Hotel du Barry (12 page)

As she went on recalling the minutiae of her life, Edwina tapped her hot cigarette ash onto the polished linoleum. Valmont sighed, only his face was listening. He rued the day he'd taken on Mrs du Barry as a client. However, she was a power broker in society and had sent plenty of new clients his way. Subsequently Valmont could now afford to hire more staff and renovate the salon. He'd need to do that as she'd ruined his new flooring.
I'll rip the linoleum up and replace it with tiles. Then she'll have to find some other way of driving me up the fucking wall.

When she imperiously demanded he give her tightly waved hair, Valmont put his foot down. ‘No, Mrs du Barry, I will not be giving you a hideous finger wave. It would be simply ghastly and I now have a reputation to uphold.
Vogue
magazine called me
The Zen Master of Hair.
It's quite absurd.'

Edwina flicked her ash in the general direction of an ashtray. ‘But very flattering.'

‘True but I don't know what's worse, the last decade of flappers trying to look like Eton schoolboys or my current clients aspiring to look like ventriloquists' dummies with their hair waved and lacquered to their scalps.'

He showed her a recent photograph of Jean Harlow with peroxided white-blonde hair and short, wanton loose curls. Before Eddie had time to react, he clicked his fingers at his apprentice. ‘Adolph, prepare Mrs du Barry for her stunning transformation.'

*

Edwina sat at her dressing table and examined her hairdo from every angle. It was genius, sheer unadulterated genius. Thank God she'd let Valmont have his way.

The rest of the day had been taken up with manicure, pedicure, massage, tarot readings and a delightful après luncheon dalliance with Sean Kelly.
So good for the complexion.
Now all Eddie had to do was paint her face and slip into a backless white satin evening gown. Having been tailored to her slender figure by none other than Elsa Schiaparelli, it was sheer perfection.

There was a knock on her boudoir door and Daniel entered looking decidedly agitated. ‘Eddie, just give me hand with this blasted tie, will you? It's new and damn well won't sit right. Marvellous hairdo, by the way. Really suits you.'

‘Valmont is a goddamn genius.'

Edwina slipped the black evening tie around his neck and with a few deft moves achieved the desired result. Daniel checked his reflection. ‘Thanks. Listen, have you given some thought to our discussion?'

She sat down at her dressing table and picked up a red lipstick. ‘Yes.
What therefore God has joined together, let not man put asunder.
'

‘
Don't be so fucking ridiculous. Neither of us is religious and divorce doesn't have the same stigma it had a decade ago.'

Edwina applied her lipstick, sucked her index finger to remove the residue from her inner lips and checked her teeth for smears. Then she carefully blotted her lips and applied another coat. ‘The answer is no.'

‘Eddie, please. Be reasonable. If we divorce, you can remarry. You could have a real marriage and not have to worry about keeping up appearances.'

She threw down the lipstick. ‘I don't like real. I like being
married to you, darling. Now leave me in peace so I can finish getting ready. We mustn't be late for our guests.'

‘But Eddie . . .'

‘Enough. Just. Leave. Me. Alone.'

‘Listen, we can't go on like this. You know it and I know it.'

‘Get out, Daniel!'

Daniel left. He ripped the door open and nearly collided with Sebastian, who was lingering in the hall. ‘Is everything all right, Sir?'

‘No, Sebastian. And it hasn't been for quite some time.'

Seen from below, the Winter Garden appeared to be an undiscovered planet, shimmering mysteriously over the Thames. It seemed transcendent and untouchable, with its hundreds of candles glimmering in fierce defiance of the darkness.

Daniel had installed three massive eighteenth-century crystal chandeliers he'd imported from Venice and had them stocked with hundreds of white candles. The chandeliers were wickedly opulent and spoke of a time when style, class and wit were paramount. An appreciative murmur rose from guests as they entered the Winter Garden and were seduced by the excess of mellow candlelight.

