Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (7 page)

Miss Pettigrew shook her head.

“Tut…tut,” thought yesterday’s Miss Pettigrew. “A very untidy child. Very slovenly. No order. No care. Bad upbringing. A lady’s bedroom should never be in this state.”

Yesterday’s Miss Pettigrew subsided.

“Oh charming disorder!” thought Miss Pettigrew luxuriantly. “Oh lovely sense of ease! Oh glorious relaxation! No example to set. No standard to keep up. No ladylike neatness.”

Even if one did work as governess for Miss LaFosse, Miss Pettigrew was quite sure Miss LaFosse would never come round with prying eyes to invade the privacy of your bedroom and judge how you kept it. She felt a soaring sense of joy just to know there were people in the world as kind as Miss LaFosse. She stood in the centre of the room and beamed round happily until Miss LaFosse returned from the bathroom.

Miss LaFosse wore nothing but a peach-coloured silk dressing-gown. As she moved carelessly her gown swished apart and Miss Pettigrew had a glimpse of beautifully modelled limbs, of flawless, pale-coloured flesh. Her face was flushed a delicate pink by the heat. The steam had fluffed her hair into tiny, curling tendrils round her face. Miss Pettigrew regarded her with shy admiration.

“You are very lovely.”

“Well, now,” smiled Miss LaFosse, “that is very nice of you to say so.”

She supped off her dressing-gown unconcernedly and began hunting round for another garment. Miss Pettigrew gasped, blinked, shut her eyes, opened them again. Miss LaFosse wandered round with unselfconscious case, unaware of offending any delicate sensibilities.

Miss Pettigrew, feeling hot and flustered, chided herself.

“It is I,” thought Miss Pettigrew sternly, “who have an evil mind. What’s wrong with the human body? Nothing. Didn’t the Lord make it, the same as our faces? Certainly. Would He create anything He thought wrong? No. Isn’t it only the exigencies of our climate which have demanded clothes? Of course. It’s all in the way of thinking. I’ve a silly, narrow mind. I’ve never seen anything lovelier than Miss LaFosse standing there.”

Miss LaFosse was now regarding herself in the mirror with detached appreciation.

“Though I says it as shouldn’t,” said Miss LaFosse, “I do think I’ve got a nice figure. I mean, do you? You see, it’s so very important in my profession. Lose your figure: lose your following. One’s got to keep fit.”

“You’ve got the loveliest figure I’ve ever seen,” said Miss Pettigrew.

Miss LaFosse beamed.

“You say the nicest things. You’d make any one feel good with themselves.”

She slipped into a bit of silk and lace. Miss Pettigrew gave a gentle sigh of relief. She was quite willing to have her outlook widened, but she was a bit old to move too precipitately.

“What a mess!” exclaimed Miss LaFosse. “I’ve lost my maid, you know, and I never can keep things tidy when I hunt clothes myself. Now. Which frock shall it be?”

She held up two frocks. Miss Pettigrew drew a deep breath. Each was ravishing. Each the kind of frock fit to feature a film star. One had a background of midnight blue, patterned in a wild design of colours. The other was black, with a silver dog-collar and wide, transparent sleeves, fastened tight around the wrist with silver bands, and a silver girdle round the waist. Miss Pettigrew liked them both. She didn’t mind which Miss LaFosse wore, but she looked solemn, wise and knowing and pointed decisively to the black. Black was always safe.

“The black,” said Miss Pettigrew. “With your fair hair and complexion and blue eyes…perfect.”

Miss LaFosse struggled into the black. Miss Pettigrew fastened her up.

“They’re both new,” said Miss LaFosse. “I was going to give the bill to Nick, but if I’m going to try and break with him, I think it’s only decent to send the bill to Phil, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Miss Pettigrew faintly.

Miss LaFosse sat in front of the mirror in preparation for the greatest rite of all, the face decoration. The dressing-table bore so many bottles and jars Miss Pettigrew lost count of them.

“Now, Alice,” said Miss LaFosse, “sit down. You’ll tire yourself out standing round like that.”

With the happy sense of being looked after, never experienced since she was eighteen and took her first post, Miss Pettigrew found a chair and pulled it close to the dressing-table.

“Excuse me,” said Miss Pettigrew. She flushed slightly. “My real name is Guinevere. It’s a very silly name, I know, given me by my mother, and not at all suitable. She had been reading Sir Lancelot and Guinevere. Alice, as you say, is much more suitable. I look,” said Miss Pettigrew sadly, “much more like Alice.”

