Hotel du Barry (27 page)

There was at least another dreary hour of operatic hysteria to endure. The heroine had to be used, abused and manipulated by two more men before she came to her senses. Then, after a tedious aria, she'd stab her rapist with a rusty blade and sing another torturous lament over his body. It wouldn't stop there, though. The hawk-nosed soprano was internationally acclaimed and she'd get endless curtain calls and standing ovations. Opera was a game of endurance played by screeching Sumo wrestlers.
Good God, just look at the size of the woman. Her manager should instruct her to put down her fork and take up tennis instead.

Josephine's stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten a morsel of food since breakfast. The evening stretched to infinity, so she gave Richelieu's ear a little nibble and casually touched his thigh. He moaned and she felt him stiffen. Clearly he'd come to the realisation that resistance was useless. Richelieu's eyes were pleading.

To help him on his way, she lightly caressed the growing bulge in his tailored evening trousers. Richelieu responded. It was a clear signal to Josephine that he'd succumbed to fear of unrequited lust. Excellent, because he'd now be utterly determined to win her over utilising his formidable resources. Clearly she'd made the right decision in ignoring his phone calls and bouquets of roses. Richelieu's lust had already transformed into love. Josephine smiled. No doubt having realised his mistake, his next round of presents would be diamonds and pearls instead of blooms that faded to nothing.
That's all men need, a firm hand on their leashes.

To hell with the Paris Opera. All she had to do was stroke Richelieu like a lapdog and he'd abandon his usual self-control and rush her off to a private supper. He'd probably already booked a dining room at one of Paris's better restaurants. Ah yes, soft music in the background, oysters, caviar, premium champagne and the splendid surety of another man giving himself over to her every whim. She bared her sharp white teeth in anticipation, and Francois Richelieu the Third smiled back warily.

Mademoiselle Marais rarely had any trouble getting what she wanted.

Bertha Brown was an artiste in her own right, being London's sought-after creator of flamboyant knitted teapot cosies. British Bulldogs with diamanté collars were her premier line. They'd become insanely popular after the cosies had been spotted in the foreground of a
Tatler
photograph of Cat working in her studio.

Bertha usually found that when she was knitting, she felt very calm and centred. But on the afternoon that Cat asked her, ‘How well do you know Josephine Marais?' Bertha instantly became agitated and dropped several stitches.

At the time Bertha and Cat were taking tea on the terrace of the Hotel du Barry's Rooftop Pleasure Garden. The garden had been established by Maurie du Barry in homage to the Italian
piazzas
of his travels. He'd imported terracotta tiles from Florence along with marble sculptures, Roman shade cloths and hand-painted village pottery. Hardy vines and rugged perennials were planted on the protected side of the hotel roof and somehow survived London's winters to flourish in the summer. In the warmer months the garden café opened for business and did a roaring trade with cashed-up patrons who enjoyed the illusion of life going on elsewhere.

Cat waited for an answer. Bertha studied the view from behind her dark sunglasses and realised there was no right answer. ‘We didn't tell you about Josephine because we didn't want you to get hurt.'

‘How long have you known she is my mother?'

‘Several years. It took Jim a long time to track Josephine down. It was his mission in life. When we went away on holidays he'd take your baby bracelet along and we'd stop by every jeweller's shop we passed. The bracelet was the only clue he had to go on. Henri was in on it, too. The two of them spent hours getting inebriated late at night and mulling over the hotel registry.'

‘Why?'

‘Jim was working his way through the guests' register and noting down those who were in residence on the morning we found you on the clothesline. Believe me, we all wanted you to know who your mother was. We hoped she'd turn out to be someone you could be proud of.'

Cat touched Bertha's hand gently. ‘Go on.'

Bertha picked up her needles and resumed knitting. ‘One Christmas Eve Jim and I were in Paris. It was our anniversary, even though we've never married. Marriage doesn't agree with me, Cat. My husband was a real swine. Jim wanted to buy me an engraved gold locket because I'd refused to wear his ring. You know what he's like, he's romantic but plays the cynic. We were looking around a little jewellery shop down Montparnasse way, near the Rue d'Odessa. Jim put your baby bracelet down on the counter and the jeweller immediately recognised it as his handiwork.'

‘How?'

