by Maynard Sims
She had got over her inhibitions by the third night. Being nude on stage was not as degrading as she had thought it was going to be.
‘You have to think of yourself as a work of art, Elizabeth.’ This from Sam Barrett, whispered in her ear at the end of her second night. ‘Think Royal Academy, or the British Museum. Embrace the gifts that God gave you, and don’t be ashamed of them.’
It helped that the lighting was so artfully designed, and the props so judiciously positioned, that the wildly applauding men in the stalls and the circle thought they were seeing much more than they were. Having Sam’s words of encouragement certainly helped her. A work of art? Was that what he thinks of me?
It was obvious he liked her, as the girls in the dressing room were quick to point out with in a mixture of good-natured banter and arch cattiness. Constance was the worst offender. Some of her comments were barbed and acidic, and Lizzie was starting to think she had stepped on the older woman’s toes. Perhaps Constance had designs on Sam, and Lizzie’s arrival on the scene had put her nose severely out of joint. Two weeks in and Lizzie had never been invited to call her Connie. Not that she minded. Florrie more than made up for Constance’s frostiness. In a fortnight they had become firm friends and were now sharing a room at Mrs Kendricks’ guesthouse. Lizzie had paid Florrie the money she owed her within minutes of getting her first pay packet, despite her friend’s insistence that she should forget about it. Lizzie hadn’t had a friend like this since her school days, and even then she had never happened upon a friend as kind and as generous as Florrie.
They sat in the dressing room during the break between performances. The other girls were on stage and the room was quiet for a change. While Lizzie touched up her makeup, her friend was sitting in the corner reading the latest Agatha Christie. There was a hesitant tap on the door.
‘Come in,’ Lizzie called.
The door opened and Sam Barrett stepped into the room. In two strides he was standing behind her as she worked on her face in the mirror. ‘I was hoping you’d be here,’ he said.
‘I’m here,’ Lizzie said, as her stomach performed somersaults. ‘Can I help you?’ It was amazing how her tongue seemed like an alien creature in her mouth, making her words seem weak and pathetic.
She watched him in the mirror. His hands were clasped tightly together, and he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you’d let me take you to dinner.’
Her heart stopped for a moment while the shock registered, and then she was babbling. ‘Yes… I’d love to… but I don’t know when… I’m back on stage in twenty minutes… and then I have a break… and then another shift…’ Shut up, Lizzie! You sound like a schoolgirl being asked out for the first time.
Barrett was smiling indulgently. ‘Actually you finish your last shift at nine. At least, that’s been your routine so far this week.’
‘Do I? Oh, right, yes, I suppose I do.’
‘Well, that’s settled then. Giovanni’s in Cooper Street at nine thirty. Can you be there?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Yes I can. Will you be there?’ What a stupid question, Lizzie. He’s asking you out. Of course he’ll be there.
‘I’ll be waiting there for you. I think it’s best we go there separately. I have to run the gamut every time I leave the theatre. The fans… sometimes they can be a little excitable. I wouldn’t want you exposed to that.’
‘No, that’s all right. I can meet you there,’ she said, smiling up at him in the looking glass. Very apt, she thought. I feel like Alice, about to embark on a grand adventure in wonderland.
‘Splendid,’ he said, but made no move to leave. Eventually he said, ‘Ever since I first saw you, Elizabeth, I can think of nothing… no-one else. I was hoping against hope that you’d agree to go out with me. I can…’
In the corner, Florrie cleared her throat.
Barrett reacted as if he’d been stung. He started, almost jumped, and spun on his heel.
‘Florrie!’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you there, hiding in the corner.’
‘Evidently,’ Florrie said, smiling mischievously.
Barrett gathered himself. ‘Right, well, Elizabeth. Nine thirty.’ He tapped his watch.
Lizzie was nodding as he tore from the dressing room.
Florrie laid her book down. ‘Well, that could have been awkward.’
