Hotel du Barry (9 page)

Bertha was crazy in love with Jim. Her former husband had neither pampered nor appreciated her. Bertha discovered after their honeymoon that Bernie Brown's one true love was Guinness stout. She also came to the conclusion that he'd only proposed to her because he was work shy, hated being a chef and hoped she'd support him. As if. Soon Bernie's mask fell off, his violent nature erupted and he was sacked from a prestigious job at the Ritz for repeatedly getting drunk on the job. As it turned out, the handsome bastard had also been fucking his way through the Ritz clientele. And a lonely young widow – living all alone in a Brighton mansion – had fallen for him. Bertha was thrilled when she woke in the middle of the night to discover Bernie had deserted her, taking off for Brighton with only a clean pair of underpants and his shaggy toothbrush.

Small wonder that the heroes of Bertha's favourite romantic novels, all resembled Jim Blade in some way. He worshipped the ground she trod on and she only had to mention she fancied something and he would conjure it up for her. Despite Jim's maverick nature, Bertha trusted him unconditionally and he gave her the space to be entirely herself. In short, they were matched to perfection.

She snuggled deeper under the quilt. Bertha loved Sunday mornings in bed. It was her day off and she fully intended making the most of it.

It was soon the time of year for making plans for the long-awaited summer vacations. Shortly before she was due to leave for the day, Mary pretended to be busy rearranging the files. She tried to make the question sound casual. ‘So, Daniel, will I go ahead and make your holiday bookings for summer?'

‘Yes. But it won't just be Cat and her old man going to Venice.'

Mary's face fell. She shuffled some more papers. ‘Oh, so Edwina will be going?'

‘Hell, no. Holidaying together makes us both miserable. It will just be Cat, Michael and myself. I was planning on inviting you too, Mary. Since she turned sixteen, Cat's far more interested in female company. I'm no longer enough for her, thank God. She's dead keen for you to come, and so am I. Of course, if you've already made other plans, I understand.'

Mary's shoulders relaxed. She smiled. ‘I'd love to. But I've got to rush or I'll be late for my elocution lesson. She gets real nasty if I'm even two bloody minutes late.'

Daniel helped Mary into her coat and she pulled a soft cloche hat over her head. She picked up her handbag.
Come summer and lover-boy Kelly is going to have his hands full of Edwina. Poor bastard.

*

They made an unusual family that summer: the two distinguished, handsome Englishmen, the fair sixteen-year-old girl and her redheaded companion. Venice was at her best that day, lolling in the bright light, too lazy and hot to stir a limb. When the group disembarked from their boat on the Grand Canal, all the breakfast diners in the hotel restaurant discreetly took the measure of their new neighbours. The dark-haired Englishman whispered something and the other three laughed as they ascended the steps from the canal.

There was something strange yet wonderful about the new arrivals. They were dressed in the latest summer whites. The men wore tailored linen suits and were charmingly self-assured in the way that only rich men can afford to be. The woman and girl were attired in fashionable silk sheaths that had been cut on the bias to subtly reveal their slim but curvaceous figures.

Following the economic crash, hemlines had dropped from the dizzy knee heights of the roaring twenties. The demise of optimism and gaiety was translated into fitted, sensual garments that caressed the calves and brought attention back to women's ankles. Gone were the boyish, baggy waistless frocks of the flappers and fashion magazines proudly proclaimed that bosoms and waists were back in a big way. And only a few astute fashion devotees asked the obvious question: but where did they go in the first place?

Mary Maguire found the concept of women's fashion ridiculous but she always managed to dress elegantly and then not fuss about her appearance. The result was she appeared to be effortlessly stylish. In Venice she ensured that she and Cat had the latest Parisian hats, in order to protect their English complexions from the fierce sun.

The onlookers noted that despite the heat the two ladies did not seem to sweat, they just shimmered. Lovely. The girl had the
strangest violet-coloured eyes and unruly blonde hair and her slim neck was accentuated by an exceptionally fine string of pearls.

Mary Maguire counted the bags and prodded a brown leather Gladstone bag with her foot. ‘Yes, they're all here and accounted for. Daniel, I can't believe you've brought along Maurie's old medicine bag. It's so tatty and its replacement was so stylish; Louis Vuitton's craftsmen made it exactly to your specifications.'

Daniel grinned. ‘That bag just didn't cut the mustard. For starters, it lacked bullet holes. Whereas this rotten old thing has character and sentimental value. My old man never went on safari or anywhere else without it.'

Michael grabbed the medicine bag, examined it from all sides and carried it up the steps with another two heavy bags. Daniel said, ‘Whoa, treat it gently, old boy. It's not as robust as it used to be.'

