If I Had You (7 page)

“Take a letter for me first, will you?” Richard said.

She held back an urge to sigh. She'd wanted to use the time to review her afternoon with Ivan as she made her way downstairs. “Of course. I'll find my pen.”

He dictated a letter to Dolly Tree, a very prominent costume designer for stage and film, asking her to create the costumes for the command performance. “She'll be very dear, especially in this time frame, but with such a distinguished audience she might be swayed. Send this off immediately so we can have a response Monday. We'll have a lot of letters to write then if she says no.”

“Yes, sir.” Alecia stood. “I'll just do a proper copy of this for your signature.”

“Use the hotel stationery,” he said.

She nodded and went to the writing table next to the picture window. Ten minutes later she had a clean letter and Richard signed it. “I'll post this and run my little errand, then be back.”

“No sign of Sybil yet?” he asked.

“No. Do you want me to check the salon?”

“No, she wouldn't still be there,” he said, returning to his book. “Make a dinner reservation for me downstairs, will you? If she turns up she can join me.”

“Yes, I will.” She poised expectantly on the balls of her feet. When he said nothing more she went out the main door of the suite and down the hall to her own door. Inside her room, she blew on the envelope to dry the ink and tucked it into the pocket of her dress, then hefted the apron of ashtrays, hoping she wouldn't chip any of them on the journey downstairs.

The man at the front desk had a tag on his red uniform jacket identifying him as Lionel Dew, Night Manager. Alecia felt oddly relieved when she realized she wouldn't have to see Mr. Eyre.

“Good evening,” she said, hefting her apron full of contraband onto the desk. “I found these behind a plant on the fifth floor and they appear to belong to the hotel.”

Mr. Dew, a blond with a barely discernible unibrow, given his unusually light hair for a man of middle years, opened the bundle with an air of professional indifference. “Where did you find them?”

“Near the lift,” she said, not convinced she should give away Mrs. Plash's secret. Mr. Eyre had to know the poor woman had her troubles, given his relationship with the daughter.

“I'd like you to speak to Mr. Eyre, the manager.”

“Of course,” Alecia said, her midsection turning to butterflies. “I'll find him tomorrow.”

“He's here now, miss. In the Coffee Room. He's there most hours after I come on duty at seven.”

A couple, dusty and road weary, but dressed respectively in a Poiret driving costume and custom plus fours, walked up to the counter. Alecia had a feeling she ought to know who they were, if for no other reason than the woman had an unworldly beauty, from her carefully lacquered black hair, almost geometrically arranged around her face, and her perfect, thin black brows, to her oversized carmine lips. The man had a ruddy, squashed face and ginger hair. He matched the lady not in beauty but in distinction and individuality.

When he saw Alecia's perusal, he doffed his hat with a grin. “Yes, dear, of course you can have my autograph. But Miss Page, you know, never signs them.”

The beauty gave them both a bored stare, and Mr. Dew began to fuss over her.

“Oh, you're Teddy Fortress,” Alecia said, finally placing the man. A well-known movie comedian, one of many Brits who'd attempted to replicate Charlie Chaplin's success in Hollywood. Miss Page was his wife, and an actress too.

He chuckled. “I'm pleased such a beauty recognized me.”

“He needs your John Hancock, Teddy,” his wife said in an unpolished American accent.

“Of course, of course,” Teddy said, giving Alecia a wink and stepping around her. “Catch you later, doll.”

She walked briskly away, realizing she preferred Mr. Eyre's unsettling urbanity to Mr. Fortress's gangster-speak and teasing, especially in front of his wife, who must be very used to it, given her demeanor.

The Coffee Room was considered by many to be the most beautiful room at the Grand Russe. The most up-to-date, certainly, with its stunning navy and silver geometric wallpaper. The parquet floor's dizzying pattern could make a girl's head spin a bit, even more than the champagne that flowed between eight and eleven
P.M.

Even though the champagne hour had not yet begun, the room had filled with Bright Young Things of the sort who drank their evening meal instead of eating it. The law insisted food must be available when alcohol was served, so a buffet was ever present along the side wall. Alecia had never investigated it in the evening, and wouldn't now, since Mr. Dew had gestured at her apron-wrapped package with disdain.

Instead, she walked across the floor with her eyes focused on her package, trying to ignore how she might appear in her black dress—her newest frock, sewn to wear to her grandmother's funeral initially—and hoping she channeled the bored attitude of Miss Page, though she was no actress.

