Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  ‘Lucette’s gone.’

  She stared at him. ‘Gone?’ she repeated, stupidly. ‘Gone where?’

  He shrugged elaborately, and nearly fell over. ‘Who knows?’ He looked around vaguely. ‘Have you got anything around here to drink?’

  Kitty shook her head.

  He dropped into a chair. ‘Gone,’ he said again. ‘Vamoosed. Done a bunk.’

  ‘Why?’ Kitty asked, faintly. ‘Did she say?’

  ‘Nope. Just upped and left.’ Gloomily he rubbed his unshaven face with paint-stained fingers. ‘Good riddance,’ he muttered, none too certainly, ‘she was more trouble than she was worth anyway.’

  Wisely Kitty said nothing to that. She looked at him for a long moment. ‘How long since you’ve eaten?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Marie-Claire?’

  The little dresser turned from where she was hanging Kitty’s costumes carefully in the wardrobe. ‘Oui, Mam’selle?’

  Kitty was scribbling a swift note. ‘Take this for me please to the gentleman you’ll find waiting at the stage door – a tall, thin man with a rose in his buttonhole and a gold-topped cane. Tell him – with apologies of course – that I am unexpectedly indisposed and cannot after all dine with him. Then you can go home.’

  ‘Oui, Mam’selle. Thank you, Mam’selle.’

  Kitty took Jem by the hand and pulled him to his feet. He stood swaying a little and blinking owlishly. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Somewhere you’ll get a square meal and sober up. I’m afraid I have a confession to make, and I’m not doing it while you’re in that state. Come on.’

  In a little street not far from the Parisots’ apartment was Kitty’s favourite restaurant, Le Chat Gris. Simple, relatively unknown, it was not a fashionable venue, but it was friendly and quiet and the food was superb. She had eaten there often with Charles and Genevieve, and knew herself in her new-found fame to be sure of a warm welcome.

  ‘Mam’selle Kitty—’ Monsieur Aurin, le patron, raised faintly questioning eyebrows at Jem’s dishevelled and undoubtedly Bohemian appearance, but made no comment.

  Kitty smiled her sweetest. ‘Could we have the table in the corner?’

  He conducted them to a small table at the far side of the room, secluded by a screen of plants. They ordered soup, Monsieur Aurin’s famous chicken in Burgundy and a bottle of wine. Jem drank his first glass at a thirsty gulp. Kitty tutted, and handed him hers; watched as he lifted it to his lips, hesitated, then set it untouched, a little sheepishly, back upon the table.

  ‘I’m sorry about Lucette,’ she said.

  ‘So am I.’ He tilted the glass and gazed into the sparkling liquid. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I find I’m a hell of a lot sorrier than I thought I’d be. Serves me right, I suppose.’

  ‘And – she gave you no idea why she was leaving?’

  ‘No.’

  Kitty hesitated. She was playing with Jem’s empty glass, running her finger around the wet rim. The glass sang faintly. ‘It was my fault,’ she said, abruptly.

  He shook his head. ‘Yours? Don’t be daft. Of course it wasn’t.’

  ‘It was. Lucette came to the apartment a couple of days ago. She saw—’

  ‘Saw what?’

  ‘She saw the painting. The portrait of her, that you sold for a thousand francs. I bought it.’

  Even when mildly drink-befuddled Jem was no one’s fool. He did not ask her to repeat the words. ‘You,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ She would not look at him. ‘You wouldn’t let me help you, and I knew you wouldn’t have let me pay that much for the painting – so—’

  ‘So you set me up.’ He was staring at her, his expression an extraordinary mixture of disbelief, exasperation and a faintly dawning, self-mocking laughter. He shook his head slowly. ‘Oh, boy. What an idiot. Why didn’t I guess? Who in their right mind’d want to pay a thousand francs for one of my daubs?’

  She lifted her head sharply. ‘You mustn’t say that! You mustn’t think it! It was a lovely painting—’ She stopped.

  He picked up the word. ‘Was?’

  ‘Lucette slashed it,’ she admitted, miserably.

  He nodded, unsurprised.

