Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Alfred went pale. ‘Fuck, I had no idea, she swore I was her first and only lover. I was crazy in love with her. But thanks for tipping me off. Have a Merry Christmas, Mr Blade.’

  ‘Ditto, Alfred. Keep your chin up. Believe me, you can do better than Miss Gottfried.’

  Jim glanced at Cat but she was distracted by a tray of warm party pies going past. He unloaded four from the tray and took the opportunity to confiscate her brandy eggnog. A pair of canoodling young lovers had blocked Cat’s view of the proceedings, so Jim hoisted her up onto his shoulders. She made no protest about the eggnog and became absorbed in watching a pair of heavily rouged adolescent girls nudge an obese Texan oil tycoon up the stairs. Everyone watched his ascent with bated breath but nobody cheered when he reached the top. Jim’s shoulders sagged.

  Then a gleaming black limousine appeared from nowhere and when the doorman dramatically swung open the rear door, an elegant leg in a silver shoe appeared. The crowd strained forward, trying to see who was emerging. It was none other than the famed Italian opera singer Miss Sabina Quattrocelli. The crowd murmured appreciatively. Miss Quattrocelli was dressed in a sinuous silk sheath that paid tribute to her magnificent voluptuous figure. Slipping off her powdered shoulders was a sleek black fur stole, the exact same lustre as her hair. She was accompanied by two handsome British tenors, groomed and polished to perfection.

  The tenors gently grasped Miss Quattrocelli’s elbows and virtually carried her across the red carpet that extended from the gutter and up the stairs. Bringing up the rear was her latest lover, a well-known British theatre impresario, decked out in a tailored black dinner jacket, white evening tie, silk top hat and white gloves. And tucked securely under his arm was Miss Quattrocelli’s nervy chihuahua. The crowd tittered and even the snogging young couple came up for air to ogle the bulging eyes of the trembling dog.

  All four artistes lingered under the coloured Christmas lights, signing autographs and graciously acknowledging their audience, while the chihuahua shivered.

  It was the night before Christmas and all was well at the Hotel du Barry.

  5

  Bad to the Bone

  Daniel took Cat aside. He gently smoothed her unruly hair back from her face. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Even though I think you know anyway. I adopted you when you were a tiny baby.’

  Cat grinned. ‘Daniel, I found out years ago. I just figured it was better to pretend I didn’t know. Sort of like when I found out about Santa Claus but kept right on pretending I was asleep, when you and Mary were crashing around my bedroom trying to fill up my stocking in the dark.’

  Daniel kissed her. ‘Cheeky. But I get your point. But do you really know just how much you mean to me?’

  ‘Yes and I’m so glad it was you who got me. And not someone else.’

  Cat adored Daniel with the fierce devotion only female children can give their fathers. She’d heard all the salacious rumours about him but effortlessly shrugged them off.

  At the end of a long working day, when Daniel had finished debriefing his hotel managers, he liked to sit with his daughter and read her stories. When she was younger he’d read her fairy stories, but these were soon neglected in favour of Lord Byron’s verses and worldly tales of travel and misadventure. Cat soon started reading books on her own and Charles Dickens gave way to Henry Fielding’s tales of wanton women and virile men. While reading The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, Cat realised that fairy tales were like her dreams, in that they carried secret hidden messages that would ease her transition into the world of grown-ups. She hoped that one day she’d find her own Tom Jones; a young man so worldly and devious that he could match her own untested wickedness.

  Eventually Daniel told her, ‘You’re old enough to choose your own books from my library. It’s about trust.’

  Cat smirked.

  Daniel looked Cat straight in the eye. ‘I know what you get up to, Cat. But try not to devour all the risqué books in one go. There’s a lot of great literature to choose from. Think about how you want to furnish your mind. And what sort of a person you want to be when you grow up.’

  Cat gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Oh, all right then.’

  Edwina was not in the habit of giving up. One winter’s evening, she waited impatiently for Daniel to finish dinner and get comfortable in his favourite chair. ‘Danny, she needs to go to boarding school.’

  ‘No. Boarding school was the worst time of my life.’

  ‘But times have changed. Young Celeste Jones is –’

  ‘No, Edwina. And don’t bring it up again.’