‘By the distinctive way the gold chain links had been worked and there's also a very tiny maker's mark on the clasp. The jeweller told us he had made it a few years previously for an artist's model. She hadn't started calling herself Josephine Marais at that stage; he
knew her simply as Zoe of Montparnasse. He told us she could be found most evenings at Le Jockey Bar with a bunch of bohemian artists and writers.'

Cat looked Bertha right in the eye. ‘People go to Montparnasse for pleasure. Was she a prostitute?'

‘Not quite. Josephine was always a cut above your average working girl. She hadn't yet made it as an actress and was life modelling for artists while living with a well-known painter. She wasn't impoverished because she was part of the
demi-monde
and busily tunnelling her way into the
beau monde.
'

‘Explain.'

‘The
demi-monde
were only half acknowledged by society. Often they were women who were kept by wealthy protectors. The
beau monde
were those who belonged to the world of fashionable society.'

‘Ah, I see.'

‘When Jim tracked Josephine down she denied all knowledge of you. But you know our Jim. He played her like a fiddle and she ended up crying and wanted us to tell her all about you.'

Cat fidgeted with a skein of wool. ‘She didn't strike me as the type to cry real tears. She's hard and embittered.'

‘Life made her that way. Josephine had been abandoned by her own mother and then dragged up by a brothel madam who sold her to paedophiles at the age of ten. I'm not making excuses for her, I just want you to understand. She'd never been mothered herself and she had to harden up just to survive.'

Cat's eyes filled with tears. ‘I understand. How did she wind up in London?'

‘Josephine was part of Matthew Lamb's social set in Paris. He was wildly popular with both high society and bohemian folk. And it was Matthew who brought your mother to the hotel so . . . oh God, I don't know how to say it.'

Cat stared straight ahead. ‘So she could get rid of me.'

Bertha put down her knitting and hugged her.

The two of them sat in silence as shadows lengthened across the courtyard. The vine leaves rustled above their heads and a waiter whistled as he flicked open a fresh white tablecloth. The sound of a tugboat horn drifted up on the breeze.

Cat stirred. ‘Keep knitting or you'll never have it finished on time for the Guinness woman. Tell me the rest of the story.'

Bertha resumed knitting. Purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one. ‘Well, we couldn't persuade Josephine to meet you. But Jim and I took heart that she seemed genuinely interested in you. When we got home I posted your baby photographs to her. We hoped it might stir her latent maternal urge.'

‘But she didn't write back. Got it. Did you recently send her newspaper clippings about my art commissions? She knew all about me.'

‘No, I haven't corresponded with her in years. You must understand –'

‘I do. Having met her I can see why you didn't tell me about her.'

Bertha's shoulders relaxed. ‘Early in the piece she offered to send money but I told her that money wasn't necessary. And what you really needed was her love. It's been breaking my heart having to lie to you.'

Cat leant across the table. ‘Do you know who my biological father is?'

‘No. And I don't think your mother does either. Daniel tried to weasel it out of her but she told him it could have been one of many.'

Cat sat very still. ‘You mean Daniel met her?'

Bertha slowed her breathing to match the rhythm of the knitting needles. ‘Yes, quite a few times, after Sebastian spilled the beans about your origins. It was then that we decided the time was right to tell Daniel about Josephine.'

‘So when did Danny meet her?'

‘The first time was at the Paris Opera. Daniel said Josephine was batting the men away, they just wouldn't leave her alone. You probably didn't see this side of her but she's a brilliant conversationalist. Danny told me Josephine lights up any gathering; she can be funny, droll and devastatingly charming.'

‘I can't imagine it.'

‘Cat, Josephine told me that when she first found out she was pregnant, she was determined to raise you herself. It was only later on that she realised she couldn't manage it.'

‘She was probably lying. When was the next time Daniel met her?'

‘Danny went to Paris and tracked Josephine down at The Lapin. She was there with Matthew Lamb's old friends. It upset Daniel to see them again and the meeting didn't go well. Josephine was half-cut and dancing on the bar.'

‘Obviously he didn't give up?'

‘Correct. Danny made frequent trips to Paris on business and he'd always take Josephine out to dinner, a nightclub or a show. He hoped to wear her down with a charm offensive. He even offered her complimentary use of the penthouse suite whenever she felt like visiting London. He didn't change her mind but she must have really warmed to him because he visited her for years.'

‘She tried to seduce him, didn't she?'

