1938 - Miss Pettigrew lives for a day

  “Oh dear!” thought Miss Pettigrew. “How embarrassing if he looks at me. I shall blush all over.”

  “Well, you can’t complain of my methods,” said Julian mildly, “if the results are so satisfactory.”

  “Rosie,” said Miss LaFosse, “meet Guinevere. A friend of mine.”

  “Welcome,” said Rosie.

  “You mustn’t order steak and onions,” said Miss LaFosse earnestly to Miss Pettigrew. “Rosie’s on a diet. She daren’t eat them and she adores them. The tantalizing smell would ruin her night. Or worse: she might succumb and fall to temptation.”

  “I won’t,” promised Miss Pettigrew hastily.

  “I went to a doctor,” said Rosie gloomily. “Damn his eyes. White meat. Chicken! I ask you? I loathe chicken. No body to it. Nothing to fill a girl’s stomach. No rich foods. No fatty foods. No fried foods. No potatoes. Hardly any butter. No cakes. What’s left? I ask you? Is it worth it?”

  “Oh yes,” chorused the other girls, shocked.

  “Figures might change,” said Miss Dubarry consolingly, “then you’ll reach the correct standard quite naturally, while we’ll all have to sit around all day and cut out dancing and drink pints of cream, ‘til we’re sick of the sight of it.”

  “When I’m fifty,” said Rosie pessimistically, “when I won’t care whether I’m fat or thin.”

  The music started.

  “Shall we dance?” asked Julian.

  He and Rosie took the floor. Rosie melted into his arms with a clinging surrender that imbued the formal hold with a close, personal intimacy. They danced off, cheek to cheek.

  Miss Pettigrew watched them with fascinated eyes.

  “What a lovely woman!” admired Miss Pettigrew. “I’ve never seen any one like her before. Is she a foreigner?”

  “She’ll grow fat,” said Miss LaFosse darkly. “You mark my words. You can’t say ‘no’ always.”

  “She’s a harem woman,” said Miss Dubarry. “I don’t like harem women. They let down their sisters.”

  “I do,” said Tony. “They know where they belong and don’t get ideas into their heads. One man, he’s master. The others don’t exist. Their place is the Seraglio. They seek no other. Their duty is to provide the full quiver and attend to their lord’s needs. What more can they ask? What more can he ask? Very satisfactory I call it.”

  “Bah!” said Miss Dubarry scornfully. “I like independence in a woman. So do men that are men. He’ll tire six weeks after they’re married. Dash it all! Strawberry’s and cream are all very well for a change. But for a permanency…! Fancy living with a woman who never said no.”

  “I agree with Tony,” began Michael. “The women of today…”

  “Be quiet,” ordered Miss LaFosse. “No arguments. We all know your ideas. Out of date. Guinevere, meet the Lindsays, Peggy and Martin. Married a year and not separated yet.”

  Miss Pettigrew turned to the remaining couple. Both had smooth, young, lively faces. Both had straight brown hair, blue eyes and cheerful grins. They might have been twins. Martin’s hair was brushed smoothly back: Peggy’s was cut in a fringe across her forehead and brushed smoothly down over her ears.

  “Professionally,” explained Miss LaFosse, “the Lind-say Twins. Better publicity than husband and wife. Comedy turn. Revue, Variety or anything offered.”

  Miss Pettigrew met all these people with delighted interest. Her wide, shining eyes surveyed the room. The drums boomed: the cymbals clashed: the saxophones wailed: the violins wept: the piano cascaded. The music dragged one to one’s feet. Made one want to dance. Miss Dubarry and Tony moved away. The Lindsays joined them. Miss LaFosse shook her head unseen by Miss Pettigrew. A young man sang through a microphone. The lights dimmed. Shuffling feet made a rhythm of their own.

  “So this,” said Miss Pettigrew blissfully, “is a Night Club! And I was told they were wicked places.”

  Miss LaFosse thought of discreetly shut doors upstairs.

  “Well,” said Miss LaFosse cautiously, “there are night clubs and night clubs. You’re not likely to meet Royalty here.”

  “I have no desire,” said Miss Pettigrew, “to meet Royalty. It would fill me with too much awe. I am quite happy as I am.”