Lizzie was smiling. ‘Florrie, it was awkward. The poor man. You embarrassed him. His face was scarlet when he rushed out of here.’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But you got your date with him. Dinner at Giovanni’s. Very swanky. I never get asked out to posh restaurants.’
‘Jimmy probably can’t afford it on what Oliver Benson pays him.’
Florrie looked at her with narrowing eyes. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Pull the other one, Florrie. I’ve seen the way you are when you’re together. He’s like a besotted basset hound and you’re all sweetness and light. Not like you at all.’
‘You want to look out. You’re so sharp, you’re going to cut yourself one of these days,’ Florrie said, but she was smiling.
***
Dinners with Sam Barrett became a regular occurrence in Lizzie Stirling’s life, and they made her giddy with excitement. Barrett showed her a life that was a world away from post-war austerity and ration books. Giovanni’s was a popular rendezvous for them, and Lizzie sampled such culinary delicacies as pâté de foie gras and crêpe Suzette and found them delicious, although caviar was not at all what she was expecting, and Barrett laughed at the expression on her face when the black, salty fish eggs exploded on her tongue. She covered her mouth with her hand.
‘Don’t you like it?’ he asked.
‘I think I may be sick,’ she replied.
‘I’d rather you weren’t,’ he said. ‘The caviar costs more than Oliver pays you for a week on stage.’
The caviar incident aside, their evenings went smoothly, and she waited for them with stomach-churning anticipation. Sam Barrett was a charming and considerate companion, and she felt that she was beginning to fall in love with him.
‘I think he’ll pop the question soon,’ Florrie said to her one night after a show.
She was massaging Lizzie’s neck. Today’s tableau had been particularly gruelling. A depiction of the founding fathers landing at Plymouth Rock, with Lizzie as a Red Indian princess, standing, overseeing the invasion of her country. It wasn’t a difficult pose, one arm outstretched, the other raised above her head, a depiction of a friendly welcome, but she had been out with Sam the previous night until two o’clock in the morning – he’d taken her dancing – and she’d had little sleep.
‘Do you really think so?’ she said. ‘You think he might want to marry me?’
‘I’m certain of it. What time did you get in last night?’
‘It was past one. We went dancing at the Ritz and lost track of the time. I missed my last tube, so Sam had to ring his chauffeur to come and fetch us, and then he brought me home.’
‘A chauffeur! How much money does he have, for heaven’s sake?’
‘A lot. I think he’s very rich.’
‘Was it a Rolls Royce?’
‘A Bentley.’
Florrie shook her head. ‘You’re such a lucky so-and-so. Jimmy has a motorcycle. I thought we were going up in the world when he bought a sidecar for it. He’s taken me out for a spin or two, and believe me, Lizzie, I’d take a Bentley over that any day.’
Lizzie laughed at her friend’s pained expression. She was always making cracks about Jimmy’s lack of money, but Lizzie knew that her feelings for the penniless piano player matched her own feelings for Sam.
‘Perhaps we can have a double wedding,’ she said.
Florrie looked aghast. ‘Can you imagine it? The reception? I don’t think Sam Barrett’s tastes run to Marmite sandwiches, sausage rolls and ersatz coffee.’
Lizzie
shook her head sadly. ‘No, I think you’re probably right…. But we’ll still be friends, won’t we? Even after we’re married.’
‘Yes,’ Florrie said, even though she knew that, should it happen, it was unlikely they would stay in contact. They would suddenly be moving in social circles that were poles apart, and such diverse groups rarely mixed with any great success. But that was way down the line. She couldn’t imagine Jimmy ever having enough money to buy her an engagement ring, let alone pay for a wedding.
***
It was the second week in June when she walked to Cooper Street and Giovanni’s. It was a glorious summer evening, and there were a few people seated at tables outside the restaurant. The evening was warm, and she carried her coat over her arm, enjoying the feel of the warm air stroking the skin of her shoulders.
