Authors: Kate Beaufoy
Jessie consulted the menu briefly, avidly, and then, remembering her manners, requested the count to order for her.
Bouillabaisse
, to be followed by
fricandeau
of veal, with sorrel and asparagus.
‘And bring some spinach,’ the count instructed the waiter, before resuming his scrutiny of her. ‘You look peaky, young lady. You must not allow yourself to become deficient in iron.’
‘You’re so kind,’ she said. ‘So very, very kind.’
‘
De rien
.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you – and to your baby. When are you due?’
‘In April.’ Jessie made a little moue. ‘I’ll start to show in a couple of months, and that will be bad news.’
‘How so?’
‘I’ll be out of a job – and out of lodgings as well. Madame Perron, the
patronne
of my hotel, allows no women with children to lodge there. As soon as she finds out I’m expecting, I’ll be out on the street.’
‘Well, we simply cannot allow that to happen. Where are you residing?’
‘In the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux, on the rue du Coq d’Or.’
‘That dosshouse!’ Count Demetrios looked genuinely aghast. ‘Forgive my language, Madame, but that is no place for a young gentlewoman like you. We must get you out of there at once.’
‘But I can’t afford anywhere better.’
He looked at her thoughtfully, and his eyes appeared more hooded than ever. ‘I have a suggestion to make, Madame—’
‘Jessie, please.’
‘Jessie.’ He acknowledged her Christian name with a small incline of his head. ‘I may be in a position to procure some rather more lucrative work for you.’
She gave him a sceptical look. ‘What kind of lucrative work can a woman with child expect to get?’
The count tapped the side of his nose. ‘You’d be surprised. I have a friend – a very talented young artist – who has expressed dissatisfaction with his recent work. He goes from one commission to the next, earning a lot of money in the process, but he is currently suffering from feelings of
ennui
and chronic disillusion. He has had enough of “churning out” – as he calls it – the society portraits that
le tout Paris
is clamouring for, and he’s looking for someone fresh and unspoiled to sit for him. I think I might persuade Monsieur Lantier—’
Jessie’s jaw dropped. ‘Not Gervaise Lantier?’
‘Yes. You know him?’
‘No, but I know
of
him. Scotch told me that he sells every canvas almost before it’s touch-dry. Is that an exaggeration?’
‘That is no exaggeration – Monsieur Lantier is a wealthy man. But is he a happy man? That remains to be seen.’ Amused at her incredulity, the count lit up a cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. ‘Coincidentally, I met Monsieur earlier today, and he extended an invitation to me to come to a soirée this evening, at the Boulevard Péreire. Might you care to join me?’
She looked doubtful. ‘What kind of a soirée?’
‘The comtesse de Valéry holds a salon in her apartment on the first Friday of every month. Many of the cultural and intellectual élite of Paris attend.’
‘So it’s a very swagger event?’ she asked.
‘Black tie.’
That settled it, then. She could not go, simply because she had nothing to wear.
‘I have no—’ she began, then her gaze fell on the bundle at her feet which contained the silk gown that she had last worn at Christmas.
She remembered how they’d cleared the hotel sitting room of furniture that night in Rouen – there’d been charades and singing and musical chairs – and decorated it with Chinese lanterns and paper festoons and holly and mistletoe. And they’d danced until they were breathless – old-fashioned dances like waltzes and lancers and reels – and the silk of her gown had swirled round her in a blur of colour and motion. Much later, Scotch had taken her out into the garden for air and his breath had been a brush stroke of spectral mist in the freezing night as he’d leaned down to kiss her mouth . . .
Jessie bit her lip. Would the gown pass muster at such a sophisticated gathering? For the first time since she’d arrived in Paris she had an opportunity to earn decent money and make important contacts. If she declined the count’s invitation she’d be back in the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux, breathing in the stench that wafted through the narrow corridors, and listening to the racking bark of the consumptive youth who lived on the floor above.
She couldn’t do it. She
couldn’t
go back to a place where cockroaches were her room-mates, and where there was fighting in the street outside her window every night. She couldn’t go back to a place where lecherous wet-lipped types ogled her every time she passed them on the stairs, and where her Serbian neighbour had taken to burning sulphur to drive off his lice. Her Scripture teacher at school had told her that hell smelt of sulphur, and Jessie was sick to death of living in hell.
