Wild Lavender (21 page)

‘We didn’t know what you wanted to eat,’ said Antoine, ‘so we ordered fish in champagne sauce for you.’

The waiter placed a succulent-looking piece of cod before me.

‘Your Charleston was amazing, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ said Bentley. ‘Everyone in the room had their eyes on you.’

‘The Charleston—is that what it’s called?’ I asked.

François lifted his eyebrows. ‘It’s American,’ he said. ‘You’ve never danced it before?’

I shook my head.

‘Doubly amazing,’ laughed Bentley. ‘I still haven’t got the hang of it and I’ve had lessons. It’s so big here that it’s difficult to get a job as a waiter if you can’t do it. You have to be able to teach the customers if they ask you.’

Camille leaned towards me. ‘There’s someone who hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening,’ she said.

‘Who?’

She turned to a table at the edge of the dance floor. I looked up and saw the young man with the sable eyes staring back at me. I smiled but he didn’t return the greeting. He was dining with the same people I had seen him with at the Café des Singes. The Siamese cat woman touched his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. He glanced at me again and laughed before turning away. Were they mocking me?

‘Do you know him?’ Camille asked.

‘The champagne is going to my head,’ I said, feeling too foolish to talk about the crush I’d had for the past twenty-four hours. Why didn’t he even have the courtesy to return my smile? Hadn’t he praised my performance the previous night?

Camille shrugged her shoulders then turned to say something to Bentley. I ate the fish with my eyes glued to the plate. Obviously the Siamese had a greater hold on the sable-eyed man than I had counted on. And why not? She had sultry eyes lined with thick black lashes. Her figure was petite and she had tiny hands and feet. Even from a distance she managed to make me feel like a giant. I wanted to send the object of my fantasies a glare that would tell him that I would never think of him again. But by the time I had worked up the courage to turn around, I found myself staring at someone’s torso. I raised my eyes and looked straight at the sable-eyed man.

‘
Bonsoir
. I hope you are well this evening,’ he said to Antoine. The Siamese clung to his arm, resting her weight
against him. He glanced from Antoine to me then back again. ‘I was hoping you would introduce us to your friend. We saw her perform at the Café des Singes last night. She was magnificent.’

Those eyes were set in an arresting face. He had angular cheekbones and a largish but straight nose. If he were an animal, I thought, he’d be a Doberman, like the majestic canines that guarded the doorways on the Champs élysées.

Antoine frowned. ‘Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said. ‘This is Mademoiselle Marielle Canier and Monsieur André Blanchard.’

‘I am enchanted,’ said André, taking my hand to kiss it. I returned his compliment and glanced at Mademoiselle Canier. She murmured a greeting but looked over my head. Clearly the introduction had not been her idea. A tingle reignited in me.

‘We were wondering if you might give us Charleston lessons?’ André asked, his eyes fixed on me. ‘Mademoiselle Canier and I have been invited on a jazz cruise and we don’t seem able to do the dance with any flair.’

The tingle fizzled like a firecracker in the rain. Mademoiselle Canier’s hand slid down André’s arm and disappeared inside his palm. I did my best to ignore their intertwined fingers and wished that I were invisible.

‘Why don’t you go to Ada Bricktop for lessons?’ suggested François. ‘If she is good enough for Prince Edward, surely she is good enough for you? Mademoiselle Fleurier is a performer not a dance instructor.’

André laughed. It was a good laugh that came from deep in his chest. It made his eyes sparkle and showed off his straight teeth. ‘Quite right. I apologise, Mademoiselle Fleurier. It is just that when you dance it, you look like you own the world.’

I noticed the subtle change in his eyes; something in them mirrored the disappointment I was feeling. He hovered for a moment, glancing at his feet, before apologising for interrupting our meal and guiding Mademoiselle Canier back to their table.

‘Who was that?’ Camille asked Antoine.

He waited until Bentley had turned away to summon a waiter before answering. ‘André Blanchard of the Blanchard fortune. One of the families who control the French economy. But don’t even think about it, Camille. He is the sole heir. Believe me, his father will not let him put a foot wrong.’

‘And she?’

‘Mademoiselle Canier? Just a society girl. Petted, pampered and spoilt. Nothing special about her except her looks.’

Camille’s eyes lingered in the direction of André’s table before turning to me. ‘It will be a lucky girl who snags him,’ she said.