  ‘Oh, Jem, I’m so very sorry. I did it for the best, truly I did. I never dreamed Lucette would find out – and I never dreamed that if she did she’d take it so badly—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But yes, of course it does!’ The soup had arrived. Kitty leaned back as hers was served. Savoury steam rose. She pushed her plate away, her skin suddenly pale as pearl and sheened with the perspiration of nausea. Jem did not notice. She dabbed at her mouth with her starched white napkin. ‘I feel terrible about it now. It never occurred to me that she’d actually leave if she found out.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I understand now why she did,’ she added, honestly.

  Jem smiled, that smile that had not changed with the years, gentle and warm. ‘Kitty, you’re such an innocent! Don’t you know how most of Paris lives? Don’t you realize what Lucette thought that you were buying with that money? She almost certainly assumed that I knew. That you and I had entered into some – arrangement – behind her back. Oh Lord, I’m sorry – I’ve upset you now—’ He was by her side, supporting her as she swayed sickly in her chair.

  She took a deep, shaky breath. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘You aren’t. You’re as pale as a ghost. I’d no right to—’

  ‘No, no! Truly, I’m all right.’ She sat bolt upright, touching her napkin to her face. ‘I’m tired, that’s all, and not very hungry. The smell of food turned my stomach.’ She tried a smile, not altogether successfully. ‘You’ll just have to eat mine as well as your own, or M’sieu will never forgive me. If I could just have a glass of water?’

  He signalled to a waiter. When the water came she drank it thirstily. ‘I’m better now.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. And, oh, Jem, I am so sorry about Lucette. It was stupid and clumsy of me. Perhaps – perhaps she’ll come back?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘But – she loves you.’

  He looked at her then with such compassion that she thought he knew; knew of her terrors, of the battle she fought each day. ‘Dear Kitty – what has that to do with it? You of all people—’ He paused. ‘Will you go back?’

  She felt the rise of weak tears behind her eyes. Despising herself she shook her head, clenching her teeth. ‘No.’

  He said no more, but with a small gesture of affection reached for her hand across the table. They sat so for a moment in silence. ‘We may not be very good at choosing our lovers, you and I,’ he said at last, with a funny, rueful little smile, ‘but we sure as hell know a good friend when we see one, wouldn’t you say?’

  It was only a moment before she managed to collect herself enough to smile at that.

  (iii)

  Not in the wildest of moments had it occurred to Kitty that Luke would come to Paris: that he should appear with a glowing Lottie upon his arm and with fat Moses the apparent picture of a complacent husband trotting behind staggered her. Confronted by them unexpectedly when a beaming Charles escorted them to her dressing room before the start of the show she was reduced to total wordlessness by the shock.

  ‘Kitty – chérie! – see what a surprise I have for you! Some old friends from London—’

  Nothing had changed. The sight of Luke had, as always, the effect of a physical blow. Despite the manner of their parting she had to admit that not a day had gone by without thought of him; how, then, had she forgotten the force of his presence, the compulsion of those narrowed, wary eyes?

  He stood easily, gracefully handsome, faultlessly dressed, his expression pleasant and entirely unreadable. One might almost believe, a bemused Kitty thought, that there could be no possible connection between this self-possessed and charming man and the drunken brute she had faced at their last meeting. Lottie clung prettily to his arm, a picture in laven
der and violet silk. Moses, it seemed to Kitty, had in the past months become even more obese: he was sweating profusely, his great belly thrusting through his open jacket, the fleshy rolls of his neck scarlet folds above his high white collar. He had grown an absurd if fashionable Imperial, and the neat moustaches and beard sat upon the moon of his face like scribbling on a child’s drawing.

  ‘We heard rumours,’ Luke said gently, in the face of her stunned silence, ‘of a sensation in Paris. We thought we should investigate.’

  ‘A sensation indeed, M’sieu!’ Charles flourished his small, manicured hand. ‘The Czar – the German Chancellor – the Emperor himself—’

  Kitty shook her head. Her eyes had not left Luke’s face since he had entered the room, nor his hers. Yet so great was the shock of seeing him, so totally unprepared was she, that it was as if she were rooted to the spot, her tongue locked speechless. She should say something. She must.

