Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (17 page)

“Mind!” said Miss LaFosse. “Me? Didn’t I tell you I had no mother. No one’s ever cared to lecture me before. It’s been lovely. I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds.”

She turned back to the dressing-table. Miss Pettigrew watched operations with intense interest. She shook her head.

“My dear,” said Miss Pettigrew, “do you think that so much make–up; is, well, lady-like?”

“I acted a lady once,” said Miss LaFosse. “When it comes to marrying, having a lord as a hubby can help no end in the profession. You’ve no idea. He was a lord. Or about to be one when the old man died. I always get a bit muddled with titles. So I put on the refined act. I heard he didn’t like lipstick—he liked kissing. You see the connexion. He was a bit careless about traces and the old lord had very good eyesight and a moral nature.”

Miss Pettigrew, stepping on the accelerator of her worldly wisdom, thought she saw the connexion.

“Well, I acted the lady,” said Miss LaFosse. “No lipstick, no legs showing. You know. Aloof and keep your distance. None of the come-hither about me. I saw him next week with a bitch of a woman, all lipstick, legs and lust.”

“My dear,” broke in Miss Pettigrew. “I mean, well, you know, there are other words.”

“Than lust? Well, teach me a worse. I’m willing to use it.”

“No, no,” said Miss Pettigrew, blushing; “the—er—female dog.”

“But she wasn’t a female dog. She was a mongrel bitch.”

Miss Pettigrew thought discretion the better part of valour. She was still bewildered. She thought Miss LaFosse’s explanation very un-explanatory and a bit involved and not at all clear, but at the rate she was progressing along the road of dissipation she was much more interested in the lord who didn’t like lipstick.

“What happened to the lord?”

“He married the lipstick and legs,” said Miss LaFosse simply, “when the old man died. I learned my lesson.”

She applied her lipstick thoughtfully. Miss Pettigrew nodded profoundly.

“I see,” said Miss Pettigrew, “there are very many points to learn in collecting a husband. My ignorance is abysmal.”

“You’ll learn,” said Miss LaFosse.

“I am willing to be coached,” said Miss Pettigrew with complete abandonment, “but my days of conquest are past.”

“Never say die,” said Miss LaFosse.

She applied a last dab of powder.

“There. That’s that. Now come along, Guinevere. Your turn now. Remove the old traces.”

Miss Pettigrew hurried into the bathroom. She came back, skin shining like a schoolgirl. Miss LaFosse gathered together the materials for removing the shine. Miss Pettigrew took her place in front of the mirror.

Already there was a mild look of disarray about her person. Miss Dubarry’s neat waves were all out of place. Her gown was a little crumpled. Miss Pettigrew had scrubbed her face like a miner from the pit. That subtle air of ‘chic’ had vanished. The black velvet gown had lost its sophisticated air. It seemed to have set in definite crumples.

“Tut, tut, Guinevere,” remonstrated Miss LaFosse. “You are falling to pieces.”

She set to work rapidly to reconstruct Miss Pettigrew N°1 back again into Miss Pettigrew N°2.

“It’s no use,” said Miss Pettigrew resignedly. “I’ll come apart again. Dowdy I always have been and dowdy I always will be.”

“Nonsense,” disagreed Miss LaFosse sternly. “That’s merely an inferiority complex. If you can look good once, you can look good always. Merely a little practice.”

“I’ll never have enough.”

“Don’t be pessimistic.”

“You can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.”

“You can turn rags into paper.”

“One girl’s smart, one girl isn’t,” said Miss Pettigrew, warming to the argument. “Both have the same figure. You don’t know why. I’m just the isn’t one.”

“Pure nonsense,” said Miss LaFosse. “Tummy in, shoulders back. That’s the secret. If you will walk with a slouch your clothing gets a slouch.”

She completed operations on Miss Pettigrew’s face. She firmly and securely fastened Miss Dubarry’s waves back into place. She pinned the red rose on Miss Pettigrew’s shoulder. Miss Pettigrew smiled radiantly at her reflection.

“For the first time in my life I am enjoying being with myself.”

She donned her borrowed fur coat. Miss LaFosse appeared in a magnificent black evening wrap with a white fox collar. She hastily collected gloves, handkerchief, evening bag.

“My goodness, I daren’t think how late we are!”

