Debutantes: In Love (16 page)

‘Ready?’ asked the voice and then began to speak fluently:

‘Headline:
Mr Gossip Lets Us into a Secret

There is a tired feeling among the party goers

the

Bright Young Things

<
comma>
and the movers and shakers on the London scene

There often seems nowhere to go and nothing new to experience

What I am going to reveal to you tonight is secret even to

those in the know

Hidden in the basement of a tiny mews house in Sutcheley Street <
comma>
Belgravia is the most delicious nightclub that your correspondent has ever seen

Decked out in black and red silk and lit only by candles

it forms the perfect background for London’s most fashionable young people who gathered there tonight

Lady Poppy Derrington

looking gorgeous in black with her Pre-Raphaelite hair
– what? pre P-R-E hyphen – you know – a dash R-A-P-H – oh, OK, yes, that’s Poppy as in the flower –
was there with her constant companion the Honourable Basil Pattenden

youngest brother of the Earl of Pattenden <
semi-colon> – yes, that’s the dotty-comma thing –
A little bird tells me that an interesting announcement may be expected soon

Also present was her equally talented sister, the filmmaker Lady Daisy Derrington –
yes, that’s Daisy as in the flower – no, no
z
in it . . .
Lady Poppy is a debutante

and

wait for it

plays in a jazz band with the Honourable Basil Pattenden

The band
is
led by the well-known impresario –
one
s
–
just over from New Orleans

that talented drummer Bob Morgan –
I don’t care if it doesn’t sound like a New Orleans name, that’s my information – who cares anyway?
the Honourable Simon
. . .’

The voice went on in a dreary monotone while Poppy sat and stifled a giggle as all the outfits were commented on and then, quite abruptly, in a natural tone of voice – ‘That’s it; nighty-night.’ The telephone clicked back on to its bar receiver, the door opened, brisk footsteps sounded in the hall and the front door slammed shut.

Wait till Daisy hears this, thought Poppy as she flushed and went back into the basement. Morgan (from New Orleans!) was flourishing his drumsticks, and Poppy hastily took her place. Once again she lost herself in the beat and the rhythm of the drums, the dark sultriness of the saxophone, the plaintive chords from the bass, the fizzy brassiness of the trombone and the rich, smooth notes of her clarinet.

It was the next morning before she thought of telling Daisy about the gossip columnist.

Chapter Seventeen

Tuesday 8 April 1924

‘A gossip columnist! Oh my God, Poppy, why on earth didn’t you stop him – snatch his notebook from him, get Morgan or something?’ Daisy, half dressed, stared at her sister in horror.

‘He didn’t have a notebook; he just dictated it through on the telephone – the fellow at the other end wanted to spell your name with a
z
.’ Poppy started to laugh. ‘In any case, how could I stop him? I was in the lav, remember? He was out of the front door before I even flushed it.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Daisy again. She pulled on her other stocking and buttoned the straps of her low-heeled shoes. ‘I must get down and look at the papers before anyone else. What paper was it?’

‘Dunno,’ said Poppy. ‘He asked the exchange for some number in Fleet Street. Wouldn’t be
The Times
, I’d say, and that’s the only paper that Father ever reads – and he cancelled that in one of his economy fits.’

‘What about Jack? And Elaine? Don’t you remember what Father said about no mentions in gossip columns?’ Daisy gave herself a quick glance in the mirror. Poppy had not bothered replying to her frantic questions but had gone back to her own bedroom, yawning. Daisy hurried down the stairs. It was too early for breakfast, but the papers would have arrived.

The butler was still blotting the damp print on the newspapers with his hot iron and a piece of paper when she came downstairs. She stood beside him for a moment and then forced herself to ask nonchalantly, ‘Any gossip columns in those, Tellford?’

He gave an almost human smile. ‘No, my lady. You’ll have to wait for
Vogue
, or
The London Illustrated News
for accounts of your parties. Sir John only takes
The Times
and
The Financial Times.
’

Daisy beamed at him, almost weak with relief. As long as there were no headlines to catch Jack’s eye, then they should be safe for the moment. The reporter that Poppy overheard was probably from what Jack described as the gutter press.

Last night, thought Daisy, had been a success for her as a film-maker – she had got some great shots and had even begun to sense how the storyline could evolve – but as for her relationship with Charles, well, that had not gone so well. She had only had one dance with him; he had been monopolized for the rest of the night by Annette, who had seemed to be doing a bit of matchmaking on her own behalf. Still, she thought defiantly, it wasn’t Charles’s fault that Annette was a man-eater.

‘I’ll have my breakfast now,’ she said to the parlourmaid who had appeared. She would call for Charles – get him out of bed if necessary, she decided. The afternoon would have to be devoted to meeting Rose at Victoria, so there was a lot of work to be got through this morning on the Indian film.

And if there was any spare time she wanted to be able to work on her new film.
Bright Young People
, she would call it, she decided. It would be a treat for her because she knew that there were some wonderful shots among the strips of film now carefully wrapped in the special box that her godfather had given her for keeping film dry and unscratched.

As the parlourmaid busied around bringing hot toast and pouring tea, Daisy heard Elaine’s light step in the hall outside and made up her mind to be honest with her mother about what had happened last night. She sat up very straight and smiled a welcome as Elaine came into the room.

‘How was last night, darling? We heard you come in, but I didn’t want to disturb you and Poppy talking over the party. Was it good?’

‘Very,’ said Daisy. And then, with a quick gulp, she said bravely. ‘It was one of those affairs where we moved on to another place – it was all fine though. Morgan drove us and Baz’s married sister and her husband were there, as well as Violet and Justin, of course.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, so long as you were both sensible.’ Elaine seemed to be quite satisfied with the explanation and Daisy felt glad that she had told some of the truth anyway.