She smiled across the table at Count Demetrios. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I should be delighted to accompany you this evening.’
An hour later Jessie had finished her soup, her veal, her vegetables, and her heavenly pineapple fritters.
‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart,’ she told the count. ‘I’ve been dreaming about that kind of food for ages.’
‘I’m delighted you enjoyed it.’ He gave her a brief smile, then signalled for the bill. When he had settled up he turned back to her, and Jessie noticed with a pang of apprehension that his expression was grave. ‘Madame,’ he said. ‘I do not know how to ask this question without appearing discourteous – ill-bred, even – but ask it I must. It is clear that you have fallen on extremely hard times. May I enquire as to whether you have the correct attire for a social event of the kind to which I am to escort you?’
Jessie faltered. The Dutch courage instilled by the cognac was beginning to desert her. ‘I have – an evening dress. It is of the finest silk from Liberty of London.’
‘A most elegant establishment.’ The count directed his gaze at her tanned legs.
‘But I have no . . . no stockings.’
‘Well,’ said the count. ‘We must remedy that. Let us make our way to the Boulevard Saint-Germain to do a little shopping.’
‘I have no money, Count!’
‘Allow me to make a gift of the stockings to you.’
‘No!’
His eyes narrowed, and he assumed his autocratic air. ‘Madame. You must permit me at this stage of the game to assist you in any way that I can. I myself shall look upon the purchase of stockings for you as an investment. If I say so myself, I predict a successful outcome to this little experiment of mine.’
‘Experiment?’
‘Monsieur Lantier is a young man, Madame. But already his palate is jaded. I told you I intend to whet his appetite for something fresh and new. If you refuse my help, I cannot interest him in employing you because, Madame, if you have no stockings, you cannot go where polite society congregates. It is as simple as that.’
Jessie frowned, considering.
‘Madame, Madame!’ He was leaning towards her, hands clasped over the handle of his cane, and his tone was hectoring, now. ‘You can repay me any money I expend in your interest another time. Right now, we must strike while the iron is hot. Otherwise you are – as they say – in the soup, are you not?’
The truth of his words was undeniable. She’d have to accept for there was no alternative. If it transpired that there was anything duplicitous about the ‘game’ he was playing, she would finally admit defeat, go home, have her baby and live in that mausoleum in Mayfair for the rest of her life. In the meantime, she had to make good use of any opportunities that came her way.
‘You are very kind, Count Demetrios. And I vow that I will pay you back one day. I mean that.’
The count waved a dismissive hand. ‘
Que sera, sera
. But I have one more question, Madame, if you can forgive me for this gross intrusion. I may hazard a guess that you no longer have any jewellery?’
She gave a wry smile. ‘Not even paste. Apart from my engagement ring, and that doesn’t count as jewellery.’ She had been loath to pawn the ring, since that and the charm were the only gifts she had ever received from Scotch. But she no longer had room for sentimentality in her life. ‘It’s a cabochon sapphire.’
He took hold of her left hand. ‘But your wedding ring is gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, may I make a suggestion, Madame?’
‘Of course you may, Count.’
‘With your permission, I shall introduce you tomorrow evening as Mademoiselle Beaufoy. Beaufoy was your maiden name, as I recall?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, if you have no objection, I think we may concoct a small fiction concerning your marital status.’
‘But when my baby starts to show—’
‘Trust me. We’ll play that card when we have to.’ He rose from his seat and as he held his arm out to her his eyes lit upon the little jade charm that rested upon her breastbone. ‘What an unusual amulet,’ he said. ‘It is a replica of the god Anubis, is it not?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ confessed Jessie. ‘I don’t know much about Egyptian mythology.’
‘It is he,’ pronounced the count. ‘He is the only god with the head of a jackal.’
‘And he represents . . .?’
The count gave her a look of mock trepidation. ‘He was their revered mortuary god, Mademoiselle Beaufoy.’ he said. ‘Anubis was the ancient Egyptian god of the Dead.’
