where the book was. 'Lydia auditioned well. She's a professional, Mr Baranov. You have a talented wife. If it had been left to me alone — '
Walter interrupted without seeming to raise his voice. 'I have worked in the theatre. I have listened to hypocrisy like that since 1 was three years old. If you really have a scrap of interest in my wife's career, do her the credit of telling me the truth.'
The rebuke was the more telling for being so reasonably expressed.
The bar was suddenly quiet. Someone called across the room, 'Is everything all right, Jasper?'
'Yes, perfectly,' said Jasper. To Walter, he said, 'If you really want to know, she's too mature for these young girl roles, and she isn't ready to play dowagers and matrons.' To soften the remark he added, 'Not for a long time.'
Walter said nothing. He picked up the scrapbook.
'It's always a difficult phase in an actress's career,' Jasper went on. 'Possibly if she could be persuaded to go into some other sphere of production, it would be all to the good. With her experience, she must know a lot about make-up. Costume, if she's any good with a needle and thread.'
Walter gave him a disbelieving look. 'Where can I get a taxi?'
'At this time, by the station. Right outside the theatre, then right again. Thank her for coming in, won't you?'
Walter went downstairs and followed the directions. At the station, he got into a cab. As they moved off, his eye was caught by something. He tapped the driver's shoulder.
'Would you stop a moment? The flower shop. I want to buy some flowers for my wife.'
'You'd better be quick, mate. I'm obstructing the rank.'
In the florist's, he glanced over the bunches in their pots.
The shop assistant came from the back. 'Good evening, sir. Can I… Oh.' She stopped, staring at him.
'Yes, please. I, er… Why, it's Miss Webster, isn't it?'
Alma answered in a whisper, 'Yes.'
'Walter Baranov, your dentist. Remember? You missed your appointment today. Did you realise?'
She was pink with embarrassment. She said nothing.
He was clearly embarrassed too. 'I'm so sorry. It sounds as if I'm checking up. Just seeing you like this, quite by chance, I was taken by surprise.'
'Oh.' She had a stem in her hand. She was snapping it into small pieces.
'You see, my wife had an audition today at the Richmond Theatre. She's an actress.'
'Yes. You told me.'
He was still holding Lydia's book. 'She left this behind. All her notices. Very precious. I came to collect it.'
Outside, the taxi-driver sounded his horn.
'I wanted some roses,' said Walter. 'A dozen, I think.'
'Yes. Any particular colour?' She crossed the shop to the vases. There were several shades of red and pink roses, as well as yellow and white. 'They are ail three shillings a dozen.'
He put the book on the counter and felt in his pocket for the money, it doesn't matter. The pink.'
'I could make a mixed bunch.'
The horn sounded again.
'If you please.'
'Would you like to pick them out?'
He stood beside her and selected a dozen of various colours. She wrapped them. He handed her the money. 'Thank you. 1 must hurry, I'm afraid. I have a taxi waiting.' He raised his hat. 'I hope to see you again, Miss Webster.'
He had left the shop and the taxi had pulled away before Alma noticed the scrapbook left on the counter.
4
To locate another lady in the story, the setting moves to Paris.
Wherever Marjorie Livingstone Cordell found herself on a Friday evening, she liked to have a hot bath, preferably Turkish, followed by a full body massage. As a reviver, it beat strong coffee, liver salts, cocktails and walking in the park, all of which she had tried. She was proud of her reputation for vitality. She enlivened any party, and she was invited to plenty. Her age was a secret, but she was into her third marriage and she had a daughter of twenty-two. The nice thing about the Friday massage was that she relaxed completely. In New York City, where she lived, she had a marvellous little man from the Bronx with hands like velvet, and he knew more about her private hopes and fears than any of her husbands.
This evening she was on the table in the massage parlour of the Paris Carlton, where she was staying with Livy, her third. They were vacationing in Europe this year because her daughter Barbara had just completed a course in fine art at the Sorbonne, and they were going to travel back with her to New York. She communicated this in simple English to the Algerian who was easing the tension in her shoulders. He was quite good-looking, with sleek hair and a pencil-thin moustache, only there was garlic on his breath. She turned her face the other way.
'Would you do my ankles now?' she asked, wiggling a foot in case he didn't understand. 'I'm really grateful to the Good Lord for supplying me with such beautiful ankles. Would you believe that each of my three husbands was attracted to my ankles first? Regular massage keeps them slender- my ankles, I mean. Good — that's terrific. Livy — that's short for Livingstone — he's my third — a wonderful guy — no Douglas Fairbanks, I grant you, but quite good-looking in his way — Livy sometimes asks me to let him massage my ankles, but I don't allow it. I say that's a job for a professional. Hm. You're pretty good. What's your name?'
'Alain, madame.'
'Well, Alain, it's my opinion that a woman ought to take care of her body. She never knows when she's under observation. I'll tell you something that happened to me four years ago in the Biltmore Hotel in New York. I was caught in the elevator with seven men, all strangers. Really caught, I mean. It was stuck between the second and the third floors for almost an hour. I was petrified, but, do you know, Alain, that was how I met Livy. You think I'm going to tell you he was one of the guys in the elevator, don't you? Well, he wasn't. He was on the second floor watching when the maintenance men finally got the sliding doors open. The car was way above their heads, so all that he could see of me was my ankles, and he couldn't take his eyes off them. Isn't that romantic?'
'We got married the same year, and I still catch him sneaking looks at my ankles when he thinks I won't notice. We're devoted to each other. I just wish my daughter Barbara was as fortunate as I am. She's beautiful, I mean really pretty, with my white skin and classical features and the most amazing chestnut hair, only she scares men. She's so severe. She majored in mathematics and all she would talk about was coefficients and things like that. We sent her over here for a year to broaden her education at the Sorbonne, thinking maybe the Parisians would teach her some other things. Well, she's crazy about Greeks now.'
'Greeks, madame?'
'Of the fifth century B.C. She spent this afternoon showing Livy and me around the Louvre. Okay, it's a change from logarithms, so we went. I had just a small hope that there might be some young professor there who was the real attraction. I was wrong. It was strictly antique objects. Well, there are some very fine Greek statues in the Louvre. Manhood unadorned and large as life. Larger, here and there. I said to Livy this may not be a bad thing. But do you know, Alain, my daughter Barbara led us right through the rooms with the statues without stopping once. She didn't even turn her head. She wanted to show us the Greek vases. Vases! She adores them. I was so depressed I just collapsed onto a bench.'
'It's not so bad, madame.'
'What do you mean?'
'You didn't look at the vases?'
'I told you I was bushed.'