When Mr. Eyre saw her though, he treated her as a special guest and not a bedraggled supplicant. He rose from his chair, holding his cigarette, and inclined his head, smoke spiraling around his carefully combed sandy hair. “Why, Miss Loudon, what a treat.”

“I found these upstairs,” she said.

Mr. Eyre smiled and took the bundle from her.

“It's ashtrays,” she explained. “I attempted to leave them with Mr. Dew, but he was busy with new arrivals.”

“Have Mr. Fortress and his lovely wife entered stage right?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll have to welcome them personally,” he murmured, taking a peek in her bundle. His expression seemed to sharpen, though his face didn't move.

“What are you doing with my mother's apron?” A brassy blonde with dark eyebrows that didn't match approached, holding a long, empty cigarette holder. Her slinky, sleeveless navy dress, spangled with silver, matched the walls. This was Emmeline Plash, Fallen Woman. “Peter?”

“Miss Loudon found it,” Mr. Eyre murmured. “Have you made the acquaintance of Miss Plash, Miss Loudon?”

“No.” She nodded at the woman.

“A pleasure,” Miss Plash said, lifting her nose. “Butt me, will you, Peter? My case is empty.”

Mr. Eyre snapped his fingers, and a liveried bellboy appeared from behind Alecia with all the speed of a genie exiting a bottle. “Take this bundle to my office,” he ordered.

“My mother's apron,” Emmeline said impatiently.

“Leave the ashtrays there, and return the apron to me,” he said. “Unless you'd like me to have it washed and ironed for you.”

“No, it's one of my mother's prize possessions,” Emmeline said, snatching at Mr. Eyre's gleaming cigarette case as he pulled it from an inner pocket. She rubbed at it. “Honestly, Peter, it's all smudged.”

Mr. Eyre smiled at Alecia. She felt like he'd let her in on his private joke, and was warmed by it, instead of made nervous, as she had been with Teddy Fortress.

“If you'll excuse me, ladies, I had better see to the Fortresses.” Mr. Eyre inclined his head and strode off behind the bellboy.

Emmeline shook her head angrily. “Who is supposed to light me up?”

A waiter appeared at her elbow, holding a lighter. “Miss, if I may?”

Another genie. Alecia watched as their transaction was completed.

“Efficient, I'll give them that.” Emmeline blew smoke out of the side of her mouth in businesslike fashion. “Now, I know you didn't just find those ashtrays. My mother took them, right?”

“I found her with them, and she gave me the bundle. I don't know how she came to have them.”

Emmeline blew out smoke again and stared at the wall. “I don't know what to do with that woman. What a mess.”

“I'm sorry.”

Emmeline smirked nastily. “It's you I feel sorry for. A pretty girl who dresses like a fright and has to play fetch and carry for those theater people.” She waved her cigarette holder around the room. “You're always going to be on the outside. It will get worse as your employers age. I've heard they are both past their prime as it is. The hotels will become shabbier, your pay will reduce. Although I don't know how you could dress any worse.”

“I only started working for them last month, Miss Plash,” Alecia said, swallowing her anger. “And the Marvins have all kinds of prospects. I have faith in my employers. Besides, this hotel isn't the least bit shabby.”

“You shouldn't have faith in employers. You should find yourself a rich boyfriend and enjoy being young. How old are you? Twenty?”

“Twenty-two.”

Emmeline rolled her eyes. “To be twenty-two. You have the look of a just-born fawn. I'd claim to be younger, if I were you. This is the age of youth, and you can get away with it.” Her gaze wandered. “I wonder if we can open a bottle early tonight.”

Alecia felt as though she'd been sucked into the genie's bottle herself, the way Emmeline suddenly stopped recognizing her presence, and took a step away. She knew she didn't fit in. Oddly enough, given her London fantasies, she didn't even want to, not with this bored, heavily imbibing crowd with the high-pitched drawls and “sick-making” talk.

A string quartet had come in and were setting up in a corner, music to keep the beast at bay until the nightclub opened later. A young man in full evening kit approached them, mouse-brown hair, center parted and gleaming with oil, a bored expression in his heavy-lidded eyes. “Will you dance, ladies?” he drawled.

Emmeline rolled her eyes.

“Both of us?” Alecia said, momentarily distracted from her plan to exit by the notion of dancing.

Another young man approached. They were mirror images of each other. Twins.

“Goodness,” Alecia said, trying to flirt. “Which of you is nicer?”

“Harold,” said the first.

“Gerald,” said the newcomer.

She had no idea whether they were saying their own names or each other's, but the string quartet finished checking their instruments and began a Tchaikovsky waltz. No, she couldn't resist. “I'd love to dance.”