She suddenly developed another craze for speed. She fled for the door. Miss Pettigrew trotted after. If the small voice of conscience did pipe up, Miss Pettigrew turned a wickedly deaf ear. Not the king and all his horses and men should deprive her of her enjoyment now. She had an excuse. Events had happened so rapidly all day she could claim she was not quite herself. She was in a state of mental exaltation and that covers a multitude of aberrations.

She gambolled after Miss LaFosse, natural colour deepening the artificial, eyes shining, breath excited. She was bound for adventure, the Spanish Main a night club. The very name filled her with a glorious sense of exhilaration. What would her dear dead mother say if life came back to her body? To what depths of depravity was her daughter sinking? What did Miss Pettigrew care? Nothing. Freely, frankly, joyously, she acknowledged the fact. She was out for a wild night. She was out to paint the town red. She was out to taste another of Tony’s cocktails. She was a gentlewoman ranker out on the spree, and, oh shades of a monotonous past, would she spree! She was out to enjoy herself as she had never enjoyed herself before, and all the sermons in the world wouldn’t change her course. She was set for deep waters, the multitudinous seas to incarnadine.

She trotted beaming down the passage after Miss LaFosse. Too impatient for the lift Miss LaFosse skimmed downstairs, Miss Pettigrew not a foot behind. A taxi squealed to a halt at the porter’s whistle. Miss LaFosse turned towards the driver, but Miss Pettigrew moved her aside. Radiantly, haughtily.

“The Scarlet Peacock,” said Miss Pettigrew, “and make it snappy.”

They got in.

They went roaring through the lighted streets. Miss Pettigrew sat up straight and stared with glittering eyes out of the windows. No longer were the damp November streets dreary. Fairy signs guttered on buildings. Magic horns hooted insistently. Palace lights shed a brilliant glow on the pavements. Avalon hummed, throbbed, pulsed, quivered with life. Bowler-hatted knights and luscious ladies hastened with happy faces for delightful destinations. Miss Pettigrew hastened with them, though much more aristocratically than on her own two legs. Now she, herself, had a destination. What a difference that made! All the difference in the world. Now she lived. She was inside of things. Now she took part. She breathed Ambrosial vapour.

Miss LaFosse, seated beside her, slim, graceful, poised, groomed down to the last wicked little curl, was her friend. She, Miss Pettigrew, spinster, maiden lady, dull nonentity, jobless, incompetent, was bound for a night club, clad in splendour: painted like the best of them, shameless as the worst of them, uplifted with ecstasy.

“Oh!” thought Miss Pettigrew blissfully, “I think I’d like to die tonight before I waken up.”

They arrived.

12.16
AM
—1.15
AM

A
tall building, discreet, dignified, met Miss Pettigrew’s gaze. She stared. Her heart fell. She turned reproachful eyes on Miss LaFosse. Was Miss LaFosse letting her down? Was this a Night Club? A modest light glowed above a double door. A Commissionaire bowed politely.

“A wretched evening, Miss LaFosse.”

“It is indeed, Henry.”

Miss LaFosse mounted the steps. Miss Pettigrew followed much more slowly. The doors opened and closed behind her. Miss Pettigrew gasped. A vision of splendour burst upon her gaze. They were in a large foyer. She had a sense of light and colour, music and scent. At the far end a broad staircase mounted to regions above. Women walked by in gorgeous evening gowns. Men attended them in their suave black-and-white uniforms. All was gilt and glitter, voices and laughter. Miss Pettigrew revived again. Her eyes began to shine. This was like a night club. This was as things should be. This was as the screen portrayed them. A door opened on their left and a surge of music throbbed from the hidden room. Her nose began to twitch like a hound after a scent.

“This way,” said Miss LaFosse.

“Lead on,” said Miss Pettigrew.

Miss LaFosse mounted the stairway. Miss Pettigrew followed. The passages upstairs were equally splendid. No mere show downstairs hiding inferiority above. Miss Pettigrew nodded with approval. This was the thing.

They passed various discreetly closed doors. They went into the ladies’ cloakroom. Rich carpets, shaded lights, glittering mirrors, attendants hovering to assist them. They took off their wraps, powdered their noses, shook their frocks into place, and went downstairs again. An attendant hastened to open the door of doors. They passed through. Miss Pettigrew faltered and stopped. An open space, with a shining floor, surrounded by tables, met her gaze. At the distant end the band was silent. All occupants of the tables were free to stare. As Miss Pettigrew gazed panic-stricken, the room grew bigger and bigger. She must walk across that immense floor the cynosure of all eyes. Her courage oozed out of her toes.

