Raymond was about to grab Billy by his collar when Nancy, sensing his anger, stepped between them.
‘You know everyone’s secrets, don’t you, Billy?’ snapped Raymond. ‘You were happy enough passing mine to Maynard Charles—’
‘You’d better tell us,’ Nancy said, more softly. ‘Tell us everything.’
‘Miss Marchmont has a daughter. She lives south of the river, off Brixton Hill. Nobody’s meant to know because—’
‘Because what, Billy?’
‘She’s black, Nance. Hélène and Sidney, he used to be in the orchestra, the devil with a trumpet. The one who died. Hélène had his daughter and she lives down there, with Sidney’s parents. It’s me who delivers them messages back and forth. And . . .’ Billy steeled himself, and Raymond had the distinct impression that here came the most terrible secret of all. ‘Once Vivienne knew, she made me make another promise. She wants to dance tonight, you see. She wants to be on the dance floor, behind her mask, for everyone to swoon and gawp over, for everyone to think she’s the star . . . And then she wants to rip off her mask and reveal herself – all so’s her mother and Lord Edgerton get the shock of their lives. So she wrote a letter. She made me deliver it. She made me deliver it to Miss Marchmont . . .’
Raymond looked over his shoulder. From the other side of the dressing room, Nathaniel was still staring at them, his hands placed squarely on his hips.
Raymond looked back at Billy. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you’d better tell us exactly what that letter said – before it’s too late.’
*
The omnibus was already driving off by the time Hélène reached out for its doors. By some strange mercy, the driver noticed her and slowed the engine. ‘Climb aboard, love. There you go. Don’t want you stuck out on a night like this, do we?’
Hélène was still quaking as she found a seat. Pressed up against the window, she opened up the telegram and scoured its words again.
*
Hélène, come at once. Sybil woke last night with a fever. You must come at once. It has a hold on her, Hélène. Come at once. She needs her mama. There may not be another chance.
*
The paper strained where she held it. Sybil was so near, and yet a lifetime away. What did the ballroom matter, what did any of it matter? A winter like this could kill the strongest of men. What hope for a little girl with an infection racking her chest? She looked up through the window at the endless white as Regent Street turned into the Circus at Piccadilly. The great billboards peered down, advertising all manner of wares, and it was all Hélène could do not to scream, and scream, and scream.
*
At the ballroom dressing-room doors, Raymond froze.
‘Billy, you bastard. Billy, you fool. Go after her. Go now. Well, you’re the only one who knows where she’s gone, aren’t you?’
Billy nodded. There was anger in Raymond’s voice, but there was purpose as well. ‘I’ll get her back,’ he said. ‘She can still dance tonight. She can still—’
‘To hell with the dancing, Billy. Bring her back here and . . .’ He looked at Nancy. ‘I’m going to find Vivienne. And when I find her, I’ll . . .’
Raymond flew through the dressing-room doors, strode like a colossus past the dance studio, up and up towards the reception hall. Vivienne was not in the ballroom itself. That left only two places she could possibly be. Either she was lining up the cocktails in the Candlelight Club or she was in her rooms, preparing to sashay down the stairs and present herself. A thousand thoughts hurtled through Raymond’s mind. No doubt Nathaniel White was in on this. No doubt that was why he’d spent so long with her, training her in the studio, dancing with her on countless nights in the ballroom itself.
He reached the service lift and rang the bell to call it down. At the sound of hurried footsteps behind him, he turned and saw Nancy, face flushed, rushing towards him.
‘I’ll kill her,’ Raymond spat. ‘I’ll kill her for what she’s done . . .’
The lift doors opened, revealing the attendant. Raymond reached in and heaved him out. Before the poor man knew what was happening, the doors were closing and Nancy was slipping inside after Raymond.
‘NO!’ Nancy exclaimed, grappling with Raymond’s arm. ‘You don’t know why she did it, Raymond. You don’t know . . .’
‘I know it was jealousy, pure and simple. People like Vivienne Edgerton, it’s bad blood through and through . . .’
The lift soared, counting one floor after another.