Bertha dropped her knitting. ‘How did you know?'

‘Intuition. Josephine would be on the lookout for wealthy men. And let's face it, he was a magnet for any female with a pulse.'

Cat signalled the waiter. ‘Well, things can only get better. Despite the fact I wouldn't wish Josephine on anyone as a parent.' Bertha smiled at Cat knowingly. ‘As you always say, Bertha,
what happened yesterday is already in the past
. I need a drink. I've agreed to have dinner with Eddie tonight. She wants to check out the new chef at the Ritz. I suspect she'll want to poach him. Eddie's
somehow managed to turn staff recruitment into a blood sport. And she's getting very good at it.'

As Cat was speaking to the waiter, Bertha noticed Belinda wending her way between the tables. Her expression made Bertha distinctively uneasy. Belinda fidgeted with her apron. ‘There's something I need to tell you.'

Bertha shifted uncomfortably. ‘What's wrong?'

‘It's Julian Bartholomew. One of them night porters, Roshi, just told me that he did an early morning flit. Took off in a cab. Didn't give no notice. Mrs du Barry is really pissed orf.'

Cat said slowly, ‘I don't understand. He came to my apartment last night but said nothing about leaving. Oh, Bertha, what's going on?'

Bertha's knitting needles clicked fiendishly. She weighed her words carefully. ‘If he has departed without a word then something must have happened after he left your apartment. I don't believe he means to hurt you, sweetie. For some time I've suspected he's a young man with a dubious past and sometimes it catches up with people.'

Bertha turned to Belinda, ‘What else did Roshi say?'

‘Julian was limping real bad and couldn't even carry his suitcase, he was in so much pain. Roshi had to help him into the cab. He reckons Julian's fingers were taped together, all broken like. And there was something wrong with his ribs.'

Cat whispered, ‘Did Roshi know where the cab driver took him?'

‘Waterloo Station.'

Bertha nodded sadly. ‘So he could be anywhere by now.'

Belinda's eyes were cold. ‘So the slippery bastard had his way with our Cat. Then got into a bar-room brawl and buggered off. He had us all fooled.'

Bertha placed a skein of red wool in Belinda's hand. ‘Please rewind that for me, dear.'

Belinda did as she was told. The only sound at the table was the clicking of knitting needles.

Cat sat very still until the waiter returned with the drinks. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears. ‘Martin, please send for two bottles of Caterina Anastasia Grande Imperial Champagne. They're stashed in the private cellar. Henri keeps a duplicate key in his office.'

A pageboy approached the table. ‘Miss du Barry, this was left for you at the reception desk late last night.'

He handed her an envelope and Cat ripped it open.

Bertha glanced at the boy sharply. ‘Why is it only being delivered now?'

‘Well it goes like this, Mrs Brown. Julian Bartholomew made the assistant concierge swear on his mother's grave that it would not be delivered to Miss du Barry until cocktail hour today.'

Belinda snorted but Bertha smiled at him as he turned to go. ‘I understand. Thank you, Giuseppe.'

Cat read it and gave it to Bertha. The writing was almost illegible.

Cat, I really don't want to leave but have no choice in the matter.

Please believe me when I say I have every intention of returning once

I get things sorted. I really meant what I said to you in Paris.

J.B.

Bertha said quietly, ‘Julian will return. I don't doubt the depth of his feelings for you, Cat. When you were in hospital he haunted my kitchen day and night. Made himself useful fixing the plumbing and running errands for me. Spoke of nothing but you. Under all that swagger he's a good man. Try to keep an open mind and please don't drink the hotel dry. A hangover will only make everything seem much worse.'

Belinda pursed her lips but wisely remained silent.

Bertha folded her knitting. ‘Unfortunately, I have to go and organise tomorrow's roster. Belinda, I don't think Cat should be on her own, so I'm giving you the rest of the afternoon off to keep her company. Please don't let her do anything stupid. I'm counting on you.'

‘Yes, Mrs Brown.'

Bertha turned to Cat, ‘Believe me when I say this, poppet, only a serious threat or a criminal act drove Julian away. We don't know what he's running from. But I do know Julian has integrity and he will return.'

She packed up her knitting, kissed Cat on the top of her head and left.

Cat wiped away her tears and she and Belinda sat quietly together and listened to the birds' evening songs.