pays. Zey put it on her bill.”
Three or four of the men actually cheered. David frowned and looked at Anthony but shrugged his shoulders and led the way into the adjoining bar. The men followed eagerly. I waved to them. Anthony gripped my elbow and led me up the stairs, the uniformed youth hurrying ahead of us. I felt a glow of triumph. It had been so very easy. I hadn’t been nervous at all. Instinctively, I had thrown myself into the role with complete abandon. As we followed the youth down a long, wide plushly carpeted corridor, I found that I was actually enjoying myself.
“Where are my trunks?” I demanded as we stopped in front of a door. “Where eez my jewel case? I gave it to my maid? She eez here? Elena feels na-ked without her jewels.”
Anthony gave me a grim, exasperated look as the youth opened the door and led us into a spacious, beautifully appointed sitting room done in tan and deep maroon and pale blue. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Deep maroon draperies framed the tall windows. The young man opened a door and showed us the bedroom and indicated the adjoining dressing room and bath. Anthony, tipping him generously, told him everything was satisfactory and showed him out, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath and leaned against the door, staring at me, his arms crossed over his chest, his face expressionless.
“I like it,” I said.
“At these prices, you’d bloody well better.”
“I’ve never seen such luxurious rooms.”
“Only the best for Elena Lopez.”
His face was inscrutable, and he kept staring at me as though I were a stranger. Had I done well? Had I gone too far? I moved across the deep tan carpet. I took off my hat and laid it on a sofa upholstered in pale blue. He continued to watch me, his lids drooping slightly.
“Where’s Millie?” I asked.
“She’s probably in her room. It’s at the end of the hall.”
“My trunks?”
“They’ll be here.”
“I don’t care what you think,” I said testily. “I think I was magnificent.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely magnificent!”
“You’re bloody generous with my money. Do you know how much those chaps drink? They drink like fish. That little gesture of yours is going to cost me a bloody fortune, and you know what?”
“What?”
“I don’t even care.”
I looked at him, surprised. His eyes began to sparkle and his mouth spread into a wide grin. Bounding across the room, he caught me up in a great bear hug that almost broke my ribs. He squeezed me tightly, rocking me to and fro, and then he actually whirled me around, as exuberant and lusty as a soccer player who has just won a big game. He set me on my feet and seized both my hands and squeezed them and grinned and grinned.
“The style! The flair! I should never have worried! I should have known you’d be tremendous. What an entrance! You had them eating out of your hand! Christ, you were marvelous! Marvelous!”
He hugged me again.
“For a minute there, I actually believed you were Elena Lopez!”
He released me, and I caught my breath. Then he grabbed my hands again.
“I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned! That accent! Those flashing eyes! What instinct! You knew just what to do, just what to say. You’ve got the press on your side already, luv, and the rest is going to be a snap of the fingers. You were fantastic!”
“Thank God,” I said.
XVII
Anthony insisted that we do it again. So we did, and when we were finished, the men in the orchestra sighed and shifted their instruments. I stood onstage with my hands on my hips, tapping my foot impatiently. Everyone was on edge. Tomorrow night Elena Lopez would make her debut. This afternoon was our last chance to rehearse. Anthony was like a demon, hard on the orchestra, even harder on me, making impossible demands. He climbed out of his seat now and strode up and down the aisle. His footsteps rang loudly in the vast, empty auditorium.
“You’re going to hate me, I know, but I’m going to ask you to do it one more time. The fast number’s fine, all fire and fury, music and movements in perfect harmony, but the slower number—”
He shook his head. Several men in the orchestra groaned. Several more cast angry glances in his direction. They were here to play Rossini, not to indulge an upstart entrepreneur who clearly wouldn’t know what art was if it bit him on the neck, and they resented him. They felt sorry for me. They had expected fireworks from the notorious Elena Lopez, but she had been meek, patient, polite, never once complaining during any of the rehearsals. She had been friendly to each and every one of them, greeting them warmly in her thick Spanish accent, and giving them apologetic looks when she failed to satisfy the bully.
She was tapping her foot now. She was bone weary. Her nerves were raw and jangling. If he kept on pushing her and riding her, those fireworks were going to materialize.