She was met at the door of the restaurant by Enzo, the manager, who greeted her effusively and escorted her to the table she normally shared with Barrett. He seemed surprised to see another man sitting there. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the stranger. ‘This table is booked.’
Lizzie touched his arm. ‘It’s all right, Enzo,’ she said. She recognized the dark-haired man sitting in what was usually Barrett’s seat. It was Cartwright, Barrett’s chauffeur.
Enzo bowed obsequiously and moved away. Cartwright got to his feet. ‘Miss Stirling,’ he said. ‘Mr Barrett offers his sincerest apologies for not being here, but he had to attend to some important business.’
Disappointment settled like a lead weight in the pit of Lizzie’s stomach. ‘I see,’ she said.
Cartwright continued. ‘He’s asked me to drive you to his house. He will explain everything when you get there, in person.’
Disappointment gave way as excitement flared in its place. His home! In the weeks she had been seeing him, he had never spoken about where he lived, and had certainly never invited her there.
She realized she was nodding her head. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’
Cartwright smiled and extended his arm, pointing vaguely to the exit. ‘Well, shall we?’
***
She settled down into the sumptuous leather back seat of the Bentley, and Cartwright started the engine. A soft murmur of sound filled the car as he pulled away from the kerb and into the busy evening traffic.
'Is it far?' she said, trying and failing to keep the excitement from her voice. She caught the chauffeur’s expression in the rear-view mirror. He was smiling.
'No, not far. We’ll be there soon.'
Lizzie settled back and watched through the car’s window as shops gave way to houses and finally to open spaces. She had no idea where she was.
After a twenty-minute drive that seemed to her to last a lifetime, they entered some private grounds through a pair of high, wrought iron gates, and she heard the soft crunch the tyres made as they progressed up a wide gravel drive.
When the house came into view, the sight of it took her breath away.
She knew nothing of architecture. All she could tell for certain was that the house must have cost Barrett a fortune. It was as she imagined a manor house would be: a great, red brick frontage, a dozen or more windows with lights burning behind most of them. There was a huge front door, painted black with a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.
Cartwright pulled up outside the house, got out and came around the car to open her door.
'Thank you,' she said, as she stepped out and stood on the gravel, staring up at the window – although there was nothing much to see. Through one window to her left, she could see inside into what looked like a library with book-lined walls, but there was no sign of Barrett.
'Go on in,' Cartwright said. 'The door’s open.'
'Yes… right,' Lizzie said uncertainly, and took a step towards the door before stopping and looking back at Cartwright. He was smiling at her indulgently.
'Go on,' he said softly, and made a shooing motion with his hands. 'The door’s open.'
Lizzie nodded determinedly. 'Yes. Right.' Then she turned back and took the few remaining steps to the front door.
She stood with her hand on the heavy brass doorknob and glanced behind her again for some more encouragement, but Cartwright was back behind the wheel of the Bentley and was easing it forward towards a low building with large double doors. The garage, Lizzie guessed.
Drawing in a deep breath to quell her nerves, she resolutely twisted the brass knob and pushed the heavy door open.
She entered the house and found herself in an expansive, carpeted hallway. Paintings hung from the walls, landscapes mostly, depicting vast swathes of desert. When she saw the pyramids silhouetted in the background of one of the landscapes, she guessed she was looking at paintings of Egypt – not that she’d ever been, but she knew enough from her history books at school to make the assumption. A strange choice of subject, she thought, but then a movement to her left attracted her attention, and a cat emerged from a doorway and padded across the carpet towards her.
She crouched down and stuck out her hand to greet it. The cat was lean with pale, almost silver fur, and had a small head with a pointed little face and ears that seemed too large for it. But it seemed friendly enough, and it nuzzled her hand with its head and purred loudly.
'Ah, I see you’re getting acquainted with Bast. She likes you.' Barrett emerged from a room to her right.
