The Lost Lover

Chapter Twenty-Six

The cymbals crashed and the red velvet curtain swept down in a dramatic flourish. The audience were on their feet before they were cut off from her sight but Flora held the pose, her body in profile and her head thrown back as she lay cradled on the two points of a glittering new moon. She arched her back and pointed her toes – all the pointers that Gilles had been drilling into her uppermost in her mind – feeling the white heat of the spotlight as it settled on her with dazzling intensity.

From the other side of the curtain, she heard the roars – ‘Encore! Encore!’ – as she jumped to her feet and ran to her marked position on the centre of the stage, where Marcel was waiting for her. By the time the curtain was pulled back again a few moments later, she was perched on his shoulder, elbows out and hands tucked under her chin coquettishly as he paraded her around. He was shirtless, his eyes heavily ringed with black kohl and his dark hair slicked back; under the lights he looked like a panther – silken, muscular and powerful. Flora wondered whether George had said anything to him about what she had seen, for his eyes had been hard as they had taken their positions on the stage earlier; but he had behaved with professionalism, making all his marks and lifts on cue.

She smiled so hard, she thought her face might freeze as she looked out at the audience – trying and failing to see past the glare of the footlights. Further back, faces could be discerned in the dim light but not identified, and tears shone in her eyes as she soaked up the adulation, wishing she could feel happy. That it had been a triumph was indisputable and the applause seemed endless, cheers and shouts still coming as Marcel carried her first one way, then the other; single stems of roses were thrown onto the stage and she could see Gilles standing in the wings, clapping too, laughing as tears rolled down his cheeks.

‘Paris adores you, chérie,’ Marcel murmured as he finally dropped to his knees in the heroic style and she slid off his shoulder. He must have been exhausted and yet he made her appear weightless, stepping back balletically with his arms outstretched so that she might glide forward and take her final bow. She pressed a hand to her heart as Gilles had taught her to do, then dropped her head graciously, and the curtain this time came down with a final swish.

Immediately the backstage area erupted, the dancers all running to hug one another, everyone crowding around Gilles and cheering him. George was somewhere on the other side of the curtain, in the audience, and Flora stood alone by the velvet drape, breathless and panting from her efforts; her skin felt damp from the heat of the lights, the mesh bodysuit itchy against her skin. She waited a moment for a happy look or a kind word from someone – anyone – but no one was looking her way.

She was being punished.

If she had just made the show a success, she had also almost torpedoed it. She wouldn’t be forgiven in a hurry, nor would she be trusted.

‘Brava, m’selle,’ one of the stagehands mumbled, managing to pass her the silk robe without meeting her eye.

‘Merci,’ she murmured, covering herself and hurrying back to the dressing room. She slammed the door shut and climbed onto the green chaise while the sound of champagne corks popping carried through the walls, everyone laughing and celebrating. She could hear them making plans to go out dancing whilst all she wanted to do was catch the next ferry back to Dover—

There was a knock at the door.

‘Not now!’ she pleaded, but it was flung open the next moment and in trooped a line of porters, all with armfuls of bouquets. Flora looked on in despair as twelve, thirteen... fourteen extravagant arrangements were laid on the dressing table and, when that was full, along the floor.

‘I guarantee there’ll be triple that amount by the time you arrive for make-up tomorrow,’ a voice said. She looked up to find George standing by the door, his overcoat slung over one arm, the other hand in his trouser pocket. He waited for the porters to file out before coming fully into the room. A bottle of Dom Perignon had been set in an ice bucket and he poured them each a fresh glass.

‘Félicitations.’

‘Félicitations.’

They both took deep swallows; the champagne tasted bitter now and the tension in the room was thick as Flora waited for his verdict. The audience had liked it – but had he? Had she done enough to guarantee them the box-office sales they both needed so badly?

‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s official – you’re a sensation.’ He gave her a token smile, but she saw the disappointment in his eyes. For all the success and plaudits, the victory had been tarnished by this afternoon’s showdown. They had struck a truce but neither of them could take back the threats they had made, and she sensed something in their relationship had irrevocably changed. The innocence of their partnership had been lost.