  Charles babbled on.

  His eyes questioned, cool and expectant. He had come this far. Hers was the move now.

  The temptation was to run to him, fling herself into his arms, to give up the awful struggle, lean on his strength—

  Then, looking at the calm, smiling face, she saw it suddenly as she had last seen it and as she had no doubt it would be again; brutal, drunken, terrifying.

  She said absolutely nothing, nor did she make any move.

  A very small smile curved Lottie’s pretty mouth. Her hand moved very slightly, gently caressingly, within the crook of Luke’s arm. ‘Well, well.’ Moses, his habitual malevolence veiled by a – to Kitty – revolting affability, chuckled, pleased. ‘So here we are, eh? Making quite a name for ourselves, too. A long way from the poor old Song and Supper Rooms, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ She felt her face bloodless. Her tongue barely obeyed her.

  ‘Always knew you had it in you. Always said so—’ With characteristic and blatant disregard for the self-evident hypocrisy of his words Moses beamed at her in avuncular fashion. ‘The moment you stepped on that stage that night I said it. Ain’t that right, Luke?’

  Luke half-smiled but said nothing. His eyes were still on Kitty. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Yes. I’m fine.’ She saw the dark, observant eyes flicker over her face. ‘Why – why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’ They were talking to each other like strangers. Constraint hung between them like a meshed curtain of steel. But then – what else could he have expected, turning up without warning and in such company? She felt fatal anger stir, and tried to quell it.

  ‘We didn’t know ourselves,’ Luke said. ‘It was a – sudden decision’ – he grinned that familiar, crooked little smile and her heart lurched – ‘taken, perhaps I should add, after several magnums of excellent champagne had been consumed.’ He stepped away from Lottie, who released his arm with some reluctance; yet still it seemed to Kitty that the limpid blue eyes held a hint of triumphant challenge, a smug and malicious gleam of satisfaction: here I am, and with him, they said; make what you will of it.

  She struggled to order her thoughts, to break the strange threads of tension that seemed to bind the room like the web of an unseen spider. ‘Nothing much has changed then?’ she found herself saying, knowing the provocation of the words.

  Luke said nothing, but the line of his mouth hardened infinitesimally.

  There was a small, awkward silence. Charles looked from one to the other enquiringly, even he sensing the strain.

  ‘How’s Matt?’ she asked then and was startled by a sharply explosive breath from Moses, a small flicker of warning in Luke’s eyes.

  Moses it was who answered, falsely jocular. ‘How d’you expect that young whipper-snapper to be? Too big for his boots as usual, and causing as much trouble as a barrel-load of monkeys. How else? Pity you couldn’t have found him a job here. Saved us all a lot of pain.’

  Kitty looked at him and then at Luke. ‘Has something happened?’

  Luke shook his dark head. ‘No more than you’d expect. Matt and Moses don’t see eye to eye over the matter of a certain young lady, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘The same young lady?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘He hasn’t written. I’ve not heard a word from him since I got here.’

  ‘You didn’t expect it?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  Before he could say more there came a sharp rap upon the door and a sing-song call.

  Kitty picked up the Dipper’s cap and turned it a little nervously in her hands. ‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘You’ll dine with us afterwards,’ Luke said, and it was not a question. ‘We’ll pick you up.’

  Her mouth tightened a little at the arrogance of it. ‘I’m – very tired,’ she found herself saying, coolly.

  She saw the quick flash of anger in his eyes. ‘We won’t keep you out late, don’t worry.’ It came to her that whatever Luke had expected of his surprise visit it had not been this. Again her own irritation stirred to match his. How in heaven’s name had he thought she would react? Did he even now honestly not know what he had done?

  Charles bustled about them. ‘Come – you have my own box. A special occasion, yes—?’