  Edwina sat on the arm of his chair and straightened his tie. She placed long, cool fingers on the back of his neck and massaged his neck muscles. Daniel tensed up, frowned and pointedly checked his watch. She ruffled his hair. He stared out the window. Edwina softened her tone, ‘Danny, it would do her good. Look what it did for me. I’m very well adjusted.’

  Daniel narrowed his gaze. ‘That’s debatable, Edwina.’

  ‘You snide bastard!’

  Edwina jumped to her feet and drank the rest of her wine in one gulp. Lighting up a cigarette she sucked down the smoke in sharp intakes. Daniel reached for his coat and with infinite care knotted a silk scarf and smoothed fur-lined gloves over his fingers. ‘It’s only eight and you’re already sloshed. I won’t be back until tomorrow morning. If there’s a real emergency I can be contacted at my club.’

  She ground out her cigarette until her knuckles were white. ‘The whole of London knows you’ll be spending the night there with your rent boy.’

  ‘I assume you’re referring to Michael. I’m not sure that being a Peer of the British Realm equates with being a rent boy. Eddie, why are you being so snaky? You like Michael and he’s given you no cause for complaint.’

  ‘I feel diminished. I’m sure people talk about us behind our backs.’

  ‘You have to learn not to give a damn and accept you will always have enemies. Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. I overheard the hotel’s chauffeurs discussing the American boxer you picked up so publicly the other night at the Ritz. Surely you could exhibit some discretion?’

  ‘You make it sound like I’m the whore of Babylon. And don’t you dare leave before I’ve finished having my say. You always manage to get the last word in.’

  Daniel shrugged and picked up his hat.

  As he made for the door, Edwina seized an antique crystal vase and swung it at him. It had been a wedding present from one of Daniel’s ex-girlfriends. Water drenched the luxurious carpet and hothouse roses flew across the room. Despite her slight build, Edwina could hurl heavy objects with stupendous ease. Daniel ducked and made a rapid exit. The vase hit the closing door with a resounding thud and shattered into tiny pieces. He went down the stairs whistling a jaunty polonaise.

  Sebastian paused midway up the stairs. ‘Is everything all right, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, just the usual debacle. Mind the broken glass when you go in.’

  It wasn’t always blossom time in Edwina’s vicinity but in some ways she made up for the family he’d lost. For Daniel still missed the noisy breakfasts he used to enjoy with his opinionated father and two argumentative brothers.

  Sebastian entered the apartment and crunched his way across the carpet. Edwina was weeping on the sofa and furiously thumping the cushions into submission. She failed to notice him, so he quietly stepped into the dining room and waited.

  He listened as Edwina made a short phone call but couldn’t make out what she was saying. She hung up and rang the servants’ bell. Several times. Sebastian let five minutes tick by before materialising with an obsequious face. ‘Yes, Madam?’

  ‘Where the hell were you? Get me a martini. Double. And don’t forget the olives this time.’

  Sebastian was skilled in making them just the way she liked them. This entailed an excess of iced gin, with maybe a quick wave of the vermouth bottle over the cocktail shaker. Sometimes he merely flashed the vermouth label at the
gin. Then added the three green olives that she insisted upon but never ate.

  Edwina sulked as she waited for her martini. First her brother had left her all alone, and now Daniel was never around. If only he had more interest in high society. It was a damned shame that he flatly refused to attend most parties. No matter, she’d cultivated a string of personable men eager to play the role of walkers in her husband’s absence. For Eddie du Barry liked to have a good time.

  Costume, timing and appearance were paramount in Edwina’s world. As she’d informed a Hotel du Barry beautician that morning, ‘If I have to spend the rest of my fucking life hanging upside down like a bat to avoid wrinkles, I will do so.’

  The beautician had nodded. Nobody could ever accuse Mrs Toffy Tits of not being willing to go the extra mile in her quest for beauty. She slapped more mud on Edwina’s face and dropped slices of icy cucumber over her fierce blue eyes.

  ‘Relax and try not to talk, Mrs du Barry. It will ruin the mask.’ And that way she wouldn’t have to listen to yet another spoilt rich wife gabbing on about bugger all.