True to her word, Camille arranged an audition for me at the Casino de Paris before the end of the week. She was taking the place of a British singer who had broken her contract to make a movie in America, and because they needed to fill Camille’s old slot quickly, it wasn’t an open audition. And this time I had the friendly faces of Monsieur Etienne and Odette encouraging me from the front row. Léon Volterra, the owner of the Casino de Paris, sat next to them. He was a curious man with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. He asked me if I knew the Charleston and I explained that I had taught myself the dance.

‘That’s exactly what we want!’ he cried, raising his arms to the ceiling. Turning to the choreographer, a woman with the emaciated air of an aged dancer, he added, ‘The Casino de Paris wants theatrical dancers not technical robots! Isn’t that right, Madame Piège?’

Madame Piège replied that she couldn’t agree more and patted him on the arm. It gave the impression that she was trying to stop him from saying anything further.

‘Wonderful! Wonderful!’ Monsieur Volterra’s voice boomed out of the darkness when I had finished my dance
and then performed ‘
La bouteille est vide
’. There was applause from the lighting men in the flies too. I glanced at Monsieur Etienne who sent me a pleased nod.

Monsieur Volterra rose from his seat and leaned his elbows on the front of the stage. ‘Come back here today at two o’clock for rehearsals,’ he said. ‘You’re hired.’

Once Monsieur Etienne, Odette and I were outside the theatre, I couldn’t contain my excitement. ‘I can’t believe it!’ I said. ‘The Casino de Paris!’

‘Well done,’ said Monsieur Etienne. ‘Your voice gets better every time I hear you.’

‘And she looks so pretty,’ said Odette, giving me a secret smile.

‘Monsieur Volterra is a character, isn’t he?’ Monsieur Etienne said, signalling a taxi. ‘You know he can’t read?’

‘He can’t read?’ I cried, stepping into the taxi as Monsieur Etienne opened the door for me. ‘Didn’t you say that he was the most successful impresario in Paris?’

Odette and Monsieur Etienne climbed in after me. ‘Not a word. His partner taught him to trace out his signature on contracts,’ said Monsieur Etienne.

‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’ said Odette. ‘The man who, at one time or another, has owned the Ambassadeurs, the Folies Bergère and now the Casino de Paris can’t even write his own name.’

‘He was an orphan. He never went to school,’ explained Monsieur Etienne.

‘He must be clever!’ I said.

Monsieur Etienne smiled. ‘He has entrepreneurship in his blood. He once told me that when he was seven years old he used to pick up discarded evening papers on park benches and around the
métro
. Then the following morning, he would stand on the corner yelling out fictional—but very enticing—headlines. By the time his unsuspecting customers opened their papers, the rascal’s legs had carried him a few blocks away.’

‘Goodness, I hope he won’t cheat me!’ I said.

Monsieur Etienne nodded. ‘Oh, he will,’ he said. ‘Volterra cheats everyone, big or small. He’s famous for it. But luckily you’ve got me.’

I returned to the Casino de Paris that afternoon in high spirits. Although my name wasn’t going on the billing that didn’t stop me from fantasising about fame and rave reviews. But my illusions of grandeur were deflated the moment I stepped into the auditorium. Madame Piège and the rehearsal pianist were waiting for me.

‘I believe you are a comedian,’ said Madame Piège, her cheeks crinkling when she smiled. ‘So we are going to work with that.’

Comedian? A comic part wasn’t what I had been expecting. I thought I had left that behind in Marseilles. I wanted to be sophisticated now that I was in Paris.

‘Mademoiselle Casal gave you quite a talk up and Monsieur Volterra says that you have a natural sense of timing.’

I remembered that Camille had never seen me perform in ‘Scheherazade’ or at the Café des Singes. Her only knowledge of me was as the crazy chorus girl. I realised what had happened: Camille had talked Monsieur Volterra into giving me a comic role by mistake. She probably thought that I didn’t have any serious material.

‘I do a different act now, Madame Piège,’ I said. ‘I sing in a nightclub.’

But Madame Piège didn’t hear me. She sorted through some sheet music and handed a piece to the pianist. ‘We’ll go with this,’ she said.

