Hotel du Barry (15 page)

Edwina curbed Tim's enthusiasm with a steely glance. So with a suitable display of servitude, he slipped back into his waiter's role and having poured the tea, melted away.

Edwina shoved her handbag aside. ‘Well, Caterina, let's talk. This art school business is all very well but I need all hands to the pump.'

‘All hands to the pump
?
'

‘Yes. It's high time you started to train for a management role in our hotels. I'm willing to financially support you with this art school nonsense but you must be prepared to contribute.'

‘I see.'

‘I'm sure you're well aware of the government's fiscal mismanagement. Running a string of hotels is riskier than it used to be, especially with all the recent social unrest. Frankly I don't know why they simply didn't round up those demonstrators and send them to jail.'

‘Come off it, Edwina. Those unemployed men walked three hundred bloody miles to present their petition. Trying to make people like you realise there's no jobs to be had in the shipyards. They want new industries in the area, and the government's gone and docked their measly dole money. The financial losses of the middle and upper classes are nothing compared to the poverty of the north-eastern unemployed.'

‘Don't get clever with me, young lady. I see you've become a bleeding heart. Just like your father.'

Cat studied her teacup. She felt skinless and defenceless. Her fierce longing for Daniel was overwhelming. She repressed the urge to climb under the table for a quick kip and tried to smother several yawns.

Edwina sighed. ‘Oh, come now. The one thing Danny and I did agree on was that it was crucial we find a cure for your sleeping sickness. You'll never bag a British lord or a foreign prince if you keep nodding off like an opium addict. I've consulted Dr Otto Rubens and he thinks he can help you. I'll give you his phone number.'

‘I'll think about it.'

‘Look, I'm not about to turn into a wicked stepmother, you know. I did think of making you drop your art studies altogether but tongues would wag and we wouldn't want that, would we?
Instead I'm prepared to allow you to study two days a week on the condition that you work a regular forty-hour week at one of our hotels.'

Cat struggled to remain alert as a chasm opened up under her feet.

Edwina continued. ‘It's nice that your artiness goes down so well in some circles but it's not really a career, is it?'

‘It could be, Edwina. I've obtained another sculpture commission. Given time, I could easily make a living from commissions alone. It's been publicly acknowledged by those more qualified than you that I've got the talent and drive to succeed. Two days a week at Slade is not enough.'

‘Come come. Don't delude yourself. Your current success is probably nothing more than a flash in the pan. Making art is just another hobby, similar to needlepoint or aeroplane modelling. You can do that in your spare time. Education rarely has much to do with success in later life. I've never felt the need for tertiary education and look at me now.'

‘But you told me you won a scholarship and first-class honours!'

‘Nonsense. I said nothing of the kind.'

‘But you told me you had. Why would you lie about it?'

‘Don't be silly. I probably just said I lived near London University.'

Edwina took a big gulp of tea followed by a deep breath. She choked, inhaled the wrong way and hot tea shot out of her nostrils. She was mortified, struggled to regain her composure and failed. The two ladies sitting at a nearby table stopped talking and stared with blatant interest, as she discreetly dabbed her face with a napkin and then whipped out a face powder compact.

While Edwina repaired her makeup, Cat thought back to Venice and her conversation with Marguerite. She recalled her saying: ‘Cat, I don't think Eddie Lamb has been honest about her past.'

Bloody hell. On top of everything else, was Edwina a compulsive liar?

Tim was passing with the cake trolley. Edwina clicked her fingers at him, ‘Pass me that ashtray and get me a double dry martini with three green olives. Now.'

‘Right away, Mrs du Barry.'

Cat felt her eyelids getting heavier and smothered another yawn. The smell of the fish paste sandwiches was making her feel nauseous.

A woman laden with pearl baubles approached. Her dress was a tight-fitting tube of polka dots extending to mid-calf, with a huge white pussy bow at her neck. Proudly draped across her pigeon chest was a double-headed fox fur. Cat was distracted by four glass eyes staring at her.