She stroked the cat’s head, making her purr even louder. 'What did you call her?' Lizzie said, not trusting herself to look up at him.
'Bast,' he said. 'It’s an old name. Handed down. Her mother was called Bast as well. Hello, Elizabeth. I’m glad you could come.'
The cat moved away and skipped up a large staircase to the upper floors.
Lizzie stood, and then she was in Barrett’s arms and he was kissing her with a passion that left her breathless.
'I’m sorry about Giovanni’s,' he said, as he broke off the kiss.
Lizzie’s head was spinning. Their kisses up until now had been a light, almost chaste brushing of the lips, but tonight was different and her lips were tingling.
She struggled to find her voice. 'It’s all right. I understand. Business.'
'Indeed,' he said. 'A contract with Decca. They want to record my voice. Can you imagine?'
'But, Sam, that’s wonderful news. Do you think I might hear you on the wireless?'
'You might, if the BBC decide to play my awful caterwauling.'
'You’re being too modest,' she said. 'You have a wonderful voice. Better than Sydney Burchall.'
'Now you’re flattering me.'
'I mean it. It’s true.'
'You’re very kind… if a little misguided. Now,' he said, clapping his hands, 'I’m very aware that I’ve deprived you of one of Giovanni’s wonderful meals tonight. Let me attempt to make it up to you. Come through to the dining room.'
The dining room was dwarfed by a huge mahogany table set for two, its centre laden with plates of cooked meats, bowls of rice and salad, and a large breadboard holding a delicious-looking crusty loaf.
'Only a cold collation, I’m afraid, but it’s cook’s night off this evening and this was the best she could rustle up at short notice.'
Lizzie eyed the plates of ham and tongue. 'It all looks delicious,' she said.
'Then take a seat, madam,' he said, and pulled out a chair for her to sit.
As she started to fill her plate with the meats and salad, Barrett busied himself pouring red wine from a decanter into two cut crystal glasses, and handed her one.
'I’d like to propose a toast,' he said, raising his glass. 'To us.'
He put the glass to his lips.
'To us,' she repeated, took a sip of wine and felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
After their meal they retired to Barrett’s large, beautifully decorated and furnished lounge. She sat down on the deeply upholstered couch and waited while he wound the gramophone standing in the corner of the room. Soon th
e strains of Mantovani and his orchestra filled the room – A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.
He was humming the refrain as he came and sat down next to her.
She sipped at her wine. Despite the food, the alcohol was going straight to her head. It was starting to spin.
'Let me hear you sing it,' she said.
He smiled and joined in on the next refrain. He’d taken off his tie and undone the top buttons of his shirt.
She reached out and took his hand in hers, and let herself float on the lyrical, lilting baritone. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.
'Did you really mean it? The toast? To us?' she said, when the song finished.
'I want us to be together… forever,' he said.
'Oh, Sam…,' she said, her breath catching in her throat.
She caught a flash of gold out of the corner of her eye and she adjusted her vision. The wine was making the room swim.
Peeking out from the top of his shirt was the most peculiar crucifix she had ever seen. She reached for it, but as her fingers brushed the metal he brought up his hand and clamped it over hers.
'Don’t touch it,' he said, his voice no more than a sibilant hiss.
'Ouch, you’re hurting. It’s only a cross. I didn’t mean…'
He reached up and took the gold piece out from under his shirt.
It was a cross, but unlike any crucifix she’d ever seen. The top part of it was an oval loop. And the ends of the cross piece and down piece were splayed out in a narrow fan.
'It’s an ankh,' he said.
'An ankh?'
'Also known as the tree of life. And it’s very special to me. It was given to me by the only girl I ever loved.'
Despite the wooliness of her thoughts, the last thing he’d said cut like a knife through to that vulnerable part of her brain that refused to believe she could ever really be this happy.
'I don’t understand,' she said, feeling tears start to sting at her eyes.