  Edwina grabbed the martini off Sebastian’s silver tray and sank it in three gulps. Then she took the ice bucket into her bathroom and filled the washbasin with iced water. She immersed her face until it almost turned blue. It sobered her up a tad and lent a porcelain tone to her complexion. She savagely brushed her blonde curls until they crackled with electricity. Her latest lover was a younger man and she must look her very best. As Edwina painted her face she yelled, ‘Sebastian, fix me another double.’

  By the time Sean Kelly knocked on the apartment door, Edwina had regained her composure. She rubbed up against him and kissed him passionately. Her Mitsouko perfume nearly knocked him out.

  Edwina glanced up at him coyly. ‘Are you enjoying your new apartment, my darling?’

  She knew her eyes looked very blue in the light because she’d adjusted the lamp for effect prior to his arrival. She’d also left Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment open on the sofa, implying that even though Sean was late, she’d been using her time well.

  He flung off his Italian cashmere overcoat and tossed aside butter-soft leather gloves. ‘It’s grand. Thanks. The crystal chandelier is a nice touch. I’m not so sure about the pastel blue paintwork. You don’t think it’s a bit too feminine for a bachelor’s abode?’

  ‘Not at all, darling. Besides, it’s my favourite colour. I’ve also ordered you a dozen silk shirts from the best tailor in Jermyn Street.’

  Sean swiftly undid the pearl buttons on her silk evening dress and caressed her small breasts. It was the only way he could shut her up. He expertly slid the flimsy garment off her shoulders, shoved Fyodor Dostoyevsky off the sofa and stated coldly, ‘You need to be punished. And I’m in just the mood. Keep your stockings, garter belt, diamonds and heels on. Bend over the sofa and spread your legs for me. Wider. Now touch yourself. Slowly. That’s it. Again. Concentrate, Eddie. Imagine you’re being watched. They can look but not touch. Ah, yes. That’s more like it. Now offer yourself up to me and get ready to receive your punishment. You’re bad to the bone and you know you deserve it.’

  Edwina giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. Sean was acting out her favourite sexual fantasy and her mind was already racing ahead to the dirty, wicked climax. No other man had given her sexual licence and she loved him for it. Sean had known what she wanted even before she did.

  Sean sighed and gave her several smart slaps on the rump to help her on her way. Edwina was partial to a bit of rough and she’d already had a skinful of gin. It looked like it was going to be a long evening.

  Edwina’s voice was muffled by the cushions as she murmured from the depths of the sofa, ‘I’ve arranged delivery of that motorcycle you mentioned. Tomorrow morning at ten. Does that suit you?’

  A daft question. Things were looking up. Clearly his new mistress was hell-bent on responding positively to his every hint. Sean gave her nipples a professional tweak. She whimpered with pleasure. He yawned, dropped his trousers and set about securing Edwina’s complete submission. As he toiled over her, he congratulated himself that never again would he have to kowtow to high society. Soon he’d have his own butler and later his own private chef.

  Although Danny Boy’s wife was his current patron, Sean was busily compiling a little black book of wealthy society women. He thought of it as income insurance. If Edwina found it he’d be a dead man. Sean gave his shirt pocket a quick pat to check the book was safe. No problem, it was still sitting snugly over his heart.

  Sean’s latest conquests were Edwina’s sworn enemies and they’d already tried to outbid her. If she tired of him it would be no skin off his nose. His reputation was assured and the brakes were off. Sean thought of Mary Maguire and quickened his thrust. Edwina responded. If she didn’t quit the moaning he’d have to clamp his hand over her mouth. Whoa, no way. When she’d come last time she’d bitten him hard and drawn blood. He still had teeth marks on his hand. Jaysus, the entire hotel is probably listening in, and placing bets on how many bouts are needed before Madam is satisfied.

  Sometimes it took Sean hours to service Edwina because of all the chin-wagging. It was astounding how much conversation she needed. Probably because she spent so much time alone. Sebastian had informed Sean, ‘When that pretentious cow became Mrs du Barry she dumped all her old friends. Couldn’t be seen out in public with her social inferiors. Gloria von Trocken is the sole survivor of that particular cull.’

