The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (20 page)

Dickie's funeral was huge and glamorous. Bernard organized it in a weeklong frenzy of efficiency, although it was Penelope who styled herself as chief mourner. She was draped in acres of black chiffon as she followed the coffin into the church, supported by her two sons. Olivia walked behind them, wearing a very simple, very severe coat and skirt that Dickie had always admired. Only you can get away with that, my angel, he had said, any other woman would look like a prison warder. The lump in Olivia's throat swelled. The church was crammed with people whom she did not recognize. For a moment she hoped she might see Antonio Trombetta's face—comforting, familiar—but there was no sign of him.

After the funeral, Dickie's solicitor read his will to the family, sitting in the drawing room at Bedford Square. Dickie had left money to the refugee association, and some of his objects—the more opulent ones—to Penelope. Everything else was divided between the two Rodway brothers apart from the house in Sussex, which Dickie had bequeathed to Olivia.

“How extraordinary,” said Lionel, with a snort half of outrage, half of disbelief. “Are you sure you've read it correctly?”

Penelope gave Olivia a shrewd, rather accusing look. “It's a new will, isn't it? He made it only a few months ago. Do you think he was in his right wits?”

“Don't be absurd, Mother,” Bernard said. “There's nothing suspicious about it. Uncle Dickie was very fond of Olivia, he wanted to give her something.”

“But a
house,
” said Penelope. “He could have left her some jewelry, or maybe a picture. Far more suitable.”

Olivia cleared her throat. “I stayed there with Dickie last year. He knew how much I loved the place. I grew up in Sussex, you know—”

“It's not a valuable house, in any case,” Bernard put in impatiently. “It's a typical ramshackle country cottage. I daresay the upkeep will cost me more than the damn place is worth. Let's drop it, shall we? The rest of the will seems perfectly fair.”

“Do you mind about the house?” Olivia asked Bernard later, when they were alone. They had both changed out of their constricting funeral clothes and were having a whisky before bed.

“Of course I don't mind. It would be churlish to mind. I don't understand why he did it, that's all. I think he was being mischievous. He guessed that it would annoy Lionel and my mother. And you can see their point, it is an eccentric thing to do. I know Dickie wanted you to enjoy the house, but he could just as well have left it to me on your behalf.”

Olivia was silent. She had the feeling that Bernard cared far more about the bequest than he would admit. He had not talked at all about his grief for Dickie, or the sudden, shocking circumstances of his death. When he spoke of his uncle it was as though he were still alive and simply, for the moment, absent from the room.

“I could refuse to accept it,” she said. “I could say that I wanted the house to be in your name.” Even as she spoke she felt the kick of rebellion in her stomach. Dickie left the house to me, why should I give it up?

Bernard shrugged. “What's the point? We'd have to pay the lawyers to arrange it, it would complicate the whole business. Besides, it's clear that Dickie wanted you to have the place. We ought to abide by his wishes.” He sluiced the last of his whisky about the glass and swallowed it. “You look worn out, my darling, you go on up to bed. I've got a mountain of paperwork in my study. Now the funeral's over I'd better start tackling it.”

Lionel caught the
train to Macclesfield the morning after the funeral; Penelope stayed for three more days before returning home. On her last night in London Bernard took her to dinner at the Ivy.

“Should we be going out so soon after Dickie's death?” Olivia said as she and Bernard were dressing. “You don't think it's disrespectful?”

Bernard was fastening the pearls about her neck, and he glanced up in irritation. “Of course it's not disrespectful. Don't be petit bourgeois. Dickie wouldn't have wanted us to weep and wail and shut ourselves away. You ought to know that, Olivia.”

He clicked shut the clasp of her necklace. Usually he would bend and kiss her shoulder afterward, but this time he turned snubbingly away to put on his waistcoat.

At the Ivy they ate salmon and roast duck and caramel profiteroles, which Penelope as usual poked and prodded with an air of dissatisfaction. She managed to eat it all, though, Olivia noticed.

“I thought we'd go to the Golden Slipper afterward, if you're not too tired, Mother?” Bernard said. “Antonio's singing there tonight. You remember him, he sang at Olivia's party.”

“The Italian? Yes, I remember him. Rather an exotic young man.” Penelope sniffed as she stirred her coffee. “No, I'm not too tired, Bernie. As a matter of fact I'd welcome a little fun. This week's been such an ordeal for me.”

The Golden Slipper was crowded, but the manager, recognizing Bernard, showed them to a table close to the stage.

“Look, there's Iris,” said Bernard as he held one of the uncomfortable bronze chairs for Penelope. “Apparently she's a great fan of Antonio's. I've heard she comes here every week.”

He raised his hand to Iris, who waved languidly back. Olivia was afraid that he would ask her to join them but before he could do it the master of ceremonies announced Antonio. A shiver of anticipation ran through the room; evidently Iris was not the only person who came each week to hear him.

“He's very good, isn't he?” Penelope said with a judicious air, as Antonio began to sing “Tornerai.” “What do the words mean, Bernie?”

“It's Italian for ‘you will return.' The tune's based on the ‘Humming Chorus' in
Madame Butterfly
. Now hush, Mother. Listen.”

