The Chandelier Ballroom (3 page)

All these months, she still didn’t know anyone here, but then, she had no wish to. The moment she opened her mouth, she’d see their noses turn up, their eyes glaze over. In fact if she was to bother to pass the time of day with any one of them, she wouldn’t be able to resist the impulse to come out with a nice string of ripe Cockney words just to see the looks on their faces. They could all sod off as far as she was concerned.

She felt only contempt for the way Race was behaving, talking like some toff, using his full name Horace. This inheritance of his had gone to his head, more a curse than a blessing. He’d started going off to the racetrack with his new friends, investing big money in companies, playing the stock market; it seemed he couldn’t lose. But the amounts he invested only needed to go wrong a few times for it all to come tumbling down around him. Then where would they be?

Millie pulled a sour face. But what if it all went wrong? Look at the Wall Street Crash. Investments could suddenly be worth nothing and then having known what it was like to be in the money, he’d be devastated to have it disappear. It’d kill him to end up back in the East End feeling himself laughed at. But it wouldn’t kill her. She’d be back where her heart was, head held high.

She heard him come back into the passage, heading for the rear door. The crash of it being viciously slammed behind him brought a grin to her face. He was in a fine old temper with her. Well, let him walk it off, though he’d no doubt take his precious Rolls for a spin. When he came back he’d be all mild and sweet again. Well, let him be sweet somewhere else for now, silly bugger, taking his temper out on a door.

She looked about the lavish room, its fancy decor, its grand piano, the gilded doors at either end, the huge chandelier in the centre of the ornate ceiling, like some gorgeous goddess from the way he seemed to worship and adore it – in love with the damned thing!

Casting it a last contemptuous glance she went out, closing the door with a purposeful click. Say what he liked, she was her own mistress.

The Boxing Day party was a great success. It would have been even greater if he hadn’t had to cover for his wife. He had told her that if she couldn’t be bothered to put on the beautiful evening gown he’d bought her for the occasion, she needn’t come down at all. She hadn’t come down. After the last guest had departed he’d gone for her up in the bedroom.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you were doing?’ he stormed. ‘Are you deliberately setting out to make a fool of me?’

‘Do I need to?’ had been the reply, making him lift a closed fist to shoulder height as if to hit her, letting it hover for a moment before dropping his arm to turn away and bash the door with the fist. It hurt and he drew in a sharp hiss of pain but she merely stood watching him without moving.

‘I had a headache,’ she said quietly.

‘Sod you and your bloody headache!’ he raged, nursing his hand then jerking the bedroom door open to leave. In the doorway he looked back at her, his tone now plaintive. ‘If you’d just once try to be sociable. You said you liked the dress I got you. I buy you no end of stuff but you never wear any of it. It was a stunning dress.’

Yes it was, had cost a bomb: figure-hugging black rayon, ground-length, fluted from mid-calf down, fashionably sleeveless and backless – she still had a decent back – but with a bolero to conceal her slightly saggy upper arms. She had tried it on in the fitting room of the fancy Bond Street boutique and for a moment had experienced a deep thrill, but only for a moment, as, looking at herself in the mirror, the thickening waist, the widened hips, the sagging shoulders and now stubby neck spoiled the creation entirely, despite the outfit being her size. She’d said nothing and let him buy it for her as willingly as if she was still the slender young girl he had once known, and for once she’d felt sorry for him, felt a moment of nostalgia for those days. But on leaving the boutique she’d caught something like a pained look on his face as he stared solidly ahead of him. That was when she’d vowed not to go down to his stupid party, to have herself belittled by all those stuck-up wives in their fine gowns. No one was going to laugh at her

She wondered if they weren’t secretly laughing at him, an oaf trying to be one of them. Knowing him, it wouldn’t even dawn on him.

‘Won’t you just try to mix, if only for my sake?’ he was pleading from the door, and a wave of pity washed over her.

‘Alright, I’ll try,’ she said, and saw him nod, unconvinced.

