Chapter 32
Time, the years, and life moved on. Now Riva was sitting alone, decked in beads, feathers and ribbons, feeling tawdry and listening to the sounds of stomping feet coming from the dance hall and drunken men shouting the odds in the street.
Worse than unwholesome, the place was turning her stomach.
She hadn’t been to the doctor, after all she wasn’t married, but already curvaceous and even more so recently, she was certain she was pregnant.
‘All right, darling?’ Tommy-O said as he made himself comfortable on the stool next to her and tipped his head to one side. ‘You look a bit blue.’
‘I’m twenty-three and sick to death of the smell of smoke, beer, fried fish and garlic.’
‘Oh dear. You’ve got it bad.’
‘Got what?’
‘The “there must be a better life than this-itis”.’
He was right. She had become repulsed by the brightly coloured lights and the artificial enchantment that was not enchanting at all. It was killing her, and she had to find the courage to make a change before it became clear she was carrying a baby.
Tommy-O stood up and patted her on the shoulder. ‘We all go through it sooner or later. And now, my love, I have to slip into something fabulous.’
She blew him a kiss. ‘See you later.’
She and Bobby had been happy together since 1925 – four years now – but he had missed their last date almost two weeks before with no explanation and she had been worrying ever since.
It wasn’t that their relationship had been all plain sailing.
Like any couple they squabbled, argued, irritated each other.
She could be fiery, opinionated, and at those times he had been mainly conciliatory, which only made her worse, but they always made up and survived his absences in England and her difficult working hours.
She had planned to tell him she was pregnant the day he hadn’t turned up and really needed to tell him soon.
And now that she was growing more and more jaded with the dancing life, and had a baby on the way, she didn’t know what to do.
Strait Street was cheap and gaudy, but Bobby was still the one light at the end of the tunnel, although she still enjoyed the bits and pieces of detective work she did for Otto.
On the second day off after Bobby hadn’t turned up, she was determined to track him down.
In all the years they’d been together he’d always been as good as his word, always letting her know if he was held up, always telling her if he was going to be away.
So, what had happened? She had no idea how he’d feel about a baby.
She had no idea how she felt about a baby.
Part of her was thrilled, but they had never discussed marriage and the thought of having a child out of wedlock terrified her.
They’d often talked about life and how best to live it. ‘Grasp hold of every chance,’ was his mantra. ‘Make every single day count.’
They talked about commitment and he always confirmed how much he loved her, buying her presents, taking her wherever she wanted to go and these days in public too.
Nobody gave them a second glance. She accompanied him to cocktail parties at Addison’s in Mdina, spent time in the apartment there, and met all sorts of interesting people, elegant men, glamorous women, the rich, the not-so-rich but entertaining.
But Bobby never mentioned marriage and neither did she.
It hadn’t seemed to matter. They were young with their whole lives before them.
He knew her real name and that she’d run away from Paris.
She told him she wanted to be more than just the wife and mother her own mother had insisted she was born to be.
‘I’m not going to fall into the trap my sister Claudette has,’ she’d said defiantly.
‘It will never be enough for me.’ Now she wondered if that had been a mistake.
Should she have sounded so adamant? She wished she’d said more about her parents and her childhood, explained more about what she meant.
And now where was he and why hadn’t he let her know?
She tried not to worry but failed. Apart from feeling nauseous there was a pain in her chest that didn’t quite go away.
A breath she couldn’t quite draw. A feeling of life being on pause.
She wandered disconsolately through Valletta’s main thoroughfares squinting into the bright light as if by doing so she might conjure him tucked away somewhere and waiting for her.
As luck would have it, she found Lottie sitting in the window of one of the nicer cafés. Her friend smiled, beckoned her in.
Inside, Riva pulled up a chair. ‘I just called at your apartment,’ she said.
‘Someone else lives there now. Archie still has his ‘bachelor’ pad, as you obviously know because Bobby stays there, but we have a house on Gozo now.’
‘That’s what I thought Bobby said, but I hadn’t seen you around for ages, so I called at the apartment on the off-chance.’
‘You were looking for me?’
‘In a manner of speaking. I’m actually looking for Bobby.’
Lottie coloured slightly and fidgeted in her seat.
‘What?’ said Riva.
Lottie pulled a face. ‘It’s tricky.’
‘Come on. If you know something, tell me. We are still friends, aren’t we?’
