Perversely, she wondered now if he didn't find her attractive enough, desirable enough, to make an ardent pursuit worth his while. She wondered dimly, too, if she hadn't made a mistake not to encourage that pursuit. A man like Gerry didn't come along every day of the week. He was simply the most splendid physical specimen she'd ever encountered. Besides that, he was nice, he was fun to be with, and he seemed to have a serious purpose in life with his writing. He wasn't a mere playboy or beach bum as she'd first suspected.
Could she attract him again if she put her mind to it? Then it came back to her in a flash why she had rejected his advances in the first place. This was no schoolboy she was dealing with, in spite of his playful ways. He was a widely experienced man. She would be like putty in his hands if she ever allowed herself to even think of him in terms more intimate than a casual friendship, much less actually lead him on.
He was playing softly, expertly, a haunting Lizst rhapsody, and she listened, astounded at his expertise. He was far from a concert performer, but his touch was sure, his sense of chord structure near-perfect, and even the simplified version he was playing of the diabolically difficult music had a professional ring to it.
All business now, he glanced up at her. 'Ready?' he asked. She nodded, and they began to play.
By five o'clock, they'd got in three solid hours of practice, and Bianca was feeling much more secure about the music. Once she got the idea, it was a simple matter, far easier than concert playing. It was just a different style, a different approach, and she was a thorough enough musician to be able to fake it once she knew what was expected.
When Gerry pointed out the time and told her she'd better start getting ready if she had to be at the restaurant by six, she gasped in disbelief, and immediately her anxieties returned. She gave Gerry one stricken look.
'I can't do it,' she announced.
He was still seated at the piano and had turned around on the bench to look up at her. 'What do you mean, you can't do it? You did great.'
She waved her bow nervously in the air. 'Oh, it's not the music, it's the people, the costume.' She groaned. 'I haven't even tried it on.'
He glanced at his watch. 'Well, you'd better go do it now or you'll never make it in time. Go put it on, and I'll give you my expert opinion.'
'No!' she cried. She didn't want him to see her in that skimpy red dress. 'No,' she repeated firmly. 'I appreciate your help this afternoon, but I want you to leave now so I can get ready.'
'Are you sure?' he asked. She nodded. 'Okay.' He got up from the piano and flexed his cramped fingers. 'I'll see you tonight, then.'
'What?' She stared at him, aghast.
'I said I'll see you tonight.' He grinned. 'I wouldn't miss your debut for the world.' He began to hum a few bars of The Gypsy Love Song, his warm dark eyes teasing.
'Gerry,' she said firmly, 'I want you to promise me you won't ever, ever come to Rumania House when I'm playing.'
His dark eyebrows shot up. 'Come on, Bianca, don't be like that. Why not?'
She was becoming frantic. She'd die if he saw her in that costume. It was getting late. She had to get moving. 'Gerry, promise me!' she cried, on the verge of hysteria. What if the costume didn't fit? What about make-up? She didn't know anything about make-up. And her hair! Oh, Lord, her hair! She ran a hand distractedly through it now, virtually beside herself with anxiety.
'Okay, okay,' Gerry said calmly, aware now of her distress. 'I promise I won't come to the restaurant tonight.' He started towards the door. 'It'll be okay, honey,' he called softly. 'I'll come over tomorrow and you can tell me how it went.'
She managed a tremulous smile. 'Thank you, Gerry,' she said fervently. 'For everything.'
By some miracle she managed to get to the restaurant before six, even taking into account the five minutes she'd spent agonising in front of the mirror in the bedroom after she'd put on that hated red costume. Actually, it fitted quite well, and even though it was cut a little low in front for her taste and was virtually backless, it wasn't nearly as bad as she'd anticipated.
