1938 - Miss Pettigrew lives for a day Read online

  “I know. That’s the way it was.”

  Miss Dubarry’s voice choked. A few of the prudently withheld tears spilled over. She caught Miss LaFosse’s arm.

  “Oh, Delysia! You’ve got to think of something. I can’t live without him.”

  Miss LaFosse made comforting noises. Miss Dubarry dabbed her eyes, then she looked up with a show of indignation.

  “Crying over a man! Can you beat it? You must think I’m mad. I am mad. The idea! He’s a horrid, suspicious beast. I never want to have anything more to do with him in my life again.”

  “Very heroic,” sighed Miss LaFosse, “but unfortunately untrue.”

  Miss Dubarry collapsed again.

  “I thought immediately of you. I thought you might think of something.”

  “I’ll try,” said Miss LaFosse hopelessly. “But…Tony! And you can’t even say you didn’t stay the night.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s a problem.”

  “I came straight to you. I heard Nick was back. I didn’t know whether you’d be available, but I risked it.”

  “Oh yes. Nick’s back.”

  “I thought you said he said tomorrow.”

  “He did.”

  “Are you still coming to the Ogilveys’ then?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “When did he come?”

  “This morning.”

  “Where’s he now then?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t stay.”

  “What?”

  “Only an hour.”

  “He’s not…he’s not…wavering?” said Miss Dubarry, aghast.

  “Oh no! Guinevere wouldn’t let him. That was the real reason.”

  “What? Wouldn’t let him?”

  “She didn’t like him.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Ask her.”

  “He’ll be back any minute though?”

  “No. To-morrow.”

  “He’s not coming back tonight?”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “Guinevere wouldn’t have him.”

  “Good God!” said Miss Dubarry faintly.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “He stood for it?”

  “He had no choice.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He was no match for Guinevere.”

  “God save us!”

  Miss Dubarry moved round. She stared at Miss Pettigrew. Awe, amazement, incredulous disbelief showed in her face. Dawning reverence ousted all other emotions.

  “You turned Nick out of his own flat?”

  “Oh dear!” fluttered Miss Pettigrew, “not as bad as all that.”

  “I was in a jam,” said Miss LaFosse.

  “You too?” said Miss Dubarry faintly.

  “Nick said he was coming tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “So Phil stayed here last night.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “I learned too late about Nick.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Phil’s backing my new show. I couldn’t offend him. A girl never knows in this life.”

  “Of course you couldn’t.”

  “He doesn’t know about Nick.”

  “Not good tactics. I agree.”

  “So there he was.”

  “What happened?”

  “Guinevere put him out.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he guess?”

  “Not an idea.”

  “And then Nick came?”

  “Yes,” said Miss LaFosse. “He found one of Phil’s cheroots.”

  “No!” gasped Miss Dubarry.

  “Guinevere handled that too. She offered him another. She had him eating out of her hand.”

  “Holy Moses!” breathed Miss Dubarry. “And he fell for it?”

  “The way she did it,” said Miss LaFosse simply, “you’d have fallen yourself.”

  “Explain,” said Miss Dubarry in a weak voice. “Full details. Nothing missed out.”

  Miss LaFosse explained. Miss Pettigrew twittered, fluttered, blushed, made little disclaiming noises. Her face shone. She had never felt so proud of herself in her life before. She had thought nothing of it at the time, but the way Miss LaFosse explained it, well, perhaps, after all, she bad worked a miracle. Miss LaFosse’s obvious delight in her achievement sent her into the seventh heaven of bliss. Nick, it appeared, was a much more formidable character than she had imagined, and that had been bad enough.

  “What a woman!” said Miss Dubarry.

  She came over and took Miss Pettigrew’s hand.

  “Guinevere,” she said simply, “the disguise hid you well.” She touched Miss Pettigrew’s clothes. “I made a mistake. You’re the goods.”

  “That’s what I think,” said Miss LaFosse.

  They looked at each other.

  “If she can deal with Nick…” said Miss Dubarry weakly.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Miss LaFosse.

  They both turned and looked at Miss Pettigrew.

  “It’s a chance,” said Miss Dubarry.

