Before I Met You

36


1920




ARLETTE, LILIAN AND Minu stood together before the Kingsway Hall, chattering excitedly. They were all dressed extravagantly in chiffon and bugle beads, with ornate hair decorations, velvet slippers, and lips painted carmine red. Lilian had her arms linked through Arlette and Minu’s and was hopping from foot to foot.

‘Do you think there might be anybody famous there?’ she asked.

Minu smiled and said, ‘Well, we shall be there.’

‘We are not famous, Minu,’ chided Arlette.

‘No,’ said Minu, ‘we are infamous.’

‘We are that neither.’

‘We are potentially infamous.’

‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ she conceded.

‘Do you think we will even recognise him?’ Lilian asked breathlessly. ‘I mean, it has been a long time since we last saw him. Do you think he will recognise us?’

‘Lilian,’ said Arlette, tiring greatly of the fevered anticipation that she had been subjected to since the tickets had arrived in the post two days earlier, ‘we are here to see a performance of jazz music by a world-renowned orchestra. We are not here to ogle the famous and make eyes at Mr Pickle.’

‘Well,’ said Lilian, ‘you may not be, but I certainly am. Oh, oh, look! Is that Sarah Bernhardt over there?’

Arlette turned to see an elderly lady in a regal headdress. ‘No, of course it isn’t. Look, that lady has two complete legs.’

They all peered at the lady in question and agreed that yes, she did appear to have both her legs.

They ascended into the hall and fanned themselves with their programmes, for it was a steamy July night and they were half-crushed by a crowd of hundreds. Lilian’s head darted around like that of a sparrow looking for worms, while Minu and Arlette took in their surroundings more circumspectly.

Arlette was rather more anxious than she wished to appear. There had been a covering note attached to the tickets, in Godfrey’s now familiar neat handwriting, which had said: ‘My dear ladies, please do come by and say hello when we have finished our performance. I will be looking out for you.’

Arlette had not known whether this meant that they would be allowed backstage, that they would be seated and entertained, subject to Godfrey Pickle’s full-hearted attentions, or that they were to wait like everyone else at the stage door, like hopeful pigs around a trough, for a glimpse and an autograph. She almost thought she should not like to find out, and that it would be safer and less humiliating just to go straight home when the show ended.

A bell sounded the start of the show and they found their way up dark staircases to their fine seats in the front row of the stalls. The hall was filled with the sparkle of chatter and anticipation, the rustle of people finding their way to their seats, the flutter of a hundred hand-held fans flapping away at the intense heat.

‘Look! There!’ Lilian pointed rather crudely across the theatre to a box. ‘That’s Ivor Novello! Look!’

‘Ssh,’ said Arlette, throwing apologetic glances towards the people seated near them. She glanced across the hall and saw that it was indeed Ivor Novello, and the thought that a man of such standing in the world of popular music should be sitting in prime seats to watch her friend Godfrey Pickle perform on his clarinet brought shivers down her spine.

The lights went down, the curtains rose and Arlette straightened herself in her seat. And then the spots illuminated and there they were, the Southern Syncopated Orchestra, all smart in matching black suits and bow ties, some in bowler hats. Unlike a traditional orchestra there was no warming up, no creaking of bows on violins, no dull plunking of piano keys and ponderous thumps on bass drums. They smiled first at the audience and then at each other, and they launched straight into their first number.

Arlette strained to pick out Godfrey from amongst the abundance of musicians squashed together elbow to elbow upon the stage, until Lilian shoved her roughly with her own pointy elbow and said, ‘There he is! Look! There, on the left, see, without a hat.’

Arlette’s eyes found him and she felt her heart expand and contract, her stomach convulse. She pushed Lilian’s elbow from the arm of her seat. ‘He looks well,’ she said.

‘He is the most handsome man on the stage,’ breathed Lilian.

‘I would beg to differ,’ whispered Minu. ‘Do cast your eyes upon the gentleman playing the double bass ...’

