Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (19 page)

Mr. Blomfield and Angela were obviously intimate friends.

“Join us,” said Michael.

“If we’re not intruding,” said Joe.

“A pleasure,” said Rosie.

“Thank you,” said Joe.

Angela said nothing. She had once heard that too much talking, too much laughing, too much animation, aged one. Apart from the primary consideration that she never had anything to say, she meant to keep her looks.

“Waiter,” called Tony, “more chairs.”

Their circle was enlarged by the addition of another minute table and two chairs. The band started a tune. Every one got up and danced except Miss Pettigrew, Miss LaFosse and Michael. Miss Pettigrew began to feel a little uncomfortable because of Miss LaFosse. She would assure her she did not mind sitting out a dance alone. She would tell her next time. Even Joe, with rather a martyred expression, was walking ponderously around the floor with the slim Angela in his arms. The music stopped. There was another interval of delightful general conversation. The music started again.

“Shall we?” said Tony to Miss Dubarry.

“Ours,” said Julian to Rosie.

“Shall we show ‘em?” said Martin to Peggy.

One by one they disappeared. Miss Pettigrew looked after them a little wistfully, thinking of forgotten youth and lost opportunities.

Joe stood up. He loomed above Miss Pettigrew, large, expansive, genial.

“May I have the pleasure?” said Joe.

1.15
AM
—2.3
AM

M
iss Pettigrew started. She gasped.

“Are you asking me?” asked ‘Miss Pettigrew incredulously.

“If I may have the honour,” said Joe with a beautiful bow.

“Alas!” said Miss Pettigrew tragically. “I can’t dance.”

Joe beamed.

“Neither can I,” said Joe. “I only pretend.”

Serenely he pulled out Tony’s vacant chair and lowered himself comfortably beside Miss Pettigrew. He sighed with pleasure.

“Too old,” said Joe. “Too much stomach.”

“You are not fat,” said Miss Pettigrew indignantly.

“Good tailor,” said Joe, “good belt. Signs though.” He patted his stomach comfortably.

“Indeed there are not,” said Miss Pettigrew still indignant. “Just a nice filling-out. A splendid figure, if I may be so bold as to say so. Middle-aged men are meant to be solid.”

“Am I middle-aged?” asked Joe.

Miss Pettigrew looked aghast.

“Oh dear!” she thought in distress. “Have I offended? Some men are as touchy as women about their age. Does he pretend he is still young? I must say something.”

Then she thought, why should she? Hoity-toity! She wouldn’t wickedly flatter a silly old man whom she would never see again. She looked at him severely.

“Middle-aged you are,” said Miss Pettigrew with spirit, “and middle-aged you can’t escape being.”

“Bless you, lady,” said Joe in his booming, comfortable voice. “I’m glad you realize it. Now I won’t have to pretend to hop around like a two-year-old.”

He settled himself lower in his chair with a comfortable air of permanence.

“Joe.” Angela’s high, complaining voice came across the table. “Shall we dance?”

“No,” said Joe, “we will not. Not this one. My feet aren’t up to it.”

If glances could be daggers, those which Angela threw at Miss Pettigrew would have transfixed her. Miss Pettigrew became all hot and flustered, but behind her trepidation was a wicked sense of rapture. For the first time in life some one was jealous of her. She became so exhilarated with the thought she shelved all ideas of fair play and deliberately hoped Joe would stay. Joe looked round equably. At the next table the occupants made haste to beam at him.

“Oh, George!” called Joe cheerfully, “Angela wants to dance and I don’t. What about it?”

A young man rose with alacrity.

“That’s good of you, Joe. Come and oblige, Angela.”

Angela rose with equal alacrity. They danced off.

“I’ve a lot of money,” said Joe. “I find people very willing to oblige.”

“How sordid,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly.

“George likes Angela,” said Joe peacefully, “and Angela likes George, but she likes my money better. They’ll be quite happy.”

Miss Pettigrew didn’t know what to say to this, so said nothing.

“Well, well,” said Miss LaFosse’s cheerful voice, “sitting out already. I’m surprised at you, Guinevere. Come on, Michael. Two’s company’s, four’s a crowd.”

They danced away.

Miss Pettigrew sat and thrilled. A man had deliberately elected to sit out with her. And such a presentable man! No forced circumstances either. He chose the situation himself. Even if it were only politeness it was a very nice gesture. Her face shone with gratitude.

