Hotel du Barry (4 page)

For Daniel, it was a huge relief to be able to talk to a fellow officer who'd also experienced the horror of war. In return Michael could tell his story to a man who understood the ramifications of what it meant to have hunted and killed in cold blood. Even before Michael took his leave, both of them knew they'd formed a bond for life.

Meantime downstairs in Toucan Court, Caterina Anastasia Grande Imperial Champagne flowed and many brains were tickled. Sean Kelly taught Mary Maguire how to dance the tango. Soon all the staff were half-cut and slithering across the polished marble tiles in time with the sexy Afro-Latin American rhythms oozing from Tommy Zingernagel's Orchestra.

Sean knew if he was going to rise above the rent boys of Soho, as had Matthew Lamb, and become a successful gigolo, it was essential to know all the latest dances. Fortunately Sean had natural rhythm and style as well as a circle of debutantes who lived to shimmy. And he was now armed, dangerous and eager for the opportunity to move
into the upper echelons of society. For Sean Kelly was one of the few men in London who'd bothered to find out exactly what women most desired in a man. Thus when the opportunity presented itself to make off with other gentlemen's wives and daughters, Sean Kelly would be well equipped. So to speak.

That Sunday afternoon when Tommy Zingernagel's saxophonist let loose with a heart-wrenching riff, Sean promptly forgot about his career aspirations. With Mary Maguire in his arms and her sweet breath soft against his neck, Sean was in heaven. He was stunned that dancing with Mary in a public place, could damn near bring him to his knees. Sean shuddered.
Jaysus. Get a grip, young man, or you'll find yourself out shopping for saucepans and a wedding ring.

Often as Sean joylessly caressed a scrawny socialite he'd pretend it was Mary moaning underneath him. He would clearly picture her thatch of red curls, wicked green eyes, small waist and fulsome breasts. This fantasy never failed to increase his ardour and inadvertently, he pleased his paying clients. That afternoon on the dance floor he toyed with the idea of telling Mary how much he loved her, but he suspected such a confession might complicate his life. So Sean Kelly continued paying Mary Maguire for services rendered.

It kept things nice.

While Sean was contemplating the perils of true love and moving Mary effortlessly across the dance floor, Mary was worrying about the sour-faced woman at the christening.
Nobody recognised her. She's too old to be Cat's mother. Who the fuck is she?
Mary anguished that the woman was a bad fairy, sent to poison Cat's childhood with spells of doom.

Mary Maguire had been reared on grisly fairy tales. At the orphanage the darker tales were thought to be morally instructive. If girls misbehaved they could well end up having their feet cut off like the little girl who coveted the red dancing shoes. The message
hadn't been lost on Mary and she'd always avoided wearing red shoes. She'd also developed an aversion to red capes and hoods.

Outwardly the baby seemed blessed and Mary had high hopes that Cat du Barry's life would unfold smoothly, like one of those sentimental American films. The preferred plotline being: cute abandoned orphan is adopted by obscenely wealthy war hero who, after some comedic confusion, marries a ravishing blonde and they all live happily ever after.
Gawd, I wish life was that bloody simple.

Like the Vatican, the Hotel du Barry had pretensions towards being a small, self-contained city. And only the hotel's concierge, Henri Dupont, had a comprehensive understanding of the integrity of its parts. On a daily basis, he observed the activities of the specialty fashion shops, the barber shop, the gymnasium and the movie theatre. Henri knew everybody's secrets and when wealthy debutantes fell pregnant, Henri would speedily organise a society wedding in the hotel chapel. He ensured that word never got out that the girl involved had given in to paternal pressure and sworn eternal love to a lad she could barely tolerate. The hotel's shotgun weddings were sorted so swiftly it was assumed the babies had been conceived in a blaze of honeymoon passion in warmer climes.