‘There’s something else that I wanted to talk to you about,’ she went on, and then stopped as heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Still, she thought, Elaine will want to talk it over with Jack so I might as well mention it now. She swallowed some tea and, as Jack opened the door, she smiled at him in a friendly way, and said, ‘I was just wondering, Jack, whether you both think that it would be all right for Charles and me to go on the bus out to Sir Guy’s studios. I don’t want to be monopolizing Morgan when you and Elaine probably have a greater need of him,’ she ended tactfully.

Jack’s eyes met his wife’s and Elaine said, with a degree of decisiveness that Daisy had not expected of her, ‘I’m sure, Jack, that Daisy is very sensible. She’s an adult now and she knows that she had to be responsible for herself. I think that we should trust her. In the end,’ she added, in a thoughtful fashion, ‘it’s up to Daisy to look after herself and to think of the consequences of her actions.’

There was, thought Daisy, as she sedately thanked them both for the permission to travel unescorted on buses with Charles, a world of experience behind her mother’s words. No doubt Elaine had been very closely chaperoned – her Aunt Lizzie would have made sure of that, but, nevertheless, she became pregnant and Daisy was the result. Now Elaine’s eyes told Daisy that she was responsible for herself and that it was up to her to be worthy of their permission.

‘I appreciate your confidence in me,’ Daisy said, and she made sure that her voice was sedate and grown-up.

With that she rose from the breakfast table and went back upstairs to put on her most attractive frock with its matching coat and rather fetching cloche hat. Charles, she thought, should be wowed by the ensemble.

Rose’s train from Dover had already arrived by the time that Daisy arrived at Victoria Station. She had been delayed by having to call for Poppy, who had been at Baz’s mother’s house, and then had to wait as Joan decided to come too. Daisy thought of saying that there would be no room in the Humber, but then remembered the packed taxis of the night before; in any case, Rose would love Joan.

‘Have you heard?’ were the first words that Joan spoke once they were in the cab. ‘Mr Gossip from
The Daily Express
did us proud. Pity there wasn’t a photographer. And there was I in all my finery. My dear, how too sick-making. Oh, I say, Daisy, did you take any still photographs? You might be able to sell them to the newspapers. Especially one of me, you know. I’m always popular in newspapers!’

‘I’ll wait till I’m married before I start selling pictures to newspapers,’ said Daisy, thinking with horror of the damage it could do to her reputation and of Michael Derrington’s reaction.

‘Oh, I say,’ said Joan. ‘Do tell! Has Charles popped the question? That’s even better than Caro – she got engaged two weeks after meeting her Rupert. I thought he was a bit tied up with Annette last night, but I suppose if you’re sure of him, you can let him off the hook a bit, amuse himself until you tie the knot – is that the idea? It’s very modern, you know. I know one couple who keep getting engaged and then breaking up and then getting engaged again. And what’s so delicious about it all is that they do it by telephone. They ring each other up and say: “
Sorry, darling, the wedding is off
.” Too, too bang up-to-the-minute.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Joan,’ said Daisy, glad that Maud was in the front seat beside Morgan and that the glass partition was shut. She wasn’t too worried now about competition from Annette. She and Charles had had a wonderful morning and he seemed more in love with her than ever. They had gone out to the film studio and had a marvellous time selecting the best shots from yesterday’s filming session and, coming home on the empty top deck of the bus, they had almost missed their stop because they were too busy kissing. She blushed slightly at the memory and turned to look out of the window at the redbrick facade of Victoria Station.

‘Here we are,’ said Morgan, opening the partition. ‘I’ll find a parking place and then come along for her luggage. Be with you in a minute.’

Rose was with a crowd of schoolgirls all dressed in dark brown gymslips and brown and gold blazers. A flustered-looking woman seemed to be signing over one of the girls to a middle-aged woman.

‘Daisy!’ screamed Rose. ‘At last! You’re hours late.’

‘Now don’t exaggerate, dear,’ said the teacher reprovingly. She looked doubtfully at Daisy and then back at her list. ‘Your mother . . . ?’ she queried.

‘Dead,’ said Rose cheerfully. ‘And long, long in her grave.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course.’ The woman seemed embarrassed and Rose took immediate advantage of it.

‘It’s a matter of great sorrow for the family so we don’t mention it,’ Rose said solemnly, and Daisy was glad that Poppy was not beside her. Memories of their mother were still very raw in Poppy’s mind and she winced away from any reference to her. Rose, however, was only four when Mary died so she barely remembered her.

‘But Daisy, my sister, adopted me and I lived happily ever after,’ continued Rose cheerfully.

‘Oh, I see, you are Rose’s sister.’ The woman gave a harassed look at the crowd of girls, who were getting restless and making silly jokes among themselves, attracting a lot of attention. ‘Our train was early,’ she explained, desperately scanning the crowds for signs of parents eager to take her charges off her hands. ‘Oh, and here is a letter about the return dates,’ she said, producing an envelope. ‘The headmistress has decided to give the girls an extra-long Easter holiday to make sure that they are all well when we resume. School will reopen on Monday the nineteenth of May and the escorted train from Victoria will leave at ten a.m. on Saturday the seventeenth. Now, could you please sign here that you have received Rose.’

‘Like getting a parcel,’ said Rose. ‘Oh, I say, Maud, you do look smart. And you, Morgan. Oh, there’s Poppy over there with Baz.
Quel beau garçon!
Forgive me if lapse into French from time to time,’ she said, her clear voice carrying over the railway platform and causing several heads to turn. She beamed, and called over to them, addressing them in the fashion of minor royalty, ‘How lovely to be in England again; I wept when I saw the white cliffs of Dover, you know.’