good, honey…’
‘You wanna come sit with me for a while?’
Murmurs of approval and invitation followed her through the sultry space. Chin up, smile on, Vivien poured cognac and champagne and absinthe, prepared perfect squares of glass with their neat lines of cocaine, and sat with her company for the night, a group of Japanese businessmen. Quickly she ascertained the one in charge, the one who would have paid, and made sure to compliment him on his suit, his tie, his expensive cologne. The drunker the group became, the more freely their hands roamed. Vivien remembered the first time a client had touched her leg: the feel of his thumbs, pressing, pressing, first on her knee and then on her thigh, higher and higher still, hot and dry. She had frozen, but the club kept turning, the drinks kept flowing, and this was how it was.
‘Is there somewhere we can go?’ the chief asked now, his eyes red-rimmed. Vivien judged he had twenty minutes before he passed out.
When she had arrived at the Lalique two years ago, wide-eyed and hopeful, she had taken the job of hostess, welcoming parties, pouring drinks, looking pretty, draped against the glass-topped bar smoking one of her impossibly long silver-tipped cigarettes while David Bowie’s ‘Fame’ twanged its bass – at least that was how Mickey, the owner, had sold it. For a while she had enjoyed being Cleopatra, her alter ego, relishing the chance to run from the child she’d been in Claremont, spritzing perfumes, donning costumes, collecting her tips in a plush satin pouch at the end of the night. But then her job description changed. It started with the odd grope, the occasional leer, and then it was no longer enough to laugh at their jokes or let them squeeze her hand. ‘You gotta do what you gotta do,’ said Mickey, which was less advice than instruction. Each time one of her clients led her into the back, she drove out her dread and did her duty. She blocked out the rest.
‘Sure,’ Vivien told him. ‘Another drink first?’
‘You’re gonna lead me astray…’ he slurred.
She was about to respond when a figure caught her eye. A man was standing in her peripheral, alone and all the more brazen for that solitude.
His appearance threw her. Conversation dried on her lips – but luckily her companion was too trashed to notice. The stranger was handsome, fair, tall, but it was the way he was looking at her that stole her breath. There’s a new guy out there tonight – he’s smokin’. This man radiated power. He radiated money.
Vivien tried to look away, but each time she was pulled back. He was magnetic. She grappled for words, offered liquor to her clients and realised as she did that her hands were shaking, and still the man neither moved nor averted his gaze. He had to be the only sober one in the room. She felt his scrutiny scorch into her, but not in the usual lecherous way. He was admiring her; he was assessing her. Vivien sensed his interest penetrate every part, making her skin prickle, not unpleasurably.
Finally, she forced out, ‘Please excuse me. I’m not feeling well.’
She stood, and nearly brought the table down with her. A flurry of sloshed jeering; a hand reached out to steady her, or grab her, she wasn’t sure which, and she turned and fled. She had never bailed on a client before: it was forbidden. But she could sit beneath the burn of this stranger’s sun no longer. It made her vulnerable, as if he knew her; as if he could see right through her to the broken girl beneath…
Back in the dressing room, Vivien caught her breath. Moments passed.
Mickey yanked open the curtain.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve got a five-grand table tonight.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. I – I came over funny. Thought I was going to faint.’
‘Well, get yourself together.’ Mickey clamped down on a bitter-smelling cigar. He checked behind him. ‘Anyhow, don’t worry, I got Sandy on it.’
‘Sandy’s taken my table?’ This was unheard of.
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
Mickey drew the cigar out of his mouth.
‘Someone wants to meet you,’ he said.
Vivien knew whom he meant.
‘Who is he?’ she whispered.
‘You mean you don’t know?’
She shook her head.
Mickey watched her a moment, then said: ‘Come with me.’
He took her elbow and steered her through the dimly lit passage to his office. Of course the stranger and Mickey had spoken: Mickey took the measure of every man who stepped into the Lalique. But what did he want with her? For some reason, she felt sure it wasn’t the usual request. The man had been too… expensive looking, to just want a roll in the back without so much as knowing her name.
‘Tell me who he is,’ urged Vivien. Mickey said nothing, just gestured for her to keep up. ‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’ she pressed.
‘Here.’ Mickey stopped. Gently, he lifted the fabric from her head and let her golden hair tumble free. He drew a strand of it from in front of her blue eyes.
‘Always knew you were too good for this place,’ he said.
Vivien parted her lips to respond, and then, suddenly, there the man was.
He was standing outside Mickey’s door.
‘You wanna know who he is?’ said Mickey. ‘Why’n’t you ask him yourself?’
Italy, Summer 2016
I’m up early on my first morning. The house is quiet and for a moment I forget where I am, before I see my bags heaped at the end of the bed, still full. I’d meant to unpack before falling asleep, but supper must have finished me off – a glance at my panda eyes reminds me I forgot to wash my face. I think of my predecessor, Bill’s friend’s friend, the student whose inquisitiveness got the better of her, and decide that if I’m going to avoid the same fate I’ll need to start as I mean to go on. Ten minutes later, I’ve sorted the shampoo explosion I’d noticed at Pisa, the rest of my clothes are neatly hung and folded, and my belongings are arranged in the Lilac Room.
I shower before heading downstairs. The shrouded portraits, though blinded, watch me as I pass. I remember the man I saw, covered now. Who is he?
The hall is empty. I cannot hear a thing, no voices and no movement, just birdsong. In the scullery, breakfast is left out like a still life: a loaf of bread, a pat of butter, a jug of orange juice and a bunch of grapes. Adalina told me that she alone prepares the meals – ‘Signora prefers it that way’ – and that I must never interfere with cooking. This seems unusual, given that Adalina’s description of my job extends to tending every other aspect of the Barbarossa, from sweeping fire grates to dusting shelves to going to the foot of the drive each morning to collect fresh milk. Perhaps the woman of the house is fussy. Perhaps she can eat only certain things.
I mull this over while I devour the food, not half so
