Debutantes: In Love (15 page)

‘He’s twenty-four. And he doesn’t have any brothers – or sisters. His mother must be rich – she’s taken a house in Grosvenor Square for the season and she doesn’t even have a daughter to present. Anyway, Elaine got the impression from Jack that Charles is rich. He certainly looks well off – you can see that from the way he dresses.’ Daisy felt defensive and rather sorry that she had said anything to Violet. ‘His father is dead,’ she added. Violet was an expert on things like inheritance and she was frowning now. She sprayed her neck and shoulders with Lady Dorothy’s expensive perfume – Joan had thrown open her mother’s bedroom to all the girls and urged them to help themselves to scent and powder.

‘De Montfort,’ said Violet thoughtfully. ‘I will make enquiries. There’s money in the family, of course. The mother is some sort of cousin of Jack’s, isn’t she, and he inherited a big sum last summer when one of that family died – Justin saw it when probate was asked for,’ she added, in her usual irritating fashion of knowing so much more than her younger sisters. ‘That’s not to say that Charles is well off though. Still, the fact that he threw up the Indian Police business might show that he has come into money. Whatever you do, don’t rush into anything. You are far too young and you’re only at the beginning of your season. There will be plenty of fish in the sea and you’re not too bad-looking these days,’ she finished in a condescending way that made Daisy long to slap her.

‘I’m perfectly happy with Charles,’ she said shortly.

‘Well, as I say, don’t rush into anything; it could be fatal at this stage,’ said Violet, who had, thought Daisy, an annoying habit of repeating her mediocre thought processes over and over again. ‘I’ll get Justin to make some enquiries,’ she added.

‘Don’t,’ said Daisy, but Violet wasn’t listening to her and was now eager to explain why she couldn’t meet Rose tomorrow afternoon at Victoria Station as she would be too exhausted after a morning’s filming.

‘It takes so much out of one,’ she murmured, trying the effect of Lady Dorothy’s powder and then wiping it off with a shudder. ‘You have no idea what we actresses go through,’ she added as she left the room.

Left to herself, Daisy grinned. Violet was no actress. Only this morning Daisy felt as though she had been through a wringer while she tried to get performances from her sister and from Charles. She had to admit that Charles too was no actor, but that fact had to be concealed from Sir Guy, who was looking at him with an increasingly sceptical eye. Violet had once had a screen test with a Hollywood producer, but nothing had come of it. No doubt her inability to act had outweighed her lovely face; Sir Guy had said so privately to Daisy. All their hopes were now based on this new film,
The Rajah and the Lady.
Daisy brooded on Sir Guy’s words:

‘
The story is all right – I’ve seen worse – and the filming is great, and young Fred has done some genuinely good backgrounds on those screen boards that would make you almost think that you were in India, but neither of them can act, my dear.
’

Deep in thought, she made her way down to supper.

‘Does anyone mind if I film?’ she asked, raising her voice a little and looking around the table. There must be about twenty people there, she thought – the men in their black and white and the girls in daringly short low-cut dresses would make a great scene.

‘I say,’ said the girl called Annette, ‘a real film. How too, too marvellous.’ She adjusted her bejewelled headband and waved her long cigarette holder, making a trail of smoke which Daisy immediately filmed.

‘Too, too swoon-making,’ said Joan, not to be undone.

‘What a shame that Eve is not here,’ said another girl, called Lottie, who was wearing a particularly short black dress, made almost entirely from net and trimmed haphazardly with bunches of fur. ‘Dear, dear Eve – she does have such wonderful cheekbones. She’s so proud of them. And she does so love to be photographed.’

‘What has happened to that young man of yours, Lottie?’ enquired Annette, with what Daisy thought was the professional interest of a dedicated matchmaker. ’I don’t see him around these days.’

‘He has left me, darlings!’ said Lottie dramatically. ‘Isn’t it too, too shame-making!’

There was a chorus from around the table while Daisy filmed the animated faces, the waving hands and the clouds of cigarette smoke.