The woman purred, ‘Edwina, my dear, how lovely to see you.'

Edwina placed her arm around Cat and gave her an affectionate squeeze. Cat froze. Edwina pushed back a strand of Cat's hair. ‘Oh hello, Muriel, have you met my talented daughter, Caterina?'

‘My, how you've grown! I just adore your chic outfit, it's so very Parisian.'

‘Thank you.' Cat adjusted her headscarf and grinned at Edwina.

Muriel was just warming up. ‘You're becoming quite the successful artiste, I hear. I do hope you'll be coming to my séance next Thursday? Caterina, you simply must meet my son. Hamish is doing his final year at Oxford. He's captain of the rugby team, you know.'

Edwina beamed. ‘You must be so proud, Muriel.'

Cat squirmed. ‘Thank you. But unfortunately I already have a prior commitment.'

Edwina kicked her hard under the table. ‘Nonsense, we'll both be there. What a treat!'

Muriel stroked her fur. ‘Excellent. Hamish is dying to meet you, Caterina. Cheerio then.'

She clattered off across the marble tiles, fox heads lolling on her prominent breasts.

Edwina quickly moved away from Cat. ‘From now on, my girl, you'll be spending more time with your social equals. Hamish can introduce you to Britain's future movers and shakers.'

‘I can't believe you and that ghastly woman are trying to matchmake me with that filthy bastard.'

‘Oh don't be so moralistic, Caterina. You must stop defending the underdog and downtrodden. The rape charge never made it to court and Muriel arranged for an abortion at a very nice clinic. Hush money changed hands. And let's face it, the so-called victim is only a hat-check girl in a second rate nightclub, whereas Hamish is about to inherit his father's title and estates
and
he has a brilliant political future ahead of him. Play your cards right and you could marry a Marquis.'

‘Christ. I can't believe you're actually coming out with this shite.'

‘Oh please! Don't be so bourgeois. Muriel has big plans. She's working on committing Hamish's father to an insane asylum. Apparently something nasty happened to him in the woodshed when he was a child and subsequently he's always been emotionally fragile.'

Cat stood up and slammed her fist on the table. Several ladies put down their teacups and stared. ‘You people are out of whack. You've got no moral compass.'

Edwina's face tightened but she kept smiling. ‘Sit down, Caterina. You're making a scene.'

‘I've never understood why you married Daniel. You didn't give a rat's arse for him. The staff told me that when you got drunk and nasty, you'd refer to him as the Cash Register.'

Edwina leant back, lit a cigarette and gave Cat an icy stare. ‘I'm a realist and I deserved a better life. Unlike you, I understand the power of social connections. Unfortunately your father didn't
insist on you cultivating the right peer group but I intend that you shall marry well. Defy my wishes and I'll simply terminate your art studies. Sit down. Or I will make your life a living hell.'

Cat sat down. It didn't seem coincidental that Edwina's cigarette smoke was blowing in her direction.

Edwina stared hard at the gawping ladies until they lowered their eyes.

‘Back to business. Now tell me, what position do you wish to be trained for in our hotels?'

Cat gazed out across the lobby. ‘I can choose any position I like? At any hotel?'

‘Well, I'd suggest that you might find it more prestigious to be trained as a hotel manager, rather than a laundry maid.'

Cat leant over the table. ‘Fine. I want to be trained up by Jim Blade as his assistant. I know Daniel was about to advertise and fill the vacancy. But surely there's no reason it should have to be another male. After all, during the war women did a lot of the men's jobs.'

Edwina's expression did not change. She waved merrily as a pair of debutantes cantered past. A quick flash of equine teeth, twin sets, dreary tweed skirts and expensive pearls.

