Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

For at least the next six months in fact. George had gone on working after many would have retired, the guiding force, the continuity behind the last two Viceroys of India. He’d been looking forward to getting away from Delhi, leaving behind the heat, the scandals, the undercover chicanery. It had been a good idea to break his journey at Marseille and take the Pullman up to Paris. Yes, no doubt about that. A week or two of relaxation and stimulation before he did his duty by his ageing family back home had been hard earned.

A summer in Surrey. He needed to fortify himself. Experience the latest sensations. . work up a few stories. . bank a few topics of conversation. At home in England one couldn’t go on for long talking about India. It pained him to see eyes glaze over when anything other than a passing reference to the subcontinent was made. At the mention of Delhi, people started to twitch and to look anxiously over your shoulder for rescue, but just let drop that you’d been in Paris and they clustered round for news. George determined to have fascinating things to report.

Before taking his seat, he patted his pockets with a familiar sensation of expectation. His opera glasses, cigar-lighter, wallet, spare handkerchief and a roll of currency were present and correct. Along with a folded envelope.

Bit of a puzzle, this.

It had been handed to him the morning after his arrival in Paris — an envelope addressed to him in a careful English hand, care of the Ambassador Hotel. There was nothing in it but a scribbled note and a theatre ticket. For the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. The clerk at reception had no knowledge of its delivery. No one, George could have sworn, knew that he was to be in Paris this evening. And who the hell was ‘John’? Which ‘John’ of his acquaintance — and there were many — had, in black ink, written:

George, old man — welcome to Paris! Thought you wouldn’t be able to resist this. Tickets are like gold dust so make sure you enjoy yourself. But — there you are — I owe you one!

Yrs, John.

A mystery? George had no time for mysteries. His first reaction was of irritation rather than puzzlement. Why on earth couldn’t the wretched fellow have appended his surname? Unless he was so well known to him that it would be considered unnecessarily stiff? A moment’s further reflection and he had it. With a passing embarrassment (was he getting old? losing his grip?) he remembered he had a cousin called John — though he’d always called him Jack — and that cousin was, indeed, in Paris, engaged in some clandestine way in the diplomatic service. And, yes, George did recall that the younger man owed him a favour. Quite a favour, in fact. A ticket to the theatre — though the star was the most talked-of, most scandalous woman in the world — was a pretty frivolous offering as a counterbalance. Bad form. George didn’t at all object to being sent the ticket but he felt it was. . ah. . undignified to mention the moral debt at all. What are influential relatives for, if not to ease your path through the career jungle? You accept the leg-up, are duly grateful and the matter is never referred to again. Well — all would, doubtless, be revealed. Jack would pop up, late as usual, and they’d have a laugh together, slightly uneasy to catch each other enjoying such a spectacle as was promised. George was glad he’d had the sense to order a tray of whisky and soda for the interval. They’d enjoy a glass and his cousin would know that he was expected.

And here he was, the sole occupant of what in London would have been called the Royal Box, the target of lazily curious glances from the audience gathering below. A public figure and constantly on parade, George was unperturbed. He automatically made a gesture to adjust his already perfectly tied black tie, he smoothed his luxuriant grey moustache and eased his large frame into the spindle-legged gilt chair further from the entrance, thinking to allow easy access for his cousin when he appeared.

He settled to stare back boldly at the audience, conveying amused approval. This gathering risked outshining the performers, he thought, so brightly glittered the diamonds in the front stalls and the paste gems in the upper gallery. The gowns glowed — silks and satins, red and mulberry and peach apparently the favoured colours this season, standing out against the stark black and white of the gentlemen’s evening dress. His nose twitched, identifying elements of the intoxicating blend of tobaccos curling up from the auditorium: suave Havana cigars, silky Passing Clouds favoured by the ladies, and, distantly, an acrid note of rough French Caporals.

And every seat taken, it seemed. Definitely le tout Paris on parade this evening. George checked his programme again, wondering if he’d misunderstood the style of entertainment on offer. A turnout like this was exactly what you’d expect for the first night of a ballet — he’d been part of just such an audience, tense with anticipation, in this theatre before the war. He’d seen Nijinsky leap with superhuman agility in The Rite of Spring, delighting some, scandalizing others. George had counted himself delighted to be scandalized. On this stage, Anna Pavlova had thrilled the world with her performance of The Dying Swan. And tonight’s crowd was seething with expectation of an equally significant display. All was movement: faces turned this way and that, hands fluttered as friends were greeted across the breadth of the hall, places were hurriedly swapped and the unmistakable musical rise and fall of a chirruping French crowd on pleasure bent swirled up to him.

The sounds of such conviviality made him for a moment conscious of his solitary state. Unused to being alone, and certainly never unaccompanied at an evening’s entertainment, George swallowed the joking aside he would have murmured to his aide-de-camp. He felt in his pocket and took out a pair of ivory opera glasses. The audience were freely scanning him, he’d return the attention and search out a familiar face among them. The odds were that he knew someone down there. Might note them, wave and see them in the bar after the show perhaps?

A poor haul. His glasses passed swiftly over the barely remembered features of someone he’d been at school with and didn’t care to see again. He was probably mistaken. . a passing resemblance. And that was it.

He was on the point of giving up when a stirring in the box opposite caught his attention. An usherette had entered to show the occupants to their seats. An inquisitive application of the glasses confirmed that the girl was his pretty ouvreuse . Obviously i/c boxes for the nobs. A favoured position, most likely. He scanned the scene, watching as a young lady followed her in, clutching her blue and gold programme. The newcomer smiled back at her escort, trailing behind. She waited for him, turning her head in a regal gesture as he tipped and dismissed the attendant, and went to stand by a chair, pausing until he came forward to hold it ready for her. As he sat down by her side, she threaded a white arm through his in a familiar way. Ignoring the man, George trained his glasses on her. What a corker! Blonde and flamboyantly pretty. And what quantities of make-up young girls wore these days, he reflected. The tiny pair of glasses was almost concealed in his great hand and he discreetly trained them lower to take in her figure. He smiled. What should he report back to the ladies of Simla regarding the latest fashions? They were certain to ask. He would say that necklines appeared to be retreating southwards while hems were advancing rapidly northwards. Disastrous collision inevitable.

An attractive colour, though, the scrap of silk the goddess opposite was wearing. Colour of a peacock’s throat. It glinted in an exotic way, flashing two colours over the void at him. George sighed. Lucky bastard — whoever he was — to have this girl on his arm! He eased his glasses sideways to take in her companion.