All three women turned their gaze upon the double bassist, and yes, he was handsome. He was lighter-skinned than Godfrey, his features were more even and his face more youthful, but he did not, to Arlette’s eye, have the same air of intelligence and neither did he have – and it was not a phrase she could ever utter out loud or even admit to being aware of – the same animal magnetism.

She watched Ivor Novello in his seat across the hall. He was on his feet and his eyes were alight with joy.

All around them the audience pulsated with repressed dancing. The energy was extraordinary, and Arlette realised that for some people this was their first exposure to jazz music in a live setting. She allowed herself to rock gently in her seat, to nod her head in time to the rhythm, and for the next hour she lost herself in the sound of the music, in the world it suggested of bayous and crocs, of verandas and pineapples, mint juleps and muggy nights.

But as the show drew to a close she started to feel anxious again. For now she would discover whether or not she would see Godfrey, and whether or not he would show her even the slightest interest.


‘Miss De La Mare!’ he greeted her warmly, drying the sweat from his face and hands with a fluffy white towel. ‘Miss Miller. And Mam’zelle,’ he smiled at Minu, ‘I do remember your face but your name escapes me.’

‘Again,’ teased Minu. ‘That is the second time you have forgotten me, Mr Pickle. My name is Minu McAteer.’

‘Of course,’ he smiled, ‘of course. I will not forget a third time, of that I assure you.’

The three ladies stood before Godfrey Pickle and he smiled at each of them in turn. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, ‘what a lucky man I am.’

He caught Arlette’s eye and she blushed. She felt sure that his look had contained a grain of something more than he showed to the others, but she could not be sure, and besides, this entire situation now felt faintly ridiculous. The backstage area was tiny and crammed full of musicians in varying stages of undress. There were also many other ladies, not unlike themselves, gathered around the musicians, giggling and jostling and making themselves, in Arlette’s opinion, look like nothing but desperate fools. There was not room for them in this place; it was hot and the smell of fresh sweat was almost overwhelming.

‘Mr Pickle ...’ she began.

‘Oh, now, please, I think it is time you were to call me Godfrey.’

‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘Godfrey. I just wanted to say that that was a truly marvellous performance. Really. Electrifying. And it was gratifying to see Mr Novello in his box seemingly unable to control the impulse to dance.’

Godfrey smiled and shook his head. ‘Mr Novello?’ he repeated, in wonder. ‘Well, that is something, that really is.’

‘So, I thank you so much for the kind gift of the tickets. But now, I think we really must get back, and to ensure that Miss Miller gets home safely.’

The other two women both turned and threw her looks of sheer horror.

‘Well, Arlette,’ said Minu, ‘I must say that I have absolutely no intention of going home. And in fact I was going to see if perhaps Godfrey and some of his friends might like to join us at the Cygnet.’

Arlette looked at Minu aghast but had not managed to form a response before Godfrey smiled and said, ‘Well, I must say, that idea holds great appeal. I have far too much energy left to end the night here. Thank you. That is a very kind invitation.’

‘And I wondered, Godfrey,’ Minu continued audaciously, ‘your friend, over there, the gentleman who plays the double bass. Perhaps he could be persuaded to join us for the evening.’

Godfrey laughed. ‘You mean Horace? Oh, yes, I am sure he could be persuaded.’ He called Horace over and introduced him to the three of them. Arlette felt herself torn between two reactions. She would hate to imagine Minu and Lilian dancing the night away with Godfrey at the Cygnet Club without her, but equally, she had to get up for work the following morning and was feeling uncomfortable about the turn the evening was taking: this undignified hanging around backstage, the strange atmosphere around Minu and Lilian, this air of something beyond mere socialising. She had dreamed of seeing Godfrey once again for eight long weeks and this was not how she had hoped it to be. She thought of the quiet hours spent on Gideon’s chaise longue, the delicacy of their interlude in the perfumery at Liberty. There was none of that present in this situation. She did not want to be a part of this situation. But neither did she want to rob herself of time with Godfrey.

She sighed and said, ‘I’m afraid I do need to go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight, so I shall come along for a dance. But only one.’