‘Listen to yourself,’ Nancy cried. ‘Bad blood? You don’t really believe in bad blood. If you do, you’re the same as the rest of them. As Lord Edgerton and all his fascist set. No, there’s no bad blood, Raymond. There’s only . . .’ Nancy paused. They were almost at Vivienne’s floor. ‘If you’d seen what my father was like, then maybe you’d understand. If you’d seen the way his addiction changed him from being the most wonderful, caring father – into someone who cared only about where his next dose was coming from. It turned him into something else, Raymond. If not a monster, then a ghost. I didn’t matter to him. He barely remembered I had a brother.’ She stopped. The lift had come to a halt, and with the ring of a bell the doors slid open. ‘It wasn’t him, Raymond. That’s my point. He did the most terrible things, but he wasn’t himself.’
Raymond stepped out. From around the corner he could hear the footsteps of yet more guests as they were all drawn down towards the ballroom. A clock on the wall showed the hour inching towards 7 p.m. The evening’s performances were about to begin.
Nancy reached out, took him by the arm once more.
‘Please, Raymond. You have to listen. What Vivienne did is abominable. What Hélène’s going through isn’t right. But she’ll get to Brixton Hill, she’ll find her daughter, she’ll know it was all a lie – and her life, their lives, will go on. But Vivienne . . . Vivienne didn’t do it out of evil. She did it out of desperation. You heard what Billy said – she wants to dance. She wants to show her mother, her stepfather, that she matters. It’s why she asked you to teach her and why she took it so badly that you would not. It’s why she fell in with Nathaniel White. Maybe she needs it. Maybe she needs something to cling on to, something to steady her – anything so she can face the world. Vivienne isn’t the enemy here, Raymond. All of the damage she’s been doing, to herself, to the hotel – why, even to me – she’s been crying out for help all this time. And who was answering? Only Mr Simenon and that poison of his.’ She stopped. Raymond had already surged ahead, bound for Vivienne’s room. ‘Raymond. Ray. You have to listen. It wasn’t Vivienne who did this, not really. It was the poison . . .’
Chapter Thirty-four
THE DOOR TO VIVIENNE EDGERTON’S suite burst open, the door jamb splintering beneath the force of Raymond de Guise’s boot. Raymond was the first to crash through. Nancy followed in his wake.
Vivienne’s suite was empty, the wardrobe hanging open. Raymond looked inside it, to find a succession of ball gowns pushed aside and a single hanger empty in the wardrobe’s centre. All around him was that familiar scent of Chanel.
‘Where is she?’ Raymond uttered. Then realisation hit him square between the eyes. ‘The ballroom.’
*
The doors of the Grand Ballroom stood wide open. Vivienne Edgerton, a glittering tiara in her hair and a simple black mask in her hand, stared down the sloping hall and into the ballroom itself. Men and women gathered in small groups, their gowns ostentatious, their suits adorned with strange flourishes and swirls, alive with colour. Guests were still arriving, brushing past Vivienne as, masks of animals and princesses and unreal spirits in hand, they made their way to the celebration. She was certain she caught sight of her mother, face hidden behind black satin, and stepfather – one of the few wearing only a plain evening suit – in the turning crowd, but then they were gone.
She was going to do this.
Her heart was beating as fast as a baby bird’s. She fel
t light-headed and found herself craving something, anything that might take the edge off what she was feeling. She would need confidence tonight. She would need fire. The phials Billy Brogan had procured were still upstairs. A part of her wanted to fly back there, inhale everything she could, and then return to the ballroom with the conviction she felt every time she indulged. But she could see the ballroom filling up. She looked up to find the clock above the check-in desks. It was almost seven o’ clock – the time when the band would strike up, the first clarion call of the trumpets flaring, and the dressing-room doors would open for the dancers to sweep out. She had seen what Nathaniel had planned. She had marvelled at it.
No, she thought, there’s no time to hesitate now. Lives are transformed in moments like this. I’ll do it whether I’m feeling fearless or not. I’ll do it all for myself, without any false courage fizzing in my veins . . .
She turned on the spot, marched around the lifts and down to the back doors of the ballroom. The dressing-room door was ajar so, without breaking her stride, she strode on through.
