Lace

  Kate was driven to school in her father’s Rolls Royce. The chauffeured car set Kate apart from her classmates. They didn’t have a different dress for each day of the week, and they travelled to school by bus or on the underground. Kate always made the chauffeur stop the Rolls at the end of the road and walked the rest of the way to school. This subterfuge was general knowledge, but her fellow schoolgirls thought it right and proper that she should avoid showing off; showing off was a major school crime.

  Unfortunately, Kate’s father showed off rather a lot. When her schoolfriends came to the house he would show them his cars and ask them to guess how much money he’d made last year or what he had bought last week. Afterward, he would have a little chat with Kate and tell her which of her friends he preferred. Eventually Kate stopped asking people home. She started to spend her free time and eat her lunch with Pagan, who was also a loner, considered odd by the other girls. It was unusual for a girl of Pagan’s age from a decent family to be so careless of her appearance or to be so indifferent to what people thought about her. For her part, Pagan made it clear that she considered the conscientious, hardworking girls of St. Paul’s as boring as riding around a dusty London park instead of cantering over the Cornish moors, hair streaking behind her in the salty wind.

  Kate’s father showered invitations on Pagan and her mother—who was obviously “top drawer”—and once he invited them on a cruise to Majorca (he pronounced the j as in jug), although the invitation was politely declined. Kate knew why her father liked Pagan’s mother. Kate knew her father wanted a good marriage for her, perhaps even a title: he didn’t know how he was going to manage it, but after all he had the wherewithal, and he could see that Pagan’s mother knew the sort of people who had titles and she also knew “the done thing”. The reason Kate had been sent to l’Hirondelle was because Pagan was going. If a Swiss finishing school was “the done thing”, then Kate had to do it.

  Pagan teased Kate about her father’s secret hopes. “When you’re a marchioness, you’d better not ask the way to the loo, you’d better say bathroom.”

  “What does it matter, so long as it’s clear where I want to go?” asked Kate crossly, but secretly she read Nancy Mitford’s novels and learned what established you as “U” (or Upper Class), as opposed to “non-U”. Kate said “writing paper”, not “notepaper”, “napkin”, not “serviette”, and offered visitors “a glass of sherry”, not “a sherry”. She also practiced altering her accent to a clipped, yet languid, drawl, but she soon realised that it was hopeless. The upper classes seemed to speak the King’s English, but in fact they spoke a secret language full of subtle references you could learn only in the cradle. In “U” circles there was only one thing worse than not knowing these subtleties and that was pretending to know them, aping your betters. One little slip and this was apparent: all you had to do was to refer to the Royal Yacht Squadron as the Royal Yacht Club once, or hang family photographs on the walls instead of propping them on side tables in silver frames from Asprey, and you were doomed.

  Sometimes Kate stayed overnight with Pagan, who lived in Kensington, near St. Paul’s—although after that awful Friday she always found an excuse not to do so. For some reason Kate always felt guilty when she remembered that November weekend.

  Pagan lived in an apartment on the top floor of a once-elegant, now slightly seedy house on Ennismore Gardens. They had been playing hockey all afternoon and Kate was sweaty, so she decided to take a bath while Pagan went out to do an errand for her mother. Kate was naked and about to step into the bath when the door opened and Pagan’s mother entered, wrapped in a white terry robe. Somehow Kate knew her presence was not an accident and she was nervous. Instead of apologizing and backing out—as one would expect—Mrs. Trelawney moved toward her, and Kate grabbed a towel as her hostess smiled, droplets of steam beading her scarlet lips. As she came closer, Kate could distinguish the aroma of gin.

  “What lovely little breasts,” said Mrs. Trelawney in a husky voice. “A girl’s body is so much more delicate than a boy’s, don’t you think? Most men don’t appreciate that, of course. They don’t appreciate the exquisite tenderness of the breasts, the nipples.”

  Clutching her towel around her, Kate backed into the small space against the window, between the washbasin and the lavatory, where she was effectively trapped. “I expect you’ve noticed . . .” and suddenly she reached out with one manicured hand and squeezed Kate’s nipple.