‘Just as you said I would be,’ she said haltingly.

‘Yes.’

There was a silence, all their closeness, the familial intimacy that had built up over almost two months, gone at a stroke.

She knew she had to do more. ‘Pepper... I owe you everything.’

‘Yes, you do.’ He took another sip of champagne and looked steadily at her, then appeared to relent a little. ‘You look tired; you should rest. You worked hard out there tonight.’

‘I really tried my best.’

‘It was enough. They loved you. The manager’s already asking about extending the run...’

Flora felt her heart drop as she looked at him in alarm.

‘But I’ve told him no.’

She felt a spike of renewed hope, just as there was another knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ he said.

The door opened and Marie walked through, barely able to see over the bundle draped in her arms. Flora watched in silent wonder as she hung a liquid silver satin gown on the rail, followed by a fur coat so plush, her hand would fully disappear in the pelt were she to touch it.

Marie met her eye with a certain sheepishness and Flora wondered if she knew her part in today’s proceedings. Her indiscretion had cost Flora dearly.

‘Merci, Marie,’ George murmured as she left again. ‘Madame Vionnet has been so kind as to lend you this gown for the evening.’

Flora looked at him. This evening? Why should she need a gown when all she was going to do was roll into the car, get back into the hotel and climb into bed? She was too tired even to eat.

‘We’re going for dinner. At Maxim’s.’

She had heard of it, of course she had. Even a St Kildan newly arrived in the city soon heard of Maxim’s.

‘Oh. Thank you, but I’m not hungry,’ she demurred.

‘That’s fine,’ he shrugged, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. ‘The food’s incidental anyway. We’re not going there to eat.’

‘Then what are we going there for?’

‘To be seen.’

She blinked, feeling aghast at the thought of getting herself revved up for another one of their soirees.

‘But...’

‘It’s business, Flora. This is how things are done in the industry. You need to be seen. We need to create buzz – and after what everyone’s just seen here tonight, your arrival at the most exclusive restaurant in the city will be the crowning touch. They’ll be expecting to see you there. Besides, there are people I need you to meet: producers, directors, scouts. They came in especially for the show and they’re flying out again tomorrow; we can’t afford to wait.’ He took a deep drag on the cigarette. ‘There’s one chap in particular keen to meet you – an executive producer, my main money man; he’s had a run of hits lately and he’s got the Big Five studios’ ear.’

‘But it’s so late now. It’s...’

‘Eleven, yes. But no one who’s anyone dines at Maxim’s before ten thirty anyway.’ He rose, draining his glass and setting it down among the bouquets. ‘I’ll be waiting round the front for you. I’ve arranged for some photographers to wait there too, so be ready for them with a smile. And wear the sable – let it drop off one shoulder. The French love a little insouciance.’

An-what?

She watched as he pulled a slim red box from his coat pocket and set it down on the counter with a pat. ‘Just borrowed, mind, so be careful with them... I’ll see you in half an hour.’

The door closed softly behind him and she stared at it in despair. She wandered over to the dressing table and opened the Cartier box: rubies. A bracelet and earrings, set in open-work platinum and alternated with diamonds.

She went over to the rail too, plunging her hand into the fur and rubbing it against her cheek. She had never known anything so soft and she felt the urge to wrap herself in it, to curl up like a fawn and sleep in it beneath the moon.

But she drew her hand back quickly, refusing to be seduced; she knew now the cost of these luxuries. It was all a masquerade. None of this was really hers but she would be paying for it all, one way or another.

George would see to that.

‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Pepperly,’ the man said, inclining his head respectfully as he held open the car door while George stepped out. There was a moment of calm but as Flora’s foot, then leg, emerged, the photographers’ flashbulbs began popping.

‘M’selle Flora!’ they called, having possession of her name now, each one wanting her attention and direct eye contact for their publications.

Flora did as she had been instructed in the car and stopped for a few moments, holding her poses and smiling as brightly as she could manage. This was the night on which her new life began, Pepperly had told her – these were the moments that would cement her future glory. She had to act the star here, in this glare, as much as she did on the stage.