“Thank you very much,” said Miss Pettigrew. “It is very kind of you to sit with me. I was beginning to fear I was spoiling Miss LaFosse’s evening. She wouldn’t dance and leave me sitting alone. Now at least she can have one dance.”

“Kind,” chuckled Joe. “My dear Miss Pettigrew, the pleasure is all mine. You’re saving me aching bunions and stabbing corns. When I was born my feet were only made to carry eight pounds. The rest of me has grown out of proportion.”

Miss Pettigrew smiled at the mild joke. She was a little nervous about conversation. She was quite unused to entertaining strange men tete-a-tete and didn’t know what to say, but she soon discovered her worries were groundless. Talk just happened. No difficulty. It simply arrived.

There were drinks to be offered and refused. There were present friends. There was Joe’s career.

“Corsets!” said Joe. “There’s a lot of money to be made in corsets. If you can get in touch with the right people. I did. If you can take an inch off a woman’s…well, I won’t mention the place, but you can guess…you can make a fortune. Talk about the age of corsets being gone! My eye! You’ve no idea how these society women fly to me to give them the perfect figure they lack naturally. Do you think Julian’s gowns would look the way they do without my groundwork underneath? No, sir, they wouldn’t. A protruding, well, dash it all, you can guess…back or front, could ruin the look of any creation.”

Miss Pettigrew sat fascinated. This was an amazing topic of conversation between a man and woman meeting for the first time, but she found it a thousand times more interesting than discussing the weather. It was not indelicate. It was Big Business. Who would have dreamed yesterday that today she would be sitting talking on equal terms with Big Business! Her gentle mouth was tremulous with interest and sympathy. Joe expanded. Angela loathed discussing corsets. Miss Pettigrew loved it. No mistaking real interest. He eyed her professionally.

“Now you’ve got a splendid figure for your age,” said Joe earnestly. “I don’t think even ‘Blomfield’s Correct Corsets’ could do anything more for you. How do you do it?”

“Short food and continual nervous worry,” thought Miss Pettigrew. But tonight she was Cinderella and refused to contemplate her shabby background.

“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew negligently. “Nothing at all. I assure you. It’s just natural.”

“No children,” said Joe brilliantly.

“I am not married,” said Miss Pettigrew with dignity.

“Men are blind,” said Joe gallantly.

Miss Pettigrew was weak with joy. All these compliments were going to her head. She could have done with more, but the dance came to an end. Tony looked sternly at Joe. Joe said blandly, “Youth must needs take second place, my boy.”

“Ha!” said Tony, “monopolize the belle, would you?”

Miss Pettigrew squirmed with pleasure. Joe stayed planted in the chair beside her. Miss Pettigrew was radiant. George had joined the party and sat with unobtrusively adoring eyes on Angela.

“I’m hungry,” said Miss LaFosse. “I can’t sing any more on an empty inside.”

“I thought one was supposed to,” said Julian.

“I’m different,” said Miss LaFosse.

“I’m hungry too,” said Michael. “The effect of my dinner has also worn off.”

Supper was ordered. The music began again, a dreamy, melting melody. The couples left the table again until supper should arrive. Joe looked at Miss Pettigrew.

“Our dance, I think,” said Joe.

“But I told you I couldn’t dance,” said Miss Pettigrew with deep regret.

“I am quite confident,” said Joe, “that you do the Old-fashioned Waltz perfectly.”

Miss Pettigrew’s face lit.

“Is it the Old-fashioned Waltz?”

“It is so,” said Joe.

Miss Pettigrew stood up.

Joe bowed. He put his arm around her waist. They hesitated a few beats then swung into the crowd. Miss Pettigrew shut her eyes tight. This was the crowning moment. See Naples and die. She simply surrendered herself to Joe’s arms and the dreamy, lilting rhythm.

Joe danced it well. Despite his dark hints, Miss Pettigrew felt his bulk only as a comfortable pressure against her own body. In her youth, at the very few social assemblies she had attended which permitted a little mild waltzing, her lot for partners had always fallen among the elderly generation, and Miss Pettigrew well knew the rather embarrassing awkwardness of a partner’s over-generous waistline.

“Perfect,” said Joe. “The modern generation don’t know how to waltz. I wouldn’t have missed that for worlds.”

Treading on air Miss Pettigrew returned to her seat with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.

“Well, you giddy old fraud,” accused Miss LaFosse. “Telling me you couldn’t dance. You only wanted to sit out with Joe.”

“Oh, please,” said Miss Pettigrew, pink now with embarrassment. “I assure you the Waltz is the only dance I know.”