Edwina lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘If only you'd make the effort to dress with the same flair and style. Anyway, getting back to business. I can see no benefit to your social standing if you fraternise with Jim Blade and his corrupt associates. That man is nothing more than a jumped-up criminal. I want you to move into management. You could take up a prestigious position in the Hotel du Barry Monte Carlo. That part of the woods is teeming with European royalty. And many of those chaps are now of marriageable age.'

‘I want to stay in London. This is my home and this is where my real family lives. And my career is based in London.'

Edwina snorted. ‘Career? Don't make me laugh. Mucking around with clay and oil paint is definitely not a career.'

‘Well, Edwina. It's more of a fucking career than the one you had as a chorus girl in the third row of a burlesque show. I met Desiree Emmanuelle's daughter in Venice. She's very worldly, so I asked her to explain what the term
polite prostitution
meant.'

A deathly silence ensued. Edwina was very pale. Her hands shook as she raked through her handbag for another cigarette. Cat's eyelids felt heavy but she fought off the urge to yawn.

The only sound was Edwina sucking the life out of her cigarette. Tim reverently placed a martini in front of her but she didn't deign to acknowledge him. He gave Cat a sympathetic glance and withdrew.

Edwina eventually broke the silence. ‘So, you want to work with Jim Blade? Fine, I'll arrange it. But I want you to know that you're making a big, big mistake. You'll become the laughing stock of London, once the social elite find out you've chosen to become the hotel dick's apprentice.'

Cat made no response, she just gave Edwina a long steady look. She knew if Edwina provoked her into losing her temper, she'd forfeit the advantage. As Mary put it, ‘Sometimes you have to fake knowledge, in order to get your own way but be careful who you tangle with. It's only smoke and mirrors, kid, and silence can be very powerful. Think of Jim's blank poker face when he's playing for big stakes. Nightmares are forged in the darkness of silence.'

Edwina drained her martini in one gulp. ‘You're making a huge mistake if you think you can rattle me. Word of warning though, if you keep resisting my efforts to ensure your future, I shall simply cut off your allowance. Defy me and you'll discover how ugly life can be once you're penniless. And don't even think about moving out, I've got no intention of giving these bitches further ammunition.
Trust me when I say this – you will obey me. And if you don't, I'll go to great lengths to secure your compliance.'

Cat stared into the chilly depths of her stepmother's blue eyes. They were harder than Matthew Lamb's sapphire eyeballs. Cat recoiled. ‘Are you threatening me, Edwina?'

‘But of course and don't ever forget, I'm the one holding the purse strings. You don't inherit one single penny of your own until you turn twenty-one.'

Another society matron was bearing down on them. Edwina seized the teapot and cheerfully brandished it over the table. She said loudly enough for the whole of Toucan Court to hear, ‘More tea, poppet? And just to please Mother, I insist you eat some of these delicious fish paste sandwiches. You're only cranky because you're dieting. And I'm so terribly worried that you're getting just a tad too thin, darling.'

Dr Otto Rubens stretched out his legs and admired his new footwear. Damn fine handmade boots, incorporating the best of imported leathers, comfortable yet stylish at the same time. That Thomas Rodd certainly knew his onions. Otto's long fingers played with his gold pen and he checked his watch again. Where was she? He hadn't clapped eyes on her for nearly eleven hours and twelve minutes.

Mary Maguire knocked and entered. ‘Good morning, Otto.'

‘Morning, Mary.'

Otto's face lit up and he nervously straightened his tie. There wasn't enough air in the room. Today his goddess was wearing a fine emerald cashmere sweater. It clung to her voluptuous curves and drew attention to her green eyes. She had her hair up today, elegantly coiled in a French chignon. Dr Rubens fantasised about removing her hair pins and letting her hair tumble down. Caught out. She was looking him straight in the eye, so he averted his gaze and made a big show of turning the desk calendar over to the correct date. Thank God she wasn't a mind reader. Or was she
?
Small talk was required.