  Kate was frozen with horror, unable to move. To her bewilderment and mortification she felt a sharp thrill in her groin. She could see the pores of Mrs. Trelawney’s nose, the drooping, fleshy folds above her eyes, black-beaded with mascara. Then Mrs. Trelawney closed in on her, clutching Kate with one hand while she tried to pull away the towel with the other. She bent down so Kate could see the white line where her hair was parted. Her tongue moved swiftly, like a snake’s, toward Kate’s nipple, while her fingers slipped into Kate’s crotch with a strength that was at once painful and exciting. For a few moments Kate felt erotically hypnotized, then her knees buckled and she slid to the floor, pushing the woman away. Gasping, she brought one knee up to her chin and prepared to kick if Mrs. Trelawney pounced again. Kate said nothing, but her eyes glittered with fear and anger.

  Mrs. Trelawney got the message. She seldom made a mistake, but when she did, she knew how to retreat.

  Mrs. Trelawney backed away. “I’ll leave you to bathe in peace,” she said in her soothing, perfect-hostess voice as if nothing had happened, and left the room.

  Kate leaped into the bath and sat in it, shaking. She felt safe there and wouldn’t come out until the water was cold. She spent the rest of the weekend trying to avoid being alone with Pagan’s mother, and it was months before she could be persuaded to visit their home again. When she did, Mrs. Trelawney behaved so normally that Kate was tempted to think she’d imagined the scene. Could she have been mistaken?

  That unfortunate few minutes was destined to have a far-reaching effect on Kate’s future love life, when in the passionate embrace of a man, she felt almost unbearable sexual excitement—and then fear, repulsion and shame.

  3

  THE NOISE OF a piano, the chink of china, an occasional clear laugh sounded above the voices in the Great Hall of the Imperial. People had been drifting in since four o’clock for tea or cocktails: under the serene gaze of an oil-painted Madonna the bridge hostess was checking her list, and at the backgammon board the first dice rattled. In one corner Prince Aly Khan was earnestly whispering into the ear of a raven-haired South American girl. Beyond him, the young, slim Elizabeth Taylor reached for her fourth slice of sacher torte.

  Surrounded by a small group of impassive henchmen, Aristotle Onassis swung through the swing doors, followed by a small, blond young woman who clutched a pile of books under one arm. It was a fatal entrance for a girl who was trying to avoid being seen, because the heads of the concierge, the headwaiter and the maître d’hôtel all turned to make sure that one of the richest men in the world was being suitably attended. Behind him, Judy Jordan tried to look like a typical hotel guest as she headed for the elevator, walking rather fast and looking straight ahead as she approached the hall porter’s desk. She wore a pleated tartan skirt, a white sweater that buttoned down the back, white socks pulled to midcalf, and saddle oxfords that sank into the thick carpet. Nearly there. Fifteen more steps . . . ten . . . five . . . damn! A group of Arab bodyguards had suddenly appeared on either side of the elevator. Judy caught a glimpse of the neat, olive-skinned neck of a dark, slim young man who entered the elevator followed by an aide-de-camp in Western military uniform. For security reasons, nobody was allowed to travel in the elevator with Prince Abdullah or any other member of the Sydonian royal family, which kept two permanent suites at the Imperial while the eighteen-year-old Prince was studying at Le Mornay.

  As Judy changed direction and headed for the stairs she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Fraulein,” hissed the concierge, “you have n
o business to be in the Great Hall; you are supposed to use the servants’ staircase; you’re not even permanent staff. This is the last warning you get before dismissal.”

  “I’m sorry, but they kept us late at the language laboratory and I’ve got to change before going on duty at the Chesa. I was trying to save time.”

  “No excuse is an excuse at the Imperial. Now get to the backstairs.”

  So instead of taking the elevator to the sixth floor, Judy had to plod up a hundred and twenty-two steps, then run the last two flights to the sloping attic under the roof that was subdivided by thin partitions into shoebox cubicles for the staff.