She was trying. There’d been several parties this past year and she was beginning to feel more at ease. Maybe she was settling in at last, now and again finding a few wives there stouter than her. On occasion Race would install a couple of roulette tables that turned out to be even more of a draw. Even without them, every party was a success. The house bore the air of a small country estate, Race seemingly acquiring some status at last.

They were beginning to live the life of the better off, too. Last spring they’d taken their first ever foreign holiday, flying Imperial Airways to Paris. Her first time on a plane, a bit scary but thrilling, and Paris was wonderful, the only other city she’d ever seen outside London. This year, following the trend for steamer cruises, they were sailing down to the Med. The weather so far had been wonderfully calm. She’d not been a bit seasick, which she’d dreaded when Race spoke of doing a cruise.

Having called in at Gibraltar, it was on to Morocco where they took a trip on a single-line railway into the desert before returning to the ship to sail even deeper into the soothing warmth of the Med, relaxing on a sun bed, drinking cool glasses of lemonade. At last she had begun to feel at ease, noting quite a few matronly wives on board. In fact, against some of them she was starting to feel quite slim. She’d even made friends with one or two. Sailing quietly along, her world began to take on new meaning. This was the life.

The ship was the new Italian vessel, REX, the two of them going first class with money no object. She felt pampered, fortunate, special. Their fine suite was delightful. The décor of the main ballroom and vast dining area, art deco to the highest degree, overawed her. Their own home had been done out mostly art deco, but none of it came up to this.

It was nice to sit in the comfortable and peaceful lounge, enjoy deck games or relax in a deckchair in the sunshine, and she took full advantage of it. Race was mostly in the casino but she was quite happy taking a turn around the decks on her own. She was acquiring a tan and sometimes was sure he was looking at her like she was a new woman. Dancing every night, she and Race were picking up on their old steps. At mealtimes, sharing tables with others, her accent was fading a little – which she’d never intended it to – as they slowly sailed for home.

Tonight, the ballroom crowded, everyone making the most of it before docking in two days’ time, the only table they could find already had four young people sitting there who readily made room for them. But she couldn’t help feeling just a little uncomfortable beside their collected youth.

As she whispered to Race, ‘I think I need to pop off to the ladies,’ one of the two girls there, who had been introduced as Sally, leapt up exclaiming, ‘Mind if I come with you, darling? I certainly do need to pee!’ Turning to the other girl while the men rose courteously to their feet, she twittered, ‘You coming, Cee?’ her voice bright and cultured.

Cee, or Celia as she had been introduced, shook her head. ‘Not just yet. I’m quite comfortable.’

‘Okay!’ chirped Sally, promptly linking an arm through Millie’s as if they’d been friends for years. She was a pretty enough girl, but Celia was simply ravishing, and knew it.

Millie estimated Celia to be around twenty, twenty-two, but she was no innocent, she was sure of that. There was a manner about her that to Millie’s mind said she knew how to use her looks to full advantage. More than once Race’s eyes had swivelled towards her, and even when he’d nodded in reply to her need to pop off to the toilet, his gaze had flicked back yet again to the girl.

Returning to the table with Sally close behind, she saw that Cee was now sitting next to Race. Both were smoking, the girl’s cigarette in a long ivory holder which she held delicately between thumb and forefinger, the other three fingers held daintily upwards.

Millie let out a somewhat audible sigh of exasperation as she sat on the other side of Race, but the girl didn’t seem to hear, just leant forward to peek across Race at her and said, ‘Feel better now, dear?’

Maybe meant as a joke, Millie took it as derogatory and looked away without replying. Race, however, had noticed her pique and turned to her almost guiltily.

‘Want to dance, love?’ he asked.

‘No thank you,’ she returned curtly.

‘I’d like to,’ Cee offered promptly, already on her feet, stubbing her cigarette out, still in its holder, and taking hold of Race’s hand before Millie could react. ‘I bet you’re a smashing dancer,’ she said as she pulled him to his feet.

He was making a play of reluctance, shaking his head and saying he wasn’t that good, flapping his free hand in protest, but Millie felt certain he was thoroughly flattered at being led out onto the small dance floor by this young thing. He glanced back at her, saying, ‘You don’t mind, do you, Mill?’

