Chapter Eleven
ELEVEN
Daisy knew as soon as she stepped through the glass door of the Kit-Cat that her best evening frock was hopelessly inadequate for the occasion.
The hemline was all right: It could hardly be otherwise when she saw in the vestibule everything from floor-length to above the knee; many were zigzagged or dipping wildly, but hers was not the only straight hem.
Her dress didn’t expose nearly enough of her, though.
Bare backs, bare shoulders, and all but bare bosoms were everywhere. And jewelry flashed on every bosom.
Phillip, immaculate in Savile Row’s best evening duds, didn’t seem to notice anything amiss in her attire.
Downstairs, the main room was filling up but there was still a choice of tables.
The dance floor in the centre was already filled with frenetic-looking two-steppers.
Daisy wanted to be at the back of the room, not too close to the musicians on the low stage at the end.
Al Starita and his Kit-Cat Band were making quite a din.
Phillip passed on her request to the headwaiter. He pointed out a suitable spot near the entrance to an underling, who escorted them thither and took Phillip’s order for a light supper and champagne.
“Perfect,” said Daisy. “We’ll be able to spot anyone we know, and they’ll see us.”
“If there is anyone. Neither of us is what you might call ‘in the swim.’”
“Don’t be such a pessimist, darling. Do you and Gloria ever go to nightclubs over there? Speakeasies, that is. Or are there nightclubs that don’t serve drinks?”
“That’d be pretty flat! No, we don’t go to speakeasies. Old Arbuckle has nothing against liquor but he’s keen on staying on the right side of the law. I say, Daisy, you were right!” he added in a surprised and congratulatory tone. “There’s Fenella.” He waved to his sister.
Fenella Petrie—or rather, Mrs. Elliot Kerston—waved back.
She was making her way into the restaurant with her husband and two other couples.
She pointed out Phillip to Kerston. After a brief consultation, the whole group headed their way.
Amidst general introductions, a pair of waiters smoothly moved Daisy and Phillip and settled all eight at a large round table.
It was nearer the band and therefore noisier, but Daisy was pleased anyway.
Being part of a large group meant no reports of her gadding about with an ex-suitor would filter back to her mother or—less likely but more distressing—to Alec.
Also, the Kerstons and their companions appeared to be habitués of the Kit-Cat, so the number and variety of people Daisy was able to speak to was much larger than if she’d had to rely on her and Phillip’s aquaintances.
For some time, she chatted with several people and refused several invitations to dance without finding an opening to introduce Teddy’s name. Then the dance floor cleared, and the cabaret started.
The third performer was an athletic young woman in extremely short shorts, who produced back flips and splits and such tricks.
Daisy had had her fill of acrobatics when she took Belinda and her friends to the circus, so she didn’t pay much attention, until Elliot Kerston, sitting next to her, lowered his quite-unnecessary opera glasses and said to the woman on his other side, “Fay Fanshawe—isn’t she the girl Teddy Devenish is besotted with? ”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call him besotted. I don’t believe Teddy was ever besotted with anyone but himself. That’s the person he was pursuing, yes. One of them.”
“Was?”
“Who knows?” Kerston’s neighbour shrugged. “Still is, perhaps. Oh, look, there’s Jimmy Pontefract.” She waved madly at someone seated at a distant table and no more was said of Teddy Devenish.
Miss Fanshawe was joined by a top-hatted dancer and together they did a cleverly timed skit where he failed to catch her after her tricks.
She always rolled to her feet, and finally caused him to lose his own balance, ending triumphantly with her foot on his prone body and his top hat on her blond curls.
Daisy wondered whether she had a sense of humour to match her timing or was merely performing moves planned by someone else.
Daisy was determined to speak to her as soon as her performance ended, in case she hurried away afterwards.
Miss Fanshawe and her partner took their bows and cartwheeled off the stage.
A new performer came out, a sultry brunette in a slinky sequined crimson frock that clung to a figure considerably lusher than the ideal of fashion.
Daisy picked up her handbag and started to push back her chair. Kerston rose to help her.
“I’m just going to powder my nose,” she murmured, and paused behind Phillip’s chair to repeat her excuse, as he gave her an anxious look.
The brunette started to sing in a sultry voice that riveted every male gaze not already attracted by her appearance.
All over the room, ladies rose to their feet.
Fenella apparently voiced a common concern when she said, “I’m not staying to watch her vamping every man in the house.