‘Flora, come,’ he said presently, indicating their time was up. ‘Always good to leave them wanting more,’ he added under his breath as the door to Maxim’s was opened and they stepped inside.

‘Ah, Monsieur Pepperly, an honour to see you again – and on such a night as this! The grande salle is alight with excitement about your new show.’

George smiled, looking satisfied. ‘Merci, Albert. May I introduce you to M’selle Flora MacQueen? You’re going to be seeing a lot of her in the coming weeks.’

‘An honour, m’selle,’ said the ma?tre d’h?tel, taking her hand and kissing the back of it lightly. ‘Please – allow me to show you to your table.’

Flora held her breath, clutching the sable closed with one hand as she walked between the two men into a room that was beyond all her imaginings. She slept each night in the eighteenth-century splendour of the Ritz, and she had sat in a box amid the baroque magnificence of the Paris Opéra; but here was a modern glamour that took her breath away. Golden walls were decorated with giant frescoes of nymphs; huge oval mirrors were framed with gilded swirls that reached like the tentacles of jellyfish; richly painted glass roof tiles cast a low, atmospheric light.

The noise level was high as two hundred people laughed and talked over one another, bottles of champagne wedged in silver ice buckets, small electric lamps set on each table – but there was an audible break in conversation as their entrance was noted, people leaning in to whisper as they passed. Their progress through the room was slow, almost stately, as people clamoured to catch Pepperly’s eye.

‘Pepper, good to see you—’

‘How was Berlin?’

‘Heard the Revue’s gone down a storm!’

‘Return my calls, will you? Paramount’s on my neck—’

‘First thing tomorrow,’ Pepperly grinned, shaking one man’s hand enthusiastically. ‘I may have something.’

‘Your usual table, sir,’ Albert said, stopping at a large, round table set for eight in the centre of the room. Five men were already seated there and they jumped up as Flora and George approached.

‘Good to see you fellas,’ George said, immediately pumping their hands with a jollity that had been missing on the car ride over. ‘Glad you could join us.’

‘We wouldn’t have missed this for the world,’ one of them drawled. He had an American accent and a thin, dark moustache. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Charlie Buck at your service.’

‘Good evening, Mr Buck,’ she replied as he kissed the back of her hand, distinguishing himself from the rest with his keen manners.

‘Flora, meet Robert Kinney; Johnny Adler; Jimmy Cripshank; Ronald Wilson.’

‘Call me Ronnie,’ Wilson said when it was his turn to kiss her hand.

‘Ronnie,’ she obliged.

‘You have a beautiful accent, Miss MacQueen,’ James Adler said. ‘Very... soft.’

‘You really weren’t pulling our legs,’ Charlie Buck said, jogging George, who was standing beside him, with his elbow. ‘She’s more beautiful than Cleopatra.’

But before she could reply, a waiter stepped forward. ‘Your coat, m’selle?’

Flora allowed the sable to slip off her shoulders, revealing the mercurial silver satin dress hidden beneath. It clung to her body, a deep scoop at the back revealing bare skin, and she wished that she still had the long hair of her girlhood; instead her chic bob left her exposed, eyes boring into her as a chair was held out and she took her seat among the men. She felt gazes run down the very length of her and back up again, looks being swapped. She tucked her hair behind one ear, the ruby bracelet twinkling under the lights. Once, she had liked being seen, being recognized as the most beautiful woman in any room, but now she felt somehow... vulnerable, like a rare orchid everyone wanted to pick.

‘Eddie’s running late,’ Jimmy Cripshank said as the waiter began pouring champagne. ‘Traffic, apparently.’

‘Plus ?a change,’ George muttered with a wry look. Flora sensed she was missing an inside joke.

‘You know, you always get the best tables, Pepper. If I ever come here without you, they place me on the right side,’ Ronnie said, sitting back in his chair, fingers interlaced.

‘Right side?’ Charlie Buck sucked through his teeth. ‘Social Siberia, old man.’

‘I am a habitué,’ George shrugged. ‘Loyalty is valued here,’ he added, pointedly looking across at Flora.