She's smitten, thought Olivia. A handsome face and a heavenly voice, and dear snobbish Penelope is smitten. At that moment Antonio glanced toward them. Olivia saw recognition flare in his eyes. She remembered how solicitously he had wrapped his coat about her shoulders after Dickie's death. The memory brought hot tears to her eyes. I can talk to Antonio, she thought. Antonio will understand.

Antonio had not
expected the Rodways to appear so soon after Dickie's funeral, and the sight of Olivia's face, pale above the silk-shaded lamp, took his breath away; for an instant he lost control of the phrase he was singing. Afterward, as he threaded his way toward their table, he could feel his heart thump.

It was Bernard who greeted him, slapping his arm, calling for the waiter to fetch him a drink.

“How good to see you, Antonio. And you're doing so well here, I'm impressed, you've clearly got a horde of devoted fans. My uncle would have been thrilled.” Antonio opened his mouth to offer condolences, but Bernard overrode him, a bluff cheerful juggernaut. “By the way, I haven't forgotten about Dickie's BBC friend. I'm planning to telephone him in the next few days, to remind him about you and Herr Fischer. It's just that I've been preoccupied by my uncle's affairs. Well, you can imagine.”

“Of course. Family business is always demanding. My wife went back to Italy three days ago, and there was so much to be done—”

“I thought that your family was settled in Soho?” Olivia said. She was wearing a dress of dark blue moiré, iridescent in the glimmer of the nightclub. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes, as though she had not slept. It made her look at once fragile and untouchable.

“Danila—my wife—wanted to go home to Lazio,” Antonio said. “She was afraid for our son. She thinks he will be in danger if there is a war.”

“
When
there is a war,” said Bernard. “There can be no doubt about that now. I'm sorry, Mother, I know you don't want to believe it but it's true…”

Penelope was not listening. Her lacquered head was tilted toward the band, which was playing a waltz: Irving Berlin's “What'll I Do?”

“Oh, Bernie, my favorite. Can we dance, do you think?”

“Of course, Mother, if you'd like to. Will you excuse us, Antonio?”

Antonio turned toward Olivia. “Would you like to dance, Mrs. Rodway?”

Olivia shook her head. “No, not really,” she said, and then, making an effort: “I am sorry about your wife, Antonio. You must miss her very much.”

“Oh, yes,” said Antonio. In fact he was ashamed by how little he missed Danila. In her absence his life had become much easier, without the quarrels, without the sleepless nights. “And it is strange not to see my son every day. I am afraid that when we next meet he will not know me at all.”

Olivia nodded, but she did not answer. Instead she said: “I thought that perhaps you might have been at Mr. Belvoir's funeral.”

The remark surprised Antonio. It had not occurred to him that he would be welcome at so grand an event. “But there must have been dozens of people there,” he said. “If I had gone you would never have noticed me—”

Olivia made a fluttering movement with her left hand. It resembled a casual gesture of denial until she pressed her fingers to her lips, and he realized that she was on the brink of tears.

“Nobody talks about him, Antonio. Nobody talks about Dickie. They talk about the will, and how Dickie would have liked this or wanted that, but nobody talks about his death. It is as though it never happened. And yet we were all there—”

Her voice cracked. Antonio reached out and took her hand. “I know,” he said. “I was there too, I saw it.”

“I cannot bear it. It makes Dickie feel like a stranger—”

“It was you Mr. Belvoir wanted when he was dying,” said Antonio. “Nobody else. Remember that, Mrs. Rodway.”

Olivia's eyes widened with a kind of rapture. Before she could speak, though, Bernard returned from the dance floor.

“Penelope's just recognized an old acquaintance, she's gone to say hallo,” he was saying when he noticed his wife's tears, and his voice sharpened. “For goodness' sake, Olivia, control yourself. You're embarrassing Antonio.”

Olivia's face closed at once, like a door. It shocked Antonio to see how quickly it happened. She must have been doing it for so long, he thought, learning to hide her desolations, her pleasures.

“Forgive me,” she said, and seizing her silvery evening bag she strode off toward the ladies' room. Bernard stretched out his legs and emptied his glass.

“Ach,” he said, “women. There's no comprehending them.”

For the first time Antonio felt dislike for Bernard's camaraderie, his carefree assumption that any sensible fellow must share his views. He rose to his feet. “I had better go and prepare for my next performance,” he said. “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Rodway.”

“It's a pleasure, Antonio. And we'll see you next week, shall we? Herr Fischer is giving lessons at my house once more, he will be expecting you. We should continue our normal lives for as long as we can, don't you agree?”

When Antonio got to the tiny dressing room he found Iris there, perched on the edge of the table. Through the slit in her black dress she was displaying a long golden expanse of thigh. His heart sank. He did not have the will, the energy, to deal with Iris now.

“I'm sulking. Why did you go and talk to dreary old Bernard instead of me?” Iris slipped her arms around his waist, under his jacket. “I think I deserve a long erotic kiss as compensation. Come on, don't be prudish, Antonio. You're practically a bachelor now your wife's left you.”

“She hasn't left me,” said Antonio, “she's gone back to Italy.”

Iris stuck out her lower lip. “If that's not leaving you, what is?” she said, parting her knees to draw him closer. Before he could pull away Antonio heard the door open. It was Olivia. For a moment she looked shocked; then a smile crossed her face, a mocking smile, not a comfortable one.

“Oh! Signor Trombetta. I'm so sorry to have disturbed you,” she said, and with a whisk of her dark blue dress she disappeared.