Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Cat’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I understand. How did she wind up in London?’

  ‘Josephine was part of Matthew Lamb’s social set in Paris. He was wildly popular with both high society and bohemian folk. And it was Matthew who brought your mother to the hotel so . . . oh God, I don’t know how to say it.’

  Cat stared straight ahead. ‘So she could get rid of me.’

  Bertha put down her knitting and hugged her.

  The two of them sat in silence as shadows lengthened across the courtyard. The vine leaves rustled above their heads and a waiter whistled as he flicked open a fresh white tablecloth. The sound of a tugboat horn drifted up on the breeze.

  Cat stirred. ‘Keep knitting or you’ll never have it finished on time for the Guinness woman. Tell me the rest of the story.’

  Bertha resumed knitting. Purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one. ‘Well, we couldn’t persuade Josephine to meet you. But Jim and I took heart that she seemed genuinely interested in you. When we got home I posted your baby photographs to her. We hoped it might stir her latent maternal urge.’

  ‘But she didn’t write back. Got it. Did you recently send her newspaper clippings about my art commissions? She knew all about me.’

  ‘No, I haven’t corresponded with her in years. You must understand –’

  ‘I do. Having met her I can see why you didn’t tell me about her.’

  Bertha’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Early in the piece she offered to send money but I told her that money wasn’t necessary. And what you really needed was her love. It’s been breaking my heart having to lie to you.’

  Cat leant across the table. ‘Do you know who my biological father is?’

  ‘No. And I don’t think your mother does either. Daniel tried to weasel it out of her but she told him it could have been one of many.’

  Cat sat very still. ‘You mean Daniel met her?’

  Bertha slowed her breathing to match the rhythm of the knitting needles. ‘Yes, quite a few times, after Sebastian spilled the beans about your origins. It was then that we decided the time was right to tell Daniel about Josephine.’

  ‘So when did Danny meet her?’

  ‘The first time was at the Paris Opera. Daniel said Josephine was batting the men away, they just wouldn’t leave her alone. You probably didn’t see this side of her but she’s a brilliant conversationalist. Danny told me Josephine lights up any gathering; she can be funny, droll and devastatingly charming.’

  ‘I can’t imagine it.’

  ‘Cat, Josephine told me that when she first found out she was pregnant, she was determined to raise you herself. It was only later on that she realised she couldn’t manage it.’

  ‘She was probably lying. When was the next time Daniel met her?’

  ‘Danny went to Paris and tracked Josephine down at The Lapin. She was there with Matthew Lamb’s old friends. It upset Daniel to see them again and the meeting didn’t go well. Josephine was half-cut and dancing on the bar.’

  ‘Obviously he didn’t give up?’

  ‘Correct. Danny made frequent trips to Paris on business and he’d always take Josephine out to dinner, a nightclub or a show. He hoped to wear her down with a charm offensive. He even offered her complimentary use of the penthouse suite whenever she felt like visiting London. He didn’t change her mind but she must have really warmed to him because he visited her for years.’

  ‘She tried to seduce him, didn’t she?’

  Bertha dropped her knitting. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Intuition. Josephine would be on the lookout for wealthy men. And let’s face it, he was a magnet for any female with a pulse.’

  Cat signalled the waiter. ‘Well, things can only get better. Despite the fact I wouldn’t wish Josephine on anyone as a parent.’ Bertha smiled at Cat knowingly. ‘As you always say, Bertha, what happened yesterday is already in the past. I need a drink. I’ve agreed to have dinner with Eddie tonight. She wants to check out the new chef at the Ritz. I suspect she’ll want to poach him. Eddie’s somehow managed to turn staff recruitment into a blood sport. And she’s getting very good at it.’

  As Cat was speaking to the waiter, Bertha noticed Belinda wending her way between the tables. Her expression made Bertha distinctively uneasy. Belinda fidgeted with her apron. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

  Bertha shifted uncomfortably. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Julian Bartholomew. One of them night porters, Roshi, just told me that he did an early morning flit. Took off in a cab. Didn’t give no notice. Mrs du Barry is really pissed orf.’