What appalled her was the fact that the material was so thin and slinky that every ridge and seam and strap of her underwear stood out under it in sharp relief. She tried a strapless bra, but that didn't work because the dress was cut so low in the back. She tried it again without the bra, twisting this way and that in front of the mirror to get the full effect. Although definitely not flat-chested, her breasts were high and firm, and the revealing cleavage between them was pretty tame. The seconds ticked by. She had to make up her mind. Finally, with a sigh, she decided to go without the bra. Then, in a frenzy, she put on the sheerest, filmiest pair of tights she owned, slipped her feet into a pair of high-heeled black sandals, and decided she'd just have to do.
At the restaurant, with her costume at least half-covered by a light raincoat, her violin clutched in her hand, she made her way through the main dining area and back to the tiny dressing room as unobtrusively as possible. There were only a few scattered customers as yet, but it was a Friday night and the restaurant would probably be packed later.
As she slipped into the dressing room, she heard someone call her name. 'Oh, Miss Jameson. Bianca.' It was Madame Tedescu, bearing down on her from the direction of the kitchen. 'You are early. That is good.'
Bianca smiled nervously at her new employer. She was still wearing the same black dress and heavy pearl necklace, but tonight her face was heavily made-up. Even in the dim light of the narrow hallway, Bianca could see the thick layer of powder that barely covered the deep wrinkles in that sharp little face.
She gave Bianca an appraising look with her bright button eyes. 'You have on your costume, I see.' Bianca nodded and the tiny woman gave her a closer look. 'Tsk, tsk,' she clucked, 'but no make-up.' She frowned. 'And your hair. Ach, it will not do at all.' She pushed open the door. 'Come. I will help you just this once.'
She switched on the bright overhead light and sat Bianca down at a shabby dressing table that was literally covered with jars, boxes, bottles and tubes of every size and description. Bianca gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her face seemed naked to her compared to Madame Tedescu's, even though she had put on a little rosy lipstick and black mascara,,
'Take your coat off.' Bianca obeyed.
Without another word, the woman set to work on Bianca's face and hair. Foundation, a heavy liquid make-up base, blusher, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil. She worked swiftly and silently, muttering occasionally to herself as though Bianca wasn't even there. Gradually, she saw her thin 'interesting' face transformed into a garish mask. Her dark eyes seemed huge, with impossibly long lashes and heavy brows. The bright slash of lipstick on her mouth and rouged cheeks completed the picture, and Bianca felt as though she no longer existed. Some Las Vegas showgirl had suddenly appeared in her place.
She turned to Madame Tedescu to protest, but at that moment the door opened and two other women burst into the room. One was dark, heavyset, middle-aged, the other blonde, thinner and much younger. They both carried violin cases.
'Good evening, ladies,' Madame said. 'This is Bianca, our new violinist. Diane and Barbara will tell you what to do.' She gazed into the mirror, squinting her eyes, as she surveyed Bianca's appearance. 'Good,' she said with satisfaction. 'Your own mother wouldn't know you. Now, the hair.'
The protest died on Bianca's lips. The woman had a point. Of course, her family and friends would probably recognise her, but the heavy make-up did constitute a sort of disguise, and when Madame pulled her hair back tightly off her forehead and pinned on a thick, black chignon, the transformation was complete.
Gazing at her new image in the mirror, she saw that Bianca Jameson had indeed disappeared, to be replaced by a sultry-eyed, flamboyant gypsy girl. Her spirits rose. She felt far more confident now that she could go through with it. As far as the patrons of the restaurant were concerned, she wouldn't even be Bianca Jameson.
'Now,' Madame was saying, 'it is almost time. From now on,' she went
on sternly, 'you must do all this yourself, Bianca.'
She scurried out of the room, then, and taking one last look in the mirror and making a tiny adjustment to the heavy chignon, Bianca stood up and faced the other two women.
After some hesitation and a few awkward moments out in the dining room, the evening went smoothly. At first, Bianca watched Barbara and Diane carefully to see how they handled them-selves. The male accordionist, who looked like a real gypsy, with a twirling black moustache, swarthy complexion and flashing dark eyes, would accompany each girl in turn, and as time went on, Bianca found herself recalling quite easily the music she and Gerry had practised that afternoon.