  “No instructions,” said Miss LaFosse hastily. “She works better alone. She’ll think up something when she gets the right cue. That’s her way. We mustn’t muddle her.”

  “Of course not.”

  “He’ll be there?”

  “He said he was going.”

  “What’s the time?” asked Miss LaFosse.

  “Ten-past four.”

  “Oh Lord! And Guinevere’s still to dress. You’re the very person to advise. Something that’ll do for this afternoon and tonight as well. She needn’t take off her coat this afternoon. We want to look as though we’re leaving when we arrive. You know what the Ogilveys are like.”

  “Stand up,” said Miss Dubarry earnestly to Miss Pettigrew. Miss Pettigrew stood up. Miss Dubarry regarded her with a frown.

  “She’s about your build.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Your things might fit.”

  “We’ll make them.”

  “Oh please!” said Miss Pettigrew in a nervous voice. “If you want to go, please go. Don’t worry about me. I couldn’t intrude on your friends.”

  “Intrude on the Ogilveys,” said Miss Dubarry in a surprised voice.

  “Intrude on Terence,” said Miss LaFosse.

  “Intrude on Moira,” said Miss Dubarry.

  “They don’t know there is such a word,” said Miss LaFosse.

  “As long as I’m not putting you out,” said Miss Pettigrew weakly, too excited at the prospect of further excitement to stress her excuses. “But please don’t let me be a nuisance.”

  “A nuisance,” exclaimed Miss Dubarry, “when it’s you doing us a favour. You’ve got to save me. Please, please, don’t forget that.”

  “Oh, Guinevere!” implored Miss LaFosse. “You won’t let me down. You’ve simply got to do something about Tony.”

  Miss Pettigrew said no more. Why plead against your own happiness? She let her spirits soar. She simply stood and let elation pour through her like a shot of Nick’s cocaine. She didn’t care what happened. She was ready for it. She was intoxicated with joy again. Past questioning anything that happened on this amazing day. She was bewildered as to what she had to do with Tony, but then, so many of their remarks were obscure, she simply let it pass.

  “Where are we going?” asked Miss Pettigrew.

  “To a cocktail party at the Ogilveys’.”

  “A cocktail party!” said Miss Pettigrew blissfully. “A cocktail party! Me?”

  “Why not?” demanded Miss Dubarry.

  “Why not?” echoed Miss Pettigrew. Her face became one shining light. “Oh women!” said Miss Pettigrew. “Lead me to it.”

  They led her into the bedroom. She had a quick bath while Miss Dubarry and Miss LaFosse concentrated on Miss LaFosse’s wardrobe. She put on silk underclothes laid out for her by Miss LaFosse. She had never worn real silk
underclothes in her life. At once they made her feel different. She felt wicked, daring, ready for anything. She left her hesitations behind with her home-made woollens.

  “The psychology of silk underclothes has not yet been fully considered,” mused Miss Pettigrew happily.

  She came back into the bedroom like a debutante. Even her legs, quite uncovered below the last short frill of lace, caused her no blushes.

  Miss Dubarry sat her in front of the mirror.

  “No,” said Miss Pettigrew firmly. “I think not. I’d rather see the final result: nothing spoiled by watching the intermediate stages, thank you.”

  They moved her from the mirror. The most important moment of the day had arrived.

  “The face,” said Miss Dubarry.

  “Can you do anything with it?” asked Miss LaFosse nervously.

  “With that to start on,” said Miss Dubarry, “I’ll do a job.”

  She stood away and regarded Miss Pettigrew. She walked round her. She cocked her head on one side. Her brow grew corrugated. Miss Dubarry, in her professional guise, was a different woman. No nervousness, worry, or indecision. All gravity, firmness, competence: the expert at work.

  “Look at that jawline,” said Miss Dubarry. “Clean as a whistle. No mass of fat to be massaged away. Look at that nose. Perfect. You can do a lot with a face…but a nose! That takes a surgeon, and there’s not many will risk that.”

  “Beautiful,” agreed Miss LaFosse.

  “When you’re over thirty-five,” lectured Miss Dubarry, “make–up; must be sparing. There’s nothing worse than a middle-aged woman with too much make–up;. It accentuates her age, not lessens it. Only a very young, unlined face can stand the lavish emphasis of too many cosmetics. The effect must be delicate, artistic, the possibility never strained that it can, after all, be natural, so that the beholder is left wondering which it is, art or nature.”