  Cat said slowly, ‘I don’t understand. He came to my apartment last night but said nothing about leaving. Oh, Bertha, what’s going on?’

  Bertha’s knitting needles clicked fiendishly. She weighed her words carefully. ‘If he has departed without a word then something must have happened after he left your apartment. I don’t believe he means to hurt you, sweetie. For some time I’ve suspected he’s a young man with a dubious past and sometimes it catches up with people.’

  Bertha turned to Belinda, ‘What else did Roshi say?’

  ‘Julian was limping real bad and couldn’t even carry his suitcase, he was in so much pain. Roshi had to help him into the cab. He reckons Julian’s fingers were taped together, all broken like. And there was something wrong with his ribs.’

  Cat whispered, ‘Did Roshi know where the cab driver took him?’

  ‘Waterloo Station.’

  Bertha nodded sadly. ‘So he could be anywhere by now.’

  Belinda’s eyes were cold. ‘So the slippery bastard had his way with our Cat. Then got into a bar-room brawl and buggered off. He had us all fooled.’

  Bertha placed a skein of red wool in Belinda’s hand. ‘Please rewind that for me, dear.’

  Belinda did as she was told. The only sound at the table was the clicking of knitting needles.

  Cat sat very still until the waiter returned with the drinks. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears. ‘Martin, please send for two bottles of Caterina Anastasia Grande Imperial Champagne. They’re stashed in the private cellar. Henri keeps a duplicate key in his office.’

  A pageboy approached the table. ‘Miss du Barry, this was left for you at the reception desk late last night.’

  He handed her an envelope and Cat ripped it open.

  Bertha glanced at the boy sharply. ‘Why is it only being delivered now?’

  ‘Well it goes like this, Mrs Brown. Julian Bartholomew made the assistant concierge swear on his mother’s grave that it would not be delivered to Miss du Barry until cocktail hour today.’

  Belinda snorted but Bertha smiled at him as he turned to go. ‘I understand. Thank you, Giuseppe.’

  Cat read it and gave it to Bertha. The writing was almost illegible.

  Cat, I really don’t want to leave but have no choice in the matter.

  Please believe me when I say I have every intention of returning once

  I get things sorted. I really meant what I said to you in Paris.

  J.B.

  Bertha said quietly, ‘Julian will return. I don’t doubt the depth of his feelings for you, Cat. When you were in hospital he haunted my kitchen day and night. Made himself useful fixing the plumbing and running errands for me. Spoke of nothing but you. Under all that swagger he’s a good man. Try to keep an open mind and please don’t drink the hotel dry. A hangover will only make everything seem much worse.’

  Belinda pursed her lips but wisely remained silent.

  Bertha folded her knitting. ‘Unfortunately, I have to go and organise tomorrow’s roster. Belinda, I don’t think Cat should be on her own, so I’m giving you the rest of the afternoon off to keep her company. Please don’t let her do anything stupid. I’m counting on you.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Brown.’

  Bertha turned to Cat, ‘Believe me when I say this, poppet, only a serious threat or a criminal act drove Julian away. We don’t know what he’s running from. But I do know Julian has
integrity and he will return.’

  She packed up her knitting, kissed Cat on the top of her head and left.

  Cat wiped away her tears and she and Belinda sat quietly together and listened to the birds’ evening songs.

  26

  The Fine Art of Swinging Clubs

  It was late and Jim was doing his rounds when he noticed there were still lights on in the hotel gymnasium. He pulled out a large ring of keys, unlocked the heavy doors and walked across the polished boards. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the empty space. A medicine ball had been left in the middle of the floor but the dumbbells were racked up and skipping ropes had been left coiled and tied. As Jim walked under the acrobatic rings, he was overcome with nostalgia. The smell of leather, athlete’s liniment and stale sweat brought back memories of his old school gymnasium.