By the time she had her supper break at eight o'clock, she was exhausted. It was tiring enough to play even simple music for two hours straight, but even worse when she had to be constantly on the move, strolling from table to table.
She wolfed down the plate of spicy goulash she was served in the busy kitchen, then with a sigh, leaned back in her chair and made her body go limp. Flexing her cramped fingers, she slipped off the uncomfortable sandals and wiggled her toes, her legs stretched out in front of her. Lord, she was tired. She closed her eyes.
'Sorry, Bianca,' came a low voice in her ear, 'it's time to get back. Recess is. over.'
Her eyes flew open, and she looked up to see Barbara leaning over her, a sympathetic look on her round, kind face. 'So soon?' Bianca groaned.
Barbara gave her a friendly grin. 'The first week is rough, but when you get used to it it won't be so bad.'
Bianca stood up and stretched, arching her aching back. 'I hope you're right,' she muttered as she slipped back into the sandals. She picked up her violin and tuned it, then with a rueful grin at Barbara, started back to the dining room.
'One thing you should watch out for,' Barbara called softly, 'especially on weekends. Later on, some of the serious drinkers may get a little amorous. Nothing serious, and you don't want to offend the paying customers.' She grinned. 'One of the advantages of strolling is that you're always on the move. In case you do have a problem, though, just give a shout for Dino, the accordionist. He's also the bouncer.'
'Thanks for the warning,' Bianca said weakly. Barbara gave her a little salute and turned to her supper.
Shutting the kitchen door behind her, Bianca took a deep breath and began to move towards the dining area, dodging bustling waiters laden with precariously balanced trays and searching for Dino. His accompaniment was a big help. She finally spotted him far across the room and began to walk towards him. As she passed by a noisy group at a large table in the middle of one of the dining areas, she felt a hand grasp her wrist.
She looked down at a fat, middle-aged man who was grinning up at her and brandishing a five dollar bill in his hand. Recalling Barbara's warning, she smiled sweetly down at him and deftly slid her arm out of his grasp.
'Yes, sir,' she said politely, instantly on guard.
'It's our anniversary,' he said tipsily, nodding at the grey-haired woman seated beside him. 'Can you play Gypsy Love Song for us?'
'Of course,' she replied, relaxing. Since he was still poking the bill at her, she took it from him and thanked him with a smile. She debated for a moment, then tucked it into the bosom of her red costume, the only conceivable place it would go. Then she lifted her bow and began to play. It was one of the pieces she and Gerry had practised that afternoon, and as she played she closed her eyes and tried to imagine that he was there accompanying her.
When the last lingering strains of the sweet melody had hushed to a close, Bianca heard a loud round of applause and opened her eyes, blinking at the sudden sound and the lights of the flickering candles. She collected herself, smiled and bowed, then moved on.
When she got home that night, well after midnight, she had just enough strength to wash off the heavy make-up, put on her nightgown and fall into bed. She was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow and barely stirred until the ringing of the telephone awakened her the next morning.
Blinking and stretching, she groaned and rolled over to see what time it was. The sun was pouring in through the bedroom window, and she saw by the clock on the nightstand that it was after nine o'clock. The phone continued to ring. Groggily, she rolled out of bed, every muscle in her body aching, and stumbled into the living room to answer it.
'Hello,' she mumbled.
'Well? How did it go?' It was Tom. She cleared her throat and flopped down in a nearby chair.
'Not bad. In fact, quite well. I'm just tired.'
'It's gruelling work,' Tom said in a soothing tone. 'I know. I did the same thing in my student days in New York.'
Bianca perked up. 'Did you really?'
'I sure did. In those days I jumped at the chance to perform anywhere they'd pay me.'
'And you actually lived to tell the tale?' she asked with a groan. 'I feel as though I've been put through a meat grinder.'
He chuckled. 'You'll survive. Wait and see. In a week you'll be an old hand at the game. It's just a matter of getting used to a new routine, new music, new surroundings…'
'And new muscles,' she broke in. 'I didn't even know I had so many places to hurt.'
'Well, yes, there's that, too. Listen, I thought I'd stop by the restaurant for dinner tonight to catch your act.'