‘Dear, dear Lottie, how devastating!’

‘How ungentlemanly!’

‘How cur-like!’

‘How shaming, Lottie, darling!’

‘How sick-making!

‘How too, too awful!’

I wish that Rose was here, thought Daisy with a slight pang as she lowered her camera. She would so love Joan and her friends. She would have material for a new novel just from the way they spoke. The pages would be peppered with ‘
too, too
’s. Still, she would be here tomorrow – and she would just have to meet them then.

‘Just ignore me,’ she told everyone as they kept glancing her way, but she knew that there would be a certain amount of posing. Still, the wonderful thing about being able to develop your own films was that you could use what you wanted and cut out the rest. The long hours in the dairy pantry at Beech Grove House had been of great value. She was quick at picking out worthwhile shots from small negatives and expert at the developing, cutting and pasting procedures that formed the backbone of film-making. Sir Guy was astonished at the speed with which she was putting together her new film about India.

‘I hope you mean to dance with me and not to spend all night filming,’ whispered Charles.

Daisy felt a little conscience-stricken. How could she think of giving up the pleasure of being in his arms or hand in hand with him for the whole evening, just in order to shoot a film? However, there seemed to be more girls than men at the table so Charles would not be left standing by the wall if she did snatch a few camera opportunities. Luckily Annette was on his other side and she was an incessant chatterer, so Daisy was able to plan her film in peace and only came out of her reverie when the meal finished and the girls all trooped to mirrors and the bathroom and the young men straightened their ties, tugging at coat tails or at moustaches.

‘Joan, darling, how many taxis do you think?’ called Sarah, Baz’s eldest sister, as she went towards the telephone.

Joan gave a hasty glance around. ‘Just four, darling. We’ll all pile in.’

That will be a sight, thought Daisy. Twenty-four people in four taxis!

‘Don’t get out until I get in position,’ she warned them as their taxi turned the corner towards Baz’s little house. It had been too cramped to film them inside the taxi, but she would get them pouring out of it, she decided.

‘Here, do I get paid for this?’ shouted the taxi driver as she filmed.

Daisy ignored him; she was busy with her thoughts and plans. She would join this footage with the shots of the occupants of the next taxi and the next, so that it would look as if an unending stream of partying young people poured out from the one car. Luckily all these London cabs looked alike.

‘Dear man, you will be famous all over the world after this,’ called out Joan, her sleekly dressed head sticking out from the next taxi’s window. ‘People from New Orleans will come to London especially to ride in your cab. Make sure that you film his number, Daisy.’

Chattering and laughing they ran up the steps, and Morgan opened the door. He let them in and then came down and joined Daisy, waiting for the others to arrive. Annette, Daisy noticed, had tucked her arm into Charles’s and borne him up with the rest of the crowd. For a moment Daisy stared after them and then she shrugged. I suppose we have to trust each other, she thought, but she did wish that he had looked back at her. Still, once she had finished her filming there would be time for them to dance together. She thought of that perfect profile, and knew that it was inevitable that other girls would try to take him from her.

‘You filming it tonight?’ asked Morgan.

‘Yes. Is that all right, Morgan, do you think?’

He thought about it for a moment. ‘No harm in it, I’d say. That lot –’ he jerked his thumb towards the house – ‘they’re all mad for publicity. Think themselves badly done by if they haven’t been in the newspapers for a week.’

‘Here comes the next taxi.’ Daisy’s eyes went to the corner of the little back street. Joan was hanging out of the window of the first floor of the little house and waving madly, shouting messages that could not possibly be heard by those in the car. ‘Don’t you wait, Morgan,’ Daisy said.

‘Yes, I’d better get back inside,’ he said. ‘Maud and I have got everything ready – candles and all. I’ve made a sort of punch – mainly orange juice with a couple of cheap bottles of white wine thrown in. No strong drinks tonight so it shouldn’t get too wild. After tonight we’ll have to charge an admission, but we’ll see how this one goes.’