  She flung her books on the gray blanket and wriggled into the costume that she had to wear as a waitress in the Chesa coffee shop, which was attached to the hotel. Three more days until her free Sunday, she thought, as she pulled the drawstring of the embroidered white lace blouse, dived into the red dirndl skirt and tightened the strings of the black lace corselet. Still pulling the black laces, she ran to the end of the corridor, knocked at a door and without waiting for an answer rushed in.

  Nick was lying on the iron bed. His white shirt-sleeves were rolled up, his black trouser legs were crossed and a toe poked through one of his gray socks. “The year 1928 was almost as good as 1945,” he said. “An exceptional vintage for Medoc, Graves, St. Emilion and Pomerol, not quite so good for the dry white Bordeaux wines, but excellent for the Sauternes.” He threw his textbook down. “Vintner’s exam next Tuesday. Got time to test me on the vintages, Judy?”

  “Not a hope, Nick. I’m late. I only looked in to ask if you could scrounge me something to eat from the kitchen in case I don’t get a chance.”

  “You’re too young to starve,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up. “Promise to spend Sunday with me, and in my oilskin-lined waiters’ pockets, I’ll steal a meal that will last you three days.”

  “It’s a deal. I’ll test you on the vintages then.”

  “Okay. I’ll drop into the Chesa later for a cup of coffee before going on duty. Anything to catch another glimpse of you.” She blew him a kiss in reply, then dashed out, heading for the hundred and twenty-two steps down to the coffee shop.

  In spite of her abundant physical energy Judy felt very tired—in fact, she would have preferred to stay in bed on Sunday. This was only her fourth month in Switzerland but already she felt exhausted all the time. The hours of the Gstaad Language Laboratory were from eight in the morning until three-thirty in the afternoon and she did her homework in the hour allowed for lunch. Then until one in the morning, six days a week, she worked as a waitress at the Chesa coffee shop with only a short break for a snack. There were no union regulations in Switzerland, but no working permit problems either. She had been lucky to get the job. Pastor Hentzen had arranged it at the start of the summer season when the hotel had needed every pair of hands it could get. She had been taken on for a couple of months, then retained, at a wage far lower than any of the other waitresses. It was hardly enough to pay her laundry bill, but she got bed and board, which was all that mattered.

  Maxine, Kate and Pagan were already sitting in the Chesa with a fourth girl who had been invited for one reason only—she had a brother at Le Mornay. However, Pagan had already decided half an hour ago that if Nigel was anything like his silly cow of a sister, there was no point in getting to know him.

  “Daddy says it’s really changed Nigel, he’s made unbelievably good contacts.” Francesca droned on, “Daddy says he looks upon the fees as a good investment because he wants Nigel to have an international outlook and at Le Mornay you only meet people with money and names. All the oil children go there, you know. It doesn’t look like a school. It’s in an old castle on Lac Leman.” She bit into a cream cake. “They can go into Geneva or Lausanne on their evenings off, and they’re allowed away for the weekend if their parents give permission.” Francesca took another tête de nègre. “They have plenty of work to do, but they’re not cooped in, like us Hirondelles. And of course the boys can come to the Saturday night dances. Every Saturday night during the winter a public dance is held in one of the hotels, you know, although Nigel only goes to the smart ones at the Imperial or the Palace.”

  “We’ve never been to a dance,” Kate said. “In fact, we can’t dance.”

  “Except for the polka and Highland fling—we learned those at school,” Pagan amended.

  Boys, dances, grand hotels, it was all tremendously thrilling and alarming. Lucky, lucky Francesca to have an older brother, they thought.

  “When are the Le Mornay boys coming here?”

  “They’re in Gstaad for three months, from January to March. Mummy says it’s so well planned—after the Christmas holiday Nigel’s trunk is simply sent to Gstaad instead of Roue.”

  “That reminds me,” Pagan said, lying quickly, “Matron asked me to tell you to go to the post office, Francesca. There’s a parcel waiting there for you with three francs to pay on it.”

  Francesca squealed in anticipation, paid her bill and rushed off.

  “I couldn’t stand much more of her,” Pagan said loudly.

  “Neither could I,” said the tiny waitress. Pagan turned around and suddenly realised that the girl in the traditional Swiss costume was the girl she had rescued on the mountain. Her short blond hair looked as if it had been hacked with a pair of kitchen scissors, which it had. Gravely she said, “You saved my life . . .”