She thought about that skimpy costume. 'Oh, Tom, I don't know. I wish you wouldn't. I'd be embarrassed.'
'Whyever for? I'm your teacher, remember? Surely the music can't be that difficult for you?'
'It's not the music,' she explained carefully. 'It's everything else. The way I look. Most of all the costume. It's—ah—not my usual style.'
'Bianca,' he said sternly. 'This is Tom. I've known you since you were twelve years old. You're not going to go all shy on me now, are you?'
She pondered his question. In spite of the crush she'd had on him, their relationship had always been more like uncle and niece or brother and sister. Her oldest brother, Tony, was about Tom's age, and it wouldn't bother her to have Tony see her in her gypsy role.
'Well, all right,' she said finally. 'If you really want to Maybe you can give me some expert criticism.'
He laughed. 'I doubt that. See you this evening, then.'
After they hung up, Bianca went back to her room to shower and dress. Soaking under the pelting spray, as hot as she could stand it, she thought over her conversation with Tom. She wasn't crazy about the idea of having him come to the restaurant to watch her play, but at least he wasn't Gerry. Now that she couldn't tolerate.
As she dried herself and brushed out her damp hair, she wondered what the difference was. Why couldn't she even bear to think about the possibility of Gerry seeing her in that costume? He had quit making amorous advances to her. They were only friends. She pictured him in her mind sitting at one of the tables in the dining room, the dark secretive eyes on her as she strolled by in the low-cut, backless red dress, skin tight, with virtually nothing on underneath it, and shivered involuntarily. No way, she thought firmly.
She dressed quickly in a pair of white shorts that set off her tanned legs and a pale blue halter top. In the living room, she slid open the glass door and stepped out on to the verandah. It was a beautiful day. The weather had settled into a typical Southern Californian spring now that April had arrived. She'd been at the beach for three months now and was finally growing accustomed to the dependable sunshine. Here in Malibu the ocean breezes kept the smog at bay, and every morning was a revelation of blue, blue sky and balmy weather.
Over a light breakfast she decided that a brisk walk up the beach would loosen more of the kinks in her aching joints and muscles. Then she'd lie in the sun for a while and later on run through her music again. She was just finishing her second cup of coffee when she heard a light tapping on the open door leading out to the verandah.
'Anybody home?' came a familiar cheerful voice.
'In here, Gerry,' she called from the kitchen.
She was sitting at the round, glass-topp
ed table in the corner of the room near the window, and looked up as he appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in his dark bathing trunks and a loose, short-sleeved cotton shirt. Lounging back against the doorframe he gave her an enquiring look.
'Well? How did it go?'
She was surprised at how glad she was to see him, and realised suddenly how she had looked forward to his coming over today, even counted on it. She stared up at him, her throat oddly constricted. He was so darned appealing, she thought, from the smooth thick hair on his fine, arrogant head to the lithe tanned body beneath it. All glorious male animal, he sent messages of almost blatant sensuality just standing still.
'Well?' he repeated with a grin. 'Are you going to answer me or are you going to stare at me all day?'
Reddening, she dropped her eyes and took a quick swallow of coffee to cover her confusion. He was well aware, she thought, of the reason for her open appraisal. 'Sorry,' she muttered. 'I'm not quite with it yet this morning.' She took another swallow of coffee. Steadier now, she smiled back at him. 'It went fine. A little gruelling physically, but I think I'll get used to it.'
He was ambling towards her now. When he reached the table, he turned a chair around and straddled it, folded his arms over the top and leaned his chin on them.
'Got any more coffee?'
'Yes, of course.' She got up to pour him a cup. It was only Gerry, she thought as she handed him his coffee. He was just being friendly. Then why was her heart pounding so? She sat down opposite him.
'Tell me about it,' he said.
As she related the events of her first night on the job, she relaxed more and more. He seemed to be really interested, laughing at her description of Madame Tedescu, frowning at Barbara's warning about grabby patrons.
Malibu Music Page 8