Daniel and Edwina spent the first hour standing side by side, greeting guests at the door. The only time Daniel experienced genuine pleasure was when a Tory politician firmly shook his hand and murmured, ‘Mr du Barry, I appreciate your generosity in inviting me this evening, given the altercation we recently had over your slum project. Please rest assured that my department has finally done their homework and the project will be going ahead next year. I'll get my assistant to telephone your secretary and we'll set up a meeting.'

Mary Maguire noted that Edwina was positively glowing. No doubt her luminescent platinum hair was making the natural blondes feel a bit dowdy by comparison. As they met their guests, Daniel and Eddie didn't utter one single word to each other. But being such a divine couple and so adept were they at small talk, that only a few guests detected the deep chasm between them.

Champagne flowed from a special champagne fountain created from tiers of champagne glasses. A waiter had to balance on top of a ladder every time it needed replenishing; he was kept busy as the guests sought to slake their thirst with the premium tipple. Nimble waiters ferried around hors d'oeuvres on silver platters, as Jeremy Lucknow and his swing band got the guests in the mood for dancing. The ladies' evening gowns were radically different from the ones worn at previous Winter Garden parties. Knee-length sheaths and boyish haircuts had been replaced by ankle-skimming gowns that feigned an attempt at modesty while slyly putting bosoms and bare backs on prominent display. As Valmont had predicted most women's hair had been waved and heavily lacquered. As usual the men were attired in the evening uniform of penguin suits, but the more flamboyant gentlemen sported sleek, brilliantine heads and white dinner jackets.

Sean Kelly and Mary Maguire were among the first on the dance floor and Mary could feel Edwina's eyes boring into the back of her neck as they effortlessly executed a jazzy foxtrot. Young women aglitter in diamonds and pearls inveigled Jeremy Lucknow to play music for the latest dances from America. Latin American rhythms took over and there were requests for the tango and rhumba.

Daniel tapped Sean Kelly on the shoulder and cut in. ‘Sean, will you do me a favour and ask Eddie for the next dance? She refuses to dance with me and I want to keep her off the sauce. She's in a vile mood.'

‘Will do, Daniel.'

Daniel's face relaxed and he turned to Mary. ‘Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of the next dance?'

Mary smiled up at him. ‘Certainly, Monsieur.'

‘You look marvellous, Mary. That Australian diplomat over there just collided with a waiter because he was so busy ogling you.'

Mary smiled modestly. The gown had cost her an arm and a leg but it had been worth it. Her dressmaker had spent fucking hours pinning and draping yards of fine silk and Mary had nearly gone mad. But here she was, looking like a Greek goddess in something that appeared to be a classic tunic but was actually an architectural masterpiece.

Daniel was a superb dancer but Mary was distracted by Edwina's flirtatious laughter as Sean moved onto the dance floor with her.

The dance finished and the music changed. Sean and Eddie cleared the floor with a tango of such overt eroticism that gossiping dowagers concentrated all their venom on Eddie. Subconsciously they'd picked up on the Afro–Latin beat being akin to a fertility rite and it shocked them to their collective core.

The tango was Eddie's favourite dance, its dramatic moves and barely suppressed sexuality provided a socially acceptable way of flaunting convention. Eddie absorbed the heat of the matrons' jealousy with relish and it gave her tremendous energy. Sean had to work at a hellish pace just to keep up with her.

Unfortunately, by the time Sean managed to extract himself, Daniel had already relinquished Mary to a devilishly handsome Italian actor. Sean tried to attract Mary's attention as she glided past in the man's arms. But she totally ignored him while subtly encouraging the Italian to whisper endearments into her ear. Mary knew Sean was struggling to master his jealousy.
Two can play at this game, my boyo.

Sean spotted Cat trying to back away from an amorous diplomat. So he liberated a bottle of champagne and whispered, ‘Hey kid, do you feel like some fresh air?'

‘Absolutely.'

Sean ignored the glare of the diplomat and gallantly led Cat out onto the safety of the rooftop.