  Jim stripped off his coat and shoes, grabbed the rings and turned a leisurely somersault, landing smoothly on the mats. A passing hotel guest would have been surprised to see this great bear of a man execute the move with such ease and style. Dominating the centre of the gymnasium was a vaulting horse and Jim couldn’t resist. He strode to the far end of the gym and then ran as fast as he could towards it. His feet hit the springboard and he flew upwards before gripping the padded top and vaulting over to land on his feet. He bowed to an imaginary audience and smirked. Jim was chuffed that he still possessed the athletic grace that had won many school prizes.

  He felt someone watching him. Perhaps Slugger, the gymnasium instructor, was sitting up in his office laughing himself sick at the sight of the hotel dick reliving his youth.

  He called out, ‘Hello? Anyone here?’

  There was no answer, so he made his way up the stairs. Jim paused when he thought he heard a muffled cough. He raised his voice. ‘Enough. Come on out! I know you’re here.’

  No answer. Just the sound of a loose rope swaying in the breeze that blew down through the airshafts. He stood there a couple of minutes, every sense on alert. Outside the window a bat swooped past making spitting noises. Jim shuddered; he loathed bats. There was something unpleasant about their vicious little faces, caustic excrement and hooded wings.

  Jim climbed to the top of the stairs and made his way towards Slugger’s office. He opened the office door but the joint was deserted. Jim turned his torch on before flicking off the bank of light switches. He then stood stock-still and listened again. Something wasn’t right. Silence. Perhaps the cleaners had simply forgotten to turn off the lights? Jim turned and made his way back down the stairs.

  They came out of nowhere. There must have been at least two of them as he was whacked on both legs simultaneously with Indian clubs. Time slowed right down. This smacks of payback. Who the fuck have I shafted lately? Perhaps they’re Smythe’s hard boys?

  Jim’s knees buckled and he dropped the torch and went for his gun. Too late. Another sharp crack to the kidneys sent him flying head-first down the steep stairs. These fuckers weren’t messing around. It wasn’t meant to be a quick rap across the knuckles. He thought of Bertha keeping his dinner warm in the oven and wondered if his assailants would beat him to death or shoot him. He prayed for a bullet and hoped God was in a forgiving mood and still had time for lapsed Catholics. Jim hit the floor hard, a sharp pain ricocheted into the back of his skull and he passed out.

  His last fleeting thought was of Bertha that morning, straightening his tie and kissing him goodbye.

  Edwina woke up feeling like hell. She’d been up half the night scrubbing her hands with carbolic soap and now they were red raw. For some crazy reason she’d kept dreaming that her hands weren’t clean. But as the morning sunlight streamed through the open drapes her mood lifted.

  Today she was meeting Thomas Columbus Rodd for a private luncheon. No doubt her lover was going to announce his impending divorce. All she needed was a trip to the hotel beauty parlour to restore her equanimity. Hopefully the beautician would have a remedy for her ruined hands, but if not she’d keep her gloves on at lunch.

  Thomas loved feminine fripperies, no doubt because his wife was so plain and homely. God knows why he’d married her in the first place. During pillow chat at the Ritz, he’d reluctantly admitted his wife refused to wear the fashionable footwear he designed. Apparently the wretched woman favoured sensible cotton bloomers, chunky hand-knitted cardigans and lace-up brogues. Small wonder Thomas had become obsessed with Edwina’s lacy lingerie. Today she was planning on wearing her new satin corset with beribboned suspenders, as inevitably he’d rush her off to the Ritz for some afternoon adultery. Edwina was always deeply flattered when the excitement of having her for dessert, completely ruined Thomas’s appetite. And he’d sit impatiently in a restaurant, feigning interest in the menu, while trying to conceal his erection with a napkin. He’d told Edwina, I’ve never loved a woman the way I love you, and she believed him because every time Thomas walked into a room and she was there, he instantly got an erection.

  Edwina was about to ring the bell for breakfast when she remembered that Julian had done a runner. Ungrateful little bastard. She should have dobbed him in to the police months ago. No matter, there were plenty more butlers to be had. One of her informants had told her that Sebastian was having a rotten time with his new boss. With the judicious application of some flattery and financial bribery, Sebastian would be easy to poach. After all, he’d never really wanted to leave the Hotel du Barry in the first place.