  Miss Dubarry set to work. Miss Pettigrew had her face pommelled, patted, dabbed, massaged; cream rubbed in, cream smoothed off; lotion dabbed on, lotion wiped off. Her skin tingled; felt glowing, healthy, rejuvenated.

  “Well!” said Miss Dubarry at last, “it’s the best I can do here. It’s not like my own place. But you can’t have everything.”

  She looked consideringly at Miss Pettigrew. Miss Pettigrew glanced back nervously. She felt a little guilty, as though, somehow or other, she should have wafted herself into Miss Dubarry’s shop, though it was beyond her comprehension that any more bottles or jars could be needed.

  Miss Dubarry tipped Miss Pettigrew’s face to the light.

  “You see. I haven’t blackened the eyebrows and lashes. I’ve merely delicately darkened them. Would you say they weren’t natural? No. You wouldn’t.”

  “Can’t be bettered,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “You’re a genius, Edythe.”

  “Well, I’m pretty good in my own line,” acknowledged Miss Dubarry modestly.

  She admired Miss Pettigrew a moment.

  “Now!” she said briskly. “The frock.”

  “Are you sure you won’t have the green and gold brocade?” asked Miss LaFosse wistfully.

  “No. I will not,” said Miss Dubarry firmly. “Much too elaborate for Guinevere. She hasn’t the right atmosphere for it. Not vulgar enough, if you want the exact truth. If you weren’t the kind of woman who can wear anything and look right, Delysia, you’d have no taste in clothes at all. Guinevere can’t just wear anything. She’s got to be right.”

  “Anything you say,” said Miss LaFosse meekly.

  “The black velvet,” said Miss Dubarry.

  They put it on. For a breathless second they hardly dared look. But it fitted. Not perfectly, but enough not to notice.

  “I thought she was about my figure,” said Miss LaFosse with a sigh of relief.

  “Thank heavens,” thought Miss Pettigrew wildly and extravagantly, “for short rations and no middle-aged spread.”

  “A necklace,” said Miss Dubarry. “Something chaste and ladylike.”

  “There’re my pearls,” said Miss LaFosse. “They’re not very good ones, but who knows?”

  “The very thing.”

  “No,” broke in Miss Pettigrew very firmly. “I will not wear any one’s pearls. I should not enjoy a single minute thinking I might lose them. Thank you very much, but no.”

  Miss Dubarry and Miss LaFosse looked at each other.

  “She means it,” said Miss LaFosse. “When Guinevere says no she means no.”

  “The jade ear-rings,” said Miss Dubarry. “The necklace to match. Glittering stones are not Guinevere’s medium of expression.”

  Miss Pettigrew trembled towards further speech, but Miss LaFosse said hastily, “They’re only imitation. You needn’t worry. A relic of my less palmy days, but Edythe always liked them.”

  They went on.

  “And tonight,” said Miss Dubarry, “she must have a spray. Something delicate, mainly green and cream, to carry out the colour touch, but one single flower may have a brilliant colour. And real flowers. Not artificial. Real flowers express her personality…something fresh and natural about her.”

  “Unspoiled,” said Miss LaFosse.

  “And with her brains.” Miss Dubarry shook her head.

  “Almost unbelievable,” agreed Miss LaFosse.

  “You’d have thought the dictatorial air.”

  “Not a sign of it.”

  “Thank God!” said Miss Dubarry.

  “I’ll choose it myself,” promised Miss LaFosse.

  “You’d better. Funny, how these brainy people so seldom know how to look after themselves. Minds must be above it. No insult meant.”

  “None taken,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “And now,” said Miss Dubarry, “the hair.”

  She let down Miss Pettigrew’s locks.

  “Absolutely straight, but the kind that takes a perfect Marcel. Sometimes if there’s a trace of natural wave it doesn’t do so well…oh!” Miss Dubarry looked blankly at Miss LaFosse. “You don’t need curling tongs. Your hair’s natural. You won’t have any. We’re sunk.”