*

As they sipped the champagne, Cat sensed the deep well of Sean's sadness. She knew better than to comment and instead turned her attention to the sinister blackness of the Thames, refracting the light pouring down from the Hotel du Barry. The sound of Memphis blues slithered out over the rooftop. Sean removed Cat's glass from her hand and placed it on the ledge. ‘Let's dance, kid. The night is but a kitten and we should make the most of it. There'll probably be fireworks later. Eddie told me she and Daniel just had another row.'

‘Ah. I see.'

Cat shivered. Her gown wasn't really suitable for a chilly winter's night, but she loved being up on the rooftop and away from the cigarette smoke and noise of the Winter Garden. Mary's dressmaker had made Cat's gown to her specifications and it was a raging success. She'd been inspired by a photograph of Salvador Dali's wife in a fabulous velvet evening gown with a sculpted lobster on her head. Wisely Cat had resisted the lure of the lobster and concentrated instead on designing a midnight blue velvet gown that covered her breasts and throat while revealing her bare back right down to her waist. To compensate for so much bare flesh, Cat wore several glittering bracelets up one arm and Lucinda du Barry's dangling diamond earrings.

Sean took Cat's hand in his, while placing his right hand decorously on the fabric of her gown, just below her naked back.
‘You look stunning, kid. Those old gossips can't take their beady eyes off you. Tell me, who are those two handsome lads who've been fighting over you all evening?'

Cat rolled her eyes. ‘Lord Haslip's sons. Twins. I'm surprised they were allowed to come tonight as they've been sent down from Oxford in deep disgrace. Something scandalous to do with the young wife of one of the dons.'

Sean smoothly steered Cat around a pile of deckchairs without mishap. ‘They probably take after their old man. His Lordship is a skirt-chaser from way back.'

‘I used to be terrified of him. He was always tickling little girls in a way that didn't feel quite right.'

‘If the old goat ever tries it again, let me know, Cat. I should warn you, Eddie's dead keen on you marrying into the ranks of the aristocracy.'

She laughed. ‘Ha. Unlikely.'

Sean swung her around and they foxtrotted quickly and lightly back across the rooftop, their warm breath visible in the icy air. Sean's sadness crystallised before ascending and disappearing into the darkness. And soon he was back in fine form, telling Cat about the latest debutante scandals and making her laugh.

The wicked old moon sniggered. The night was indeed young and she wasn't yet done with the Hotel du Barry clan.

An hour or so after the Winter Garden Party ended, the Hotel du Barry doorman distinctly heard a yell from above, followed by a loud thump. He put down his hot cocoa, slapped on his peaked cap and stepped out from the snug booth secreted just outside the hotel foyer.

George looked up and down the street. Nothing. A homeless man sleeping over a hot air vent opened a bleary eye, clocked George's presence and then went back to sleep. Silence. Snow drifted down and in the distance a dog barked and a tugboat moaned. George listened intently. Nothing. It was still too early for even the milkman to be doing his deliveries. George was about to retreat to the warmth of his booth when from the corner of his eye he noticed a strange dark shape on top of a parked Rolls-Royce.

George sauntered over and stared in horror. For lying on top of the Rolls, flat out on his back, was the boss. The automobile's roof had softened the impact of his fall. Daniel didn't look dead, he just appeared to be taking a kip. His face was calm in repose and the carnation in his lapel was still fresh.

*

Two policemen, accompanied by a white-faced Sebastian, entered the penthouse apartment. They had trouble rousing Edwina. After Sebastian hammered on her bedroom door for what seemed like an eternity she appeared, looking half asleep, wearing slinky black satin pyjamas that revealed most of her breasts. Constable Brown blushed to the roots of his red hair. Sergeant Williams was more distracted by the stench of gin. He took a step backwards. What had Mrs du Barry been doing, swimming in a vat of the stuff? Bloody hell, these rich wives were all the same. If it wasn't opium or cocaine it was booze.