  Luke turned and followed him without a word, the straight back and the tilt of his head making Kitty’s leaden heart sink even further. If he had come alone – if he had attempted to apologize – to understand – if, if, if—

  * * *

  The audience was not a good one that night. They jeered the comic, drowned the ventriloquist with hoots and boos, cheered when the tightrope walker slipped and all but broke his neck. It took every ounce of willpower that Kitty possessed to get her onto the stage, and every ounce of energy to claim and keep their attention. But she did it. Her act now was polished and professional; she would not disappoint her audience. As always she threw herself heart and soul into her performance, and her reward at the end was a bombardment of flowers – which she knew might well have been rather more bruising missiles – and several curtain calls, the fickle crowd rising to their feet and refusing to let her go. She should, she knew, be pleased that she had triumphed, and on such a night – but in fact she was exhausted. She fled to her dressing room and was very sick indeed. Marie-Claire clucked about her, concerned.

  ‘I’m all right. Truly I am. I just need to rest.’ But no hope of that. The thought of facing – and outfacing – Luke sapped what little courage and confidence she had left. Resolution and hard-fought decision trembled weakly upon the brink.

  She drank the brandy that the concerned Marie-Claire offered her at one gulp, and asked for another. With that inside her she struggled into a gown of emerald silk, let Marie-Claire deck her short, swinging hair with flowers, small feathered plumes and a pearl clip. Pearls, too, gleamed about her throat and her narrow wrist, the gems no paler, no more translucent than her skin. She was quiet when she met the others, allowing herself to be shepherded to a waiting carriage, speaking when spoken to, volunteering nothing. During the slow journey to the restaurant, however, her silence was not marked, for Lottie’s voluble enthusiasm for Paris – addressed, Kitty noted, almost exclusively to Luke – filled the silence and exacerbated the thunderous headache that assaulted Kitty each time the carriage swayed. Lottie’s apparently quite genuine love-affair with the city saw them too through the first part of the meal. Her voice, bright and sharp, rattled in Kitty’s brain like pebbles in a can. She watched Luke, watched the dark face, the hard mouth whose remembered touch even now stilled her heart, the long, lean hands. Tired anger swept her again.

  What were they doing here listening to Lottie’s silly chatter? If he had wanted a reconciliation, surely he would have come alone – did not the circumstances of their last parting demand that at least? And if he did not, why be so cruel as to come at all? She watched him. He was listening now to a rambling story from Moses, head tilted to one side. Not once had he glanced at her, not once indicated that he
too found the presence of the other two irksome, that he and she might have something more than inanities to speak of. With a swift movement she emptied her glass. Her head swam a little, then resumed its rhythmic pounding. Why had he come? Curiosity? A desire to hurt? To get his own back? What was it that horrible man at the Grange had said about a man never forgetting or forgiving an injury to his pride? And was not Luke the very personification of the kind of man of whom he had been speaking? Illogically, and with no word passed between them, her anger was fuelled again.

  The meal dragged on. An orchestra had taken the small stage, and the gentle strains of Strauss lifted above the clatter of cutlery and the voices of the diners. Lottie tapped her foot, looking hopefully at Luke. Luke ignored her. Kitty stared miserably at the exotically dressed poussin she was making no attempt to eat.

  ‘Shall we?’

  She looked up. Luke was standing over her, unsmiling, a commanding hand held out to her. As she had done everything else this evening she allowed herself as if with no volition to be drawn onto the small dance floor. His arms were about her, his body, so familiar, warm and strong against hers. There was little or no room to waltz: the couples swayed, turned, clung in the half-light like lovers beneath the bridges of the Seine. She felt his cheek against her hair. The strength of the hand that held hers, the feel of his body, even the smell of him was painfully, intolerably familiar. Stupid tears burned in her eyes. She blinked them away.

  ‘Well,’ he said, quietly. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything at all?’

  She tilted her head to look at him. The past months had been too much for her. Her mind and her heart were numbed. She could say nothing, for the simple reason that she still did not know in truth what she wanted to say.

  ‘Aren’t you glad to see me?’

  She hesitated. Then, ‘I don’t know,’ she said, honestly. ‘It was such a surprise – and with them—’ She glanced to where Moses and Lottie sat in apparently heated conversation at the table.