  The music stopped. The lights went up. Their table filled again. The conductor made signs to Miss LaFosse. Miss LaFosse nodded. Miss Pettigrew heard her friend’s name announced. A storm of clapping greeted the news. The lights went down and there was Miss LaFosse, flooded by a spotlight, crossing the floor alone, completely at ease, with a careless swing of her shoulders, a masterly sway of her hips. She reached the grand piano and stood leaning against it, one hand on hip, the other laid idly across the polished piano-top. She wore daringly a gown of sheer white. Over a sheath-like slip of white satin, which outlined with cunning design every curve of her fascinating figure, flares of transparent tulle, billowing to the ground, yet managed to convey an impression of artless innocence. There was no contrasting colour except her bright gold hair. The spotlight turned it into a nimbus.

  There was a crash of chords and Miss LaFosse began to sing. Miss Pettigrew sat up slowly with breathless attention. Her experience of professional entertainers was small. Her experience of night-club entertainers confined solely to her view of them at the talkies, her lone secret vice. Seeing and hearing one in the flesh was altogether another matter. The white figure, posing against the piano, caught her attention, with that of every one else in the place, and held it breathless.

  The professional Miss LaFosse was quite a different woman. Without any definable change of pose or expression she was suddenly surrounded with that compelling aura of the Star. Lounging against the piano with indolent grace, Miss LaFosse gazed round the room with a slow, indifferent glance. Lazy lids drooped over drowsy eyes, which would suddenly open wide with a wicked, mocking humour. She had a deep, husky voice. It was hardly singing. Miss Pettigrew was not quite sure what to call it. Sometimes it was more like talking, but it sent delightful shivers of enjoyment down her spine. Miss LaFosse sang a naughty, delicious song, called “When Father left for the Weekend, what did Mother do?” Miss Pettigrew enjoyed every tantalizing minute of it, even though she went quite pink at what she thought some of it might mean. When it came to an end the room rang with applause. Miss LaFosse sang a popular song hit, then another. After that she refused the encore. She returned to their table.

  “O.K., honey,” said Miss Dubarry. “You were great. No wonder Nick doesn’t want to lose you. Glad I’m not a rival, or I’d hate to say whether the friendship would stand it.”

  “When do you sing again?” asked Michael.

  “About half-past two,” said Miss LaFosse.

  “Oh Lord!” Michael groaned. “Must I wait until then?”

  “No one’s asking you to,” said Miss LaFosse mildly.

  “Let’s have a drink,” said Tony.

  Miss LaFosse leaned discreetly over to Miss Pettigrew and whispered urgently, “Now remember, don’t mix them. Nothing more fatal when you’re not used to ‘em.”

  “What’s yours?” asked Tony.

  “I will have,” said Miss Pettigrew, “a small glass of sherry, thank you.”

  Tony’s eyes popped.

  “I heard aright?” he said anxiously. “The old ears aren’t going back on me?”

  “When you reach my age…” began Miss Pettigrew.

  Tony looked round wildly.

  “Not again,” he implored. “You’re not starting again. Wasn’t this afternoon enough? Sherry it shall be.”

  Miss Pettigrew looked bewildered.

  “Trifle,” said Rosie suddenly. “Spongecake and raspberry jam and being giddy with a tablespoonful of sherry in…I’ll have a whiskey.”

  “You and me,” said Michael. “Waiter…”

  They all drank. Various people stopped at their table. Miss Pettigrew ceased troubling with these birds of passage. One’s capacity for remembering names and faces was limited.

  “Here’s Joe and A
ngela,” exclaimed Miss Dubarry.

  Miss Pettigrew’s fascinated eyes were on a man at the next table who was slowly sinking lower and lower in his chair. Soon he would disappear out of sight altogether underneath the table. Would, or would not, his companions rescue him in time? She took no notice until Miss LaFosse said, “Guinevere, meet Mr. Blomfield. Joe, meet my friend, Miss Pettigrew.”

  She was so surprised at the formality of the introduction she turned her head.

  Joe was looking down at her: a big man, not a young man, possibly the early fifties. No sign of middle-aged spread. What might be called a well-preserved figure. A man looked better with a well-covered body in the fifties. He was immaculate in evening clothes: shirt-front gleaming, flower in buttonhole. Massive head, powerful jaw, humorous eyes, no-fooling-me mouth, hair greying a little, bluff manner, genial, red face.