Millie didn’t answer, merely picking up and sipping at her wine while she stared ahead. If he couldn’t read her thoughts into that gesture he had to be blind.

Daft old fool
came the thought as, sipping steadily, she surreptitiously watched their gyrations to the beat of a quickstep, the girl in her backless, sleeveless, midnight blue gown that set off the wavy blonde hair, writhing and swaying in his arms, he trying to do the same, old enough to be her father but suddenly thinking himself as some youngster and looking a proper idiot.

The other two had also got up to dance, leaving the one young man who might have been Cee’s escort. Having found himself sitting alone at the table with one middle-aged woman, he perched himself sideways-on in his chair with one leg crossed over the other and pointing away from her, staring blankly and perhaps even a little desperately about the room.

Millie knew just how he felt and continued to sip her wine as she watched her husband’s antics.

It was a relief to be home, if one could call it that. It would never be home to her, still a mausoleum of a place, isolated, the long views across empty fields offering no close comfort of streets and cheek-to-jowl neighbours.

These last two days sailing back to Southampton had taken forever, with that girl Celia Howard ignoring her to a point of rudeness while hanging around Race like a leech. And him, the daft old fool, revelling in her attention and her fluttering eyelashes, her pursed red lips, acting as if he was nearer twenty-five then fifty-five years old. Perhaps, she told herself while he brought the cases into the hallway, things could now get back to normal. At least he’d acted his age driving back from Southampton, talking of the Halloween party he would be holding six weeks from now.

‘People don’t seem to want to bother with it here. In the USA they celebrate it in a big way. We should do it here. I’ll put on a show anyway.’

Any excuse for inviting a crowd, having them admire his beloved ballroom and its great glittering centrepiece, Millie thought a little sourly. But at least the idea seemed to have swept all thoughts of Celia from his mind.

As usual, the weeks leading up to the Halloween event seethed with preparation – caterers to do the buffet, champagne arriving by the bucketload, people being hired to serve drinks, a small dance band with a female vocalist engaged, an army of cleaners to get the place spotless even though a woman from the domestic agency came twice a week to clean and tidy. Decorations were hung, coloured lights installed outside front and back.

Millie kept out of the way, not wanting any part of his preparations.

‘Promise to try and make yourself presentable, won’t you?’ he said to her. ‘I want you to look your best for this one, like you did on the cruise.’

‘I’ll be as presentable as you want,’ she said, and she meant it.

‘And come down to meet everyone?’ he went on beseechingly.

She melted. ‘’Course!’ At least until bored by all that high-blown chatter when she’d return to the privacy of her bedroom and her radio instead.

She’d taken no part in the sending out of invitations and had no interest in who he’d invited. Now she was home, the social niceties she’d developed during the cruise had faded and once again she looked on the friends he’d made here with some disdain, seeing no reason to suck up to them as he did. Holiday friends were different; when the holiday is over, you can put them all behind you.

The party was in full swing before she bothered coming down. She felt a bit put out that he hadn’t come rushing upstairs to remind her. If he had no intention of pleading with her, she wouldn’t go down at all. But as the music, sounds of laughter and squeals of excitement mounted, most likely at the variety of Halloween costumes Race’s guests had come in, curiosity got the better of her.

Putting on one of the evening dresses she’d worn on the cruise – she was blowed if she was going to make a fool of herself in fancy dress – she applied a dusting of face powder, a trace of lipstick and, combing her short, faintly greying hair, ventured as far as the top of the stairs. The small band was playing a quickstep, a favourite of hers from years ago.

Keeping out of sight behind the door to the upper landing, she could just glimpse couples whirling around to the beat, each seen for one brief moment before they swept on, to be replaced by other couples. Race too was dancing, a young woman in his arms. In the second that they passed her sight, it felt as if her heart had missed a beat. The girl was Celia Howard.

Clad in next to nothing, her brief top seemed to be made of dried grass. She wore a grass skirt, a garland of paper flowers, the same flowers around each slim bare wrist, in her blonde hair a red hibiscus. All glimpsed in that one split second, it felt as if the moment hung suspended for an age before the two moved out of sight.