Chapter 17 #2
‘I’d love to,’ Riva interjected. ‘I don’t have to work on Sundays. What should I wear?’
‘Ah. The thing is … it’s a bit awkward …’
Riva understood instantly. ‘Because I dance for a living?’
Lottie pulled a face. ‘Exactly. Certainly at the Union Club. I don’t mind, of course.’
Riva bristled. ‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends. I won’t come.’ She headed for the door.
‘Wait,’ Lottie said, holding out her hand. ‘You won’t be able to tell anyone what you do, but maybe we can come up with a story. I hope we can still be friends. Do come with me. Please.’
‘And my dress?’
‘Glamorous but not too low-cut. Some of the members are rather stuffy. No Maltese of course.’
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
‘Well, it’s an old-fashioned British club, isn’t it? Founded in 1826 for British officers but now civilians too, and a few dishier types will be there. It’s in the Auberge de Provence, in the Strada Reale. Archie is sending a car for me, so I’ll ask the driver to pick you up in Kalkara first.’
Riva’s first week at work went well, although the overpowering scent of cheap cologne mixed with cigarette smoke and beer became increasingly nauseating.
At least in Paris the perfume had been expensive.
But this was Malta. Sometimes marvellous.
Sometimes terrifying. And yet she was here now and here she must stay, at least until the way ahead became clearer and the wind called her from another direction.
In general, she liked the island. On the surface it seemed so British and yet really it was not, and the island’s thrilling history fascinated her.
The tales of the Knights of St John, the Catholic warriors who vanquished ferocious Ottoman troops in 1565 and built the cliff-sized fortifications that she could see today.
The folklore too. The ghost stories. The strange mix of exotic cultures, Mediterranean culture as well, plus the British of course.
And as she peeled back the layers of history, she discovered when the French had invaded as well.
She had started off dancing with the other three girls, but then graduated on Saturday night to a slot of her own, just after Tommy-O’s performance.
She was to dance to the music of a new black American jazz player and on her first night she danced her heart out to rapturous applause.
When Erika spotted her after she finished, she came running up and gave her a hug.
‘I should tear your eyes out,’ she said, ‘but you were amazing. Hats off! Bravo! Ez már derék!’
Riva grinned. ‘Er, thank you … I think.’
‘Not sure about those two,’ Erika added, glancing at the other two girls who were glowering at Riva. ‘Pay no attention. They will come round. But how did you learn to dance like that?’
‘I trained as a ballet dancer but grew too tall.’
Tommy-O joined them, languid and droll. ‘You’re a dark horse,’ he said and clapped his hands slowly. ‘Tonight, my friends, a star was born.’
The next evening Riva dressed carefully in the one evening dress – as opposed to show dress – she had brought with her.
Short, sleeveless, and made of black silk, it was designed to be loose – just skimming her body – and was decorated with silver beads in clusters at the neck, hip, and at the hem which fell just below the knee.
Before she’d dyed her hair so dark and cut it short, the black of the dress had been a startling contrast with her lustrous red curls, and now she wondered if the overall effect might be a bit gloomy.
She decided on a little glittering headband to add some extra sparkle with earrings to match.
Both were just costume jewellery, whereas Lottie would undoubtably be sporting the real thing – but needs must.
When the chauffeured vehicle arrived at the Auberge de Provence, Riva got out of the car and stared at the front edifice of what could only be called a palace.
If she’d imagined Lottie’s place was grand – she thought of the whole building now as Lottie’s place – this was doubly so, with an imposing baroque doorway flanked by stone pillars.
The front edifice was dotted with countless windows, glittering with light from the chandeliers she could see inside.
‘Come on,’ Lottie said.
As Lottie slipped off her coat, leaving it in the car, Riva glanced enviously at her friend’s silver dress, beaded all over. It must have cost a fortune – the more beads, the more expensive the dress.
They passed a footman in evening clothes who welcomed Lottie warmly and then they climbed the stairs. At the top they were ushered into an anteroom where people were gossiping in clusters while sipping cocktails and smoking.
A rigidly upright man, possibly in his forties, with short salt-and-pepper hair, ice-blue eyes and an ebony silver-tipped walking cane came over. He smiled at Lottie, but there was no genuine warmth there.
‘And who is this delightful specimen?’ he asked, and something off about him made Riva shiver.
‘My new friend Riva, over from France. Riva, this is Mr Stanley Lucas.’
He held out his hand, scrutinising her. ‘How do you do?’
She shook his hand and replied, although she hadn’t liked being called a specimen, and his hand was cold.
‘And may I ask—’
‘Ah, there’s Archie,’ Lottie interjected excitedly, pointing out a solidly built, cheerful-looking, red-faced man with sandy hair talking to another man who had his back to her.
Mr Stanley Lucas bowed and took his leave.
Archie had a broad smile for Lottie the moment he spotted her, but he was not the least bit glamorous; more what Riva’s mother would have called suitable husband material. He marched over and shook Riva’s hand warmly.
‘How jolly to meet you,’ he said.
She was about to reply but her attention had been caught by the man he had been talking to and who had just turned round – and at whom she was now staring.
‘Oh, that’s Bobby,’ Lottie said.
Riva had all but let her mouth fall open, because striding across was the man she had met on her first day here, now wearing an exquisitely tailored suit.
‘Robert Beresford,’ he said, and winked as he reached her.
‘Sir Robert Beresford, Baronet,’ Archie corrected with a chuckle.
‘I—’ Riva stammered.
‘What the lady is trying to say,’ Bobby interrupted, clearly finding her surprise amusing, ‘if she won’t mind me telling, is that we’ve already met. I do believe I offered to show her around Malta.’
‘Yes,’ Riva said, collecting herself and inclining her head. ‘You did.’
Lottie gave her a wide-eyed sideways glance and Riva shrugged.
‘Let’s see where you’re seated,’ Bobby said. ‘Talk amongst yourselves.’ And he sauntered around the long table nonchalantly picking up and putting down name cards as if he owned the world.
He probably does, Riva thought as she watched him discreetly switching one or two. When he came back, he whispered to her behind cupped hands. ‘Feign surprised delight when you find seated yourself next to me.’
She grinned at him, loving his confidence but then, horror of horrors, her heart started to race as she recalled what she’d told him on the day they’d first met.
She had said she was a dancer with a job at The Evening Star.
Not only was she a financially struggling cabaret dancer on Strait Street while he was a blooming English baronet – but he could very easily expose her to the whole party.
Oh God. What was she going to do? She glanced at the door wondering if she might be able to make a break for it.
He touched her on the elbow and whispered again.
‘No running away. Your secret is safe with me.’