Phil, don’t let Elliot make a fool of himself. ”
Daisy had intended to slip away down the passage leading backstage without visiting the ladies’ cloakroom.
With so many on her heels—she glanced back at the twittering flock and saw beyond them the chanteuse ruffling the hair of a chubby, beaming man sitting near the stage—she couldn’t hope to waltz off without being seen.
On the other hand, did it really matter if someone noticed her and wondered what she was up to?
What if she simply turned the wrong way when she came out of the ladies’? It would look accidental. If anyone called her back she’d say … Well, she would think of something.
A cold shiver ran down Daisy’s spine as she pushed open the door to the ladies’ room. The bright, swirling patterns of Art Nouveau were so different from the austere Victorian splendours of the Crystal Palace, though, that her uneasiness quickly passed.
A few minutes later, she stepped back into the passage and looked both ways. A few women were still coming from the hall, heads together, loudly deploring the vampish singer. They paid Daisy no heed, so she turned the other way and walked briskly, as if she knew where she was going.
Inevitably she came to a stage door. She was in luck: It was unguarded, perhaps because a performance was in progress.
The corridor narrowed and grew both shabby and grubby. On either side, closed doors bore placards, first the green room, then the names of performers. Daisy found Miss Fanshawe’s and tapped tentatively.
“Dammit, who’s there?” came a male voice. Before Daisy could retreat, the door was flung open to reveal Miss Fanshawe’s male partner. His narrow face twisted, he appeared to be in a towering temper. “What do you want?” he snarled.
“’Oo is it, Jase?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Then either find out or get out.” The cockney voice was quite calm. “Preferably get out. And stay off the booze and fags or you’ll bugger up your wind.”
Casting a venomous glance over his shoulder, he barged past Daisy and hurried away.
Daisy stepped in and shut the door behind her. “Gosh, he’s in a bit of a bait,” she remarked.
“Silly nit,” Miss Fanshawe replied dispassionately, not looking up from filing her nails.
Wrapped in a brown flannel dressing gown and a towel turban, she was sitting in an easy chair by a flickering gas fire.
“Tries to come the toff, which ’e may ’ave bin but ain’t no more.
’E says that last move, where I ends up wiv me foot on ’im, is ‘demeaning.’”
“It gets the biggest laugh of the lot. You couldn’t do without it.”
“Just what I tells ’im. If ’e wants to be a straight dancer and earn ’alf the screw, good riddance to ’im, I says.
Though where I’ll find summun else wiv ’is timing, I dunno.
Comes of playing squash, ’e says.” Bright blue eyes in a gamine face at last turned to Daisy.
“And ’oo might you be, if you don’t mind me asking? ”
“My name is Fletcher, though I write as Daisy Dalrymple.”
“Cor!” The acrobat sat up and laid down her nail file. “I seen your name in one of them fancy magazines. You gonna write about me?”
“I may, as part of an article on cabaret in London. But don’t get your hopes up because I can’t promise. It would depend on whether I can find enough material and whether my editor is interested. May I ask a couple of questions?”
“Take a pew, ducks.” She waved to the chair on the other side of the grate. “Cuppa? Won’t take two ticks.”
“If I won’t be keeping you…?”
“Nah, nuffing doing till the next show, ’alf past midnight.” She busied herself with a kettle over a gas ring attached to the fire. “It’s ever such a boring business, reelly. Why so many gets bitchy, I reckon. Me, I takes the rough wiv the smooth.”
“Have you ever wanted to go into the theatre? Acting, I mean?”
“Nah, I can’t act for toffee, ducks. ’Aven’t got the voice, ’ave I, for a start.
Never even got the ’ang of talking proper.
Took lessons, but it don’t seem to stick.
Me family’s buskers, see, since way back.
Out on the streets in all weathers. I was doing back flips for theatre queues when I was knee high to a wharf rat. Cushy berth, this. Milk? Sugar?”
“Just milk, thanks. I enjoyed your act, by the way.”
“So you won’t write something sarky about it? Only, last time I was promised a mention in the paper, that bloody sod—pardon my French—Teddy Devenish wrote that the act belonged in a third-rate circus. I could have killed ’im.”
Daisy was so startled, she said blankly, “What?”
“He came round after a show. Well, that was nice. A girl like me doesn’t get a lot of stage-door Johnnies, and they don’t stay long, seeing I was brought up proper. But it’s nice being taken out to supper and—”
“Teddy took you out to supper?”