“One more time,” he pleaded. “Remember, men, this music is sensual. It’s not Mozart. It’s not Rossini. It’s a Spanish love song, slow and moody. Think of hot summer nights in Madrid. Think of a lovelorn youth and a seductive temptress who is trying to make him forget the fair maiden he loves. Think of—”
“I’m thinking of my backside,” one of the men protested. “I’ve been sitting in this bloody chair, propping up this bloody violin, for four hours straight.”
Anthony ignored the remark. He strolled down the aisle, moving nearer the stage. He was wearing dark plum-colored trousers and a white cambric shirt opened at the throat, sleeves folded up to his elbows. His brown hair was casually disarrayed. I tapped my foot more rapidly now, my nerves near the snapping point.
“Miss Lopez,” he said, “kindly remember that you are attempting to seduce a beautiful youth with burning eyes. You want him. Your movements are slow, sensuous. You are smouldering with desire.”
I looked at the conductor. I looked at the men in the pit.
“Who eez thees man?” I asked.
“What’s that?” Anthony said.
“Who eez thees man! He thinks he can tell Elena Lopez about passion? He thinks he can treat her with—with this pa-tron-izing condescension? She has been zee angel, right? She has not complained. She has let heem browbeat her and work zeez poor men to death. No more! She eez finished for zee day.”
“Now hold on, luv.”
“Finished!”
I stomped my foot, tossed my head, and I stalked offstage. The men in the pit applauded noisily. As I headed toward my dressing room, stepping over coils of rope, moving past stacks of flats leaning against the bare brick walls, I could hear Anthony clambering up onto the stage in hot pursuit. Reaching the rusty iron staircase that wound up to the less important dressing rooms above, I whirled around to face him. When he saw the expression on my face, he hesitated, biting back the angry words he’d been about to speak, realizing he was going to have to use a. different approach.
“Look, luv—” he began.
“Not one more word!” I snapped.
“This is our last opportunity to—”
“I am exhausted! So are those men! The theater’s like an oven, not a single breath of fresh air, and you’ve been a heartless slave driver! You’re lucky I’m not sprawled out onstage in a dead faint! You expect me to perform tomorrow night? I won’t be able to perform tomorrow night. I’ll be in some hospital bed in a state of complete collapse!”
“The accent, remember the accent. Someone might overhear.”
“Go to hell!”
He shook his head and gave me a weary, patient look.
“I want you to stay in character as much as possible, but th
is is overdoing it.”
His voice was patient, too. He might have been speaking to a rather simple-minded child. I could feel the anger boiling up inside me. Smiling, he patted my arm, all warmth and understanding now. He started to say something gentle and consoling, but when he saw my flashing eyes he decided against it. He stepped back and thrust his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. I stormed past him, angry tears burning in my eyes.
Millie was waiting for me in the dressing room. Observing the state I was in, she didn’t bother to speak, but fetched a glass of cool water and handed it to me. I sat down in front of the mirror and drank it. Sprinkling cologne on a cloth, she patted my temples and forehead with it. I took a deep breath, willing myself to simmer down. After a few moments I took the cloth from her and finished wiping my face. Millie gave a sigh of relief.
“I’m sorry, Millie.”
“You just got a bit wrought up,” she said. “It’s all this tension and strain.”
“I suppose so.”
“You’ll be fine once tomorrow night’s over with. You’re gonna’ be a sensation, just like you were when you gave the reception for them fellows from the newspapers. They loved you—just look at the things they’ve been writin’ about you—and the audience is going to love you, too.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Anthony.”
“God forbid.”
“I don’t need reassurance. I just need—I just need a little peace and quiet.”
“’Course you do, luv.”
Millie handed me a towel and set a ewer of water on the dressing table. I slipped out of my rehearsal gown and bathed my neck and arms. Millie helped me into a robe, and when I sat back down she began to brush my hair. Millie took her job very seriously. Dressed in a simple dark-blue cotton dress, a ruffled white organdy apron tied around her waist, her golden curls caught up in a loose French roll on the back of her head, she was determined to be the best lady’s maid in London. Now that she had gone respectable, she was respectable with a vengeance, watching her language, trying not to drop her h’s.
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