The atmosphere was electric.
Archie Adams and his orchestra were already crowding the doors to the ballroom itself. Sofía LaPegna and the dancers were scattered around, still tending to each other’s gowns, still painting their faces with white paints and rouge. Just the scent, just the feel of the place, made every nerve in Vivienne’s body tingle. The air was alive with expectation.
Nathaniel White was up by the ballroom doors. As Vivienne approached, she saw the look of agitation on his face. That, she supposed, was only to be expected. Her heart, which until now had been quickening, suddenly slowed. She was going to make this better. It hit her with a clarity she had not expected. For the first time in her life, everything was going according to plan.
She reached out to caress his arm. ‘Nathaniel?’
Nathaniel looked over his shoulder to find Vivienne standing there.
‘Vivienne,’ he said, ‘I can’t talk. Not now. Marchmont’s absconded. She’s done it to spite me – you can be certain of that. She knows what this means to me. If she isn’t here by the time the orchestra plays—’
As if on cue, Archie Adams clapped his hands together to make an announcement. Louis Kildare and the rest of the band followed suit. At Archie’s instruction, they formed a line, ready to march out and begin the celebrations.
‘God damn it,’ Nathaniel uttered. ‘God damn her.’ He craned around. ‘LaPegna!’ he hissed. ‘LaPegna, it’ll have to be you. Follow my lead and don’t—’
Sofía LaPegna was about to reply – ‘Where’s Hélène?’ – when Vivienne interjected, ‘I’m here, Nathaniel.’
‘I can see that, Vivienne, but they’re about to—’
The dressing-room doors opened. One after another, the band members began to march through to the ballroom itself. The ballroom fell silent. Then, after a pregnant pause, the applause began. In the corner of her eye, Vivienne could see Louis Kildare and the rest soaking up the worship of the crowd. Then, one after another, the orchestra took their places upon the stage.
Nathaniel White’s eyes were on Sofía. Vivienne stepped in front of him, obscuring his view of everything else.
‘I can do it, Nathaniel. You know I can. I’ve watched you dance it. You showed me the steps yourself. We’ve danced almost every night out there in the ballroom.’ She smiled warmly, her eyes full of anticipation. ‘I can do it, Nathaniel. You’re the one who taught me . . .’ She was almost laughing now. Vivienne Edgerton had never believed in destiny, but this felt like destiny tonight. She reached out, trying to clasp Nathaniel’s hand. Perhaps she should have been perturbed when he did not immediately entwine his fingers with hers, but she was too high on the moment to notice. ‘Imagine it, Nathaniel – you and me—’
Nathaniel snatched his hands away.
‘You?’ he hissed. ‘Dance in the Grand? Dance for the lords and ladies out there? Dance for a king and queen? A crown princess?’ He had started out disbelieving, but by the time he was finished he was braying with laughter. ‘Vivienne, how much have you indulged yourself tonight? You told me you weren’t going to do that any more, not after you nearly killed yourself the last time . . .’
Vivienne’s eyes were still full of hope. ‘You’ll lead me, Nathaniel. I can do everything Hélène Marchmont can. The way we dance together, it’s—’
‘Child’s play,’ scoffed Nathaniel. His eyes darted back to the dressing-room door. The applause was beginning to die down as the band settled onto the stage.
‘Yes!’ Vivienne beamed. ‘We make it look so easy—’
‘Not like that,’ snapped Nathaniel. ‘The way we dance? It’s like dancing with a three-year-old, Vivienne. Like balancing somebody’s baby daughter on your feet and pretending you’re on stage at the Folies-Bergère. It’s all make-believe. Oh, Vivienne,’ he laughed, ‘you’re not serious, are you? You don’t really think I could take you out there? I’m to put on a show. I’m to romance the crown princess of Norway herself. I couldn’t let them see me dancing with someone like you.’
The malice in his words finally touched Vivienne. The effect was like putting a lit match to spilled paraffin. The flames caught instantly. Her eyes grew fat with tears. Her jaw trembled. One moment she had felt as big as the world; now she felt as diminutive as a child.