‘How cold is it, eh? Practically had to skate to work. The Thames could well freeze over. Well, what do we have on today?'

He needlessly moved some papers around his desk, trying to present a picture of the successful psychiatrist readying himself for a day of trauma, distress, hysteria and angst. Turning thirty-five had not impacted on his boyish good looks. Today he'd experimented with parting his fair hair down the middle in the hope of looking more mature. But this had failed to age his cherub's face or negate the youthful freckles across his nose.

One potential client had recently told him, ‘Dr Rubens, you came highly recommended. I like your forthright manner and demeanour, but confiding in you is simply out of the question. I'd feel utterly ridiculous consulting a psychiatrist who looks younger than my grandson for advice on how to conquer my fear of death.'

Otto hoped Mary liked the cut of his new suit, bespoke tailored on Savile Row. He flexed his elbows slightly and shot his silk cuffs just a tad. Shame overcame him. Good God, he was turning into one of those lovesick twats who couldn't keep their mind on the job.

She was smiling at him. Christ. She must have just asked him something. ‘Are you paying attention, Otto?'

Yes, yes, yes. ‘Sorry, Mary, I was thinking about a difficult patient. What were you saying?'

‘Here's the files for today's patients. Your first appointment is Miss Caterina du Barry. And these auction papers need your signature. I've made sure everything is in order.'

‘Excellent. Hope you don't mind me asking but I need to know. Is there any truth in the rumour that you're Miss du Barry's mother?'

‘None. I looked after her before she was adopted by Daniel du Barry. Mrs du Barry thinks Caterina is my illegitimate child. Danny didn't want Edwina to know the real story. And I want to keep it that way.'

No surprises there
, thought Otto. He'd recently seen how Eddie could turn on a sixpence once she felt betrayed. She'd tried everything to bring him to his knees over his hiring of Mary but
he'd stood his ground. Recommending Caterina to his care was probably Edwina's way of declaring a truce. Otto already knew hell would freeze over before she apologised.

He looked Mary straight in the eye. ‘I completely understand. You have my word, Mary, that anything you've told me will not leave this office.'

Over the years Dr Otto Rubens had been eviscerated by numerous patients; troubled folk had a tendency to foist their anger onto their psychiatrist. Otto had seen firsthand that the line between sanity and insanity was as thin as gossamer. Subsequently he thanked his lucky stars he only knew Edwina du Barry socially
.

Otto had many theories as to Edwina's strong sense of false entitlement but he still hadn't got to the bottom of the matter. He was aware that the widow fancied him something rotten but recognised it had more to do with his international reputation and high social standing than any deep feeling on her part. Otto had been swatting away bored, rich housewives ever since he'd first established his Harley Street practice and he was adept at avoiding planned seduction. But their ruthlessness still astonished him.

Mary handed Otto a sheaf of papers and he tried not to ogle her magnificent cleavage as she leant over his desk. He mentally slapped himself.
For God's sake, Otto! Mary has shown no interest in you whatsoever and you need to get a grip on reality.

Otto signed the last document and tossed his pen aside. ‘Mary, please take these documents down to my lawyers and get them to start proceedings. They know you've got full authority to expedite all paperwork. Keep an eye on clauses ten and eleven. And send in . . . ah, what's the receptionist's name again?'

Mary gathered up the documents and filed them in an attaché case. ‘It's Miss Sylvia Jennings. Please make the effort, she's been with you for over two years.'

‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I've got a lot on my mind.'

The curve of your abundant breasts, the corners of your eyes crinkling when you smile. The peachy pink of your Irish complexion. Your quickness, your wit, your innate intelligence. The redness of your hair. Like autumn. The sound of your high heels tapping their way up the stairs. The urge to bury my head in the nape of your neck. The irrational urge to say ‘I do'. Just so I can obliterate all those fuckers who lust after you. I want to put a gold band on your finger to deter those lost souls on the underground who watch you on the platform, devouring you with their greedy eyes. I want to protect you, defend you, die for you. Who shares your bed, Mary Maguire? I need to know, so I can flagellate myself day and night. Just imagining your lovely head on another man's pillow makes me want to chew the legs from the chair and tear holes in the curtains. This is insanity. I'm a rabid dog who should be put out of his misery.