Godfrey smiled at her. ‘Well, if there is to be only one dance tonight, Miss De La Mare, then I really will have to insist that it is with me.’

She looked into his eyes and saw it there: that look she had not seen for so long, a look filled with violent urges. Something hot and immediate flowed through her at his gaze, something that almost scorched her from the inside out. And she knew then that one dance would not be enough. That she would want to dance all night, until her feet were rubbed raw.





37


1995




THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT shone pale gold in the early afternoon sunshine. Betty and Alexandra strode in and towards the information desk, both filled with a sense of certainty that there was something within this building that would add a layer to their story.

‘Excuse me,’ Alexandra started in her throaty rasp. ‘We’re looking for work by a guy called Gideon Worsley. He was a portrait painter in the early twenties. Ever heard of him?’

The man behind the desk stared at Alexandra inscrutably for a moment and then nodded. ‘Gallery five,’ he said, and then pointed rather dramatically to the left, indicating a slight bend with a curve of his wrist.

Betty and Alexandra looked at each other and smiled. ‘You have his work?’ said Alexandra, disbelievingly. ‘Here?’

‘Gallery five,’ the man repeated slowly. ‘Follow the signs.’

They smiled at each other again and set off at a pace towards gallery five.

Betty almost laughed out loud as they chased each other through the corridors. To think, that a small piece of paper buried away deep inside the pocket of Arlette’s fur coat could have brought her here. It suddenly seemed the stuff of children’s adventures. They arrived at gallery five breathless and giggling quietly. It was a small gallery, and empty. They scanned the walls and immediately identified Gideon Worsley’s work: two medium-sized paintings, one of a black man in a bowler hat holding a viola, and the other of a young woman who was incontrovertibly and unmistakably a young Arlette De La Mare.

Betty grabbed Alexandra’s arm and inhaled loudly.

‘That’s her, isn’t it?’ Alexandra whispered.

Betty nodded and took two steps towards the painting.

Arlette was dressed in a chiffon and lace blouse with a small ribbon at the neck. She was turned away from the artist so that her face was almost in profile. Her hair was swept back in a small bun, with tendrils falling about her neck and face, and she was smiling softly. The painting was entitled, simply, Arlette.

Between the two paintings was a plaque. Betty read the description:


Gideon Worsley was a renowned portraitist of the early 1920s. He lived and painted in Chelsea, using as subjects musicians and socialites he met at the various jazz clubs and drinking establishments that sprang up in London in the wake of the Great War. Nothing much is known of the sitters in these works. The musician depicted in the Viola Player is thought to be a member of the world-celebrated Southern Syncopated Orchestra, but has never been properly identified. And it is believed that the mysterious Arlette was a shop-girl with whom Worsley was conducting an affair.

Worsley developed carpal tunnel syndrome in his late twenties and turned to photography as his chosen art form for the last years of his life. He died at the age of thirty-four, on the eve of his wedding to his second cousin Antoinette Worsley, after breaking his neck falling from his horse.

*

Betty looked at her watch and sighed. It was two fifteen the following afternoon. Amy’s phone call was now fifteen minutes late. She decided she would wait until two thirty and then she would give up. She made herself a roll-up and took it out onto the street. John Brightly was serving a customer to a soundtrack of the Pixies. He turned briefly at the sound of Betty’s door opening and threw her one of his half-smiles. ‘Hello, trouble,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ she replied. She kept the front door open with her back and sank to her haunches. The sun was out and it shone on her in a narrow stripe through a small gap between the buildings opposite.

‘What’s happening?’ said John, turning to join her after saying goodbye to his customer.

‘I’m waiting for a phone call,’ she said, inhaling.

‘Oh, yeah, who from?’ John took out a cigarette and lit it, then sank to his own haunches against the wall of her building.

‘Amy Metz,’ she said, and then turned and smirked at him.

‘Amy Metz?’ he repeated.

‘She interviewed me yesterday,’ she said. ‘For a full-time nanny.’

His eyes widened. ‘Cool,’ he said.

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah, why not?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suspect she’ll be a nightmare to work for.’