‘Somebody . . . like . . . me?’
‘An untalented little junkie, barely fit to visit the ballroom, let alone perform in it. Oh, Vivienne, you silly little girl. What did you think all this was for? You girls and your wild romances. A ballroom isn’t for romance, Vivienne. It’s for the cold, brutal, realities of life. You think it’s all beauty and starlight, but you’re wrong. It’s war.’ Nathaniel’s eyes roamed the room, desperate to see Hélène stride back through the doors. He was coiled like a serpent ready to strike. ‘Good God, Vivienne, this night’s about to fall apart right in front of me – and what do you do? Did you really think a few weeks of dancing could turn you into somebody worthy of the world stage?’ He barked one last time. ‘I like you, Vivienne. We had our fun, didn’t we? You helped me get my foot in the ballroom and I gave you what you wanted in return. I danced with you, didn’t I? Not just out there, but up there too. But how could you even hope to compare with somebody like Hélène Marchmont? Girls like you are good for just one thing, Vivienne – and it isn’t for kings and queens . . .’
The whole of the dressing room was a blur. Vivienne staggered backwards, flailing over her own feet. Good for just one thing, she thought. The words echoed mercilessly in her ears. Yes, good for just one thing – and that thing, it was waiting upstairs, right where she had left it.
She wanted it now. She needed it now.
She took another step backwards, crashed into whatever was behind her. As she turned, she felt arms picking her back up. Raymond was standing there, his arms around her. His chambermaid was with him, her eyes full of fury. Do they know what I’ve done? Vivienne wondered. She could not stand that now. She did not want to know.
Raymond set her back on her feet, then strode past her. His face was set hard. His eyes were full of fire. He reached out and clapped one of his meaty hands on Nathaniel’s shoulder. It was strange how little Nathaniel seemed compared to Raymond. She hadn’t noticed it until now.
Through the doors, the band had started playing. Sofía LaPegna and the other dancers leaped up and out of their chairs, preparing for the first dance. Yet the door to the ballroom was being blocked by Nathaniel.
Raymond brought his hand back. Vivienne saw it clenched into a tight fist.
‘She might be a spoilt little rich girl,’ he said, ‘but she’s our spoilt little rich girl.’
His fist flew forward, connecting with Nathaniel’s chin. Nathaniel’s head snapped back. He reeled. Still dazed, he did not notice as Raymond wheeled around with a second fist. This blow caught him on the side of the head and he dropped, unconscious, onto the dressing-room floor.
Raymond loomed over him. ‘Our ballroom isn’t for your glory,’ he uttered, ‘no matter who your father is.’ Then, without turning around, he said, ‘I see it now, Nancy. Vivienne, you’d better—’
‘Vivienne, no!’
At Nancy’s exclamation, Raymond finally turned around. Vivienne had already taken off, up and out of the dressing room. For a moment, Nancy stared into Raymond’s eyes. ‘After her,’ he said. ‘What she said to Hélène, that can wait. Nobody comes into our hotel and treats people like that. Our ballroom isn’t about war. It’s about magic.’ He was tempted to put a boot into Nathaniel, but Sofía LaPegna and the other dancers were already clamouring round. The band had been playing too long already. ‘Go!’ he cried out, and Nancy took flight, rushing after Vivienne.
Raymond bent down, put his arms around Nathaniel and heaved him aside. His mind was still buzzing. Hélène was somewhere out there in the snow. Billy Brogan had gone after her, but there was no hope of her coming back in time – there never had been. Maybe Nancy had been right. People connived and cheated and lied for all manner of reasons. The bastard unconscious underneath him – he’d connived and lied and led people on, all for his personal glory. Was it really possible Vivienne was a victim in all of this?
There was no time to debate the goods and evils of it. His eyes scanned the room, picked out Sofía LePegna. Dropping to his knees, he picked up the black mask that Nathaniel had dropped when he fell. Its strap was still intact. He slipped it over his own eyes.
‘It’s a quickstep,’ he said, listening out for the music. ‘Watch me for the rhythm changes, and follow my lead . . .’
One Enchanted Evening Page 34