“Now remember,” whispered Miss LaFosse urgently, “tummy in, shoulders back. You will notice there are mirrors. I will seat you strategically and an occasional peep will give you pep. You look swell.”

She moved. Miss Pettigrew took a deep breath and dived after. Miss LaFosse smiled at some one at nearly every table. At nearly every table some one greeted her. They crossed the entire room, and at the far end, near the band, Miss LaFosse stopped.

Miss Pettigrew’s knees were trembling: her heart pounding. A further ordeal awaited her. The table was surrounded by people. Dozens and dozens of vague blobs of faces. She managed to produce the sickly smile of a stranger butting into a group of friends. What mad impulse had brought her here where she didn’t belong?

Her terrors were groundless, her fears without cause. She focused her eyes at last. There was Miss Dubarry beaming. There was Tony grinning. There was Michael leaping to his feet. Certainly there were other people present. But what did they matter? She was among friends. Miss LaFosse. Miss Dubarry. Tony. Michael. There could be a thousand other people present. Miss Pettigrew’s smile spread into a real one of breathless joy.

“Where the devil have you been?” demanded Michael.

“You’re late,” accused Miss Dubarry.

“We’d given you up,” said Tony.

“Waiter,” called Michael. “More chairs.”

They were seated at last. Miss LaFosse did a little unobtrusive manoeuvring. Miss Pettigrew found herself in clear proximity to a mirror. She had a quick peep for reassurance, but she was beginning to lose the need for it. She was engulfed in friendliness. She had Tony on one side of her and Michael on the other. Miss Dubarry had flung a hasty whisper in her ear.

“I’m so happy. It’s all due to you. Don’t forget your promise to visit my beauty parlour.”

Miss Pettigrew didn’t yet know what all these passionate thanks were for, but their spirit moved her to joy. Her face began to shine again.

Finding herself so close to Tony, however, she began to feel overcome with embarrassment. She made desperate attempts to remember what she had said to him during the afternoon, but she couldn’t. She only had a definite impression that she had been very rude: not at all like herself. She began to grow hot at the thought. Under cover of the general barrage of remarks, she turned to him in shy desperation and touched his sleeve. Tony gave her a comradely smile.

“Oh, please!” stammered Miss Pettigrew in a low voice. “This afternoon. I’m afraid I was very rude. I can’t remember. But I’m sure I was rude. I have a feeling. I don’t know what to say. I…I’m very much afraid Miss LaFosse was right after all. It must have been the drink you gave me. I’m not accustomed to it. It must have gone to my head. I’m deeply ashamed. What can I say? Please, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Rude?” said Tony. “To me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“I don’t remember.”

“When I was talking to you.”

“We had a most remarkable talk.”

“But I wasn’t polite.”

“I don’t meet any polite women, I wouldn’t know if you were, so I wouldn’t know if you weren’t.”

“Oh, please,” said Miss Pettigrew in agitation, “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“But you’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Not serious.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“But you said you were.”

“I’m sure I said no such thing. Do I look the kind of a bloke who never laughs?”

“I never said you never laughed.”

“You implied it. Never,” said Tony bitterly, “did I think I looked like Henry.”

“Henry!” cried Miss Pettigrew helplessly. “Who’s Henry? What’s Henry got to do with it.”

“You said I never laughed.”

“I said you weren’t serious.”

“Why should I be? I have no White Ship.”

“Oh, please,” cried poor Miss Pettigrew. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And you,” said Tony in a voice of bitter disillusionment, “are an educated woman.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Did you never hear of King Henry the First?”

“Of course I’ve heard about Henry I,” said Miss Pettigrew hotly.

“Then why pretend you didn’t and lead the conversation astray?”

“I pretended no such thing. It’s you who won’t talk sense.”

“Sense about what?”

“About this afternoon.”

“But we weren’t talking about this afternoon.”

“Yes we were.”

“Now wait,” said Tony. “Let’s be very cool again. Let’s be collected. Let’s gather our thoughts with care. What were we talking about?”

“About my being rude.”

“Then why,” said Tony simply, “bring in History?”

“Oh!” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

She stared at him helplessly. Tony gazed straight in front of him. Miss Pettigrew struggled between bewilderment and indignation. Suddenly light dawned. She giggled.