Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (9 page)

BOOK: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
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“I think,” said Miss Pettigrew, “you’re wonderful. I only wish I’d had half your brains when I was young. I might be a merry widow today.”

“A lot’s in the chances you get,” consoled Miss Dubarry. “Always remember that. And grabbing them when they come, of course.”

“Even if they had come,” said Miss Pettigrew with sad conviction, “I could never have grabbed. I wasn’t the kind.”

“Never say die,” said Miss Dubarry. “You’ll get your kick out of life yet.”

She patted Miss Pettigrew’s knee in return, and the delicate seductiveness of her perfume again assailed Miss Pettigrew’s senses.

“What a lovely scent,” admired Miss Pettigrew.

“Isn’t it?” said Miss Dubarry complacently.

“I’ve never smelt anything like it before.”

“You’re hardly likely to. I’m the only person in England knows the secret.”

“How wonderful!” marvelled Miss Pettigrew. “Is it expensive?”

“Nine pounds an ounce.”

“What?” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

“Oh well! It costs me ten-and-six.”

“And people buy it?” quavered Miss Pettigrew.

“As much as I’ll sell them. But I’ve found in the long run you keep a steadier market by pretending there’s a shortage. You might sell more in the beginning, but let them once think there’s plenty and the demand will soon fall off. My clients like to be select.”

“Ten-and-six,” said Miss Pettigrew faintly. “Nine pounds.”

“Oh, that’s just business. I mean, no one else can make it, so of course I charge. If the secret leaked out, the price would come down with a bang. It’s the exclusiveness you’re paying for.”

Miss Pettigrew’s interest overcame her shock.

“But how, if you don’t mind my asking, did you learn to make it?”

“Well, it’s a long story,” said Miss Dubarry, “told in full. I was over in France buying stock. I met Gaston Leblanc…he’s the greatest expert on perfumes there is. Well, I mean, it was too good a chance to miss, so I put in a bit of overtime. His idea, of course, was to combine the two businesses. I’m no fool. It wasn’t exactly my charms alone. Well, I didn’t exactly cold-shoulder him and he gave me the secret as an engagement present. You know! Cost him nothing and the secret was safe in the family. Then I came back to England.”

“To England?” said Miss Pettigrew, bewildered.

“Of course,” said Miss Dubarry indignantly. “Well, I mean to say! He wasn’t wanting to marry me. He was wanting to marry Dubarry’s. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know. I don’t approve of these continental ways. He’d never have considered me for marriage without my business. Well, that’s more than I can stomach. I do like a man to put a bit of passion into a proposal. Englishmen don’t want to get into a business, they want to get into bed. We’re brought up to expect it and you can’t get over early training.”

“No,” said Miss Pettigrew indignantly. “Of course not. The very idea! A business indeed!”

Miss Dubarry dug into her handbag and brought out her compact. She proceeded to paint on a new mouth again. Miss Pettigrew stood up. She stared at herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, at the tokens of middle age that lay not so much in lines and wrinkles but in much more subtle suggestions, in something old in the expression: in the tiredness of the eyes, in the lack of brilliance about the face. Straight, lank, mouse-coloured hair: faded, tired blue eyes: pale mouth, thin face, dull, yellowish complexion.

“It’s no use,” thought Miss Pettigrew, “you can do what you like with paint and powder, but you can’t get away from the unhealthy complexion brought by lack of good food. And I don’t see where good food’s coming to me.”

Suddenly she felt flat, lifeless and terrified again. Immediately the nervous worry sprang into the face in front of her. It was ageing, destructive. It demolished all signs of youth.

Miss Pettigrew hastily turned her eyes from her own image. She stared at Miss Dubarry, sitting in her expensive clothes, with her sleek, black head, her crimson lips, the beautiful arresting pallor of her face.

“No,” thought Miss Pettigrew hopelessly, “you could never at any time turn me into her. Even when I was young. It isn’t only the paint. It’s something inside you.”

She moved to sit down again. The bedroom door opened and Miss LaFosse emerged.

CHAPTER SEVEN

3.44
PM
—5.2
PM

M
iss LaFosse came into the room, black draperies floating, silver collar, silver girdle, gleaming, fair hair, like a pale gold crown, shining. At once, in Miss Pettigrew’s estimation, Miss Dubarry sank into the shade.

“Ah!” thought Miss Pettigrew with a feeling of possessive pride, “art can never beat nature.”