The first man bowed and took her hand. In an instant, they were in the center of the floor, twirling around as half a dozen others joined them. The size of the room compared to the number of couples meant they could command the floor. Alecia had never been spun so fast or moved so far, being used to church tea dances where the music was sedate and the floor crowded. But this, this was living, despite the man's practiced boredom and her own inappropriate attire. She forgot him, and her clothes, and not fitting in, and let him spin her until she was dizzy, until she couldn't see him clearly. He might have been Ivan Salter, or Richard Marvin, or Peter Eyre. Anyone, really.

When the music ended, the quartet paused. Alecia saw a group of Bright Young Things had entered the room. She heard the high, tittering laugh of one of the men.

“I should go,” she said to her partner. “This isn't my party. But thank you for the dance.”

“Who are you?” he asked. “You're a very good dancer.”

She touched her flushed cheeks. “Thank you. I've never danced like that. It was heaven. Which one are you? Harold or Gerald?”

“Gerald.” His gaze had wandered away from her.

“I'm Miss Loudon.”

“A pleasure, I'm sure.” His gaze tracked a boyishly built young woman in her late teens, dressed in a Chanel evening gown, who'd just entered with a large party. She wore diamonds like they were paste.

For a moment Alecia wished Harold would ask her to dance now, but he was opening a bottle of champagne for Emmeline. No, she needed to escape. For this crowd, you had to be rich or artistic, and she was neither.

She walked away from Gerald and darted through the broad, quadruple-doored entrance to the room.

“Leaving so soon, Miss Loudon?” Peter Eyre asked, reappearing just outside. He lifted his cigarette to his mouth. He'd obviously found more, though he'd given his case to his mistress. The band started up again.

She nodded. “I'm more a hot jazz kind of girl.” She smiled as she walked away.

I
van felt like he hadn't had enough of a break from the Grand Russe, with only one day off. Not that home was a refuge, with Vera's fevered rantings about Cousin Georgy and what he'd done to their family. But the air on the ground floor of the hotel that Saturday night seemed particularly smoky and heavy. Perfume, perspiration, wet wool, and cold air from the doors mixed with the blasts from the heat vents, all left a foggy atmosphere, putting him in a dreamlike state.

People and objects seemed farther away than they truly were. He spotted a woman moving, murkily, far down the service corridor leading to the nightclub's rear door. Following, he knocked into a short pillar and caught the plant that rested on top of it just in time. The woman, careless or not hearing him, kept walking away.

Eventually, he could see the far wall. The art framed there began to take shape, dancers cavorting brightly, captured in sharp strokes of thick, colorful paint. The woman stopped, her ear pressed to the bright crack between the door and the lintel. Now he could hear it too, the band. They played “Red Hot Mamma,” a fox-trot he liked.

He could see the woman did too. Her hips swayed, followed by her shoulders. When she tossed her head he recognized her, as if the smoke around her had suddenly cleared. Until that moment, she might as well have been a ghost, one of those murdered starlets.

As if they were in a film, he took Miss Loudon's hand and pulled her to him. She stumbled for half a second when her heel caught on the carpet, then righted herself as he apologized.

She shook her head and smiled, as caught up in the moment as he was, then put her hands into position with perfect geometry, and they began to dance. One hand on his shoulder, the other in his gloved hand. He spun her in a tight hold around the corridor, her body light as air in his arms, their torsos molded together. His heavy uniform coat kept him from feeling the shape of her breasts against him, but he could feel the warmth of her body nonetheless.

His hand pressed against her back. He could feel the delicate curves of her bones. She hid a lot under these shapeless dresses. Tonight's was some off shade of taupe, the third of her dresses that he'd seen. He wished she could have kept some of Boris's money from the pawning of what might have been his mother's brooch, and bought herself a new dress.

When the music ended, she sighed happily. “I feel like Barbara Miles.”

“Who?” He waited, poised to dance again when the next number began.

“She won the world's professional dancing championship last year. I don't remember her partner's name.”

“I see.” But the music didn't start again. The band must be taking a break. Reluctantly, he let her hand go.

Her other hand left his shoulder and she stepped back. “Why did you dance with me? We aren't supposed to fraternize.”

“I am sorry for everything that happened yesterday.” He caught her gaze with his. “I was still thinking about Mr. Eyre's edict, and I had heard some bad news at home. It made me surly.”

She nodded. “I am sorry you had to deal with me on your day off.”

“It wasn't you. If we had met somewhere, to dance like this, I would not have minded it. You are a good dancer.”