  Edwina often had to eat lunch alone. No matter, she intended to be in the rich game indefinitely and she’d fought hard to gain the respect of the social elite. But there was no way she was going to let one particular coven of women get away with vicious gossip that could harm Daniel or Cat. For the former Eddie Lamb was adept at defending her own and she’d been raised in a family that didn’t always play by the rules.

  From her hiding place behind the curtains, Cat squirmed. Sean had deviated from his usual moves and it looked like he had no intention of wasting time in the bedroom. Cat was stuck. Now she was going to have to remain hidden until Sean finished the job. What a bore. She’d hoped to lure him down to the labyrinth so that he could tell her more about how she’d come to be adopted by Daniel. Sean readily offered up all the juicy details of how Daniel came to believe that she was Mary Maguire’s daughter. Cat loved hearing about the secret meetings in the labyrinth, the ballot to choose her names and the forging of the official documents; it was her very own fairy tale. But now it looked like Sean had his hands full. And as usual just being around Edwina made Cat feel tired. So she yawned and settled down for a kip.

  Shortly after Cat’s twelfth birthday she was selected by Mrs Brown to be the head jam girl on Jam Sunday. It was the day that crates of imported oranges were delivered by Fortnum & Mason and made into pots of golden marmalade for the maids’ exclusive use at breakfast.

  Not only that, but the maids entered their precious produce in the annual Hotel du Barry Jam Awards, a competition held between the chefs in the various du Barry hotels. Even Brighton’s head chef had been known to whip up a few pots on occasion. And he wasn’t a man known for his sense of fun.

  The maids’ prized marmalade recipe had been passed down from the first head housekeeper back when the Hotel du Barry London opened for business. The recipe had been written down in fine copperplate, stored in a leather-bound recipe book and kept under lock and key.

  Over the years many Hotel du Barry chefs had tried to beg, cajole or steal the recipe but to no avail. It was sacrosanct and the appointed head jam girl was the high priestess of the occasion. For it was only she who was allowed the privilege of reading the recipe and making sure that everything went according to plan. Every maid under the head housekeeper’s jurisdiction was involved, whether they were cutting up oranges, weighing out the secret ingredients or making labels for the sterilised glass jam jars.

  The evening before Jam Sunday, Mary found Cat curled up in foetal position and dozing behind the sofa in Danie
l’s study. Mary touched her gently. ‘What’s wrong, kid?’

  Cat woke up. ‘I can’t do it. I’ll muck it up and it’ll be a disaster. There’ll be no marmalade in the maids’ kitchen for a year. I’ll let them down and they won’t have an entry for the Hotel du Barry Jam Awards.’

  Mary hoisted up her elegant pencil skirt, sat on the floor and crossed her long legs.

  ‘You’ve got stage fright, that’s all. Bertha wouldn’t have chosen you if she didn’t think you were up to it. I was never chosen because Bertha reckoned I didn’t give a toss about tradition. She was right.’ ‘Mary, anything could go wrong. This job is too big for me. I was happy just chopping up the oranges.’

  ‘You’ll do great. You’ve been helping out with the marmalade for six years, right?’

  Cat nodded and sniffled.

  Mary gently stroked her hair. ‘It’s not a life and death matter, kid. Worse things happen at sea. It’s just a bit of a lark to mark the changing of the seasons.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘What did I teach you about vanquishing the terrors? What’s our credo?’

  Cat grinned. ‘I am Cat du Barry and I have no fear. I am mistress of my own destiny.’

  Mary stood up and smoothed down her skirt. ‘That’s more like it. And don’t forget, Sean is taking us out to dinner – just you and I. Tonight. Seven sharp. Somewhere glamorous.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, Mary. And I will get an invitation to your engagement party won’t I? It won’t just be for grown-ups?’

  Mary raised her eyebrows. ‘So who told you I was getting engaged?’

  ‘Sean.’

  ‘That man has more front than Harrods. Listen, I love Sean to bits but there’s no way I’m going to marry him unless he cleans up his act. He needs to pull up and fly straight. And he knows it.’

  ‘Sean reckons he’s “looking at other career options”.’

  ‘Sean’s not truthing. See you tonight, kid. Damn. Nearly forgot, I’ve got a tip for you from Jim Blade.’