And then he was gone and Daisy concentrated on filming the arrival of the next two taxis, trying to get different types of shots from each of them – a glimpse of nude stocking, a sheen from the lamplight on a dark dinner jacket, a girl’s heavily lipsticked mouth and then a tousled head of brilliantine-clogged hair, sticking up in spikes like a porcupine’s, belonging to a very tall young man stooping to emerge from the cab.

Chapter Sixteen

Monday 7 April 1924

‘I say, Daisy isn’t doing much dancing with that fellow Charles de Montfort, is she?’ Baz handed Poppy a jar of orange punch and sat down again, his forehead shining with sweat. Morgan was working them all very hard that evening, leaving only a few minutes between dances. ‘You tired, Pops?’ he added.

‘No, it’s wonderful!’ Poppy felt a glow right through her. She gave an indifferent glance at Charles de Montfort chatting to Annette and then another towards Daisy. Her twin looked perfectly happy as she aimed the square black camera at the guttering candles. Daisy, she knew, would make something special out of those channels of twisted wax, in the same way as she, Poppy, could make something special with her clarinet. She smiled across at the serious face behind the camera and then glanced over towards Morgan. He had consented to this party because they were being chaperoned by two sets of married couples, but only on the understanding that Poppy and Daisy promised not to drink. He was, thought Poppy, with an amused smile, relaxing his rather old-fashioned attitude and seemed excited about the success of their parties. Perhaps Joan’s flirtatious attitude was having a good effect on him.

‘What’s next, Morgan?’ she asked.

‘Let’s take a break,’ he suggested, mopping his forehead.

‘Hope there’s not too much of a queue for the bathroom,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘I’m afraid that it leads all the way down the stairs to the hall,’ said Simon, who had just returned.

‘There’s another WC under the stairs,’ said Baz. ‘Grandfather had it put in for the servants.’

‘Maud will show you the way; she’s been cleaning it,’ said Morgan, beckoning to Maud, who, in one of Daisy’s old dresses, was practising the steps of the tango.

‘I do wish that we could pay you for all your hard work, Maud,’ said Poppy as they went out together. ‘It’s not that we’re mean; it’s just that we’re so poor.’

‘I like it,’ said Maud, her green eyes shining with an intense enjoyment. ‘I wouldn’t mind working here if you do set up your jazz club. It’s more fun than Beech Grove – especially since Rose, Lady Rose, I mean, went away.’

‘You must come to the station with us tomorrow to meet her. She’ll be really pleased to see you. I miss her too,’ she added. A wave of euphoria spread over her and she felt at peace with the world, even remembering to thank Maud when she pointed out the location of the tiny WC. The girl had a good speaking voice and a striking appearance, with her dark green eyes and those winged eyebrows. Perhaps Baz could try her out as a singer. Morgan had such great plans for this jazz club. He had heard a story about the owner of some night club who was earning twenty thousand pounds a year, even after paying his musicians and all the other expenses. Twenty thousand pounds, she thought. Baz and she could live like kings on that! And, she observed with a mischievous grin, the prospect of earning that kind of money had rather changed Morgan’s attitude towards having his employer’s daughter playing in the band. Her clarinet, she knew, considerably enhanced the sound that they made.

She went into the small room and shut the door quietly. It would be good to keep this place a secret or else there would soon be a queue here too.

She checked her face in the mirror and then stiffened. There was a voice coming through the thin wall.

It must be the room where the telephone was, thought Poppy. Baz’s grandfather had not wanted to put it in the hall, where all of the stable lads could use it, so it was placed in a little locked room to which only the coachman and his wife would have had the key.

‘Fleet Street 1000’ said the voice and then, ‘Chomondley here.’

Poppy frowned. Baz must have told that silly ass Chomondley, one of Joan’s crowd, that he could use the phone – summoning a taxi, she assumed, but quickly realized that she was wrong.