  “. . . I’m glad you realise that!” snapped Kate.

  “. . . and you’ve broken your arm!”

  “No, only sprained the shoulder,” said Pagan. “Are you all right?”

  “Hardly a scratch, but I was really frightened. My knees wobbled for hours afterward. I don’t know what to say except thank you. I know I shouldn’t have rushed off . . .”

  “It’s okay, Nick explained,” Pagan said.

  “You may be all right,” Kate snapped, “but Pagan wasn’t. She fainted, and her poor hand as well as her shoulder were torn to bits. She was kept in bed for two days.”

  “Shut up, Kate, what’s the point of making her feel guilty? After all, she didn’t fall off the cliff on purpose.”

  “I didn’t even fall off. The ground gave way beneath me. But I was almost more worried about being late on duty than ending up a corpse.”

  “Well, let’s forget it,” said Pagan, embarrassed. “Hey, look who’s arrived!”

  She waved to Nick, who had just opened the heavy carved oaken door. He waved back, ducking his head to pass under a low beam, blackened by hundreds of years of smoke from the hearth. The Chesa was older than the rest of the hotel and had once been a seventeenth-century farmhouse, with walls as thick as an arm’s length.

  “I can’t talk anymore,” said Judy, “but Nick and I are off on Sundays and we’d love to meet you properly—and thank you properly. And I’ve got something for you.”

  She hastily refilled the cups with hot chocolate and dashed off with her tray as Nick gazed after her, clearly besotted.

  The following Sunday afternoon the Chesa door burst open and a blast of cold air came in with Judy, followed by Nick. She was wearing her Sunday uniform of blue jeans rolled up to midcalf, saddle oxfords, white socks and an American navy pea jacket. She looked around, then beamed when she saw the girls.

  “Hi there!” she called. She presented Pagan with a large gift-wrapped box tied with white satin ribbon. Inside was a pair of scarlet knitted knee socks with leather soles. Pagan was delighted. “They match my red silk sling,” she said, insisting that Kate put them on her immediately.

  Maxine turned to Judy. “Why did your parents send you to the language laboratory and not one of the finishing schools?”

  “They didn’t send me anywhere. I didn’t tell them I was entering for the exchange scholarship, because I never thought I’d win it—and when I did my mom was furious. She thought that fifteen was too young to leave home and anyway she can’t understand why I want to learn foreign languages, but ou
r minister persuaded her that I ought to use the talent that the good Lord gave me.” She grinned. “The pastor of the Lutheran church here is supposed to keep an eye on me. He seems to think I’m going to be an African missionary so I’ll need French and German for the heathens of the Belgian Congo and East Africa.”

  “And aren’t you?” Maxine carefully smoothed the skirt of her best tangerine dress, which she was wearing because Nick was, after all, twenty-five percent her date.

  “No, I’m going to Paris,” said Judy in a firm voice.

  “Alone? Will your parents let you go alone?”

  “They won’t know. I’ll tell them when I get there after I’ve got a job. Otherwise they might say no,” Judy explained.

  There was an awed silence from the three girls around the table who had never thought about the future, never planned further ahead than the next holiday. As in a child’s colouring book, everything in the picture of their future life was clear and simple and the responsibility of someone else. Eternal bliss awaited each of them beyond the altar, and the only bit that hadn’t been filled in was Prince Charming’s face. To the Hirondelles, Judy’s work sounded real, as opposed to chopping onions for the cookery mademoiselle or half-heartedly typing, “Please believe in my most distinguished sentiments” at the bottom of a business letter copied from a textbook.

  Eagerly, Kate questioned Judy about the language lab.

  “Yes, the courses really are concentrated,” Judy answered, “and it’s just as well, because I’ve only got one year to learn fluent French and German. All the other students are in just as much of a hurry. They’re all older than me, really old—some of them are over thirty! If they need an extra language for business, they fly into Gstaad from all over the world and sit all day in little booths with earphones. My German isn’t yet good enough for conversation. I shouldn’t really talk to Nick at all, I suppose. I should be practicing German instead.”