She blushed. “I could feel the music skipping across my skin. When the cymbals clashed it made me shiver.” She demonstrated with a roll of her shoulders. “Have you heard ‘Snakes Hips'? It's almost as good.”

He couldn't help but notice the sway of her breasts. Could he kiss her again? Of course not. Not only would she feel the heavy heat between his legs and become nervous, he would risk losing his job. What he wouldn't give to make love while a jazz record played. How he longed for those carefree days of wealth and privilege sometimes.

“And the trombone,” she continued. “Is there anything better?”

His gaze fixed upon her lips, her tongue flashing between them as she sang the tune, “La, lala, lala . . .”

“I can't kiss you,” he said.

She stopped singing. “What?”

“No kissing.”

Her eyebrows lowered, wispy, delicate arches of blond. “I didn't ask you to.”

“Yes, you did.”

She shook her head. “No. You're hallucinating.”

He fanned out his fingers. “Look at yourself, this sensual creature. You're made of kisses.”

Her brows lifted.

“When you speak of music, your eyes are as hungry as Theda Bara's,” he continued.

She blushed. “Such applesauce. You've never spoken to me like this before.”

“I'm serious. Music brings you to life.”

“Not always. I was in the Coffee Room yesterday evening. I don't fit in there, though I did dance once. It wasn't jazzy though, not like in the nightclub.”

“Someone asked you to dance?” He was obscurely dissatisfied that he hadn't been the first to dance with her in the hotel.

“One of the twins.” She smiled. “I don't know if they are regulars.”

“Yes, I know who they are. Cousins of Miss Plash.”

She nodded. “That makes a great deal of sense. They came up to us when I was speaking to her.”

He suddenly understood. “Oh! Was it you who returned the ashtrays?” That evening's notice had been about the return of purloined articles. He'd solved the problem of the missing newspapers, when he found that one of the long-term residents' valets had been taking them to the den on the seventh floor as soon as they were fanned out in the Reading Room. Then a cache of coffee spoons had turned up in a laundry sack in a storage room on the fourth floor. He'd found those too, during his rounds.

“Yes, Mrs. Plash had them, I'm afraid. But I don't know if she collected them or found them already together.”

It could be either way. “Poor woman.”

“Do you know?” she asked. “Well, it's an indelicate question.”

“What?”

“Are Mr. Eyre and Miss Plash still keeping company?”

Irrational anger surged through him. Did Miss Loudon think Peter Eyre would take her on, make her over in his mysterious, stylish image? Maybe he could. Maybe, just. This sensuality was a new side of her; one he'd imagined, however momentarily, that she'd shown only him. Maybe it was Eyre bringing it out in her, not the music.

“I have to make my rounds,” he said stiffly. “You should return to your room.”

“Why?”

“Because the ghosts might get you.” He stomped away without answering her question about Eyre. He didn't know the answer anyway.

* * *

Alecia rolled her eyes at Ivan's back as he stomped away. Ghosts were unlikely to be much of a nuisance here. Drunken lads from the Coffee Room, those who stayed there to drink themselves into a stupor instead of moving on to the nightclub, were much more trouble.

She wished she'd been able to determine what Sybil was up to. Ivan might know, but he didn't seem inclined to help her.

Did Ivan realize she was as traumatized by her parents' fate as he was by his? That her ghosts were inside her own head? She wished she were a man. They seemed to be able to compartmentalize better, spend less time in their own heads. She doubted he saw his equivalent of the
Lusitania
's four smokestacks every time he laid his head down on his pillow.

Or maybe he did. He worked nights for a reason.

* * *

Ivan opened the door to his flat, exhausted after a long night on his feet. One of the kitchen maids at the hotel had given him a bag of bread rolls when he'd drifted through the kitchens hoping to grab a cup of coffee, and he munched on one of the yeasty treats as he walked in. As he began to toe off his shoes, he realized there were more voices than usual. Vera and Sergei had been joined by their White Russian friends. Ivan knew the speaker only as Pavel. Another man, Anatoly Smirnov, who never spoke in Ivan's presence, sat in the corner on Vera's footstool.

“What did you bring us today?” Vera asked, holding out her hand for the bag.

Ivan didn't give it to her. He didn't mind Sergei, but he loathed the others. Nothing good came of their presence. They'd spend hours here, debating the fate of the Romanovs, filling the air with smoke and eating every morsel of food, drinking every drop of vodka in the flat. He had no interest in supporting whatever they were. Not working men. Imperialists? Revolutionaries? He had no label for their activities, and didn't care.

