‘What nationality are the clientele?’
‘Americans, British, Italians. You name it.’
‘I’m sharing with a Hungarian girl.’
‘Yes, Erika. Good girl. You’re either one or the other.’
As the club began to fill up Riva – as Rosalie really had to think of herself now – saw that dozens of sailors were beginning to pack the bar. They jostled and laughed and flirted with her, but mostly they bought drinks and moved away to watch the show.
First up was Erika, with two other girls she’d seen earlier but had not been introduced to. All three looked fabulous in turquoise costumes embellished with feathers and silver sequins. The dancing was quite tame, Riva thought, though maybe it would hot up as the night went on. After that, a cross-dressing artist named Tommy-O took the stage. Dressed in silk and satin with a fabulous red wig that curled onto his shoulders, he was wonderful, making the audience gasp and laugh at the same time.But when he sang and played the piano, he had them eating out of his hands and you could have heard a pin drop. The moment he finished the applause, foot stomping, and whistles were deafening. He was tall and wore dangerously high heels, making him even taller, and when he’d taken his final bow, he came swaying across to the bar, his gait languorous.
From then on, the noise from the raucous crowd was deafening. And whenever someone opened the main door for air, the sound of men carousing outside was even worse. Riva went out to look and a mob of sailors staggered past waving beer bottles, arms around each other, singing and weaving down the street. Barely even singing, she thought. More of a drunken racket. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and cheap perfume, and something else. You couldn’t smell menace, but you could feel it.
Riva stepped back in retreat from the catcalls and whistles from three men who were heading directly for her. One caught her by the elbow and while she was grappling with him, she bumped into a small group of heavily made-up women, smoking and leaning against the wall.
‘Watch out,’ one called and pushed her away.
She stumbled, managed to right herself, edged behind the women and made it to the door of the club. It was the interval and inside the crowd had thinned, maybe some had moved on elsewhere. The sound of jazz was now coming from a club lower down the street.
Tommy-O spotted her and beckoned her over. He wore a slinky black dress over which a scarlet satin robe reached the ground. His lips were painted to match and his eyelidswere iridescent green. She noticed tiny bubbles of sweat seeping through his heavily powdered face.
‘So, darling, who are you?’ he said, offering her a cigarette.
She shook her head and told him her new name. Stick thin and outrageously handsome, he was courteous and held out his hand. She took to him immediately.
‘Sooo, what brings you here? Escape?’
She blinked but managed to hide her surprise. ‘How did you know?’
He nodded sagely. ‘Pretty much everyone who comes here is escaping something. Politics, families, prison.’
He smiled at her, showing perfect white teeth and an unexpected dimple in the cheeks of his angular face.
‘Guessing yours is a family matter. Doesn’t matter. We’re all equal here. Even the ghosts.’
But Riva was soon to find out that wasn’t true when the next evening, under a clear starry sky, she called on Charlotte.
The address Charlotte had given her turned out to be a tall buttery stone building with the ubiquitous enclosed wooden balconies. She spotted an enormous iron door knocker in the shape of a shell which she thumped on the studded central door.
Moments later the door flew open in answer and Charlotte appeared wearing an immaculate white silk dress dotted with little sprigs of lavender. Riva felt a little underdressed, but Charlotte didn’t seem to notice and ushered her in.
‘Darling, I’m so happy you came. Tea?’
‘Please.’
‘We’re upstairs. Come on.’
Riva followed Charlotte across the front hall and then a second enormous hall with a large round table in the centre and finally up a grand stone staircase, the decorative upright railings painted gold. She ran her hands over the smooth ebony handrail. ‘Do you own this place, Charlotte?’ she asked.
‘God no. Archie and Bobby, a friend of his, have rented it. Rather gaudy I think, but that is real gold on the railings.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I know – and please call me Lottie. Charlotte makes me feel like my mother. Anyway, this place is sixteenth century and belongs to a Maltese nobleman, a marquis of some sort, but he and his family live in Mdina now.’
‘So … you’re living with Archie already?’
Lottie grinned at her. ‘Not officially. I have my own apartment here.’