The door clicked shut and she was gone. For at least two hours. Possibly three. Otto slumped in his chair and refilled his pen with black ink. He dreamily wrote
Mary Maguire
on the blotting paper. Then crossed it out and wrote
Mrs Otto Rubens
and
Mary Rubens
. His heart thudded until he came to his senses and tore the blotting paper into tiny pieces. Otto retreated to the window alcove and stared out at the pouring rain.

His elevated position on Harley Street gave him a bird's eye view of London. Beyond the opulent Georgian terraces were Marylebone Road and Regent's Park. In the distance was a group of schoolchildren, dressed in dark mackintoshes, scurrying towards Madame Tussauds. They resembled a long line of shiny-backed, black cockroaches. Otto was not fond of children. And he had a horror of waxworks, which reminded him of the cadavers he'd dissected when he was training to be a surgeon. After months of heaving his guts up in the Gents toilet, he'd decided to specialise in psychiatry. The smell of formaldehyde still made him nauseous. Becoming a shrink was an inspired choice as he had a knack for deciphering the workings of the human brain. Unless of course it was his own brain. Shameful to think that even now he
couldn't cure himself of irrational thoughts and grubby schoolboy obsessions.

It scared him how quickly he'd lost his objectivity after hiring Mary Maguire, because until recently he'd seen himself as a rational man. He'd hired her on her professional merits and hadn't had any ulterior motives. What had gone wrong? But when Otto researched the emotion called love, he'd drawn a blank. In his profession there wasn't actually any agreement as to what love was. Finally he'd turned to a learned Venetian, a self-described unrepentant libertine and by turns a gambler, violinist, alchemist, soldier, writer, composer, lottery director, preacher and spy. In his spare time this chameleon had been the lover of hundreds of women.

Otto opened his desk drawer, dug out a notebook and found the relevant quote. The Chevalier de Seingalt, also known as Giacomo Casanova, had written: ‘What is love? . . . It is a kind of madness over which philosophy has no power; a sickness to which man is prone at every time of life and which is incurable if it strikes in old age . . . Bitterness than which nothing is sweeter, sweetness than which nothing is more bitter! Divine monster which can only be defined by paradoxes!'

Otto frowned.
Small wonder I'm feeling out of sorts.

Cat had managed to remain awake by fiercely concentrating on the pattern in Dr Rubens' Persian rug. She wondered why he'd furnished his consulting room with so many antiques. The room exuded sobriety and felt like a museum. It reminded her of a photograph she'd seen of Dr Sigmund Freud sitting at his desk. Perhaps shrinks favoured a specific décor style: solid wooden desks, glass-fronted bookshelves and classical
objets d'art
. Or maybe there was a style bible that psychiatrists had to swear allegiance to.
Concentrate. Consulting a psychiatrist is a serious business.

Cat wiped the smile from her face. Doc Rubens didn't look old enough to be a shrink but Mary held him in high regard, so he might be of some use. After all, he'd successfully treated traumatised soldiers and had an international reputation for his research on phobias and nervous disorders. Hell, maybe he already knew why she kept nodding off.

Cat glanced at the antique clock and stifled a yawn. There were only a few minutes left and then she could head straight home for an afternoon kip. The silence lengthened until Dr Rubens spoke, ‘Tell me, in what situations are you most likely to fall asleep?'

‘When I'm feeling extremely tense. The location is irrelevant.'

‘Why are you anxious now?'

‘Because I'm knocking myself out trying not to sound like a crazy girl.'

Otto smiled reassuringly. ‘What about people? Does anyone in particular make you tense or anxious?'