Then, to the disappointment of the hotel's diners, the other three picked up their suitcases and disappeared into the cool recesses of the palazzo, leaving two servants to carry in the rest of their luggage.

At lunchtime the English party reappeared on the Grand Canal and headed towards the hotel's restaurant. The girl's appearance didn't seem to occupy her and she was oblivious to the lustful gazes of the young Venetian waiters. Her father however was fully aware of the interest his daughter was arousing.

Daniel placed a protective arm around Cat's bare shoulders as they walked up the stairs. And when he grinned and exposed his sharp white teeth, even the cheekiest waiter looked away. In the restaurant there was much whispering.

‘Who do you reckon the redhead is?'

‘Well, obviously she's the girl's mother.'

‘Nah. She's not wearing any rings.'

‘Maybe she's the mistress? She's a real peach.'

‘Could be a governess.'

‘Too well dressed.'

Part of the newcomers' appeal was that they were such a tight-knit group and didn't seem to need anyone else.

A gondolier sang as he drifted past and the canal waters sucked on the pylons below. The summer heat intensified the faint sewerage smell peculiar to Venice. The blueness of the sky seemed almost artificial. That was the problem with Venice: it was so exquisitely beautiful that it was in danger of becoming a bizarre fantasy existing only in the collective imagination.

Gloria von Trocken entered the restaurant. She briefly greeted Daniel then joined a large table of Texans with whom she was staying. But before she'd even had a chance to order an aperitif, her dining companions were eagerly questioning her.

‘Gloria, honey, who are those English folk? And how do you know them?'

‘The dark-haired man is Daniel du Barry, owner of a string of first-rate British, Irish and Continental hotels. He's married to a friend of mine and that's his daughter. The fair-haired chap is an English lord, and the redhead is Mr du Barry's personal secretary.'

‘So where is Mrs du Barry?'

Gloria felt she had no choice but to lie through her teeth. ‘Oh, she's been delayed on personal business. But no doubt Mrs du Barry will be joining her husband and daughter here soon.'

Unlikely. Wild horses couldn't drag Edwina to stately old Venice. Madam was currently creating a stir in Paris with Sean Kelly and a bunch of partygoers in tow.

The Texans tried to get more information out of Gloria but she clammed up. Gloria tried not to think of what Eddie was getting up to. She had a tendency towards recklessness when she was drinking. And these days Eddie was drinking heaps.

The maître d' whispered to the Texans, ‘You know it's thanks to Mr du Barry that we still have our theatre. He was instrumental in getting the restorations done after the fire and flew in experts from Rome. The place looks better now than it did before. Mr du Barry has also been putting his fortune to work on the problem of Venice sinking. For some reason Venice really matters to him. He's renovating that magnificent old palazzo next door at great expense. It's costing him an absolute fortune.'

Gloria's companions eavesdropped shamelessly as Cat read aloud from her guidebook. ‘In his palazzo Lord Byron had eight large dogs, five cats, a crow, a falcon, an eagle, two guinea hens, five peacocks, an Egyptian crane and three monkeys all wandering at liberty.'

Michael leant back on his chair and squinted in the afternoon sun. ‘At Oxford I wrote a dissertation on Lord Byron.'

Daniel deftly removed his wine glass from Cat's hand and poured her a fifty-fifty wine and water. ‘Michael was in danger of being sent down, you know. He spent all his time throwing elaborate costume parties and gambling at the races.'

Cat pushed her plate aside. ‘Michael, please tell us what Lord Byron was really like. Come on, you must know at least some of his secrets.'

Daniel grinned and nudged Michael. ‘Get on with it, old boy.'

Mary glanced at Daniel. He looked so tanned and handsome. The moment they'd left London he'd relaxed, and the further he moved from Edwina's proximity, the more he reverted to his true self. She was delighted to see that his health had improved, his dark moods had lifted and he had become playful and pleasure-seeking. Danny didn't seem to need liver tonics or headache pills once he was away from his wife. In the company of the three people who loved him the most, he'd managed to curb his heavy drinking and was determined to make them happy.

Michael grinned, loosened his shirt collar and said to Cat, ‘I'll do my best to satisfy your salacious curiosity, young lady.'

Everyone within earshot shifted slightly forward, ears on stalks. Even the busy waiters were craning their necks. The vibrancy of Daniel's party lit up the balcony.

Gloria wished she was at their table, enclosed in the magic circle of their conversation. The du Barry clan had always fascinated her. Michael was taking his time, weighing his words carefully. He was as light and intangible as Daniel was dark and mysterious.

Michael picked up his fork and speared an olive. ‘Lord Byron put a lot of time and energy into maintaining his reputation as an inveterate womaniser. You know he had a deformed foot, ladies? Well, despite that, the man was quite athletic. He also dressed elegantly and always looked very dashing. You see, men weren't afraid of being peacocks in those days. Tight breeches showcased their genitalia and some wore tailored jackets with padding to give them a more manly physique.'

