Hotel du Barry (6 page)

‘No cause for alarm, my dear.'

‘Oh really? Did you know your daughter constantly hangs around with Bertha Brown and those gossiping kitchen trollops? They're as common as muck. And Cat is also spending hours in the company of Jim Blade and his unsavoury chums from Scotland Yard. I caught them at it again today, down in the boiler room, showing Caterina how to place bets on race horses, when I'd specifically told her to stay put and wait for the ballet mistress to arrive.'

Daniel buttered a slice of toast. ‘No harm will come of it. Bertha is like a mother to her. And Jim possesses a profound understanding of human nature. My daughter stands to gain an all-round education. Anyway, I think you should drop the ballet lessons. She clearly loathes them.'

Edwina flinched at the motherhood reference but decided to stick to her main gripe. ‘All-round education. Ha. Don't make me laugh. Caterina's tutors are far too radical and lenient. They don't discipline her and she's getting the sort of education better suited to a young man.'

‘That's what I pay them for. Cat is mature for her age and needs intellectual stimulation.'

Edwina flung her napkin down and glared at him. ‘For God's sake, Danny. She's running wild and needs to be tamed. Sent to a prestigious boarding school where she can learn feminine skills, deportment and ballroom dancing. She needs to have the assertiveness knocked out of her, mix with her equals and learn to conform.'

As usual Daniel folded his newspaper, finished his coffee and stood up. He kissed Edwina lightly on the top of her blonde head. He enjoyed a little cut and thrust in the mornings. It kept him on his toes.

It was Cat's eighth Christmas. Down on the street, with her nose in a cup of brandy eggnog and an endless supply of petit meat pies on hand, she felt like she'd died and gone to heaven. The occasion was especially thrilling because Edwina didn't have a clue she was on the street.

Cat had become used to the musty, animal stench of her fellow spectators and found it reassuringly familiar. The odour was similar to that of her pet guinea pigs. She liked loitering around the red carpet, getting tipsy and eavesdropping on conversations. One street beggar told another, ‘There's too many fucking cloves in the mulled wine this year. I am going to put in a complaint to Danny Boy. It's making me fucking teeth numb.'

‘Typical. Danny turns on a free feed and all you can do is whinge. The reason you're feeling no pain is because you're on your sixth cup of plonk.'

Henri Dupont stood at the top of the stairs and greeted the wealthy clientele. He pretended not to see Cat in the crowd below. When questioned by Edwina, he was in the habit of cheerfully denying all knowledge of her whereabouts. However, he discreetly signalled the hotel dick. ‘Jim, our girl is down there. Keep an eye on her, will you? We don't want her carried off by an opportunistic paedophile.'

‘To be sure, Comrade.'

Jim Blade slipped into the crowd, located Cat and latched onto a cup of mulled wine. His job at this time of year was remarkably rewarding. He loved Christmas for not only was it an excuse for getting crapulous but it was also the premier season for knifings, suicides and all manner of family homicide. The festive season ignited the simmering hostilities that people had kept under wraps all year. Adultery, divorce, whore-mongering, skirt-chasing and blatant affairs with other men's wives and mistresses were the order of the season. Lovers turned on each other with a vengeance that was hard to believe. The hotel was full of it. Jim smacked his lips and hummed, ‘Tis the season to be jolly, tra la la la la . . . la la la la.'

He winked at Cat and she sidled closer so she could slip her small hand into his big, warm paw. In companionable silence they watched as a luminescent actress wiggled her way up the red-carpeted stairs. The long, tight gown forced her to take tiny geisha steps. Her shapely bottom seemed to have a life of its own and her diamond earrings glinted wickedly under the lights.

Cat sighed with pleasure. ‘Mary knows how to walk like that. She taught me how she does it in deportment classes. But those girls do it with books balanced on their heads. I can do it with the family Bible on mine.'

Jim grinned. ‘I don't think this actress has had much truck with the Bible.'

The crowd cheered her victorious ascent. Cat gleefully noted, ‘I reckon she's not wearing any underwear. How come?'

‘Maybe her washing didn't dry in time.'

They both sniggered.

The peroxided beauty was fantasy made flesh, the created
femme fatale
of male dreaming. Jim drained his cup and licked his lips. The actress swivelled gracefully on the top step and blew them all a kiss before disappearing into the lobby. Jim suspected that all the men
fancied her rotten and the women yearned to be in her shoes. A collective sigh of desire arose from the crowd.

Everything was swell until a hotel valet shoved his way through the crowd. Jim sensed that something was up. ‘What is it, Alfred?'

‘It's Mrs du Barry, Sir. I've been looking all over for Miss Cat.'

‘And?'

‘Madam requested that I find Cat and get her back to the ninth floor. She reckons it's way past Caterina's bedtime
.
'

Cat's face fell and she carefully studied her shoes. Christmas Eve was already over before it had even begun. She wouldn't be able to disappear into the labyrinth for the special staff supper. Cat had helped Ziggy, the pastry chef, to make traditional Christmas treats:
Kokosbusserl
,
Linzer tortes
and
Lebkuchen
. She'd iced all the
Sacher tortes
and while they'd worked Ziggy had taught her the words to ‘Silent Night'. He'd told Cat, ‘In Austria we sing “
Stille Nacht
” on Christmas Eve. We shall all sing it tonight. And drink up the good schnapps Mr du Barry supplied.'

Jim placed his hand on Alfred's shoulder and Alfred looked nervous. ‘You do know it is Christmas Eve, don't you, Alfred?'

‘Yes, Sir.'

‘This is when folk try to spread good cheer. By doing things like looking after our chums and ensuring our nearest and dearest have a good time.'

‘Sir?'

‘I have a proposition for you, Alfred. Let's imagine that I choose to let you off that nasty little IOU you accrued at last night's poker game. And in return you choose to spread some fucking Christmas cheer around, eh?'

‘But Mrs du Barry will get shirty. She might even get me sacked.'

Jim looked at his watch. ‘You worry too much, my boy. You don't understand how things work. The Hotel du Barry is very traditional. It operates on the time-honoured system of pimps, spies and snitches. With a modicum of effort I can arrange to have Mrs du Barry's every move tracked.'

‘So the eyes are everywhere?'

‘Precisely. I've already been informed Madam is playing hostess up in the Winter Garden. Meeting and greeting. She won't have time to scratch herself and she definitely won't be returning to the ninth floor until the last guest leaves and the sun begins to rise.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, Alfred. Wise up. Now, all you have to do is tell Cat's babysitter that I've promised to have Cat back on the ninth floor well before that lard-arsed chap in the red suit comes sliding down the chimney. Deliver this message, stay clear of the Winter Garden and all will be satisfactorily sorted.'

Alfred grinned. ‘If you say so, Sir.'

‘I do. Tonight Cat's babysitter is one of Mrs Brown's girls. Gwendoline is a good sort.'

‘I get it. Consider it done.'

‘That's more like it, and in return I'll tear up that IOU. But never forget this: punting your hard-earned wages is a mug's game. Especially when you're up against me and the cream of Scotland Yard. And while I'm dispensing free advice, you need to dump your latest squeeze. Miss Gottfried is sharing her considerable charms with you
and
that unhinged psychopath, Gary Smythe. You don't want to end up wearing concrete booties in the Thames.'

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.

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.