‘All right. The thing is, Bobby’s gone.’
Riva frowned. ‘Gone? What does that even mean?’
‘He went back to England.’
‘For work?’
Lottie shook her head. ‘No. Because of the Wall Street Crash. His mother sent a telegram demanding his return.’
Riva was stunned. ‘But why didn’t he let me know?’
‘Maybe he didn’t have time. It was very sudden and urgent. He packed a bag and left. Hardly said a word. Just looked stricken and left.’
‘You saw him go?’
‘Yes. The telegram came to the apartment while I was there.’
‘So, you don’t know how long he’s gone for?’
‘No. All I know is the crash has affected them badly. I got the impression …’ she hesitated, biting the skin around her thumb.
‘What?’
‘I got the impression it might be a while.’
‘Well, that’s all right. I just wish he’d let me know.’
Lottie nodded then stared at her hands.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Lottie didn’t look up.
‘Well, thank you anyway.’
It was very odd and Riva sighed, feeling more distressed than she was ready to admit. But then she realised Lottie wasn’t looking at all well herself. ‘How’s married life suiting you?’ she asked.
Lottie looked up now. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Fine? Is that all? Aren’t you gloriously happy?’
‘He goes out a lot. I get lonely on Gozo. Nothing happens there.’
‘Go out with him.’
Lottie shook her head.
Then when Lottie’s sleeve rolled up a little, Riva noticed a bruise circling her wrist. Riva reached out a hand and her friend almost winced. ‘How did you get that?’
‘It’s nothing. Forget it.’
‘Surely Archie didn’t do that?’
Tears filled Lottie’s eyes.
Riva sighed. This was awful. ‘Does he hurt you often?’
Lottie lowered her eyes and did not speak.
Riva wasn’t sure what to say or do. ‘Is there someone you can talk to?’
‘God no!’ Lottie exclaimed, looking mortified.
‘Well, let’s at least keep meeting for coffee like this, shall we?’
Lottie shook her head.
‘What?’
‘Archie wouldn’t like it.’
‘Well blow, that. Do you have to tell him? Does he tell you everything he does?’
Lottie laughed a bitter little laugh. ‘He doesn’t need to. He leaves plenty of clues.’
‘Not other women?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Oh Lottie, I’m sorry.’
Two months passed by and Riva heard nothing from Bobby.
She didn’t have his address in England, just his old flat in London, which wasn’t even his any more, and no other way to contact him.
It didn’t make sense, but surely Bobby would be back sooner or later?
Or he’d write? Maybe he had already written but the letter had gone astray.
She was sure he wouldn’t just leave her like this.
There had to be a good reason, although the longer it went on the harder it was to keep believing that.
She threw herself into her work as a distraction.
She still wasn’t showing much, thank goodness, but worried constantly about what she was going to do.
Thank heavens she had the work with Otto to occupy her when she wasn’t dancing, and she was learning more and more as time went on.
She now knew that journalists, politicians, and various organisations had been campaigning against the traffic in women and children for some time.
In 1927 the League of Nations had published a report detailing the way women were lured into the sex trade tempted, unbeknown by them, by false theatrical contracts to work as music hall artists.
Riva logged every case she thought she saw of girls being brought in illegally and presented it to the chief of police who, she found out later, had immediately filed it in the bin.
For all the noise the campaign had generated in England, nothing had changed in Malta.
One evening she was in the ladies’ lavatory when the door flew open, and a man walked in.
‘Wrong place,’ she said, thinking he was a drunk. ‘Yours is next door.’
He gave her a cold smile and took a step towards her. ‘You listen to me,’ he said. ‘My boss wants you to stop interfering in his affairs.’
She tilted her head. ‘Your boss? Who is your boss?’
Then, before she had a chance to scream, he was on her. He covered her mouth with his hand and pinned her against a wall.
‘My boss—’ he began again, but she bit him. He removed his hand and rubbed it and then with his other hand he formed a fist and struck the side of her head. She stumbled and fell back against the wall.
‘Take that as a warning,’ he said as she straightened up.
She rubbed the side of her head.
‘Got it?’
She nodded, feeling sick to her core. And in that moment, she decided to quit Strait Street altogether.
Two days later she met Otto at the British Hotel. He sat in the same quiet corner where they usually met but when she drew closer, she saw there was something wrong. He looked tired, but it was more than that.