There was very little Henri Dupont wouldn't procure for his
nouveau riche
hotel guests; the
new rich
being a tainted term referring to people who'd profited during the war. Henri kept a recent copy of
Debrett's Peerage
under the reception desk so he could readily identify those who'd bought titles with their ill-gotten gains. He knew all about the commercial rackets, both legal and illegal. But he drew a line at violence, child prostitution, rape and bestiality.

Henri racked his brains about Cat's parentage and spent hours poring over the hotel guest book with Jim Blade. Had there been a pregnant debutante who'd refused to marry? No, not recently. Eventually most of the girls gave themselves over to the shame foisted on them by their parents.

Henri wondered if Cat's mother was the coal-pit heiress who frequently stayed at the hotel for weeks at a time. Miss Miranda Smith-Greaves understood the workings of the Hotel du Barry and could easily have slipped an unwanted newborn onto the clothesline. Miranda also had a very strong sense of entitlement. On arrival she'd summoned him to her deluxe suite. ‘Mr Dupont, have these hideous flowers removed immediately. I insist you get me tulips from Amsterdam. British roses are so frightfully vulgar.'

Henri arranged to have several dozen Dutch tulips flown to London by private plane. The bill was astronomical but Miranda happily paid up and declared herself satisfied. So Henri took to regularly filling her suite with expensive imported blooms. He also carefully studied the photographs of the Smith-Greaves clan in
Tatler
, searching for any family resemblance to Cat. He'd noticed that Miranda Smith-Greaves needed short kips just to get through the day and she always looked like she'd only just woken up. Was this some sort of genetic trait perhaps? Maybe she was responsible for Cat constantly nodding off? Henri hoped like hell that his intuition was incorrect. For if it was true that children inherit their intelligence from their mothers, then Cat was in deep shite.

When time was tight, Henri was not above presenting British tulips artfully re-boxed as Dutch tulips. Nor was he above refilling vintage Château Lafite bottles with a lesser wine. Henri maintained a secret storeroom in the labyrinth where he kept all the exclusive used packaging, boxes and empty bottles for such emergencies.

He confided to his chum Jim Blade, ‘It's a nice little earner and keeps the wife in luxury goods.'

Jim shifted uncomfortably. ‘Don't tell me this sort of thing. I'm supposed to be stamping out in-house corruption.'

Henri laughed so hard he damn near fell off his perch. ‘You can talk, my fine feathered friend, what with your card sharping and dirty deals in the boiler room.'

Jim shrugged. ‘I get your point. But for heaven's sake, make sure you're discreet about it.'

Henri Dupont was very discreet but while smoking a post-coital cigarette and engaging in pillow talk, he happily regaled his wife with tales of excess. He told Mrs Dupont, ‘So I said to our internationally famous ballet dancer, “Sir, I understand your request. Here at the Hotel du Barry we live to serve and, yes, I can find you a courtesan with beautiful feet.” Apparently, my dear, ballerinas develop ugly feet from dancing
en pointe
. Grotesque bunions, thick calluses, corns, twisted toes, the works. Ugh. Frankly I was more surprised at his request for a female than I was to discover he had a foot fetish.'

Mrs Dupont giggled and Henri kissed her before popping another French chocolate truffle into her mouth. Mimi wondered if he was intentionally fattening her up. She was nearly three stone heavier than she'd been on her wedding day.

Around the time that Mary Maguire mastered the fine arts of typing and shorthand, Mildred, Daniel's personal secretary, died. Daniel ensured Mildred had the financial resources to die as elegantly as she'd lived. And he personally accompanied Mildred, in a Hotel du Barry limousine, to the finest suite at a private London hospice. Prior to their arrival, Henri Dupont had filled it with Mildred's favourite blooms. Henri also booked a Hotel du Barry beautician and a hairdresser to attend on Mildred every morning. Her brilliant white hair was still abundant and she'd maintained the greyhound
leanness of her youth. Although frail, her mind was sharp as a tack and her patrician nose still capable of sniffing out authentic people. She adored Mary and her affection was returned in full.