Ignoring them, he went to the icebox. Of course, his cider was long gone. He poured himself a glass of water and walked past the group into the bedroom, his chin itching when he saw Pavel's untidy beard. Maybe he'd shave before he slept, but then he'd have to take his rolls into the untidy shared lavatory on the landing.

Not worth it.

“Ivan!” Vera shrieked in Russian as he opened the bedroom door. “Don't disappear. We need your guidance.”

“I need to sleep.”

She rose from the arm of the chair where she was resting against Sergei and slapped him on the chest. “You need to hear this. We're going to take down Ovolensky at the command performance of
Macbeth
.”

He felt stupid and slow. “
Macbeth
? How do you know about that?”

Anatoly smirked, but as always, said nothing.

Oh God. Were Miss Loudon's employers involved in this travesty somehow? He stared at his sister, her eyes glittering with excitement.

Gritting his teeth, he said, “Are the Marvins involved with your little conspiracy?”

“Want in?” she challenged.

“You know I don't.”

“Then I won't tell you anything.” She flounced away and went back to her seat. Anatoly's close-set black eyes bored into Ivan's for a moment, before he tossed back the contents of his glass.

“Why don't you both go back to Russia, instead of making trouble here?” Ivan said.

“The battle must be fought on all fronts,” Pavel said. “We have formed a Special Punitive Group as required by the circumstances.”

“I think you are too much of a coward to go back,” Ivan responded. “There is no good in killing a man. You think the British government will want Russians here if you bring fear to these shores? What about all the charities that have helped us? If the common people see us as murderers, we are finished.”

“Our committee has passed a sentence of death upon Ovolensky,” Pavel said calmly.

“Now you sound like a Bolshevik, not a White,” Ivan jeered. “I don't think the tsar had committees. He was an autocrat.”

Pavel sneered. “You know nothing.”

“What were you before the war? You are older than me. Were you in the army? I know you couldn't have been an aristocrat. What then? Some humble schoolmaster, in love with a Grand Duchess? Do you think to bring the dead back now?”

“Stop it!” Vera shouted. She rose again and snatched his bag from his hand, then slapped his face.

“Do not push me,” he said to his sister, refusing to touch his stinging cheek. “You need me more than you are willing to admit.”

She stared at him, saying nothing. He looked up at the cracked ceiling, then walked back through the sitting room and out the door. Boris would let him nap on the old sofa in the back of the pawnshop.

He stayed away from the flat until he had to wash and be back at the hotel. Thankfully Vera and her Special Punitive Committee had gone elsewhere. He had yet to see her alone to ask her about the brooch.

When he arrived at the hotel that evening, he found a notice requesting him to appear in Mr. Eyre's office before he started his rounds. While he felt gritty-eyed from the lack of sleep in a proper bed, at least his appearance was impeccable. He wouldn't let the bloody Special Punitive Group cost him his position. What would those bastards do without people like him who were conned into keeping them going, providing spaces for their meetings, food for them to steal, vodka to fuel their idiocy?

On a Sunday night, the hotel was quieter than usual. Even the Coffee Room seemed subdued, though it was after eight
P.M.
, a prime time for the usual crowd who couldn't afford to dine in a restaurant and were killing time until the clubs opened.

“Mr. Salter,” said Peter Eyre, rising from behind his desk and holding out his hand when he walked in.

Ivan took it, confused. He saw Lionel Dew was present as well. At least the handshake seemed friendly. Would Mr. Eyre have shaken his hand if he were about to be sacked?

“I wanted to thank you for finding those spoons and solving the newspaper dilemma,” Mr. Eyre said. “You are doing good work.”

“Just my job, sir,” he said eagerly. “I try to keep an eye on all the nooks and crannies of the hotel.”

“Excellent. You are my eyes and ears, you night watchmen,” Eyre said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You'll find a gesture of gratitude in your next paycheck,” Lionel Dew added.

“Thank you, sir,” Ivan said. “That is very welcome.”

“You were unemployed for a time before you came to us, correct?” Dew continued.

“Yes. Work is scarce.”

“Especially for immigrants,” Eyre said, lighting a cigarette.

Ivan watched the unconscious grace of the man as he went through the motions. No wonder women found him so attractive. Masculine poetry in every movement, none of this effete nonsense upper-class young men were affecting right now. “Speaking of immigrants,” he began.

“Yes?”

“I have some concerns about certain elements of the Russian community where our visit from Georgy Ovolensky is concerned. He is a controversial figure in some circles.” How he hated even saying the name.