The pianist played the tune and my mind sprang into action. I would telephone Monsieur Etienne straight after the rehearsal, I decided, and ask him to explain the situation to Monsieur Volterra, who in turn could give Madame Piège new instructions about my choreography. It would mean one wasted rehearsal but everyone’s feelings
would be spared. Monsieur Etienne had been adamant that all negotiations with the Casino de Paris should be made through him.

‘I liked the way you did the Charleston,’ said Mademoiselle Piège, giving me a copy of the song. ‘It is marvellous how quickly you pick things up. That is a sign of talent.’

I sighed. I had a feeling that, under other circumstances, I would have enjoyed working with Madame Piège. She took a seat in the front row and called out instructions as I went through the routine. ‘Shimmy a little more there and give us a sweet smile,
ma chérie
,’ she said. ‘Then carry on those shuffle steps for longer than necessary, as if you have slipped on a banana skin.’ I did as she asked. ‘Keep doing it until the audience gets the joke,’ she giggled, amusement lighting her eyes. The happier she looked, the worse I felt. I was beginning to feel guilty about my intention never to actually perform the act.

After the Charleston, Madame Piège wanted me to strut the stage swinging a cane and singing a song that wasn’t so much funny as cute, which made me hate it even more.

La! La! Boom! Here comes Jean

In his new Voisin.

La! La! Boom! He asks, ‘What are you doing?’

What am I going to tell him?

La! La! Boom! That I’m hanging out the washing?

‘Now each time you sing “Boom!” let your cane bang on the floor and bounce back up. The drum will play a beat for you at the same time. And when you catch your cane, the cymbalist will make a strike for you,’ said Madame Piège, rising from her seat. I could not bring myself to look into her eyes. She was enjoying it too much.

Although I learned the song and the dance steps within half an hour, we rehearsed the act for another two hours, ironing out bumps and adding more comic elements. The orchestra joined us to go over the number together. I did
my best to remain animated throughout the rehearsal although my insides were twisting into knots.

A messenger came to tell Madame Piège that the chorus needed her to fix a flaw in their routine. She turned to me. ‘We have done all we need to with you, Mademoiselle Fleurier. You are perfect. You can go on tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ My voice croaked.

‘Hmmm,’ Monsieur Etienne said, when I called him from the theatre office. ‘I am surprised too. I didn’t think Camille Casal had been performing a comic number and I didn’t expect that you would be either. I had the impression that you would be doing her old song.’

‘They want me to go on tonight!’

‘Hmmm,’ said Monsieur Etienne again, thinking for a moment. ‘In that case, you have no choice. You will just have to do it. They will replace you if you are too troublesome.’

‘I hate it!’ I protested.

‘You don’t have a big enough name to make a fuss,’ said Monsieur Etienne. ‘Do a good job and we’ll see what we can get you next time. Just think of the money you are making. It’s more than the Café des Singes and for only one song and dance!’

I hung up, knowing he was right, but when I had passed the audition I had been elated. Now I felt ridiculous. ‘When I am famous, I am going to make a fuss about everything and no one is going to tell me what to do,’ I promised myself, buttoning my coat and pulling on my hat before heading home to rest prior to the show.

The dress for my Casino de Paris number was covered in polka dots and had flounces around the neckline and skirt. The white dance shoes had bows on the straps. Madame Chardin would have choked if she had seen me. In my dressing room, which I shared with the dog trainer and her two poodles, I glanced over the program. My act was a
‘filler’ to allow the chorus girls time for an elaborate costume and set change.

When I stepped onto the stage and danced the Charleston, I swung my limbs with gusto even though my heart wasn’t in it. I could see the audience clearly and, luckily for me, they were smiling. I grinned, shimmied and wiggled in the right places and sang my song with a smile on my face. They in turn laughed and applauded, and I exited into the wings convinced that rich Parisians were easier to please than working-class Marseillaise.

But once I was off the stage, there was no Madame Tarasova, Monsieur Dargent or Albert to congratulate me on how well I had done. I passed Monsieur Volterra on the stairs and he patted me on the shoulder as if he couldn’t quite remember who I was. I wanted to stay to see Camille’s performance in the second half of the show but the stage manager told me that ‘minor acts’ were not allowed to hang around the theatre once their numbers were done and so I found myself back in my icy room in Montparnasse by nine o’clock with no one to talk to. Such was my debut at the Casino de Paris.