The day before she died, Mildred dismissed the beautician and said to Mary. ‘I've made peace with the world and am now ready to leave. Please bring Cat and Choupon in to say goodbye tomorrow morning. And do let's have a bottle of Caterina Anastasia Grande Imperial Champagne, so we can have a wee tipple before I check out.'

‘But of course, Mildred.'

The next morning Mary smuggled Mildred's miniature French poodle into the hospice in a Fortnum & Mason picnic hamper. The nurses pretended not to notice the beady black eyes glaring at them from under Mildred's satin quilt. Mary and Cat sat on one side of the bed and Daniel the other.

Franz Liszt played on the phonograph and Mildred commanded Mary to, ‘Play that movement again, please. It's my favourite Liszt passage. You know Danny, your father pretended he detested classical music but on many an occasion I caught Maurie weeping in the dark at concerts. Beethoven's Ninth always had that effect on him. In parting I should also tell you – that he loved you very, very much but was incapable of expressing his emotions.'

Mildred closed her eyes.

However two minutes later she sat bolt upright in bed and stated imperiously, ‘Danny, Maurie just asked me to give you a message. He said, “Divorce that ghastly woman. She is Armageddon in silk stockings and will be the death of you.”'

Mildred fell backwards onto her feather pillows, sighed heavily and left to meet her maker. Right on time.

*

The years sped past and Cat's third birthday was celebrated both in the labyrinth and upstairs on the ninth floor. The staff unanimously agreed that the Hotel du Barry Baby was turning out just fine. Cat's sweet, loving nature and good manners meant that even the most hardened scullery maid was prepared to spend time answering the same endless questions children always ask adults. And it didn't hurt that the child resembled a Lucie Attwell illustration with her cheeky grin, chubby cheeks, long eyelashes and unruly blonde hair. Her eye colour had deepened to an stunning violet shade and even strangers in the street surreptitiously admired Cat. So it came as no surprise to Edwina that society women were all over Cat like a rash. ‘Mrs du Barry, your daughter is quite lovely. And those eyes! I've never seen such an exquisite colour.'

Edwina shrugged off their admiration but deep down she was chuffed. Jim surreptitiously studied Cat's physiognomy in the hope of spotting a resemblance to the young women frequenting the hotel but came up with nothing. Three years on and he still had no leads. Her strange violet eyes set her apart. There was no doubt about it, Cat du Barry was unique.

Sustained by his relationship with Michael, Daniel was able to cope with Edwina's moodiness. The two men shared the same sporting interests: boating, tennis, swimming and fencing. They were also regularly spotted at the opera and theatre. Meanwhile Eddie spent most weekends in the countryside at Gloria von Trocken's estate. She ingratiated herself and was soon on easy terms with assorted louche gentlemen, titled folk and royalty. Edwina and Daniel were a fixture in
Tatler
's high-society pages, even though it was rumoured in the upper echelons that they had a lavender marriage and lived separate lives. Nobody really gave a damn. Historically British
upper-crust matrimony had always been based on pedigree rather than passion or true love.

Mary and Edwina managed to establish an uneasy alliance, a sort of
detente
whereby they both knocked themselves out to be civil in public for the sake of Daniel and Cat. Thus the illusion of a successful marriage was maintained. And so it goes.

Bertha Brown closed her accounts book with a sigh. The Hotel du Barry was docking for the night and her daytime staff had just clocked off. Down in the labyrinth the maids' kitchen had gone quiet, so quiet that Bertha could hear the kitchen cats going about their evening business in the pantry. Nigel could be heard fossicking between the flour bins for fresh rodents.

Light footsteps on the stairs. ‘Mrs Brown, oh Mrs Brown!'

‘Good lord, what on earth is the matter, Lizzie?'

‘Mr du Barry asked me to deliver a message to ya. He said it was real important and to get it to ya right away.'

Bertha took off her reading glasses. ‘Calm down, dear. Just tell me what he said.'

‘He goes, “Please ask Mrs Brown if she is available to see me in her office. Now would be a good time if it suits.” Gawd. But I didn't know youse had an office, so I've been looking for ya everywhere.'