Edwina swayed and had to grip the mantelpiece. ‘We had a late night and I've taken my sleeping pills. I don't understand why you're here. Tell me again, what's the problem, Officer?'

‘I'm sorry, Mrs du Barry, but your husband has been found dead outside the hotel.'

‘That's not possible,' she slurred. ‘It's a simple case of mistaken identity. Daniel is asleep in his bedroom.'

‘Your husband has been positively identified by your doorman and Mr du Barry's valet. I'm sorry, Ma'am. Your husband is dead.'

Edwina clung to the mantelpiece and howled. Primal rage. She swung around and shoved all the glassware from the mantelpiece with both hands. Venetian crystal shattered on the hearth tiles. Sebastian leapt backwards as a heavy glass ashtray exploded at his feet.

‘My husband's
not
dead. Tell me what's really going on.
Tell me!
'

She seized a long shard of glass, ran at Constable Brown, grabbed hold of him by the back of his hair and pressed the shard against his throat. He kept very still, his face a mask of terror.

Sebastian did his best. ‘Madam, if you release him, I'll go and fetch your sedatives.'

She tightened her grip. ‘Who are these impostors, Sebastian? Why are these bastards lying to me?'

Sergeant Williams slipped behind Edwina and bent her wrist backwards until she dropped the shard. He'd never witnessed such abnormal strength in a woman. What had she taken, he wondered. It couldn't be sleeping tablets because she's wide awake and fucking dangerous.

The sergeant and Sebastian switched their attention back to Constable Brown. Sebastian pressed a napkin to the man's neck, attempting to stem the blood flow.

Once their backs were turned, Edwina seized a sharp knife from the supper trolley. Brown yelled, ‘Watch out! She's slashing her wrists.'

Williams grabbed her but Edwina twisted free and kneed him hard in the balls. He doubled over in agony and she leapt behind the sofa, still brandishing the knife. ‘Daniel's not dead. Daniel's just sleeping. Matthew's not dead, he's sleeping. Michael too. Shhhhhhhh, everyone's asleep.'

Jim Blade crashed through the apartment door. He quickly assessed the situation and put Edwina in a headlock. Sometimes his job provided him with immense satisfaction. She dropped the knife and went limp. Jim wasn't fooled. He yelled at Sebastian, ‘Go wake Doc Ahearn, tell him it's an emergency!'

Edwina sank her teeth into the fleshy part of Jim's hand but he grimly retained his hold. His blood dripped down onto her bare breasts. Jim flipped Edwina onto her back and pinned her to the hearth rug. She spat a gobful of saliva in his face. ‘You bastard. Get your hands off me. How dare you!'

Jim flinched but didn't let go. He wished he could get away with hog-tying her up with the curtain cords. Her head slumped backwards and Jim glimpsed the whites of her eyes.
She'll live. She's made a hash of her wrists but no real damage. But what the fuck is she on apart from gin?

Doc Ahearn rushed in. He took one look at the boss's wife and Jim locked together in a bloody embrace, pulled out a loaded
hypodermic syringe and plunged it into Edwina's slender arm. She yelped and struggled before passing out. He stood up and wiped the perspiration off his face. ‘That should calm her down for a few hours.'

After Doc had bandaged her bleeding wrists, Jim scooped Edwina up and laid her out on the sofa. Blood everywhere. Sebastian decorously buttoned up Edwina's pyjama top and then covered her with a cashmere blanket. The two policemen eyed her warily from a safe distance.

Doc Ahearn stood up and snapped his bag shut. ‘Mrs du Barry's reaction seems extreme but she hasn't been herself recently. I've been treating her for insomnia and other issues that I am not at liberty to discuss. Right now she's in shock and is in no condition to be questioned. What Mrs du Barry needs right now is rest and recuperation. I'll let your superiors know when she's well enough to sustain a police interview.'

The policemen left.