“Delysia!” cried Miss Dubarry, springing to her feet. “I thought you would never come.”

“Now be calm, Edythe,” begged Miss LaFosse. “You always get too excited.”

“So would you if you were in my place.”

“Yes. I suppose I would,” agreed Miss LaFosse soothingly. “It’s easy talking when it isn’t yourself. But how have you and Guinevere been getting along? Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Oh, fine. We’ve had a grand talk. I’ve been showing off. It’s a soothing feeling.”

“Oh no, she wasn’t,” denied Miss Pettigrew hastily. “She was only telling me things because I asked.”

Miss LaFosse chuckled.

“I believe both of you.”

“Oh, Delysia!” Miss Dubarry’s voice broke.

All her unhappiness came back into her face again.

She nearly wept. Her face puckered, but she could not imperil her make–up;. She sat down on the couch and tried to gain control of herself.

“I know,” said Miss LaFosse with comforting sympathy. “I’m ready. Where’s the cigarettes…here? Have one.” She lit one for herself and Miss Dubarry and sat down beside her. “Now. Tell me.”

Miss Dubarry gulped in the smoke.

“Tony’s left me.”

“No!” said Miss LaFosse incredulously.

Miss Pettigrew sat a little away. She felt she was intruding. These two were real friends. They had forgotten her. She felt she ought to go but didn’t like just to walk out of the room without a word. Miss Dubarry knew she was there, so it wasn’t her fault if she eavesdropped. She didn’t want to go. She wanted instead to know who Tony was and why he had left Miss Dubarry, but she was also beginning to have a lost, forlorn feeling that all these exciting people, with their experiences and adventures, should only touch her life for one short period.

Miss Dubarry nodded her head.

“It’s true,” she said dully.

“But you’ve quarrelled before.”

“Yes. But not real quarrels. There’s a difference.”

“I know,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “What’s happened?”

“Well. You know how Tony is? He’s so jealous if you just speak politely to the liftman he thinks you have designs on him.”

“I know. But you must confess you’ve a very intimate way of being nice to men.”

“Yes, I know all that. But it’s just habit. You know that. Until you’ve made your way, you’ve got to be like that, and the habit’s just stuck.”

“Yes,” agreed Miss LaFosse again.

“There isn’t any one but Tony. You know that. There never has been. I mean, you might marry for business first time, the way I did, but you don’t fall in love for business once you’re settled in life. I’d even marry him, if he asked me. But he’s never asked.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t like to. I mean, it’s a lot to give up, your freedom, with your own business and plenty of money. There’s no need to get married. He probably thinks it would be cheek to ask. The way it is…well, it’s just in the way of affection. Break off when either of you likes. But marriage is serious. He’s probably thinking of you.”

“I think that’s what he does think. I’m almost sure it is. I earn more with my business than he does, you know. I wouldn’t care if he’d only say so, then I’d know where I was. I mean, if he’d only say he was serious. I’d soon make him agree to marriage.”

“Men are funny,” agreed Miss LaFosse.

“Well. He expects it both ways. Me to be faithful, like married, yet not married and nothing even said.”

“It’s the funny way they have. Expect you to read their minds.”

“Well. I was willing. I’d rather have Tony that way than no way, but I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have a bit of innocent fun. You know he had to go abroad for six weeks and I got running around with Frank Desmond. Nothing to it, you know. Just amusement. Well, a party of us motored out to his weekend place one night. The others left ahead of us. I just stayed for one more drink, and when we got to Frank’s car the lights wouldn’t work. He’s no mechanic and we hadn’t even a torch to give us light. It was pouring like the devil and black as pitch and a mile to the village, so what could I do but stay the night?”

“Well, obviously nothing,” concurred Miss LaFosse.

“I’d have done the same myself. But I suppose Tony’s got to know.”

The tears nearly came through. Miss Dubarry’s mouth trembled.

“Yes.”

“I suppose,” queried Miss LaFosse tentatively, “it was all innocent.”

“That’s what hurts,” mourned Miss Dubarry pathetically. “You know what a fascinating devil Frank is. It isn’t as though you wouldn’t have liked a bit of fun with him. But because of Tony, well, I didn’t. And now I might just as well for all he’ll believe me.”

“Oh well! They say virtue is its own reward.”

“I’d rather have the fun, if the reward is to be the same in any case.”

“I suppose Tony won’t believe you.”