‘Yeah, but you like the kids, right?’

She nodded. ‘The kids are great.’

‘Well then,’ he said, ‘just focus on that.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, but that’s the thing. What if I take the job, and love the kids but then hate her so much that I have to leave? That’s not fair on the kids, surely?’

John laughed. ‘Having Dom Jones and Amy Metz as parents isn’t fair on the kids.’

Betty laughed and then stopped when she heard the phone ringing in the hallway. She threw John a desperate look and ground her roll-up against the pavement. ‘Wish me luck,’ she said.

He looked at her and smiled. Then suddenly, softly, he put a hand against her face and said, ‘You don’t need any luck. You are luck.’ His eyes held her gaze and slowly he pulled his hand from her cheek. He looked embarrassed, as though he’d taken himself by surprise. ‘Go,’ he said, the phone still ringing insistently. ‘Your destiny awaits.’

Betty scrambled to her feet and grabbed the receiver, her face still smarting sweetly from John’s touch. ‘Yes?’ she said, rather brusquely, which was not at all how she’d intended to begin the conversation.

‘Betty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Amy Metz.’

‘Hello,’ she said, bluntly. It appeared that John Brightly had stolen her vocabulary.

‘Listen. It was really good meeting you yesterday. And I’ve gotta say, you were by far the best of the bunch. By a mile. But still, I have these misgivings, you know? All these other girls have got qualifications and references jumping out of their asses. You, you’ve got nothing. Just a nice personality and a back story. So what I’m gonna do is this. A trial. Two weeks. If you like it and I like you, then after that we’ll talk about a more permanent thing. I’ll give you the going rate, six an hour, and we can discuss a salary if we get to that point. What do you think?’

Betty nodded. And then she found her voice and said, ‘Oh. Yes. That sounds great.’

‘Great! I’ll need you to come in today, sign some legal stuff, nothing fancy, just some basic privacy stuff. Pretty standard for this kind of thing. Then we’ll start you properly tomorrow at eight. Yeah?’

‘Er, yeah.’

‘Can you get here at five?’

‘Sure.’

‘Cool. I’ll see you then.’

Betty put the phone down and sank onto the bottom step. She breathed away a rising sense of panic and then she opened the front door and smiled at John Brightly.

‘I got the job,’ she said quietly, too scared to hear the words out loud.

He smiled at her. ‘Of course you did,’ he said.

She felt waves of pleasure ripple through her belly at his words.

‘Shit,’ she said, biting her lip and relighting her half-smoked roll-up.

‘It’s great,’ he said. ‘A real kick-start for your CV.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah. Of course it is. Listen,’ he looked at his watch, ‘I haven’t had any lunch yet. If I can get someone to cover this for me,’ he indicated his record stall, ‘will you come and have a bite with me. By way of celebration, if you like?’

‘A celebratory sandwich, you mean?’

‘Yeah, and a lemonade, if you’re up for it.’

She looked at John Brightly, let the essence of him wash over her for a second; his everyman demeanour, the smooth tanned arms, the face that gave nothing away, the thick head of hair that she sometimes found herself dreaming about running her fingers through, the tattoo on his wrist, the almost militaristic style of dressing. And then she thought about the more vulnerable side of John Brightly; the half-arthritic fingers and creaking joints, the slight tang of damp about his aroma, the hats he wore, hats he must have tried on in mirrors, turning his head this way and that to check the angles, caring about his image, caring about whether or not they suited him. And then that moment just now, the softest part of himself he’d yet shown her: the warm palm against her face, the words of gentle encouragement.

She had two hours before she needed to set off for Primrose Hill. She wanted to pop into Wendy’s, tell Rodrigo that she wouldn’t be coming into work for a couple of weeks (she wouldn’t hand in her notice just yet, not until she’d been offered the job properly). And she’d wanted to spend some time in the library, researching jazz orchestras and Gideon Worsley, but as important as that was, she knew that it could wait. For now.

‘A lemonade sounds good,’ she said. ‘But make it a strong one.’