‘I'm pretty relaxed with friends but I'm always anxious around my father's wife.'

‘Anyone else?'

‘The new employee.'

‘Who's that?'

‘Her butler, Julian Bartholomew. He's about twenty-two but nobody knows much about him.'

‘You dislike him?'

‘I like him a lot but I don't know why. Sometimes I think I'm going mad.'

Otto waited expectantly but she was glaring at the rug again. Perhaps she too, was afflicted by Casanova's ‘divine monster'. Otto flipped the page of his notebook. ‘When you're sad, what makes you feel better?'

‘Hiding out among the washing.'

‘Any particular place?'

‘The Hotel du Barry's got clotheslines stretched across the laundry yard. Every day in warm weather they're full of wet sheets and white hotel linen flapping in the breeze. Blinding white. It's sort of like sheltering in an igloo in the middle of a snowstorm.'

‘How do you feel when you're there?'

‘Secure, happy. It's where they found me.'

‘Found you?'

‘Yes, I was only a few weeks old and my biological mother had hung me on the clothesline. Or got someone else to do her dirty work.'

Otto paled and put down his notebook. ‘Good God!'

Cat laughed. ‘No, no. I wasn't hanging by the neck or anything. I was swinging in a sort of cat's cradle.'

‘Ah.' Otto sucked his pen. ‘Let's free associate. I want you to picture yourself as a baby hanging between the white sheets. What words spring to mind?'

Cat carefully studied Otto's boots. They were very new and shiny and the leather soles were still unmarked. A minute ticked by slowly. ‘Abandonment and safety. Rejection and being cherished.'

‘Why?'

‘Because the staff who found me became family. My mother rejected me but they stuck their necks out for me. Especially Mary Maguire, Doc Ahearn, Henri Dupont, Sean Kelly, Jim Blade and Bertha Brown.'

‘Who is Bertha Brown?'

Cat told him.

‘Did you ever feel you might be different from other children?'

Cat examined the back of her hands and said nothing. Otto let her be. The clock ticked and the sound of the rain on the roof became louder. Hail hammered against the windows. He threw another log on the fire. Sparks shot up the chimney and landed on the hearth rug. An odour of burning wool provided a frisson of danger.

Cat blinked away her tears. ‘When I was about six years old, Daniel told me the Roman myth about Romulus and Remus. How they were abandoned as babies and left floating on the river in a cradle. Later they were found, nurtured and suckled by a she-wolf. I figured Romulus and Remus were like me and I concluded that it was probably a normal occurrence for mothers to abandon their children.'

Her sadness was palpable. Otto kept his face impassive but put a smile in his voice, ‘Does Bertha Brown share any characteristics with a she-wolf?'

Cat grinned. ‘Heck, no. She's rather like a stern but kind headmistress.'

‘Headmistress
?
'

‘Bertha's girls are naughty but they and everyone else in the labyrinth respect her. She's tough but fair.'

‘What's the labyrinth?'

‘That's what we call the double basement. It's like a self-contained city down there. If London was under attack, you'd want to hide out in the labyrinth. The plumbing and heating are modern and there are secret storerooms and staircases. There's also a pirate's treasure trove of silverware, crystal, luxury foods and wines, spirits and champagnes by the truckload.'

‘It sounds marvellous. Tell me, is Mary a surrogate mother too?'

‘No. She's more like the head girl. She was only about sixteen when she found me hanging on the clothesline and she's always protected me. Mary's got a short fuse and won't let anybody put me down. Apparently Mary once knocked out a Hotel du Barry chef.'

‘Knocked out?'

‘Yes. Chef told her I was
a stray mongrel pup
. Reckoned I'd never amount to anything and I'd come to a sticky end. He told her only pedigree dogs made it in the du Barry world. Chef had been
bullying Mary for weeks and she'd had enough. So she gave him a right hook and he went down like a sack of potatoes.'