Miss LaFosse swung round.

“Nonsense,” she said ecstatically. “It’s a lovely name: a perfectly marvellous name. And actually your own. It gives you importance at once. It…it makes you somebody.” She lowered her voice. “My own name,” she confided, “is Sarah Grubb. There! I’ve told you and I wouldn’t confess it to another living soul, but I think a lot of you. You’ve saved my reputation today. When I went on the stage I took another name. I called myself Delysia LaFosse. I made up the LaFosse myself. I thought it was very good.”

“You look,” said Miss Pettigrew, “much more like a Delysia.”

“Thank you,” said Miss LaFosse; “I kind of thought I did.”

“What’s in a name,” quoted Miss Pettigrew dreamily.

“The hell of a lot,” said Miss LaFosse simply; “a damned, snooping little newspaper man with a spite against me dug up my real name once and I daren’t tell you what I had to do to make him keep it out of his wretched little gossip column.”

Miss Pettigrew didn’t dare think.

“Ruined I’d have been,” continued Miss LaFosse. “Can’t you see it? Sarah Grubb. Enough to damn any one. Who could get enthusiastic over a Sarah Grubb! But the fates were kind. He got drunk as usual one night and got run over by a lorry so that was one worry the less for me.”

“Very kind,” agreed Miss Pettigrew feebly.

“What’s the full label?” asked Miss LaFosse, interested.

Miss Pettigrew’s wits were becoming remarkably sharpened in one day. She understood at once.

“Pettigrew,” said Miss Pettigrew. “Guinevere Pettigrew. Very ridiculous, I’m afraid you’ll think.”

“Perfect,” breathed Miss LaFosse; “absolutely perfect. A marvellous combination. And all your own. No chance of some wretched little tyke making a fool of you by dishing up an Ethel Blogg. You’re sure,” pressed Miss LaFosse earnestly, “you’ve never thought of going on the boards? I mean, with your powers of mimicry and all that. I have a bit of influence, you know.”

“No,” said Miss Pettigrew firmly, but with a new sense of importance, of prestige, or consequence, “never.”

“A pity.” Miss LaFosse shook her head. “A great pity. A perfect name lost from the lights.”

She drew the comb through her hair.

“You have beautiful hair,” said Miss Pettigrew wistfully. She looked at her own straight, lustreless locks a little sadly in the mirror. “It makes such a difference.”

“All the difference in the world,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “I’m lucky. My hair has a natural wave, but if it hadn’t, it’s a perm, you want. There’s nothing like a good perm, for working a transformation. I mean, even if you do go out in the rain, it stays in curl. Not like a marcel, that goes straight at once and looks worse than it did before.” She looked critically at Miss Pettigrew.

“I really think we’ll have to. I don’t mean to offend, but don’t you think an outsider sometimes knows better what suits you than you do yourself? Alphonse is the very man. He’ll know just what to do. We’ll go to him.”

Miss Pettigrew sat, face pink, eyes shining, mouth trembling.

“Oh, my dear,” said Miss Pettigrew. “You couldn’t offend me, but aren’t you forgetting that…”

There was a loud ring at the bell.

“There!” said Miss LaFosse. “Do you mind…?”

Mind! Miss Pettigrew was on her feet in a flash. She closed the bedroom door firmly behind her. One never knew. Her feet nearly tripped over themselves hurrying over the floor. She stood in front of the door for one perfect, breathless second of expectancy; then she flung it open.

3.13
PM
—3.44
PM

“O
H!” gasped Miss Pettigrew. She was nearly knocked over by the flying passage of a female body belonging to a lady of startling attractions. Miss Pettigrew gaped, blinked and devoured them avidly. The lady was young, slim, arresting. Her face was of a deep, creamy pallor, devoid of any colour except the wicked red bow of her mouth. Hair, like black lacquer, parted in the middle, was coiled in an elaborate roll at the nape of her neck. A tiny hat was perched at an acute angle at the side of her head. Black brows curved with an unnatural slant above eyes of a surprisingly vivid blue for a brunette. Long, black lashes, as thick and curled as the most famous of film star’s, held Miss Pettigrew’s fascinated attention. Vivid green ear-rings dangled from tiny, shell-like ears snug against her head. As she moved, a delicate perfume, subtly alluring, beguiled Miss Pettigrew’s senses. Her clothes…Miss Pettigrew gave it up. Her experience had not fitted her to describe Parisian confections. The lady had flung open her fur coat and tossed her gloves on the couch. Obviously here to stay. Miss Pettigrew turned and shut the door.