  His gaze lighted on Miss Pettigrew’s face with surprise. Then his lips parted, his eyes lit, his face expanded, with a surprised, warm, friendly smile. One contemporary acknowledged another. Miss Pettigrew stared in equal surprise at him, then suddenly her own lips parted in a shy, diffident, hesitantly intimate smile. They gave each other greeting. He and she belonged to a different generation. They reached common ground for a moment.

  “Guinevere, meet Angela. Angela, my friend Guinevere.”

  Miss Pettigrew looked at the young woman.

  “How-do-you-do?” said Miss Pettigrew shyly.

  “How-d’do?” said Angela in an indifferent, drawling, faintly complaining voice.

  She was the first friend of Miss LaFosse to intimidate Miss Pettigrew and bring back all her old nervousness. She was so very young, so very hard, so very brittle, so very assured. She seemed to see straight through Miss Pettigrew’s borrowed finery down to what Miss Pettigrew really was and despise her. Miss Pettigrew flushed a little for no reason and sat farther back in her chair.

  Angela was dressed in a vivid scarlet gown that fitted her like a sheath, outlining high, tiny breasts, slim diaphragm, narrow hips, tapering thighs. She had pale silver hair. Miss Pettigrew stared at it with fascinated eyes; a platinum blonde in the flesh.

  “Dye,” thought Miss Pettigrew with stern satisfaction. “Dear Miss LaFosse’s is natural.”

  Angela’s face was a lovely expressionless mask, perfect as to detail, but with no life in it to give it appeal. She had great blue eyes, surrounded by long, curling lashes, a straight nose, a lovely pink and white complexion, a perfect, scarlet, rosebud mouth, a coiffure without a curl out of place. She was a finished production of feminine art, but Miss Pettigrew, not having seen her come from her bath, reserved judgment.

  Miss Pettigrew sighed inwardly and drew away her eyes. What a pity that such a nice man should be caught by a young chit! Every sensible woman knew that young creatures never really went with older men except for what they could get, but men were notoriously stupid and susceptible in their middle age.

  Mr. Blomfield and Angela were obviously intimate friends.

  “Join us,” said Michael.

  “If we’re not intruding,” said Joe.

  “A pleasure,” said Rosie.

  “Thank you,” said Joe.

  Angela said nothing. She had once heard that too much talking, too much laughing, too much animation, aged one. Apart from the primary consideration that she never had anything to say, she meant to keep her looks.

  “Waiter,” called Tony, “more chairs.”

  Their circle was enlarged by the addition of another minute table and two chairs. The band started a tune. Every one got up and danced except Miss Pettigrew, Miss LaFosse and Michael. Miss Pettigrew began to feel a little uncomfortable because of Miss LaFosse. She would assure her she did not mind sitting out a dance alone. She would tell her next time. Even Joe, with rather a martyred expression, was walking ponderously around the floor with the slim Angela in his arms. The music stopped. There was another interval of delightful general conversation. The music started again.

  “Shall we?” said Tony to Miss Dubarry.

  “Ours,” said Julian to Rosie.

  “Shall we show ‘em?” said Martin to Peggy.

  One by one they disappeared. Miss Pettigrew looked after them a little wistfully, thinking of forgotten youth and lost opportunities.

  Joe stood up. He loomed above Miss Pettigrew, large, expansive, genial.

  “May I have the pleasure?” said Joe.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  1.15 AM—2.3 AM

  Miss Pettigrew started. She gasped.

  “Are you asking me?” asked ‘Miss Pettigrew incredulously.

  “If I may have the honour,” said Joe with a beautiful bow.

  “Alas!” said Miss Pettigrew tragically. “I can’t dance.”

  Joe beamed.

  “Neither can I,” said Joe. “I only pretend.”

  Serenely he pulled out Tony’s vacant chair and lowered himself comfortably beside Miss Pettigrew. He sighed with pleasure.

  “Too old,” said Joe. “Too much stomach.”

  “You are not fat,” said Miss Pettigrew indignantly.

  “Good tailor,” said Joe, “good belt. Signs though.” He patted his stomach comfortably.

  “Indeed there are not,” said Miss Pettigrew still indignant. “Just a nice filling-out. A splendid figure, if I may be so bold as to say so. Middle-aged men are meant to be solid.”

  “Am I middle-aged?” asked Joe.