Robert Kinney leaned in, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘You know, this place is all it’s cracked up to be too. I heard someone say they’ve a million bucks’ worth of wine in the cellars under here.’

‘Here, and a couple of other locations,’ Pepperly said.

‘So it’s true, then? A million bucks’ worth?’

The other men laughed. ‘Why? Are you planning a raid, Kinney?’ Charlie Buck teased.

Flora looked around as the men talked. Their eyes kept settling upon her and then lifting off again, like restless birds. She knew she was being scrutinized: how she held her glass (‘always the stem’, George had shown her), how she sat, her profile, her laugh... The past few weeks’ instruction had been preparing her for this moment and outwardly, it was all going to plan. In fact, it couldn’t be going better. She was relieved they didn’t seem much interested in talking to her, only looking.

‘I saw MGM took a hit on the Buster Keaton movie,’ George said to Jimmy Cripshank.

‘Yep. Yep, they’ve been giving Sedgwick hell all summer about the above-line figures.’ He looked at Flora. ‘Pardon my French, Miss MacQueen.’

Flora blinked, unaware any French had been spoken.

‘What’s Kitty Sullivan’s contract?’ George asked, looking interested.

‘Seven projects over three years. But Fox have been making a play, so they might buy her out. They think she’d look good opposite Fred Winters.’

Ronnie laughed. ‘I think she’d look good under—’ He stopped himself abruptly.

‘Do you smoke, Miss MacQueen?’ Charlie Buck asked, proffering a cigarette from his gold case.

She shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’

There was a small silence as the men either lit up or reached for their drinks. Flora felt no compunction to move at all; her conversation wasn’t necessary, merely her presence.

‘... Reckon Paramount will sell her?’ George asked, striking up the conversation once more.

‘Might have to,’ Joe shrugged. ‘They went in too big on constructing all those movie theatres and audience figures are going down. They’re at about, what, a thirty per cent drop?’

‘’Bout that,’ Robert Kinney agreed.

‘They need some liquidity – and a hit. Fast,’ Jimmy Cripshank murmured.

‘Things are getting bad over there, huh?’ George asked.

‘Like you wouldn’t believe. Watch out – it’ll make its way over here too.’

‘Already has. We’re all feeling the squeeze.’

‘Yeah, but it hasn’t really started to bite here yet.’ Cripshank gestured around the opulent room, one eyebrow raised sardonically at the women in velvet and satin and furs, jewels and crystals gleaming, men in white tie and polished patent shoes. ‘Y’ know?’

George smiled. ‘Are you saying you think the industry is a duff? We should all get out?’

‘Hell, no! Pardon my French, Miss MacQueen,’ he said again, covering her hand apologetically with his own. ‘We just can’t afford any more turkeys. If we want audiences to come back, we need to invest in top-quality sets, first-rate scripts... and talent.’ He looked across at Flora. ‘I mean, can you think of a man alive who wouldn’t pay his last dime to look at that face?’

‘I know quite a few dead fellas who’d pay it too,’ Ronnie chimed in, making them all laugh.

‘Well, well, well: you’ve started without me, I see.’ The cut-glass English accent cut through the relaxed American vowels and everyone looked up. Flora felt the man’s presence right behind her chair, and the hairs stood up on the back of her neck; given her bare skin and short hair, he might even be able to see them.

‘Experience has taught us not to let the fizz go flat waiting for you, old boy,’ Robert Kinney quipped. ‘Bad traffic, was it?’ His knowing laugh suggested it wasn’t.

George pushed back his chair and shook the newcomer’s hand enthusiastically. ‘So you made it. I’m glad you could join us. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

‘Pepper, old boy!’

George stepped back to create a space beside Flora for the movie mogul to step into. Flora found her hand being clasped and lifted before she could even see his face.

But she knew that voice. And as his head tipped down, his lips upon her hand, she recognized those blond curls too.

‘Actually, we’ve already met,’ Edward Rushton smiled, lifting his head and looking straight into her eyes. ‘... How are you, Flora?’