  “We are not. I have,” said Miss LaFosse with pride. “You remember the night Molly Leroy lost her curls in the rain coming here and had draggly ends all evening, and it spoiled her night…well, ever since then I’ve kept a pair for my guests in case of need. And I got a gadget as well to heat them with.”

  Miss LaFosse produced the whole outfit like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat. Miss Dubarry set to work.

  “No time for a shampoo. Pity, but it can’t be helped. Fortunately her hair isn’t greasy. Just a few loose waves. We haven’t time for an artistic dressing.”

  Her clever fingers flew. Miss Pettigrew sat almost unconscious with excitement. She had never, in all her life before, interfered with the simple gifts presented by nature. “Why,” asked her mother, “attempt to improve on God’s handiwork? Will He be pleased? No. He gave you that face and that hair. He meant you to have them.” Miss Pettigrew sat savouring to the full a blissful sense of adventure, of wrongdoing: a dashing feeling of being a little fast: a worldly sense of being in the fashion: a wicked feeling of guilty ecstasy. She enjoyed it. She enjoyed it very much.

  “Finished,” said Miss Dubarry. “A side parting. A few, loose, negligent waves back from the brow—the impression of being natural and just a little carelessly dressed. A sophisticated coil at the nape of the neck—the idea of worldly poise for all the carelessness.”

  “There.” She stood away from her handiwork.

  “My Holy Aunt!” breathed Miss LaFosse. “Would you believe that hair can make such a difference to a person?”

  “Am I ready?” quavered Miss Pettigrew.

  “Ready,” said Miss Dubarry.

  “Fixed,” exclaimed Miss LaFosse.

  “A satisfactory job,” agreed Miss Dubarry modestly.

  “I don’t believe my eyes yet,” marvelled Miss LaFosse.

  “It’s a good subject,” said Miss Dubarry. She allowed en
thusiasm to overcome modesty. “Though I says it as shouldn’t, I’m proud of my work.”

  “Can I look?” implored Miss Pettigrew.

  “The mirror’s waiting,” said Miss Dubarry.

  Miss Pettigrew stood up. She turned round. She stared.

  “No!” whispered Miss Pettigrew.

  “Yes!” chorused the Misses Dubarry and LaFosse joyously.

  “It isn’t me,” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

  “You in the flesh,” said Miss Dubarry.

  “You as man intended,” encouraged Miss LaFosse.

  Then they were both silent. This was a sacred moment. This was Miss Pettigrew’s moment. They gave it the honour of silent admiration.

  Miss Pettigrew stared. She caught the back of a chair for support. She felt faint. Another woman stood there. A woman of fashion: poised, sophisticated, finished, fastidiously elegant. A woman of no age. Obviously not young. Obviously not old. Who would care about age? No one. Not in a woman of that charming exterior. The rich, black velvet of the gown was of so deep and lustrous a sheen it glowed like colour. An artist had created it. It had the wicked, brilliant cut that made its wearer look both daring and chaste. It intrigued the beholder. He had to discover which. Its severe lines made her look taller. The ear-rings made her look just a little, well, experienced. No other word. The necklace gave her elegance. She, Miss Pettigrew, elegant.

  That delicate flush! Was it natural? Who could tell? That loosely curling hair! No ends, no wisps, no lank drooping. Was it her own? She didn’t recognize it. Those eyes, so much more blue than memory recalled! Those artfully shaded brows and lashes! That mouth, with its faint, provocative redness! Was it coloured? Only by kissing it would a man find a satisfactory answer.

  She smiled. The woman smiled back, assured, composed. Where was the meek carriage, the deprecating smile, the timid shyness, the dowdy figure, the ugly hair, the sallow complexion? Gone. Gone under the magic of ‘Du Barry’s’ expert owner and manager.

  Miss Pettigrew, rapt, thrilled, transported, gazed at herself as her dreams had painted her. A lump came into her throat. Her eyes became misty.

  “Guinevere,” screamed Miss Dubarry in a panic. “For God’s sake, control yourself.”

  “Guinevere,” gasped Miss LaFosse. “Control, I implore you. Your make–up;. Remember your duty to your make–up;.”

  Miss Pettigrew made a valiant effort.