The Debutante (22 page)

‘No,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t. In fact, I thought it was probably just a legend. That is, until now. Apparently it was a dilettante organisation formed between the wars. The goal was a purer, more culturally superior Britain. Thus the St George imagery. Britain ruled by the British, for the British. That sort of thing. It didn’t last long. Quite a popular concept at the time, unfortunately. Especially among the upper
classes.’ He turned it over again. ‘This is a real find. They were meant to be more influential than even the Cliveden set. And very exclusive. An underground, secret movement.’

‘Are you sure?’

How did that fit in with the laughing socialite, posing as Venus or clutching a pedigree dog with a diamond-studded collar? It didn’t make sense.

‘Well, like I said, I’ve never actually seen one before. But I’ve read about it. There was a newspaper called
The Week
which was dedicated to flushing these private political organisations out. Exposing them. The only shame was that, because it had communist leanings, it wasn’t taken seriously enough by the Establishment. It’s always the same: the few rule the many. All behind the scenes too. I’ll give you fifty quid for it.’

‘I wasn’t intending to sell.’

‘You won’t find a fairer price.’

‘No, I don’t expect I will. Have you ever heard of Nicholas Warburton?’

‘Who?’

‘Nothing. Never mind. You’ve been really helpful.’

He shook his head. ‘Let me know if you change your mind. I could probably go as high as seventy-five.’

She held out her hand.

Reluctantly he handed it back. ‘Here’s my card. Just in case.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Promise you won’t go anywhere else, OK?’

She put it in her pocket. ‘OK, sure,’ she promised. ‘And thank you again.’

Wandering back down the passage, she turned the badge over, running her fingers over its worn enamel surface. Why would anyone even make a badge for a supposedly secret organisation? Surely the point would be not to advertise. The whole thing felt wrong.

She slipped it back into her handbag and checked her mobile phone.

Nothing.

No messages, no texts.

She pressed the power button, just to make sure it was working. It was.

Not even a missed call.

Heading out of the dim, dusty half-light of Alfies into the hard, bright glare of the afternoon sun, she was aware of feeling weightless, like a bit of flotsam, cut off, drifting aimlessly downstream.

Had he really stopped trying to contact her?

She should be relieved. It’s what she wanted, after all.

Wasn’t it?

Stopping at the corner of Church Street and Lisson Grove, she wavered.

She was unsure of which way to go, what to do next. London felt alien, overwhelming; stifling. She went and sat in the shelter of a nearby bus stop, grateful for the shade. And taking out her diary again, she paged through, looking at her notes from the library.

But as she flicked through the months, her eye was caught by certain, memorable dates, starred or circled with red pen. And she was transported to private booths in restaurants, out-of-the-way hotel rooms, secret trysts that had shaped her days, then weeks. Unconsciously she ran the tips of her fingers along the smooth strand of pearls around her neck.

Why had she worn them today? Out of habit? For luck? Or perhaps to remind herself that, once, someone had loved her?

It had been snowing when he had given those to her; presented in a dark blue leather box, the pearls luminous against the folds of the black satin, like the great feathery flakes that filled the night sky outside.

‘Think of me,’ he had said, placing them around her neck, fitting together the gold clasp as he kissed the top of her spine, the soft curve behind her ear, and then, very slowly, moving down to kiss the rest of her …

And here she was, thinking of him, in the heat of summer, so many thousands of miles away.

He wasn’t handsome. He was striking. Tall, black hair, blacker eyes. But there was a flash of fierceness, a moody darkness. His features were out of balance; they didn’t have the evenness for handsomeness. Yet when he smiled, his face came alive, the room shone. He had charisma, power.

And of course the first time she saw him, he was wearing black tie. Men look different in a tux. In a ballroom. And women feel different in a gown.

She’d gone with Derek. Derek spent a lot of time socialising at parties and grand events. He had business to do, clients to line up. He liked to be seen. And it mattered enormously to him who he was seen with. In all the time she knew him, he never once attempted to touch her. She was fairly sure she was what was known as a beard; more of an expensive accessory than an actual companion. Besides, she had no money or connections. Had she been wealthy, he might have found it in himself to do almost anything. He was unknowable like that. His true self was so subverted that she was never entirely sure of anything, even the most basic truths about his character.

But that night had been a big one; an exclusive charity ball. He’d asked her months ago but she’d been so busy she’d nearly forgotten. In the end, he’d sent her to an upmarket hair salon and manicurist, even selecting her dress himself. It was emerald-green silk, Calvin Klein; the most striking dress she’d ever seen let alone worn. It was simple, sophisticated, draping luxuriously over her torso. It was strange how he’d known her dress size so accurately; known what would suit her to such an alarming degree. And she’d imagined, for a few minutes, that perhaps his interest in her did go deeper. Even more disarming was the fact that she didn’t know exactly how she felt about that. Yet it gave the evening a certain sexual tension,
and driving in the car on the way over, she’d been careful to say as little as possible, to feel her way gently into this strange new chapter between them.

When they’d arrived it had taken a minute for her to realise what was wrong; that everyone else was dressed in black and white and it wasn’t a mere coincidence but the dress code. ‘I’m the only one out of place!’ she’d hissed at him, blushing and bowing her head to avoid the surprised looks of the other guests. ‘It looks as if I’ve done it on purpose!’

‘An honest mistake.’ He’d smiled slyly. ‘But my darling, it’s a ballroom crowded with faces, and only yours stands out. Now, that’s got to be a good thing.’

And he’d been right. Not all the glances were disapproving; many were admiring.

‘Stand straight, pull your shoulders back. And put that accent on with a trowel, will you? I’ve got work to do, which means you do too.’