  Edwina leapt out of bed and padded barefoot to her walk-in wardrobe. She gazed with satisfaction at her naked body in the long mirror. Love’s desire had rounded and softened her figure. She was glowing, all lit up with the secret knowledge that she was loved. If only Sean Kelly could see her now. Perhaps at this very moment Sean was lost somewhere in outback Australia? Preferably with no drinking water on hand. No doubt a vision of her beauty would torture him in his final hours and he’d realise what a huge mistake he’d made when he’d rejected her love and humiliated her.

  Edwina gazed at herself from every angle and murmured facetiously, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall . . . who is the fairest of them all?’

  Her own smiling reflection answered the question.

  And Mary Maguire didn’t even get a look-in.

  Bertha and Cat sat either side of Jim’s hospital bed. Neither spoke. Most of Jim’s body was heavily bandaged and only his face was visible. Bertha held his hand and studied it carefully. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his bruised eyes, gashed face or broken nose. From the corridor came the sound of a woman wailing and trolleys rattling past.

  A doctor entered the ward. ‘Mrs Blade?’

  Bertha turned towards him, incomprehension on her face. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve done all we can for the time being. Tomorrow morning we’ll run some more tests. If you and your daughter would like to come with me now, I can show you the results so far. It’s still too early to be definitive about brain damage. Your husband was lucky to have survived the attack. He’s in great shape, which undoubtedly helped.’

  Bertha nodded. ‘Yes, Jim’s always been athletic. Lifts weights and swims daily.’

  Cat said, ‘You go with the doctor and I’ll wait here.’

  Bertha left the ward.

  Cat stood up, stretched and walked to the window. She watched people coming and going until a faint sound attracted her attention. When she turned around, Jim’s eyes were still closed but his position had changed slightly.

  She rushed back to the side of the bed and whispered, ‘Jim, can you hear me? It’s Cat.’

  There was no response, so she sat down next to him and took his hand in hers.

  ‘I know you don’t go in for soppy sentiment, but I want you to know that I’ve always felt completely safe with you. No matter how scary things were, you were there. It gave me the freedom to be a child. You know what? I really need you in my life. And if you don’t regain consciousness very soon, I’m going to come in every single day and fill your ears with hotel gossip. I will spare you n
othing. I figure you’ll have no choice but to come to. In the meantime, I’ll split your duties with your understudy. So don’t you worry about a thing.’

  There was no response but Cat thought she detected a faint smirk.

  Mrs Edwina du Barry and Mr Thomas Rodd Esquire were seated in a private dining room at the Jacques Deville Restaurant. The waiters were so discreet that they knocked before entering. Everything was sublime and Edwina was floating on a delightful cloud of expectation. They’d devoured plump marinated scallops languishing on a bed of cress and now the waiter was pouring Château Lafite into crystal wine glasses. Another waiter placed fresh linen napkins on their laps. The third removed gleaming silver covers from two lobsters thermidor. The chef had presented the lobsters in their shells, resting in an aromatic, creamy sauce seasoned with just a touch of paprika and brandy. The waiters finished their business and were gone.

  Even though it was inappropriate and rather odd, Edwina wore gloves, as she didn’t dare reveal her ravaged hands. Her day dress of peach silk was a cunning bias-cut sheath that managed to be both demure and provocative at the same time. Thomas made no comment about the gloves, even though it would have been far easier for his darling to butter her bread roll with bare hands. Ah, women. Thomas was the first to admit he knew everything about ladies’ feet but virtually nothing about the way their minds worked.

  They clinked glasses and smiled secretively as lovers do. Neither made any attempt on the succulent lobsters. Thomas leant across the table and took Edwina’s gloved hand. She put down her butter knife and gazed dreamily into his dark eyes. No man alive could resist it when she turned her baby blues on them and read their soul. He caressed her cheek. ‘Darling, you know I adore you, don’t you?’

  Edwina wanted to scream, For fuck’s sake, get to the point.