“No. I can’t do anything. You know what a reputation Frank has. Tony simply won’t believe either of us…I even lowered myself to drag in Frank. He says of course he’d lie for me.”

“Of course he would,” said Miss LaFosse drearily. “That’s the worst of it. I mean, Tony knows he’d lie, so how does he know when he’s not lying? Oh dear! It’s terribly difficult.”

“I know. That’s the way it was.”

Miss Dubarry’s voice choked. A few of the prudently withheld tears spilled over. She caught Miss LaFosse’s arm.

“Oh, Delysia! You’ve got to think of something. I can’t live without him.”

Miss LaFosse made comforting noises. Miss Dubarry dabbed her eyes, then she looked up with a show of indignation.

“Crying over a man! Can you beat it? You must think I’m mad. I am mad. The idea! He’s a horrid, suspicious beast. I never want to have anything more to do with him in my life again.”

“Very heroic,” sighed Miss LaFosse, “but unfortunately untrue.”

Miss Dubarry collapsed again.

“I thought immediately of you. I thought you might think of something.”

“I’ll try,” said Miss LaFosse hopelessly. “But…Tony! And you can’t even say you didn’t stay the night.”

“I know.”

“It’s a problem.”

“I came straight to you. I heard Nick was back. I didn’t know whether you’d be available, but I risked it.”

“Oh yes. Nick’s back.”

“I thought you said he said tomorrow.”

“He did.”

“Are you still coming to the Ogilveys’ then?”

“Oh yes.”

“When did he come?”

“This morning.”

“Where’s he now then?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t stay.”

“What?”

“Only an hour.”

“He’s not…he’s not…wavering?” said Miss Dubarry, aghast.

“Oh no! Guinevere wouldn’t let him. That was the real reason.”

“What? Wouldn’t let him?”

“She didn’t like him.”

“You’re joking.”

“Ask her.”

“He’ll be back any minute though?”

“No. To-morrow.”

“He’s not coming back tonight?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Guinevere wouldn’t have him.”

“Good God!” said Miss Dubarry faintly.

“It’s the truth.”

“He stood for it?”

“He had no choice.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He was no match for Guinevere.”

“God save us!”

Miss Dubarry moved round. She stared at Miss Pettigrew. Awe, amazement, incredulous disbelief showed in her face. Dawning reverence ousted all other emotions.

“You turned Nick out of his own flat?”

“Oh dear!” fluttered Miss Pettigrew, “not as bad as all that.”

“I was in a jam,” said Miss LaFosse.

“You too?” said Miss Dubarry faintly.

“Nick said he was coming tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“So Phil stayed here last night.”

“Good heavens!”

“I learned too late about Nick.”

“Obviously.”

“Phil’s backing my new show. I couldn’t offend him. A girl never knows in this life.”

“Of course you couldn’t.”

“He doesn’t know about Nick.”

“Not good tactics. I agree.”

“So there he was.”

“What happened?”

“Guinevere put him out.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Did he guess?”

“Not an idea.”

“And then Nick came?”

“Yes,” said Miss LaFosse. “He found one of Phil’s cheroots.”

“No!” gasped Miss Dubarry.

“Guinevere handled that too. She offered him another. She had him eating out of her hand.”

“Holy Moses!” breathed Miss Dubarry. “And he fell for it?”

“The way she did it,” said Miss LaFosse simply, “you’d have fallen yourself.”

“Explain,” said Miss Dubarry in a weak voice. “Full details. Nothing missed out.”

Miss LaFosse explained. Miss Pettigrew twittered, fluttered, blushed, made little disclaiming noises. Her face shone. She had never felt so proud of herself in her life before. She had thought nothing of it at the time, but the way Miss LaFosse explained it, well, perhaps, after all, she bad worked a miracle. Miss LaFosse’s obvious delight in her achievement sent her into the seventh heaven of bliss. Nick, it appeared, was a much more formidable character than she had imagined, and that had been bad enough.

“What a woman!” said Miss Dubarry.

She came over and took Miss Pettigrew’s hand.

“Guinevere,” she said simply, “the disguise hid you well.” She touched Miss Pettigrew’s clothes. “I made a mistake. You’re the goods.”

“That’s what I think,” said Miss LaFosse.

They looked at each other.

“If she can deal with Nick…” said Miss Dubarry weakly.

“That’s what I thought,” said Miss LaFosse.

They both turned and looked at Miss Pettigrew.

BOOK: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
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