And so she had. Whatever illusions she’d had in the car evaporated. Laughing, she breezily explained how she hadn’t known it was a black-and-white ball, how she felt an absolute fool and people warmed to her, assured her she looked stunning. And before she knew it, she was dancing, commanding unprecedented attention. Mostly with the older husbands of the women who were Derek’s clients, women who wanted to whisper about each other into his attentive ear, while someone removed their husbands from the table, distracted them on the dance floor.
Alone with them, Constantine would tease and flatter, joke and cajole, mentioning ever so casually about a piece he was expecting from France that month, one that was incredibly rare and that he really had promised to someone else, but, since they were such good friends, he might be able to arrange an exclusive preview …

And he had his eye on one client in particular. Hailey Cashelle, patron and organiser of the ball, society belle and the wife of Henry Cashelle, the publishing mogul. She’d recently bought a two-storey penthouse which she was remodelling extensively. With her icy demeanour and statuesque, slender figure, she dominated any room she entered with her commanding arrogance. Her looks were honed to that demanding standard of New York perfection: deep auburn, expensively highlighted hair, wide tawny eyes, and a high forehead. She had ambition—political, social—and a fiercely driven nature, masked by an almost comically clichéd Southern charm. When she turned her smooth smile in your direction, the warmth of her attention was impossible to resist. Her husband Henry seemed coarse by comparison. He was a businessman, pure and simple. And they were rarely seen in public together due to his advanced years and overwhelming work schedule. She had instead a series of ‘walkers’ or ‘beaux’, as she jokingly referred to them; men who escorted her to various functions, some of them straight, some of them not; some of them lovers, others just very attentive, highly photogenic friends.

Cate was aware of a kind of hush that surrounded her as she made her entrance, well into the evening, quickly followed by a trail of gossipy hysteria. Her gown was fitted to within an inch of her life, a shimmering silver strapless affair. And in her wake another woman followed, less obvious but no less striking for it, with long dark hair, regal bearing and clear grey eyes, wearing a black jersey sheath of impeccable tailoring.

Derek came to get her. ‘Time to get to work, angel. I need you to stand over here.’ He placed her next to the bar.

It was like awaiting an audience with the Queen. Hailey made her way slowly through the throngs, shaking hands, laughing and blowing kisses. Then she caught sight of Cate, in her green dress. Her eyes narrowed, though her smile remained as wide as ever. Laughing, she walked towards them.

‘My, my, my! Well, there’s always one every year!’ She posed next to her while a flurry of photographers descended upon them, cameras flashing. ‘Let me guess, you’re an actress. Or a would-be model.’

‘N-no, I’m so sorry,’ Cate stammered, overwhelmed by the sudden attention, ‘you see, I had no idea…’

The other woman came up behind Hailey, placed her hand gently on her elbow. Hailey turned. ‘What do think, Anne Marie?’

Anne Marie regarded Cate coolly, as if she were nothing more than a chair or any other inanimate object. ‘Personally,’ she sighed, in a soft French accent, eyes busy
scanning the room, ‘I thought this year the dress would be red.’ She gave Hailey’s arm a light squeeze then moved on, already bored by the subject. Soon she was engulfed in a crowd of her own, punctuated by air kisses and little shrieks of delight.

‘It’s my fault,’ Derek intervened, slipping his hand around Hailey’s. ‘The poor girl’s a painter of all things. I’ve been so busy I forgot to tell her about the dress code. Derek Constantine. I’m a friend of Gloria Rawlands, and Rhona Klein. And of course, I’m longing to make amends.’

Hailey’s eyes fixed on his. ‘Are you now?’

‘I’m mortified,’ he assured her.

She considered this a moment, then turned again to Cate. ‘A painter?’

‘Yes. I really had no idea.’

‘You’re English.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that might explain something. Usually it’s an actress wanting to get in the papers.’ She turned back to Derek. ‘You’re not the dealer who found Gloria that sixteenth-century Spanish table, are you?’

He nodded. ‘You have a wonderful memory.’

‘I remember that I tried to buy it from her and she wouldn’t part with it for love nor money!’ Hailey twisted round, scanning the room, her brow wrinkling in irritation. ‘I don’t know where my date has got to! They’ll be wanting a turn on the dance floor in a minute.’

‘Shall I see if I can find your husband?’

‘My husband!’ She gave a trill of a laugh. ‘Lord, no! I haven’t come this far in life just to dance with my husband! No, I’ve got some divine young man from the Harvard rowing team at my disposal this evening, only these young peacocks do like to disappear and stand in front of a mirror. Once they’re mesmerised it’s hard to tear them away!’

Derek flashed a row of unnaturally white teeth. ‘Well, I know I’m a poor second, but perhaps you might allow me,’ he said, offering his arm.

Cate watched as he escorted her to the centre of the dance floor, slipping his arm about her waist, and the music began to play. He was whispering in her ear and she was laughing, tossing her head back, a ripple of applause making its way round the room. He was in, exactly where he’d planned to be. All it had taken was one gauche English girl and a bright green dress.

A stray photographer snapped Cate’s picture again, laughing. ‘Nice try, kid!’

Cate felt her cheeks burning. The green dress should’ve made her feel invincible; instead she was humiliated. Her head was throbbing, as if it were twice its normal size. She escaped to the ladies’ room. A uniformed attendant was wiping down the sinks, emptying the change bowl; doing all those strange things attendants do like filling up basins with water and putting out little towels. And it was overflowing with other guests,
gossiping, powdering their noses and checking their make-up. As soon as she walked in, she was aware of the looks and whispers of the other women. Pushing into a cubicle, she locked herself in, slumping on the toilet seat, cradling her head in her hands.

If only she could get out of here; go home. But Derek had spent all this money on her. She felt beholden, trapped.

She left the ladies’ room and stopped, unsure of what to do next, dreading going back in.

The ballroom was to the right.

The hotel bar was to the left.