The visitor glanced distractedly round the room.

“I don’t know you.”

“No,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“Is Delysia in?”

“Yes.”

“I must see her. I simply must see her. I can see her?”

“Certainly,” agreed Miss Pettigrew.

“I mean,” she threw a wild glance at the closed bedroom door, “I’m not butting in. I hear Nick’s back.”

“Miss LaFosse is alone.”

“Thank God!”

“If you will tell me your name,” said Miss Pettigrew helpfully, “I will acquaint Miss LaFosse of your presence.”

The visitor was already on her way to the door. She threw a surprised glance over her shoulder.

“That’s all right. She knows me.”

She hurried to the door and flung it open.

“Delysia.”

“Go away,” said Miss LaFosse.

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

“I know. When haven’t you. That’s why I’m saying go away. I’m busy just now. If you distract me while I’m making up my face I’ll make a mistake and look a fright. I’ll not be long.”

“I’ve simply got to talk to you.”

“Guinevere,” called Miss LaFosse.

“Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew, immediate attention.

“Edythe, meet Guinevere. She’ll look after you. Guinevere, meet Edythe. For the love of God take her away and do something with her. She’s a terrible woman, but I’ll not be long.”

“Delighted,” said Miss Pettigrew happily.

She shut the bedroom door firmly. Miss LaFosse wanted to be alone. Miss LaFosse should be alone. She turned a little diffidently to her new visitor. She was not quite sure how one talked to young women like this. They could not all be as simple and kindly as Miss LaFosse.

“Pettigrew is the surname,” she said a little apologetically, in case the visitor should not like the familiarity of Christian names.

“Ah! Mine’s Dubarry.”

“How-do-you-do?” said Miss Pettigrew politely.

“Lousy,” said Miss Dubarry. “How are you?”

“Oh…oh, fine,” said Miss Pettigrew, gasping, but hastily seeking sophisticated ease. “Just fine.”

“Then you’re safely married,” said Miss Dubarry gloomily, “or you’re not in love. I’m neither.”

“Neither what?” queried Miss Pettigrew, surprised into rudeness.

“I’m not safely married and I am in love.”

“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew, thrilled, interested, frankly curious. “How lovely.”

“Lovely?” exploded Miss Dubarry. “Lovely? When the dirty dog’s walked out on me!”

“Oh, how tragic!” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

“Tragic’s the word,” groaned Miss Dubarry. “That’s why I’ve come to Delysia. She’s got brains, that woman, even if she is a natural beauty as well. Don’t you be deceived.”

“I’m not,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“No, you wouldn’t be. It’s the men who make the mistake. They see she’s got the looks and think she can’t have the grey matter as well, and they try to take her for a ride. Their mistake, of course.”

“They deserve all they get,” said Miss Pettigrew belligerently, but without the faintest idea of what they were talking about.

“That’s what I say. But she’s got brains. She gets away with it. I haven’t, so I always land in a mess.”

She glanced so unhappily round the room that Miss Pettigrew’s kind heart melted.

“Have a seat,” said Miss Pettigrew kindly.

“Thanks, I will.”

Miss Dubarry sat down.

“Men are awful,” said Miss Dubarry miserably.

“I quite agree,” said Miss Pettigrew.

The subject of the conversation still eluded her, but she didn’t care. She was thoroughly enjoying herself. She was in a state of spiritual intoxication. No one had ever talked to her like that before. The very odd-ness of their conversation sent thrills of delight down her spine. Come to think of it, hardly any one had ever troubled to talk to her about anything at all: not in a personal sense. But these people! They opened their hearts. They admitted her. She was one of themselves. It was the amazing way they took her for granted that thrilled every nerve in her body. No surprise: they simply said ‘Hallo’, and you were one of themselves. No worrying what your position and your family and your bank balance were. In all her lonely life Miss Pettigrew had never realized how lonely she had been until now, when for one day she was lonely no longer. She couldn’t analyse the difference. For years she had lived in other people’s houses and had never been an inmate in the sense of belonging, and now, in a few short hours, she was serenely and blissfully at home. She was accepted. They talked to her.

And how they talked! She had never heard the like before. Their ridiculous inconsequence. Every sentence was like a heady cocktail. The whole flavour of the remarks gave her a wicked feeling of sophistication. And the way she kept her end up! No one would ever dream she was new to it.

“I never believed,” thought Miss Pettigrew with pride, “that I had it in me.”