Cat pointed at a palazzo across the way. ‘Was that really Lord Byron's?'

‘Yes. One night in Venice, as he was leaving a party that had bored him witless, he leapt fully clothed into the canal and swam home to that palazzo. Lantern in one hand and paddling with the other. Byron was a marvellous swimmer, he once swam the Grand Canal for four hours in the fierce sun. His back was broiled into a mass of burnt, peeling flesh.'

Cat prodded a piece of tomato. ‘Yuck. So did he genuinely like women or did he just like bedding them?'

‘Both. If he thought a woman was intelligent, he'd happily converse on taboo subjects. Caroline Lamb wasn't the only woman who relentlessly hunted him down. He cultivated a dark, brooding, romantic aura. Rather like Danny Boy.' He grinned at Daniel. ‘But Byron also had many female friends, including the eccentric Contessa Marina Querini Benzon. In her sixties she'd grown stout
and during the winter months she'd conceal slices of steaming polenta down the front of her bodice. If you sat next to her in a gondola you could see the steam rising from her décolletage. She'd been wild in her youth, as Byron was. And he probably identified with her outrageousness.'

Cat tried to hide her prosciutto under a bread roll. ‘I read that Byron was cruel to women.'

Michael drained his glass. ‘Byron loathed dining with women and many scholars concluded that he hated women. But in actual fact it was because he adored the wing section of a capon. You see, etiquette demanded that ladies be given the wings and gentlemen make do with the legs. It infuriated Byron to see a female hogging his favourite delicacy. He could be very childish.'

Mary laughed. ‘Was Byron as “mad, bad and dangerous” as they say?'

Michael poured more wine. ‘Well, he was prone to depression and passionate rages. Subsequently Byron sought distraction from his fears by indulging himself with both sexes. No one was safe. He wanted them all: twelve-year-old girls, sophisticated women and nubile Greek boys.'

Mary glanced at Cat's untouched plate. ‘Cat, you haven't eaten. You're not on some silly diet, are you?'

‘No, it's just too hot to be hungry.'

Michael lit up a cigarette. ‘Perhaps she's being Byronic. You know, Byron starved himself on a regular basis, eating only a nauseating mash of crackers, vegetables and vinegar. As a youth he'd been on the chubby side, then he morphed into a handsome lady-killer. Dieting wasn't just about vanity though, his gammy ankle and foot felt better when he weighed less.'

Daniel touched Cat's shoulder. ‘At least finish your salad. Then we'll go to the Doge's Palace. Casanova was imprisoned there before making a spectacular escape.'

Michael nudged Cat with his foot. ‘Let's not waste time. Just eat the damned salad so we can get out of here. Cat, you're going to love the Doge's Palace, it's exceedingly Gothic and the interiors are chockers with magnificent ceiling frescoes.'

Daniel added, ‘And then of course there's the Bridge of Sighs. The sighing occurred when condemned prisoners were taking their last look at mortal life.'

Cat attacked her salad with vigour. ‘Sounds great. I'm on the job.'

Michael looked out over the canal. ‘You know, Thomas Mann wrote of Venice being a place of death and disillusionment. What a load of bollocks. Venice is seething with lust and life. Even if you've got no damn interest in either, you can always ogle magnificent palaces or swoon over extraordinary art. Forget Paris, I want to die in Venice.'

Early next morning, Gloria was already seated when Cat entered the hotel restaurant. The girl's freshly washed hair was standing on end but she looked marvellous. They were the only two diners in the place. Gloria invited Cat to sit down and they hesitantly made small talk. She'd never spent much time with Edwina's adopted daughter before and was curious.

Cat said, ‘We didn't bother getting a cook this time. Our palazzo is being renovated and we all like eating breakfast here anyway. It's great going to different restaurants every evening.'

‘My favourite dish is
Pollo alla Buranea,
from the nearby island of Burano.' Gloria said. She found it hard not to warm to Cat's youthfulness. ‘The locals reckon their houses are painted in gaudy colours so the fishermen can get gloriously drunk but still find their way back home to their wives.'

Cat's natural wit and good manners made her a likeable companion. She was also astonishingly well read. It took Gloria by
surprise because she normally loathed being around young women. Their flawless complexions and gormless attitudes annoyed the hell out of her. Also she'd had Eddie whining about Cat's shortcomings, so it was disconcerting to discover that Eddie hadn't told the truth about Daniel's daughter. Was it jealousy? Gloria was so engrossed in their conversation that she didn't see Daniel until he was practically on top of her. He didn't seem especially pleased to find himself in close proximity to Eddie's closest friend. Just as well he had impeccable manners.