As they went down the stairs, Williams said, ‘Danny du Barry was a good man. I knew his father, too. Maurie was a shyster and a successful conman. But even his enemies grudgingly admired him.'

‘He sure made buckets of loot.'

‘Maurie had brass balls. Smart people, the du Barrys. But it's a mystery to me as to why such a brilliant chap like Danny married that shrew.'

Brown gingerly touched the gash on his neck. ‘It might have been a mystery to him, too. Perhaps that's why he jumped off his own fucking roof.'

‘We get any more like this and I am going to think seriously about early retirement. I'm getting too bloody old for this caper. I need a drink. Let's go wharf-side.'

*

Cat woke up that morning with a slight hangover. That last glass of cognac had been a big mistake. But the French diplomat had turned out to be a thoroughly decent chap after all, and an invitation to join him in a nightcap had been hard to resist. He'd been an expert kisser but hadn't pressed his advantage. Cat also had an ulterior motive in seeking Lucien Dupree's company. As they'd sat in the Hotel du Barry bar, she'd told Lucien about her mother's disappearance and he'd offered to use his contacts to see if it was possible to track her down. Cat lay in bed daydreaming as she waited for the chambermaid to light the fire and fetch her tea.

There was a knock on her bedroom door and Bertha entered with a stricken face. Cat sat up. ‘Bertha, what's wrong?'

‘They've just found Daniel downstairs. We don't know yet what actually happened. It's possible he fell off the roof.'

Cat leapt out of bed. ‘He's badly injured? Has the ambulance been? Should we just go straight to the hospital?'

‘No, sweetie. I'm sorry . . . but Danny is dead.'

Bertha wrapped her arms around Cat, held her tight and gently rocked her.

The metropolis ground to a standstill as the cortège headed to Westminster Cathedral. Traffic banked up but nobody honked their horns. Everyone knew Daniel du Barry had died an ugly death. Rumours swept the city and conspiracy theorists held court in pubs. Men, women and children lined the road to watch Daniel's hearse go past. Sadness rendered them mute. If Danny Boy could die like that, then it could happen to anybody. Grown men cried into their lagers. Extreme wealth had failed to protect their best and brightest. At Daniel's club they flew the flag at half-mast and the army's top brass awarded him the honour of a twenty-one-gun salute.

Westminster Cathedral overflowed with people from every strata of society. Street people mingled with the money and hotel staff shared pews with movie stars, aristocrats, royalty, diplomats, tycoons, politicians and robber barons. Cat sat with Mary and Bertha instead of Edwina. Tongues wagged but Edwina brazened it out.

Edwina noticed that Sean had arrived late and was seating himself in the reserved pew directly behind Mary and Cat. He leant over and whispered in Cat's ear. Edwina craned forward and tried to eavesdrop.
Why does he have to console those two? He should be looking after
me
. And letting everyone know I'm not all alone in this world.

As the mourners filed into the church, Mary watched them from behind her black veil.
Who really knew him? They all admired Danny but failed to understand just how fragile he was. For Christ's sake, just look at his grieving widow, dressed in a black satin gown better suited to the stage. If we can't find a more recent Last Will and Testament that woman will inherit the fucking lot. And where will that leave our Cat? She'll be penniless until she comes of age. Oh Danny Boy, how could you leave us this way?

Sean gently touched Mary's shoulder and handed her his handkerchief. Edwina glared at him but Sean was oblivious to her presence.

Mary bowed her head to hide her tears. She wept for both the man she'd always loved and the man he'd become. She recalled him waxing enthusiastically about his various philanthropic projects, patiently explaining Italian Renaissance art to her or getting crapulous on whiskey and creating mayhem at three in the morning. But more than anything else, she remembered Danny as being the man who cared too much.

Mary glanced at Daniel's daughter sitting next to her. Cat's face was closed and she kept a firm grip on Bertha's hand.

Bertha gently touched Cat's cheek. It was hard to know what the kid was thinking. She'd been silent for days.
Does Cat have any idea what's in store for her?