She was haughty with Joe for several minutes in case he should think things. Supper arrived. Miss Pettigrew found surprisingly she was quite hungry again. She set to with a will.

“Have an ice,” offered Michael.

“I will,” said Miss Pettigrew.

He winked.

“Should be good here. Owner’s speciality, I understand.”

Miss Pettigrew relapsed into giggles, despite Miss LaFosse’s indignant glare at Michael. But the ice was a marvellous concoction. Miss Pettigrew had never thought she was greedy before, but this was no chilled custard. There was cream and fruit and nuts and icecream and a wonderful syrup, all skilfully blended. She slowly turned each ambrosial spoonful round her tongue.

The band started a slow, drowsy foxtrot. The lights were lowered. Only a dull glow pervaded the room. Miss Pettigrew looked up with dreamy enjoyment and saw Nick approaching their table. The ice suddenly lost its flavour.

Nick came threading his way slowly between the tables, his gaze on Miss LaFosse. His face was quite expressionless, his eyes blank, yet suddenly Miss Pettigrew shivered. She had a feeling that only a thin shutter of restraint was drawn over his eyes. Any second it might open to reveal them in full flame.

Miss Pettigrew glanced wildly round the table. No one else had seen Nick. The lowered lights, the treacly music, the rich food, were all conducive to repose and romance. Each couple had edged a little closer together. Michael was the closest of all. His arm was obviously round Miss LaFosse and his brown head bent above her fair one. He was talking earnestly. Miss LaFosse’s face wore a serious, almost shy expression.

Nick reached the table.

“Delysia,” said Nick. “Our dance, I think.”

Every one at the table was suddenly still. The band played on. Dancing couples crossed the floor. The lights remained discreetly lowered. No one noticed the tables in the corner.

Miss LaFosse’s body gave a jerk and her eyes came round to meet Nick’s. Her face shone white in the dimness.

“Oh! Nick!” said Miss LaFosse in a dazed whisper.

Michael went rigid. Two muscles on each side of his jaw stood out. He shifted his hold very slightly on Miss LaFosse’s shoulder.

“Sorry, old man,” said Michael, “Delysia’s sitting this one out with me.”

“Delysia has forgotten,” said Nick in a quiet voice. “I have a prior claim.”

Turbulent thought surged through Miss Pettigrew’s mind. She gazed hopelessly round. All the other couples, with discreet, non-committal faces, were gazing somewhere else. This was between Nick, Delysia and Michael. None of their business and Nick wasn’t a pleasant enemy. No help there. But something must be done. Miss LaFosse was slipping. The snake had fixed its eyes and the rabbit was helpless. Slowly, inch by inch, Miss LaFosse was drawing away from Michael’s restraining hold. Miss Pettigrew almost sobbed.

There Nick stood, as handsome as sin, brilliant eyes beginning to show smouldering lights, dark face bitter and compelling, body charged with a tense, violent, jealous male anger, willing, forcing Miss LaFosse into the brief paradise of his passionate desire.

Miss LaFosse was already sitting upright on her chair, her wide eyes full on Nick’s.

“Are you coming, Delysia?” said Nick.

“I…” began Miss LaFosse. She stood up.

With a convulsive jerk Michael stood beside her.

“Delysia.”

Miss LaFosse caught in her breath with a little, hopeless sound. She flung a look of wild appeal at Nick.

“I’m afraid this dance is booked,” said Michael in a choking fury.

“Sorry if there’s been a mistake,” said Nick smoothly, “but I have something to say to Delysia. It’s important.”

He turned the full strength of his compelling gaze on Miss LaFosse again. Miss LaFosse took a step forward.

“Lost…lost,” wept Miss Pettigrew’s thoughts. “If she goes now she will never escape him.”

Gone was all Miss Pettigrew’s thought of herself. Every faculty, every nerve, was bent on the hopeless task of saving Miss LaFosse. Her eyes ranged wildly between the protagonists. Michael’s desperate face, Miss LaFosse’s helpless air of submission, Nick’s hard, dark, compelling glance.

Miss LaFosse moved a hesitating step forward. Helplessly Michael exhorted, “Delysia.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” said Miss LaFosse helplessly. She gave him a tragic glance.

“Oh!” thought Miss Pettigrew, her eyes smarting. “What will Michael do? He’ll go on a blind again. He’ll sock another policeman. They’ll give him sixty days next time. What can I do? What can I do?”

A light broke on her mind.