Bertha unlocked a drawer in the kitchen dresser and put the accounts journal away. ‘Mr du Barry likes to have a bit of a joke. He probably assumed you knew that the maids' kitchen
is
my office.'

‘Oh. I was real scared. I thought I'd made a right royal stuff-up and he'd get real angry. Maybe even give me the sack.'

‘Now, take a deep breath, Lizzie, and listen. Tell Mr du Barry that I'm still in my office, if he'd care to pop down and see me. All right?'

‘Yes, Mrs Brown.'

‘And you needn't worry. Just tell him you had trouble finding me. You won't get into any trouble.'

‘Good. I thought you was in the shite already and I was about to join ya.'

Bertha ran her hand across the scrubbed pine tabletop. ‘I'll let you in on a secret. I'm the same age as Mr du Barry and my mother – who was a pâtissière – worked for his father, at Hotel du Barry Brighton. Mother told me that this table used to be in the staff kitchen at Brighton. She reckoned Maurie du Barry wasn't a snob, and when Danny was a wee tot he'd have his tea on this very table every afternoon with the staff. And if his nanny told him he wasn't allowed to have any more delicious chocolate biscuits, he'd close his eyes.'

‘How come?'

‘Because Daniel thought that nobody would be able to see him filching another biscuit off the plate.'

‘Ah.'

‘Lizzie, my point is – he's your boss and you are right to be respectful, but he's human like the rest of us. He's just a man. A good man.'

‘I get ya, Mrs Brown. I'll give him the message.'

Lizzie clattered back up the stairs.

While she waited, Bertha polished two kitchen tumblers and put out a piece of Cheshire cheese and some biscuits. She also placed a flagon of cooking sherry on the table. Bertha then reached into a drawer and retrieved a box of complexion powder. Using the back of a silver carving knife as a mirror, she carefully powdered her nose.

By the time Daniel arrived, she was seated at the end of the table with her knitting.
Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one.

Daniel reached for the flagon and grinned. ‘This feels like old times. I guess you already know why I'm here?'

‘I have my suspicions, but I'd rather you told me.'

He passed her a full glass. ‘It's about Edwina.'

‘I see.'

‘We lost another nanny this afternoon. She'd packed her suitcase and was gone by the time I got back from Dublin.'

‘I know.'

‘Christ, news travels fast. It must be our rats' nest of spies at work again.'

Bertha put down her knitting. ‘Danny, be realistic. You live in a hotel. Gossip helps foster the human interest that motivates your cooks, maids, valets and lobby boys to get out of bed before dawn and put their best foot forward.'

He took a big slug of sherry. ‘You're right. As usual. Listen, I need your help. I don't know what to do. In three years I've been through nineteen nannies. There was nothing wrong with our first nanny, Betty. She was bloody marvellous and I wanted her to stay on but Eddie sacked her the minute I left town on business. Bertha, I'm at my fucking wits' end.'

‘Does Edwina sack them all or do some leave of their own volition?'

‘Most leave because she's so damn moody and she fires the rest. Eddie does her dirty work when I'm away on business at our other hotels.'

He fingered the blade of the cheese knife until Bertha removed it from his hand.

‘It's probably got something to do with the type of nanny you keep employing.'

‘Meaning?'

‘You have a marked preference for smart, attractive, well-educated girls from good homes.'

Daniel picked up the cheese knife again. ‘Spell it out for me, Bertha. I can take it. I knew right from the start that you didn't approve of my marriage.'

As Bertha weighed her words, they heard scuffling and laughter on the servants' stairs. Someone got slapped and a male voice whined, ‘Don't be like that, Deidre. I was just trying to stroke your quim. You must want it or you wouldn't have let me get inside your knickers.'

‘Get your grubby paws off me. I'm not that kind of girl.'

Bertha went to the door and yelled up the stairs, ‘Clear off, you two. I'm having an important meeting down here.'