He took her to the Boulevard Saint-Germain to buy her stockings. And because Jessie confessed that she had no shoes other than the down-at-heel T-bars she was wearing, he bought her a pair of kid dancing pumps, and a small embroidered evening bag to go with them.
Afterwards they stood on the pavement and the count jotted down on the back of his calling card details of where they were to meet the following evening. Jessie watched the
boulevardiers
passing on their way to
thés dansants
, or matinées or concerts, and she felt like a spectator at a glittering carnival. She could have been a million miles away from the Dickensian slums she had sloped through just hours earlier.
‘I will repay you some day,’ promised Jessie, as she pocketed his card. ‘Some day I will make sure you are rewarded for your generosity.’
To which the count’s gallant response was again, ‘
Que sera, sera
.’
Just then, a motor car passed, a gleaming green Bugatti. At the wheel sat a woman with flame-red hair, shingled in the latest fashion. Her style was somewhere between louche and patrician. Her complexion was chalk-white, her lips vermilion, her emerald eyes were rimmed thickly with black kohl. She wore a chartreuse velvet cinema cape and a matching turban, the tasselled ends of which were artlessly swathed around her neck.
Count Demetrios raised his hat to her, and the woman acknowledged the gesture with a peremptory incline of her head.
‘Who is she?’ enquired a stupefied Jessie.
‘The Marchesa Casati. Lantier painted her portrait last month,’
‘
She’s
an example of the kind of women Monsieur Lantier has been painting?’
The count looked down at her and quirked an eyebrow. ‘Not for much longer, Mademoiselle Beaufoy,’ he said, tucking his cane under his arm and crooking an elbow for her to take. ‘Not if your humble servant has anything to do with it.’
Jessie smiled back at him as they stepped out along the pavement. Perhaps,
perhaps
her luck was changing? Earlier today she had left the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux prepared to swap the last of her valuables for the price of a decent meal. Now her belly was full, she was nicely warm and fuzzy with wine, and she had stockings, at last! Brand new silk stockings
de premier choix
! And shoes to dance in, and a little bag to match!
Tonight she would wear again the gown that had been made specially for her from yards and yards of exquisitely patterned silk crêpe-de-Chine. The last time she had worn it – just weeks after the Armistice – the words on everyone’s lips had been
liberté, égalité, fraternité
. Equality and fraternity were no longer priority; her socialist principles belonged to to the past. But liberty – the freedom to start anew, to take another course in life –
that
mattered. A year ago Jessie had been an unmarried woman; she was, to all intents and purposes, an unmarried woman now and today she had been given an opportunity for advancement.
Her hand went to her throat, and as she fingered the trinket chanced upon by Scotch in a Rouen curiosity shop, Jessie prayed that it might bring good fortune, after all.
AFTER THE SCREENING
of
Rebecca
, Baba braced herself to approach Mr Stein.
‘I’m frightfully sorry, sir, for twittering on at you earlier,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid to say I didn’t recognize you.’
‘That’s the first time anyone’s talked to me without trying to brown-nose me for
years
!’ Mr Stein sucked on his cigar and gave her an appraising look. ‘Tell me this. Can you swim, kid?’
‘Yes sir, I can.’
‘You’re not just bullshitting me, are you?’
‘Why would I do that, sir?’
‘Most actresses would claim they can juggle and sing an aria while riding a horse bareback and blindfolded.’
‘I can put my hand on my heart and say that I’ve been swimming since an early age, sir. My doctor prescribed it when I was diagnosed with scoliosis of the spine.
Mild
scoliosis,’ she added quickly, as she saw Ziggy’s eyes take in her posture.
‘Scoliosis, hmm? My daughter has that, but she’s scared of the water.’
‘Try telling her the story of the Little Mermaid. I used to imagine I was a mermaid when I took swimming lessons.’
‘I might just do that. It’s clearly worked for you.’ Reaching into his pocket, he handed her a card. ‘Phone my secretary tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Ask her to get some sides off to you in the mail.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you mean by sides.’
‘Sides are script pages for test purposes.’
Baba looked blank.
‘You
are
interested in being in movies, ain’t ya?’
‘Oh, yes – I most certainly am, sir!’