  Miss Pettigrew looked aghast.

  “Oh dear!” she thought in distress. “Have I offended? Some men are as touchy as women about their age. Does he pretend he is still young? I must say something.”

  Then she thought, why should she? Hoity-toity! She wouldn’t wickedly flatter a silly old man whom she would never see again. She looked at him severely.

  “Middle-aged you are,” said Miss Pettigrew with spirit, “and middle-aged you can’t escape being.”

  “Bless you, lady,” said Joe in his booming, comfortable voice. “I’m glad you realize it. Now I won’t have to pretend to hop around like a two-year-old.”

  He settled himself lower in his chair with a comfortable air of permanence.

  “Joe.” Angela’s high, complaining voice came across the table. “Shall we dance?”

  “No,” said Joe, “we will not. Not this one. My feet aren’t up to it.”

  If glances could be daggers, those which Angela threw at Miss Pettigrew would have transfixed her. Miss Pettigrew became all hot and flustered, but behind her trepidation was a wicked sense of rapture. For the first time in life some one was jealous of her. She became so exhilarated with the thought she shelved all ideas of fair play and deliberately hoped Joe would stay. Joe looked round equably. At the next table the occupants made haste to beam at him.

  “Oh, George!” called Joe cheerfully, “Angela wants to dance and I don’t. What about it?”

  A young man rose with alacrity.

  “That’s good of you, Joe. Come and oblige, Angela.”

  Angela rose with equal alacrity. They danced off.

  “I’ve a lot of money,” said Joe. “I find people very willing to oblige.”

  “How sordid,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly.

  “George likes Angela,” said Joe peacefully, “and Angela likes George, but she likes my money better. They’ll be quite happy.”

  Miss Pettigrew didn’t know what to say to this, so said nothing.

  “Well, well,” said Miss LaFosse’s cheerful voice, “sitting out already. I’m surprised at you, Guinevere. Come on, Michael. Two’s company’s, four’s a crowd.”

  They danced away.

  Miss Pettigrew sat and thrilled. A man had deliberately elected to sit out with her. And such a presentable man! No forced circumstances either. He chose the situation himself. Even if it were only politeness it was a very nice gesture. Her face shone with gratitude.

  “Thank you very much,” said Miss Pettigrew. “It is very kind of you to sit with me. I was beginning to fear I was s
poiling Miss LaFosse’s evening. She wouldn’t dance and leave me sitting alone. Now at least she can have one dance.”

  “Kind,” chuckled Joe. “My dear Miss Pettigrew, the pleasure is all mine. You’re saving me aching bunions and stabbing corns. When I was born my feet were only made to carry eight pounds. The rest of me has grown out of proportion.”

  Miss Pettigrew smiled at the mild joke. She was a little nervous about conversation. She was quite unused to entertaining strange men tete-a-tete and didn’t know what to say, but she soon discovered her worries were groundless. Talk just happened. No difficulty. It simply arrived.

  There were drinks to be offered and refused. There were present friends. There was Joe’s career.

  “Corsets!” said Joe. “There’s a lot of money to be made in corsets. If you can get in touch with the right people. I did. If you can take an inch off a woman’s…well, I won’t mention the place, but you can guess…you can make a fortune. Talk about the age of corsets being gone! My eye! You’ve no idea how these society women fly to me to give them the perfect figure they lack naturally. Do you think Julian’s gowns would look the way they do without my groundwork underneath? No, sir, they wouldn’t. A protruding, well, dash it all, you can guess…back or front, could ruin the look of any creation.”

  Miss Pettigrew sat fascinated. This was an amazing topic of conversation between a man and woman meeting for the first time, but she found it a thousand times more interesting than discussing the weather. It was not indelicate. It was Big Business. Who would have dreamed yesterday that today she would be sitting talking on equal terms with Big Business! Her gentle mouth was tremulous with interest and sympathy. Joe expanded. Angela loathed discussing corsets. Miss Pettigrew loved it. No mistaking real interest. He eyed her professionally.

  “Now you’ve got a splendid figure for your age,” said Joe earnestly. “I don’t think even ‘Blomfield’s Correct Corsets’ could do anything more for you. How do you do it?”

  “Short food and continual nervous worry,” thought Miss Pettigrew. But tonight she was Cinderella and refused to contemplate her shabby background.